FIC: "Holding the Cuervo" (V/Lamb) NC-17
Title: "Holding the Cuervo" 1/1
Authors: monimala and angel_grace
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Character/Pairing: Veronica/Lamb
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5194
Disclaimer: We don't own the characters. We just play with them.
Summary: Gracie tells Mala to write "some pron." Mala says to Gracie "No, you write some pron." They decide to write some together on AIM, with the help of starrwisher's prompt: a bar, a salt shaker, a lemon.
And one final "Grace" note...all the good dialogue is Mala's. The boring bits are mine.
"Damn it, Cliff," Veronica muttered, pacing outside the entrance to the Seventh Veil. She'd hoped he would've learned something about picking up strange women after that incident with the handcuffs Dad had told her about... which, note to self, she still needed to bleach from her brain. There was only so much a girl could take when it came to stories about good old uncle Cliffie and women of the hooker persuasion.
The guy was handy in a public-defender sort of pinch, but he really needed to learn some self-control. Also how to read a watch--she'd been pacing out here for nearly ten minutes.
"Come pish me upsh, Ron," he'd mumbled, the scotch fumes practically choking her from across the cell network. And, really, who was she to deny a man some pishing up, right? The least he could've done was actually *be here.*
But when were the men in her life ever conscientious of her feelings? There was no getting around it--she was actually going to have to go into that den of iniquity.
Veronica took a deep breath, stiffened her shoulders and prepared for skanky, sleazy battle. It was just another Saturday night, really, and what did that say about her? Maybe that she needed to quit going to Pi Sigma Sigma parties. But that was a thought for another time, perhaps one where she was wearing a toga.
The inside of the club was dark and smoky--California anti-smoking laws be damned--and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the haze. She had hoped that Cliff would be readily visible, so she wouldn't have to venture farther in, but Lady Luck was obviously on vacation in Bermuda.
Cliff was going to owe her big. Very big. This went beyond Get Out of Jail Free cards for her friends. This was quite possibly Bentley territory. Not that Cliffie could afford a Bentley, but a girl could dream. This, however, was a nightmare. One with G-strings and cellulite and, oh God, was that R. Kelly blaring from the speakers? Worse than R.Kelly...was that *Lamb* hunched over the bar, ogling the G-strings?
She would have to find out if it was Lamb later, as there was currently a mountain of a man blocking her path. "Hiya, Tiny," she chirped, though his name tag said, "Maurice." Did he speak of the pompatus of love? What the Hell was a pompatus anyway? She was going to have to debate that when, and if, the mountain moved.
"I.d.!" he snapped, while she was wondering about the appropriateness of Mohammed-and-mountain jokes. Or maybe "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" jokes. Her dad could attest that she did a pretty mean Mother Superior.
She slipped her wallet from her purse, and smoothly handed him the very convincing license that declared her to be a child of 1984. And, just for the sake of credibility, she pointed at the man at the bar who was, at the moment, salting his wrist. "That's my boyfriend...and he is *so* dead." The mountain looked over his shoulder, and realized that she was pointing at the local law enforcement. Grunting, he handed back her i.d. and moved aside.
As she walked towards the bar, she could almost swear that she heard Tiny Maurice mutter, "Go get 'em, Girl." He probably watched a lot of Tyra or Dr. Phil.
All thoughts of daytime talk shows flew out of her mind as she got closer, and saw Lamb prepping for yet another tequila shot. There was something almost hypnotic about the precision with which he snaked his tongue across the pale skin of his inner wrist, sprinkled it generously with salt, and licked it once more. He wasn't even focusing on the girl on the pole just a few feet in front of him. All his concentration was on the rhythm of salt, tequila, lime. And damn it if Veronica's wasn't, too.
Something coiled low and hot inside her as he slammed the empty glass upside-down on the bar and bit viciously into the wedge of lime. How had she never noticed that his teeth were perfect? Lime juice trailed down his chin and she felt her mouth water. If she didn't know better, she'd think she was tempted to close the distance between them and lick it off herself. She swallowed, convulsively, repeating her earlier refrain of "Damn it, Cliff."
Speaking of the hapless attorney, where the hell was he? She hadn't ventured into this hellhole for her health, and if he had disappeared entirely, she was going to cut his balls off when she finally tracked him down. Not that she ever wanted to see his balls. So it was going to be a strictly through-the-clothes maneuver.
