Fic: A Lousy Date, CSI:NY, Mac/Stella
Title: A Lousy Date
Author: lauriestein
Pairing: Mac/Stella
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: Nothing specific, but post s2
Disclaimer: Not mine, all rights remain with respective owners and no profit is being made.
Summary: It's just another crappy date, right? So why is Mac waiting for her outside the restaurant?
Mac is waiting when she leaves the restaurant, leaning against the side of his truck with tension radiating from every inch of him. Stella stops in confusion; she isn't on call, so there's no reason for him to be there.
Not that it would be the first time she's stood over a corpse in a $600 dress and a pair of heels that she swore she wouldn't ruin.
There he is, expectant as ever. Lean and angry in a suit that carries the invisible crispness of his military demeanor. So often she's let a placating hand drift to his chest, cursing those soft fabrics for keeping her away from his bare skin.
Tonight, she doesn't want to care, doesn't want her stomach to do that strange little flip at the sight of him. For years she's been tamping down those persistent flames: he has a wife, he's in shock, he's still grieving, he's a friend. Those reasons have always been valid, always stood stronger than her selfish desire to have him in her bed.
Another crappy date has fizzled out in the confines of an overhyped restaurant and honestly, she's just too tired to keep her guard up. Which is why she keeps on walking, past Mac and his car and the risk that they pose to her sanity.
When she jumps into a just-arrived cab, Stella doesn't dare look round, because seeing the hurt on his face will only weaken her resolve.
It doesn't take long to get home, the roads of Manhattan deceptively co-operative when everyone is already out, packing the bars and restaurants until they're spilling out into the streets. She watches them in a rapid burst of snapshots, so different to the images she spends her own days capturing. Out there is life, vibrancy and hope, dressed in Canal Street knock-offs and laughing into overpriced beer.
Stella can't decide if she hates them, or wants to be one of them. She's always had a problem with fitting in.
She pays the driver and doesn't comment when he's blatant in checking out her legs. Somebody had to notice what this dress is showing off, and it certainly wasn't going to be her date. From his clammy handshake to his fascination with criminal folklore, she knew he was less interested in her than her reluctant insights into the world she had been trying to escape for a few hours.
Barely five minutes into her evening routine of removing makeup and unpinning her hair, there's a knock at her door. There's the familiar shot of adrenalin, the unconscious panic that's been there with every knock and every unfamiliar shadow in her apartment since Frankie.
Collecting herself, she prepares herself for another battle with the old woman across the hall who seems to think that Stella is somehow responsible for making everyone in the building play their music quieter.
Instead she opens the door to find Mac standing there, shoulders set for confrontation and not even a half-smile present on his lips.
"Why the hell did you walk away from me, Stella?"
There's an accusation of something far worse in his tone, but for the life of her she doesn't know what.
"Do you want to come in? My neighbors don't need a show."
Nobody understands privacy better than Mac, and so with the briefest jerk of his head he walks past her into the hallway.
Suddenly he's far too close, and she can smell the remnants of his cologne mixing with the muggy air that's clinging to his clothes. He seems awkward in her home, despite the many times he's been there.
"What's this about Mac? I had a lousy date and there's a really big glass of wine somewhere in here with my name on it."
That prompts an indiscreet lift of his eyebrow.
"Lousy, huh? Well, no wonder it was lousy. I checked that guy out, he's..."
Stella raises her hand to stop him; she's heard this kind of thing before. Mac will have run an unauthorized background check, the kind of unethical action he abhors in others, and found some minor traffic infraction to turn into a serious criminal profile.
"Why were you at the restaurant? Why are you here?"
The struggle for words is apparent, and Stella wonders if he'll tell her the truth. If it were a case, something to do with work, Mac would have her back out of the door by now.
"I don't want you to date guys like that anymore, okay?"
She feels vulnerable in that moment. Mac is so solid, almost looming over her in a way that makes the apartment feel too small to accommodate them both.
Shrugging off the strange atmosphere, she pushes past him gently, and isn't surprised when Mac follows her into the kitchen. Persistence is one of the things she's always admired about him.
