(no subject)
He rolls into your town, all bravado & smooth sarcasm & sexuality, about two months after you settle in. You see him glide past in a wicked car a day before you actually meet him; he’s blasting REO Speedwagon & he’s alone. You can hear him singing as he slows at the light & you grin at the sound, snicker.
He turns his head, sees you & your two girlies strolling arm-in-arm down to your favourite café. His smirk (what you can see through the windshield) brings to mind quite naughty ideas & you giggle to yourself, flipping your hair like a teenager going boy shopping. He revs his car.
-Damn, Debbi says with an appreciative look.
-Not really my type, but what a fittie, Charlotte says, continuing in your tradition of using what you call Britspeak.
You don’t say anything.
-So, cherry pie? Charlotte asks, pondering the day’s menu. The three of you laugh, bursting out singing an obnoxious rendition of the ‘80s song & continuing on your way.
After too many vampire flicks that night, you have dreams about Lestat in a wicked black car.
- - - - - -
The next day, you go into work, hoping the library is dead at nine on a Friday morning. It is. You sit at your station, pottering about the Internet & quietly singing along with whatever Candy puts on the radio.
Sometime around ten, the front door opens, issuing a gust of wind & rain. Someone walks in with heavy footsteps. You look up to see the man with the sweet car & the dirty smile. He walks with an affected masculinity that feels unaffected & natural; rain-wet hair & a leather jacket complete the rebel without a cause look, though he’s less feminine-masculine than James Dean. More of a Brando-in-On The Waterfront-type character.
He sees you & strides straight to the desk, ignoring Candy & staring straight at you.
-Hello, you say (cheery yet professional)
-Hey, he says slowly, drawing the word out with a look that makes you wish you’d worn pants rather than a skirt.
-Can I help you? You ask politely, crossing your legs under the table; you ignore Candy’s insistent typing (an IM window pops up on your computer.)
The man looks you up & down, leaning on the desk with that look.
-Yeah, actually. I’m new here & I heard this is the place to look for job opportunities.
-Yes, actually. The Board over there holds everything you need. You hop off your stool, pointing the way to the college-like Help Wanted corkboard. You turn to him, ready to explain, to find him looking at your legs. (You do look hot in your sexy-librarian get-up, if you do say so yourself.) His gaze travels up to your skirt, up & up & up to your eyes. He grins languidly, hands in his pockets, very casual.
Womanizer starts to play on Candy’s radio. (It’s louder than before.)
-It’s pretty self-explanatory, you say, clearing your throat & clasping your hands in front of you.
-Thank you, he says
-You’re welcome, you reply, suddenly annoyed at his casual words & innuendo-loaded voice.
-Wait, ma’am, he says as you turn away.
-Yes?
-I’m new & well, I need someone to show me around. He steps closer. Could you show me your favourite restaurant? Say, tonight at seven?
You’re caught, green eyes flanked by the faintest freckles. You break eye contact but the look lingers, skittering over your skin.
-I don’t even know who you are, you say, an attempt to look scandalized failing as your voice holds more flirtation than necessary.
-John. John Smith, he says, extending a very nice hand with a cocky grin.
-Really? You say, quirking an eyebrow with a dissatisfied air.
-All right, you caught me. The name’s Sean. (You take his hand, warily. It’s warm & big & fits you perfectly. You get a brief vision of those hands in places you shouldn’t be thinking about at work.) I’m an Ares, by the way. Horns & temper & all that.
He winks & you snicker against you will.
-And you are?
-Evelyn.
-Enchante, Evelyn. He bows & kisses your still-captive hand.
After negotiation of numbers & times & places, you spend the rest of the day in a giggly, girl state. (Instead of ordering books, you plan your date outfit in your mind & on your favourite fashion website)
The two hours after work consist of outfit after outfit, dancing around in panties to raunchy Nickleback & laid-back Fleetwood Mac. Music & clothes & shoes & make-up (& of course, making sure everything is in order & the condoms are in your bedside table, just in case).