The industrious girl on the pole was attempting a through-the-clothes maneuver of her own, practically grinding her crotch into Lamb's face. He still took no notice, and Veronica realized that a half-full bottle of Jose Cuervo was perched at his elbow.
And it wasn't a bad elbow. It was actually kind of nicely-shaped.
Veronica kicked herself for the inappropriate postscript, deciding to put full blame on the tight black t-shirt he was sporting. It was easier to mock him in ugly brown uniforms that made him look like a UPS man. The t-shirt, on the other hand, accentuated mouth-watering biceps, and hinted at a washboard stomach that she had a sudden, inexplicable urge to caress. With her tongue.
She wasn't sure what brown could do for her, but black…black was apparently doing a LOT.
"You're staring at me, Veronica Mars. Don't think I haven't noticed." Lamb spoke with the deliberate enunciation of someone who'd had, well, half a bottle of Jose Cuervo.
"Aren't I wearing too many clothes? Miss Bump 'n' Grind up there is going to be crushed."
He glanced up, as if noticing for the first time that a woman wearing a silver thong and size DD silicone was only inches away. "Taffy, could you give us a minute?" The blonde with the breasts pouted, but moved to the next pole over, and Lamb turned his scrutiny back to Veronica.
Too late, she remembered that Cliff's drunken call had pulled her out of bed, and she had driven to the bar wearing a ratty pink tank top and a pair of Happy Bunny pajama pants that sported a chipper little white rabbit saying "Hi, Loser."
Rather fitting, given her present company.
"Cute," Lamb murmured, tilting the salt shaker at her in invitation.
"Cute"? That was all he had to say? He was worthless as the sheriff, but she had come to count on him for scathing repartee. Since when was she cute? Even in Happy Bunny pajama pants?
She snatched the salt shaker from his hand, trying to ignore the shiver she felt when their fingers brushed. Locking eyes with him, she very deliberately licked her wrist. She felt more than a little vindicated when his eyes followed the motion. She gave her wrist a single shake of salt, and steeled herself not to cringe as she licked it off. His eyes widened slightly as she stepped in close to pick up a filled shot glass off the bar.
Just one shot. And then she was going to find Cliff's worthless drunk ass and take him home. Not even his home. He was going to have to make do with sleeping it off on her couch.
Perhaps it was cliché, but the tequila burned its way down her throat and into her belly. She reached for a lime, and felt an altogether different heat when Lamb grabbed her hand.
He stared down at her wrist deliberately, like the pale skin and blue veins had the answer to why he'd been sitting here getting plastered with Taffy. He noticed a few grains of salt still stuck to her skin, and before he could stop himself, his tongue flicked out and licked them off.
A gasp of shock escaped her throat as the rough pad of his tongue moved across her skin. She was still staring at him, wordless, as he pressed a slice of lime into her limp fingers and raised her hand to her lips. Dutifully, she sucked on the sour fruit and her mind whirled. Who the hell did Lamb think he was, touching her like that? And why the hell had it felt so damn good? She added the spent lime to the growing pile on the bar, and turned to face him, venom on her tongue along with citrus. Before she could speak, he yanked her sharply closer, one knee insinuating itself between her thighs.
"You're everywhere, aren't you?" he asked, still with that earnest, precise speech of the inebriated. "I can't escape you. I can't drink you away." His thumb flicked over her pulse, where his mouth had just been. "You even taste real."
"I'm the most real thing in this place," she pointed out dryly. "The only plastic on me is on my shoes." As if on cue, Lamb craned his neck, taking in her bright blue flip-flops. They totally clashed.
For his part, he didn't notice the color. All he saw were the cute, pink-painted toes. He sucked in a shaky breath, keeping a hold of her wrist -- afraid she'd disappear if he let go -- and set up another two shots with his free hand.
She eyed him warily, trying to ignore the quickening of her pulse beneath his thumb. "I didn't come here to get drunk with you," she protested.
"Why are you here, Veronica Mars?" he asked. "If it's not to torment me?"
"To rescue Cliff McCormack, actually." And it was high time she remembered that.
"Rescue me instead."
She blinked at the oddly pleading tone of his voice. "How am I supposed to do that?" she all but stammered.
He didn't answer. Maybe he couldn't. Instead, he gently pushed her hair aside and poured what felt like a river of salt into the hollow of her collarbone.