He hovers as she retrieves the red wine from the rack. It's nothing special, just an impulsive Merlot she threw into the cart on her last hurried trip to the grocery store, but it'll do for now. Tilting the bottle at him as a question, she adds a second glass to the counter when he says yes.
The cool tile of the kitchen floor is bliss against her aching soles, beautiful shoes have never been kind to Stella’s feet. She watches Mac take tentative sips from the wineglass, and he seems to have relaxed a little with her peace offering.
“Why do you care who I date anyway?”
Her question seems to catch him by surprise, as though he considered the subject dropped.
“You’re my friend.”
As always, what he doesn’t say is hanging in the air between them.
“Danny’s my friend; so is Flack. I don’t see either of them lecturing me about my choice in men.”
Mac rubs a hand across his face, and she sees the tiredness in the dark smudges under his eyes. She wonders when his last full night of sleep was, knows the answer will be in years rather than days.
“I care about you Stella, surely you know that by now?”
He’s earnest as he says it, there’s something compelling in the way that he meets her eyes. Placing her now empty glass on the counter, Stella takes a couple of steps towards him and enjoys the flicker of nervousness it provokes.
She’s tired too: tired of this game and its protracted way of playing out.
Stella places her hand on his chest, just beside his heart. It’s comforting in the familiarity, only tonight she’s not trying to talk Mac down. He stares down at her hand, struck dumb by the simple contact.
“Do you want me for yourself, Mac? Is that what this is about?”
Her own heart is pounding in her chest, and if she’s honest with herself, Stella can’t believe the words that have just escaped her lips. The unspoken agreement is that they never broach this subject. Oh sure, they can flirt and share those cosy hugs that always last a few seconds too long, but acknowledging the attraction? Verboten.
She can barely bring herself to look at him but she risks it, peering up from under the errant curls that are surrounding her face. If she had planned it, she wouldn’t be asking like this with messy hair and makeup scrubbed from her face.
The simple “yes” is so quiet that she almost doesn’t hear it.
They stare at each other, there in the faintly ridiculous setting of her kitchen, unsure of what happens now.
Unsure until his hands skim lightly across her bare arms, coming to rest by her shoulders. Mac’s grip is firm and she can feel his possessiveness, a claim being staked that he’s never quite dared to confront before.
So she kisses him.
Until their lips meet she has no idea how it will go, after all they’ve never exchanged more than a lingering peck on the cheek before now. It turns out to be a flashing sensation, like a match dropped on a trail of gasoline.
Mac’s mouth meets hers with an almost bruising ferocity, as though he can will her to understand how much he wants this. It takes her breath away, something she can’t remember happening from just a kiss in such a long time.
He tangles one hand in her hair, pulling her closer to him with surprising force. Her name escapes his lips in a distracted whisper between kisses, only breaking for the necessary oxygen before they resume their almost desperate embrace. When his other hand trails to her ass and pulls her body against his already obvious erection, Stella feels something a lot like pure electricity coursing through her veins.
And that’s the end of her being passive, dammit.
It’s almost a shove as she works him back against the breakfast bar, and the moan it coaxes from his mouth confirms that he’s not averse to her competing with him.
Stella’s hands are drawn to his belt, enjoying how he’s always so smart and formal. She undoes it without ceremony and feels Mac respond in kind with the briefest of fumbles at the clasp of her bra.
They’ve been on a collision course since she walked out of that restaurant, she realizes. Then Mac draws her bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it in a way that only makes her even more determined to jump him right here in the kitchen.
The straps of her dress are slipped down like they were no more substantial than a breeze, and it prompts Mac to let his mouth roam across her neck, pressing delicate kisses to the hollow of her throat. The tenderness dissipates as he alternates nipping and sucking along her collarbone and God she’s so wet already that it’s driving her crazy.
She tugs at his jacket before fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Suddenly nervous, Stella tries her best not to let it show. When her fingers are too distracted by his bared chest to trouble with unbuttoning, she simply rips the last few off.
The fact that Mac Taylor, sartorial perfectionist, doesn’t even stop to comment means they must both really fucking need this.
For once, she’s glad that he makes her feel so petite, the way he lifts her onto the waiting counter is deliciously primal. Mac’s erection grazes her thigh through the cotton of his trousers and Stella wonders briefly if she’s going to combust altogether before they’re done.