The date is a blur, starting with you opening the restaurant door, the bell’s ring announcing your presence like a debutante at her coming-out; the two of you & alcohol of varying kinds; inviting him over to your house that’s only ten minutes down the road. His eyes that swept over you, setting fire to you.
You manage to make it home, his gorgeous car in your rearview mirror the entire way, your legs shaking with repressed sexual tension.
You open the door, waiting only long enough to make sure he’s out of the car & on his way to you; you flip on the lights.
-So, drink? You ask, trying to rid your mind of those hands & that tongue…
His hands find your waist; he spins you ‘round, fingers gliding over your soft middle, skittering up & over & to your shoulders, neck, face. His lips find yours easily, hard on your mouth; he backs you into the wall, breasts smushed to his chest, everywhere his hard muscle along your body.
-No drink. His voice reverberates in your mouth, his lips slick against yours, his hands already under your denim skirt.
Fingers play with lace edges, trailing underneath & playing in hair & crevices; you shiver, squirm, under the touch. He laughs, low & dirty. You trace your hands down his chest, fluttering with the hem of his shirt, continuing further down. You grin into his neck as he turns hard under your stroking.
He growls as you slowly unzip his trousers, slipping a finger in to tease through looser, lighter fabric.
You’re slammed into the wall as takes your wrists in one large hand & pushes them up roughly. He somehow sheds the necessary clothing in a few smooth moves. (His chest is an impressively smooth show of muscle & scars & oh his shoulders are to die for.)
He enters you under your skirt (your thigh-highs are still on, too), pulling hard at your shirt, roughly squeezing & teasing & licking wetly at your skin. It’s the tightest you’ve been in ages, wet & slide-y & you throw your head back, eyes fluttering & rolling in ecstasy as he rocks back & forth easily.
Sounds issue from the two of you, guttural noises that have no place in any actual language, but belong to human nature. You move with him, your arms twisting against his one very large (& capable, you now know) hand, your hair falling over him.
(at one point, his elbow rams into something hard & wood-like [your bookshelf, you figure later], & you both flinch into each other. Somehow that
.
He turns his head, sees you & your two girlies strolling arm-in-arm down to your favourite café. His smirk (what you can see through the windshield) brings to mind quite naughty ideas & you giggle to yourself, flipping your hair like a teenager going boy shopping. He revs his car.
-Damn, Debbi says with an appreciative look.
-Not really my type, but what a fittie, Charlotte says, continuing in your tradition of using what you call Britspeak.
You don’t say anything.
-So, cherry pie? Charlotte asks, pondering the day’s menu. The three of you laugh, bursting out singing an obnoxious rendition of the ‘80s song & continuing on your way.
After too many vampire flicks that night, you have dreams about Lestat in a wicked black car.
- - - - - -
The next day, you go into work, hoping the library is dead at nine on a Friday morning. It is. You sit at your station, pottering about the Internet & quietly singing along with whatever Candy puts on the radio.
Sometime around ten, the front door opens, issuing a gust of wind & rain. Someone walks in with heavy footsteps. You look up to see the man with the sweet car & the dirty smile. He walks with an affected masculinity that feels unaffected & natural; rain-wet hair & a leather jacket complete the rebel without a cause look, though he’s less feminine-masculine than James Dean. More of a Brando-in-On The Waterfront-type character.
He sees you & strides straight to the desk, ignoring Candy & staring straight at you.
-Hello, you say (cheery yet professional)
-Hey, he says slowly, drawing the word out with a look that makes you wish you’d worn pants rather than a skirt.
-Can I help you? You ask politely, crossing your legs under the table; you ignore Candy’s insistent typing (an IM window pops up on your computer.)
The man looks you up & down, leaning on the desk with that look.
-Yeah, actually. I’m new here & I heard this is the place to look for job opportunities.