And then he licked.
And licked.
Her eyes fluttered shut and her head tilted back, inviting him in even as her common sense screamed that she was out of her mind. But his tongue was hot and gentle, and she couldn't stop a tiny moan from escaping. He took it as encouragement, probably because it was, drawing her more securely between his legs and cleaning her skin of every last grain of salt. Just like before.
His hand drifted down to cup her ass through the thin cotton of her pants, and the heat of his touch felt like a brand. He trailed kisses down her collarbone, and then his face dipped between her breasts. Her eyes opened for a moment, and she noticed that Taffy was staring daggers at them. Although everyone else seemed to be enjoying the show.
"L-lamb, you should take your shot," she whispered, unevenly.
"I am."
Gathering her will, she pushed against his chest. "Of tequila," she corrected him.
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, leaning back just enough to swipe one brimming shot glass.
She read his intentions in his eyes, and reached out a hand to still his. "Don't even think of pouring that on me," she warned. "I didn't come here to give the fine patrons of the Seventh Veil a show."
"And what about me?" he purred. "Do I get a show?"
Good God. Get some Jose in the man and he was relentless. And vulnerable. And sexy. Maybe he needed to be drunk all the time?
He was waiting for her answer, the shot glass still clutched in his hand. She picked up the remaining glass from the bar, clinked it against his, and whispered, "Take your shot."
He slammed it back like a good little alkie and she did the same, shuddering the whole time. And when she was turning the glass upside down on the bar, he pointed out, "You didn't lick." He actually sounded offended by her breach of tequila etiquette. Okay, drunk and offended, but still.
She was treading in dangerous waters, but she found that she really didn't care. She supposed she had Jose to blame for that. "Then I guess you'd better line them up again."
She watched him pour the shots, settling more comfortably onto his leg as he did. When he was finished, he handed her the salt and waited expectantly. This one would be the last one, she promised herself. Then she'd look for Cliff. And she'd call a cab for all parties concerned.
In the meantime, she had to lick something.
And as she didn't want to kick off a career in porn, it was going to have to be something decent. She was, quite literally, going to have to find a decent bone in Lamb's body. Pity, that.
Well. She had been rather impressed by his arms, right?
She dusted a fine line from his bicep all the way down to the crook of his elbow. His muscles were taut, hard from hours spent in the gym. At least she knew the taxpayers' money was going to some good use. This was a cop who hadn't seen a doughnut in years. She actually whimpered a little thinking about all the places she could lick powdered sugar off of. Funny how years of dating Duncan had never given her such ideas. And you'd think they would've been obvious.
"I'm waiting," Lamb prodded, one hand slipping beneath her tank top, not-so -discreetly skating up the line of her spine.
She couldn't quite hide her eagerness as she bent her head and licked her way up that most impressive arm, her tongue lingering on the ridges and contours of his muscle. Her face was flushed when she lifted her head, and she was gratified to note that he was breathing hard.
After she downed the requisite shot, she reminded him of his own breach of drinking etiquette. "You didn't suck."
"Oh, yeah?" He bit down on a slice of lemon -- they'd probably gone through every lime in the place -- and then leaned down and kissed her. She could taste the citrus and tequila in the heat of his mouth, and in her own. It tasted, quite frankly, like sex. Which, if they didn't get out of here now, they would be having in sight of God and Tiny Maurice and Taffy.
"Cliff McCormack left twenty minutes ago with some stacked redhead," Lamb murmured against her lips. "You're all mine."
"You couldn't have mentioned that sooner?" she gasped.
"I needed a reason for you to stay."
"You thought I was a figment of your imagination."
"That, too." With that, Lamb fumbled for a stack of bills, presumably meant for Taffy's thong but now covering their tequila consumption, plunked them down, and urged her off his lap.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Getting us out of here before I throw you down on the bar and have my way with you."
It freaked her out a little how incredibly appealing that sounded. She didn't normally go for the macho posturing bullshit. Then again, none of the previous men in her life were particularly capable of macho posturing. Especially while she wore adorable pajamas and they were drunk. At that point, they generally just wanted to cuddle. Or tell her all their problems. She had never understood how signing on as a girlfriend made her their shrink.
"Shrink" wasn't exactly the word she'd use to describe anything in her current situation. And Lamb most definitely didn't want to cuddle. She grabbed the salt shaker for good measure and let him lead her out the door.