Drawing him into another deep kiss, their tongues duelling for supremacy, she’s delighted to hear Mac unzipping his own pants. She scratches her nails wildly across his now bare back, and the ripple of muscle under her rough caress is almost as big of a turn-on as the way he allows a muffled yell to escape against her mouth.
They can’t hurt each other, not any more than they want to be hurt. Trust is an almost impossible commodity, but they have it in abundance. Each instinctive move is met with approval, the increase in daring building with their arousal. The only way Mac can know that she likes it rough is simply by knowing her, and there’s no doubt that he absolutely does.
The disappearance of her dress is almost secondary, but one second she’s running her fingers through his close-cropped hair and the next there’s a puddle of silk around her hips. That gives Mac licence to explore her breasts, treating them to the sort of teasing reverence that explains just why she’s caught him with a lowered line of sight quite so many times.
He toys with her nipples, switching effortlessly between mouth and fingers on each until they’re rock hard and her hips are instinctively twitching towards him for more, now, anything.
But instead of letting his hands drift lower, he picks her up and leaves her with little choice but to wrap herself around him as he stumbles his way out of the kitchen. Their kisses are a little disjointed, quick bursts of affection because they’re drunk on this now, on the fading taste of red wine on each other’s lips.
Effectively throwing her down on her own bed, Mac kicks off his remaining clothes, hesitating for just a second before bundling his boxers down from his hips.
And damn, if he isn’t just as impressive as those well-fitting suits suggested. Stella feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight, but doesn't have long to revel as Mac lowers himself onto the bed with her.
It feels better than she hoped when his lean body is pressed on top of her own. Their skin is warm in the heat of the apartment, and the heat of the moment. Mac resumes his attention to her neck, tormenting the sensitive skin in a way that she's fairly sure will have her in high collars for the rest of the week.
She spreads her legs under him, rolling her hips slightly to ensure his full attention. When his erection grazes the wetness between her thighs it provokes the first curse word she's heard from him in a long time.
"Fuck."
The way he says it jolts through her, a fresh blast of excitement that this is finally happening. Stella knows she's more than ready and so she reaches between their bodies to guide his dick inside her.
Slowly at first, letting her adjust to his size. She can feel herself shivering at the torturous pleasure of the sensation, every nerve ending aglow with the feel of him. It doesn't take any kind of signal to pick up the pace, a few measured thrusts and they're crashing into each other with abandon.
Stella can feel the insistent pressure building as Mac's warm mouth seeks her out for a frantic kiss. He's supporting her with those broad arms, pulling her close to him as they fuck in a deliciously wild rhythm.
This is what she's fantasized about, late at night in the bathtub or between the sheets. This raw side to Mac, the passion he keeps in reserve being unleashed on her is the biggest turn on in all of it.
She hooks her leg up over his hip, turning a good angle into the perfect one and before long she's biting down on Mac's shoulder as her fingers tense around his arms. The crashing wave of climax renders her senseless for long moments, but she's alert enough to be aware of Mac tumbling after her into an intense orgasm of his own.
They lie there, momentarily spent. Breathing is ragged and sweat glistens on both of their bodies. Before long, Mac rolls off, but immediately presses himself to her side. He lets a few soft kisses pepper her temple, her face and her collarbone before falling back onto the pillow.
Words are hard to come by at first, but their hands seem to seek each other out. The fingers of his right hand reach for her left and the tangle of their fingers feel right, somehow.
Stella pulls the comforter over them, turning to face Mac as she does. He offers an instinctive arm to rest her head upon and for long moments they simply stare at each other, mirroring their inane grins.
"So, what would you have done if I'd actually gotten past the entrée with this guy, Mac?"
His scowl is brief but playful, and his response is to draw her into a long, slow kiss. The tenderness is there now, past the panic and thrill of finally crossing that line.
"Like I said, I don't want you dating these guys, Stella."
There's a twinkle in Mac's eye as he says it, and she thinks he looks ten years younger in that moment.
"Oh? Who do you suggest I date instead?"
Mac pretends to consider the question, but answers with a swift kiss to her forehead.