-Yes, actually. The Board over there holds everything you need. You hop off your stool, pointing the way to the college-like Help Wanted corkboard. You turn to him, ready to explain, to find him looking at your legs. (You do look hot in your sexy-librarian get-up, if you do say so yourself.) His gaze travels up to your skirt, up & up & up to your eyes. He grins languidly, hands in his pockets, very casual.
Womanizer starts to play on Candy’s radio. (It’s louder than before.)
-It’s pretty self-explanatory, you say, clearing your throat & clasping your hands in front of you.
-Thank you, he says
-You’re welcome, you reply, suddenly annoyed at his casual words & innuendo-loaded voice.
-Wait, ma’am, he says as you turn away.
-Yes?
-I’m new & well, I need someone to show me around. He steps closer. Could you show me your favourite restaurant? Say, tonight at seven?
You’re caught, green eyes flanked by the faintest freckles. You break eye contact but the look lingers, skittering over your skin.
-I don’t even know who you are, you say, an attempt to look scandalized failing as your voice holds more flirtation than necessary.
-John. John Smith, he says, extending a very nice hand with a cocky grin.
-Really? You say, quirking an eyebrow with a dissatisfied air.
-All right, you caught me. The name’s Sean. (You take his hand, warily. It’s warm & big & fits you perfectly. You get a brief vision of those hands in places you shouldn’t be thinking about at work.) I’m an Ares, by the way. Horns & temper & all that.
He winks & you snicker against you will.
-And you are?
-Evelyn.
-Enchante, Evelyn. He bows & kisses your still-captive hand.
After negotiation of numbers & times & places, you spend the rest of the day in a giggly, girl state. (Instead of ordering books, you plan your date outfit in your mind & on your favourite fashion website)
The two hours after work consist of outfit after outfit, dancing around in panties to raunchy Nickleback & laid-back Fleetwood Mac. Music & clothes & shoes & make-up (& of course, making sure everything is in order & the condoms are in your bedside table, just in case).
The date is a blur, starting with you opening the restaurant door, the bell’s ring announcing your presence like a debutante at her coming-out; the two of you & alcohol of varying kinds; inviting him over to your house that’s only ten minutes down the road. His eyes that swept over you, setting fire to you.
You manage to make it home, his gorgeous car in your rearview mirror the entire way, your legs shaking with repressed sexual tension.
You open the door, waiting only long enough to make sure he’s out of the car & on his way to you; you flip on the lights.
-So, drink? You ask, trying to rid your mind of those hands & that tongue…
His hands find your waist; he spins you ‘round, fingers gliding over your soft middle, skittering up & over & to your shoulders, neck, face. His lips find yours easily, hard on your mouth; he backs you into the wall, breasts smushed to his chest, everywhere his hard muscle along your body.
-No drink. His voice reverberates in your mouth, his lips slick against yours, his hands already under your denim skirt.
Fingers play with lace edges, trailing underneath & playing in hair & crevices; you shiver, squirm, under the touch. He laughs, low & dirty. You trace your hands down his chest, fluttering with the hem of his shirt, continuing further down. You grin into his neck as he turns hard under your stroking.
He growls as you slowly unzip his trousers, slipping a finger in to tease through looser, lighter fabric.
You’re slammed into the wall as takes your wrists in one large hand & pushes them up roughly. He somehow sheds the necessary clothing in a few smooth moves. (His chest is an impressively smooth show of muscle & scars & oh his shoulders are to die for.)
He enters you under your skirt (your thigh-highs are still on, too), pulling hard at your shirt, roughly squeezing & teasing & licking wetly at your skin. It’s the tightest you’ve been in ages, wet & slide-y & you throw your head back, eyes fluttering & rolling in ecstasy as he rocks back & forth easily.
Sounds issue from the two of you, guttural noises that have no place in any actual language, but belong to human nature. You move with him, your arms twisting against his one very large (& capable, you now know) hand, your hair falling over him.
(at one point, his elbow rams into something hard & wood-like [your bookshelf, you figure later], & you both flinch into each other. Somehow that
.