The cool night air should have been a slap in the face, a return to reality. Instead, it just raised a layer of goosebumps on top of the ones she already had from the feel of Lamb's tongue in her mouth. All that mattered was finding a horizontal surface, pronto.
Or a vertical one. The alley beside the club didn't look all that bad at the moment.
But Lamb was already pulling her across the parking lot, his grip on her hand strong and warm. "Where are we going?"
"I have a room at the Camelot."
She froze at the name, her eyes locking on the neon flashing across the street. So many bad memories associated with that dump, and she didn't want the past haunting her tonight.
"W-why do you have a room there?"
"You think I was going to stumble back to my apartment complex wasted? Give me some credit, Veronica."
"I've given you more credit tonight than I've given anyone in my life," she reminded, thinking again of how she'd tasted him. How he'd tasted her.
He stopped pulling and turned to face her, his arm easing around her waist. "You won't regret it."
"What if I already do?"
He flashed her a familiar smug grin that for once didn't have her itching to slap him. "Not possible, Mars."
Two seconds after they got to his room, she said "see ya" to her Happy Bunny pajama pants.
Two seconds after that, he was putting the Seventh Veil's generic salt shaker to work again.
If he was this creative with kitchen condiments, she wondered what he'd be capable of with actual sex toys. And the man did own a pair of regulation handcuffs...
He seasoned and licked every inch of exposed skin between her ankle and her inner thigh. And then he smiled up at her, suddenly and wickedly sober. "What was that about me forgetting to suck?"
She moaned with pleasure as he went to work, and she was totally buying the man a case of Jose Cuervo and a crate of limes if this was what it got her. "You…are so…fucking…cute…" he growled, hands sliding beneath her legs, lifting so he could lick deep inside her. This time, she had no complaints about being called 'cute.' He could call her anything…absolutely anything he wanted if he…
"Oh…fuck…*Lamb*."
"That's the plan," he lifted his head long enough to say. She giggled even as she gasped, because his tongue was *there* doing *that*, *again*, and while Logan was no slouch in the oral pleasure department, he was in the freaking minor leagues compared to the man with his head currently between her thighs. And Duncan, bless his sweet heart, had never met a missionary he didn't like. Maybe he'd switch positions now that he was in another hemisphere, but she doubted it. And then all debates on boyfriends past were drowned, buried, blown apart, and crucified because she was coming so hard.
It took a moment before coherent thought returned, and when she looked down at him, that smug grin was back. Fortunately for him, he had everything in the world to be smug about. This must be why so many women preferred older men. Who needed a nineteen-year-old amateur when you could have a 34-year-old with a killer body and a truly remarkable tongue? Speaking of his body...he was seriously overdressed for the occasion, and she was in the mood to do a little salting of her own.
"My work here is done," Lamb murmured, flopping down on the pillows beside her, throwing one arm across his eyes.
"The Hell it is." Veronica languidly sat up, still feeling delicious tremors all the way down to her toes. "That's just like you, Lamb, to cut out and leave me to do the real job. You are not getting off that easy," she warned, shucking off her tank top, which had somehow gotten tangled around her neck during his erotic ministrations.
"Ah, but I *am* getting off, right?" He smirked, moving his arm and cocking an eyebrow at her.
"It only seems fair," she conceded. She eyed his still-clothed body sprawled across the ugly motel bedspread. As much as she enjoyed the way that black t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, it was simply going to get in the way.
With a move that he clearly wasn't expecting, she straddled his waist, her body settling perfectly atop the prominent bulge in his jeans. The friction alone nearly sent her over the edge a second time, but through sheer force of will she focused instead on getting him naked.
He groaned softly at the first touch of her hands against his bare skin. Slowly, teasingly, she worked the fabric up his chest, pausing occasionally to trace the contours of his abs with her fingertips. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, and it was all he could do to keep from flipping her over, tearing off his pants, and burying himself deep inside her.
He helpfully raised his arms so she could pull his shirt over his head and Veronica was suddenly rocked by the look in his eyes. He'd never, ever, looked at her like that before. All those years, all the insults flying back and forth across his desk, and he'd never once looked at her as if he never wanted her to leave.
"Is this just the tequila?" she wondered, throat constricting, head swimming. "Is that what's going on here?"