"I know just the guy."
Author: lauriestein
Pairing: Mac/Stella
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: Nothing specific, but post s2
Disclaimer: Not mine, all rights remain with respective owners and no profit is being made.
Summary: It's just another crappy date, right? So why is Mac waiting for her outside the restaurant?
Mac is waiting when she leaves the restaurant, leaning against the side of his truck with tension radiating from every inch of him. Stella stops in confusion; she isn't on call, so there's no reason for him to be there.
Not that it would be the first time she's stood over a corpse in a $600 dress and a pair of heels that she swore she wouldn't ruin.
There he is, expectant as ever. Lean and angry in a suit that carries the invisible crispness of his military demeanor. So often she's let a placating hand drift to his chest, cursing those soft fabrics for keeping her away from his bare skin.
Tonight, she doesn't want to care, doesn't want her stomach to do that strange little flip at the sight of him. For years she's been tamping down those persistent flames: he has a wife, he's in shock, he's still grieving, he's a friend. Those reasons have always been valid, always stood stronger than her selfish desire to have him in her bed.
Another crappy date has fizzled out in the confines of an overhyped restaurant and honestly, she's just too tired to keep her guard up. Which is why she keeps on walking, past Mac and his car and the risk that they pose to her sanity.
When she jumps into a just-arrived cab, Stella doesn't dare look round, because seeing the hurt on his face will only weaken her resolve.
It doesn't take long to get home, the roads of Manhattan deceptively co-operative when everyone is already out, packing the bars and restaurants until they're spilling out into the streets. She watches them in a rapid burst of snapshots, so different to the images she spends her own days capturing. Out there is life, vibrancy and hope, dressed in Canal Street knock-offs and laughing into overpriced beer.
Stella can't decide if she hates them, or wants to be one of them. She's always had a problem with fitting in.
She pays the driver and doesn't comment when he's blatant in checking out her legs. Somebody had to notice what this dress is showing off, and it certainly wasn't going to be her date. From his clammy handshake to his fascination with criminal folklore, she knew he was less interested in her than her reluctant insights into the world she had been trying to escape for a few hours.
Barely five minutes into her evening routine of removing makeup and unpinning her hair, there's a knock at her door. There's the familiar shot of adrenalin, the unconscious panic that's been there with every knock and every unfamiliar shadow in her apartment since Frankie.
Collecting herself, she prepares herself for another battle with the old woman across the hall who seems to think that Stella is somehow responsible for making everyone in the building play their music quieter.
Instead she opens the door to find Mac standing there, shoulders set for confrontation and not even a half-smile present on his lips.
"Why the hell did you walk away from me, Stella?"
There's an accusation of something far worse in his tone, but for the life of her she doesn't know what.
"Do you want to come in? My neighbors don't need a show."
Nobody understands privacy better than Mac, and so with the briefest jerk of his head he walks past her into the hallway.
Suddenly he's far too close, and she can smell the remnants of his cologne mixing with the muggy air that's clinging to his clothes. He seems awkward in her home, despite the many times he's been there.
"What's this about Mac? I had a lousy date and there's a really big glass of wine somewhere in here with my name on it."
That prompts an indiscreet lift of his eyebrow.
"Lousy, huh? Well, no wonder it was lousy. I checked that guy out, he's..."
Stella raises her hand to stop him; she's heard this kind of thing before. Mac will have run an unauthorized background check, the kind of unethical action he abhors in others, and found some minor traffic infraction to turn into a serious criminal profile.
"Why were you at the restaurant? Why are you here?"
The struggle for words is apparent, and Stella wonders if he'll tell her the truth. If it were a case, something to do with work, Mac would have her back out of the door by now.
"I don't want you to date guys like that anymore, okay?"
She feels vulnerable in that moment. Mac is so solid, almost looming over her in a way that makes the apartment feel too small to accommodate them both.
Shrugging off the strange atmosphere, she pushes past him gently, and isn't surprised when Mac follows her into the kitchen. Persistence is one of the things she's always admired about him.
He hovers as she retrieves the red wine from the rack. It's nothing special, just an impulsive Merlot she threw into the cart on her last hurried trip to the grocery store, but it'll do for now. Tilting the bottle at him as a question, she adds a second glass to the counter when he says yes.
The cool tile of the kitchen floor is bliss against her aching soles, beautiful shoes have never been kind to Stella’s feet. She watches Mac take tentative sips from the wineglass, and he seems to have relaxed a little with her peace offering.
“Why do you care who I date anyway?”
Her question seems to catch him by surprise, as though he considered the subject dropped.
“You’re my friend.”
As always, what he doesn’t say is hanging in the air between them.
“Danny’s my friend; so is Flack. I don’t see either of them lecturing me about my choice in men.”
Mac rubs a hand across his face, and she sees the tiredness in the dark smudges under his eyes. She wonders when his last full night of sleep was, knows the answer will be in years rather than days.
“I care about you Stella, surely you know that by now?”
He’s earnest as he says it, there’s something compelling in the way that he meets her eyes. Placing her now empty glass on the counter, Stella takes a couple of steps towards him and enjoys the flicker of nervousness it provokes.
She’s tired too: tired of this game and its protracted way of playing out.
Stella places her hand on his chest, just beside his heart. It’s comforting in the familiarity, only tonight she’s not trying to talk Mac down. He stares down at her hand, struck dumb by the simple contact.
“Do you want me for yourself, Mac? Is that what this is about?”
Her own heart is pounding in her chest, and if she’s honest with herself, Stella can’t believe the words that have just escaped her lips. The unspoken agreement is that they never broach this subject. Oh sure, they can flirt and share those cosy hugs that always last a few seconds too long, but acknowledging the attraction? Verboten.
She can barely bring herself to look at him but she risks it, peering up from under the errant curls that are surrounding her face. If she had planned it, she wouldn’t be asking like this with messy hair and makeup scrubbed from her face.
The simple “yes” is so quiet that she almost doesn’t hear it.
They stare at each other, there in the faintly ridiculous setting of her kitchen, unsure of what happens now.
Unsure until his hands skim lightly across her bare arms, coming to rest by her shoulders. Mac’s grip is firm and she can feel his possessiveness, a claim being staked that he’s never quite dared to confront before.
So she kisses him.
Until their lips meet she has no idea how it will go, after all they’ve never exchanged more than a lingering peck on the cheek before now. It turns out to be a flashing sensation, like a match dropped on a trail of gasoline.
Mac’s mouth meets hers with an almost bruising ferocity, as though he can will her to understand how much he wants this. It takes her breath away, something she can’t remember happening from just a kiss in such a long time.
He tangles one hand in her hair, pulling her closer to him with surprising force. Her name escapes his lips in a distracted whisper between kisses, only breaking for the necessary oxygen before they resume their almost desperate embrace. When his other hand trails to her ass and pulls her body against his already obvious erection, Stella feels something a lot like pure electricity coursing through her veins.
And that’s the end of her being passive, dammit.
It’s almost a shove as she works him back against the breakfast bar, and the moan it coaxes from his mouth confirms that he’s not averse to her competing with him.
Stella’s hands are drawn to his belt, enjoying how he’s always so smart and formal. She undoes it without ceremony and feels Mac respond in kind with the briefest of fumbles at the clasp of her bra.
They’ve been on a collision course since she walked out of that restaurant, she realizes. Then Mac draws her bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it in a way that only makes her even more determined to jump him right here in the kitchen.
The straps of her dress are slipped down like they were no more substantial than a breeze, and it prompts Mac to let his mouth roam across her neck, pressing delicate kisses to the hollow of her throat. The tenderness dissipates as he alternates nipping and sucking along her collarbone and God she’s so wet already that it’s driving her crazy.
She tugs at his jacket before fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Suddenly nervous, Stella tries her best not to let it show. When her fingers are too distracted by his bared chest to trouble with unbuttoning, she simply rips the last few off.
The fact that Mac Taylor, sartorial perfectionist, doesn’t even stop to comment means they must both really fucking need this.
For once, she’s glad that he makes her feel so petite, the way he lifts her onto the waiting counter is deliciously primal. Mac’s erection grazes her thigh through the cotton of his trousers and Stella wonders briefly if she’s going to combust altogether before they’re done.
Drawing him into another deep kiss, their tongues duelling for supremacy, she’s delighted to hear Mac unzipping his own pants. She scratches her nails wildly across his now bare back, and the ripple of muscle under her rough caress is almost as big of a turn-on as the way he allows a muffled yell to escape against her mouth.
They can’t hurt each other, not any more than they want to be hurt. Trust is an almost impossible commodity, but they have it in abundance. Each instinctive move is met with approval, the increase in daring building with their arousal. The only way Mac can know that she likes it rough is simply by knowing her, and there’s no doubt that he absolutely does.
The disappearance of her dress is almost secondary, but one second she’s running her fingers through his close-cropped hair and the next there’s a puddle of silk around her hips. That gives Mac licence to explore her breasts, treating them to the sort of teasing reverence that explains just why she’s caught him with a lowered line of sight quite so many times.
He toys with her nipples, switching effortlessly between mouth and fingers on each until they’re rock hard and her hips are instinctively twitching towards him for more, now, anything.
But instead of letting his hands drift lower, he picks her up and leaves her with little choice but to wrap herself around him as he stumbles his way out of the kitchen. Their kisses are a little disjointed, quick bursts of affection because they’re drunk on this now, on the fading taste of red wine on each other’s lips.
Effectively throwing her down on her own bed, Mac kicks off his remaining clothes, hesitating for just a second before bundling his boxers down from his hips.
And damn, if he isn’t just as impressive as those well-fitting suits suggested. Stella feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight, but doesn't have long to revel as Mac lowers himself onto the bed with her.
It feels better than she hoped when his lean body is pressed on top of her own. Their skin is warm in the heat of the apartment, and the heat of the moment. Mac resumes his attention to her neck, tormenting the sensitive skin in a way that she's fairly sure will have her in high collars for the rest of the week.
She spreads her legs under him, rolling her hips slightly to ensure his full attention. When his erection grazes the wetness between her thighs it provokes the first curse word she's heard from him in a long time.
"Fuck."
The way he says it jolts through her, a fresh blast of excitement that this is finally happening. Stella knows she's more than ready and so she reaches between their bodies to guide his dick inside her.
Slowly at first, letting her adjust to his size. She can feel herself shivering at the torturous pleasure of the sensation, every nerve ending aglow with the feel of him. It doesn't take any kind of signal to pick up the pace, a few measured thrusts and they're crashing into each other with abandon.
Stella can feel the insistent pressure building as Mac's warm mouth seeks her out for a frantic kiss. He's supporting her with those broad arms, pulling her close to him as they fuck in a deliciously wild rhythm.
This is what she's fantasized about, late at night in the bathtub or between the sheets. This raw side to Mac, the passion he keeps in reserve being unleashed on her is the biggest turn on in all of it.
She hooks her leg up over his hip, turning a good angle into the perfect one and before long she's biting down on Mac's shoulder as her fingers tense around his arms. The crashing wave of climax renders her senseless for long moments, but she's alert enough to be aware of Mac tumbling after her into an intense orgasm of his own.
They lie there, momentarily spent. Breathing is ragged and sweat glistens on both of their bodies. Before long, Mac rolls off, but immediately presses himself to her side. He lets a few soft kisses pepper her temple, her face and her collarbone before falling back onto the pillow.
Words are hard to come by at first, but their hands seem to seek each other out. The fingers of his right hand reach for her left and the tangle of their fingers feel right, somehow.
Stella pulls the comforter over them, turning to face Mac as she does. He offers an instinctive arm to rest her head upon and for long moments they simply stare at each other, mirroring their inane grins.
"So, what would you have done if I'd actually gotten past the entrée with this guy, Mac?"
His scowl is brief but playful, and his response is to draw her into a long, slow kiss. The tenderness is there now, past the panic and thrill of finally crossing that line.
"Like I said, I don't want you dating these guys, Stella."
There's a twinkle in Mac's eye as he says it, and she thinks he looks ten years younger in that moment.
"Oh? Who do you suggest I date instead?"
Mac pretends to consider the question, but answers with a swift kiss to her forehead.
"I know just the guy."