"It's the salt and the limes, too," Lamb chuckled. And then he threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her face down to his. "And it's this," he added, against her lips.
She could taste herself on him and, like so many other things tonight, it should've given her pause, it should have woken her up, it should have snapped her out of the insanity. But no, it just made her frantically fumble with his zipper as she kissed him back so thoroughly she could tell he'd had a tonsillectomy at some point in his life.
Not that Lamb was any less enthusiastic. Impatiently, he brushed her hands away, making quick work of the button and zipper and shedding his jeans like it didn't require some sort of contortionism. "Who are you, Houdini?" she murmured, breathlessly, grabbing one leg of the garment before it could slide off the bed and extracting his wallet.
"If you're going to rob me blind, Veronica, your timing is off. You're supposed to wait till you've fucked my brains out and I'm asleep."
Her look when she held up the condom was a mixture of triumph and a clear telegraphing of the words "you moron."
Much to his surprise, she didn't tear into the condom packet. Instead, she placed it carefully on the nightstand and began rummaging around on the bed.
"What are you doing now?" he asked, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.
"Lining up another shot."
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
"Not really, but I'll keep the technique in mind for the next time you really piss me off. Which will probably be...tomorrow, I'd guess."
As she shook salt in delicate designs all over his chest -- oh, look, a butterfly -- Lamb studied her with a knowing gleam in his eye. "Yeah, but tomorrow I'm also going to be among the ranks of the privileged few who know where your G spot is, Veronica…and judging by your reaction, I'm the only one in the category who can find it just using my tongue."
"I liked you better when you were drunk."
"I bet I could find it drunk, too."
"We can test that theory another time."
He didn't point out that she had just implied there would be another time. He just filed the information away for future use. And then he stopped filing entirely because her mouth was on his chest and she was licking away all her condiment artwork and he could only imagine what kind of mischief she could get up to with mayo or Worcestershire sauce. Or even better, whipped cream and Hershey's syrup. He'd always had a sweet tooth.
She flicked her tongue over his nipple and he bit off a few words of the "fuck" and "goddamn" variety. She giggled and it was a purely evil sound of feminine satisfaction. He wanted to hear it again. Multiple times. But for now, he was content to let her have her wicked way with him.
"Wicked," though, was an understatement, as she slowly worked her way south. Her hair, so long and curly these days, whispered over his skin as she kissed her way down, and he couldn't resist threading his fingers through it again.
She reached the hem of his boxer-briefs, and briefly dipped one finger beneath the elastic before pressing a final damp kiss to his belly button and sitting up. Her cheeks were flushed, and the word "gorgeous" flashed through his mind as she perched above him, naked.
Veronica brought both hands down to his waistband, and he obligingly lifted his hips. Carefully, she pulled the fabric down until all that was left was skin. She'd always thought Lamb was good-looking, in an abstract kind of way. All the parts were in the right places. He had a nice face. It was just too bad he was a complete jerk. But now, as she tore open a simple foil packet and he followed her movements with his eyes, he was absolutely the sexiest man she'd ever seen…mindblowingly handsome as she unrolled the latex over an erection so stiff and so impressive that it had to be hurting him.
Wasn't there something in Shakespeare about drink provoking desire but impairing performance? Well, here was proof to the contrary. Lamb was ready to perform. And then some.
"Veronica, you're staring at me again." Lamb had a vaguely hysterical note in his voice. Apparently balls didn't actually *turn* blue. If they did, he'd probably be Papa Smurf.
"Lamb, I…"
"Oh, fuck it," he gasped, grasping her hips and quickly flipping her beneath him. He sheathed himself inside her in one swift stroke. She winced slightly as her body stretched, because it had been a while, and Lamb wasn't what a girl would call small. Or even medium. In fact, Don Lamb was a giant dick with a giant dick. And he knew how to use it. Multiple times. Their mouths melded, all clashing teeth and dueling tongues, as he thrust inside her. He was probably going to leave bruises on her hips and thighs and wrists from the way he was clutching her for purchase. But she didn't care. She rose to meet him every single time, gripping his shoulders and riding the heightening tension until it took them both right *there*. Or at least it took *her* right there, while Lamb held back and chuckled. He was such a tease.
Nineteen-year-old boys definitely did *not* have this kind of stamina. Logan had pretty much defined "one and done," and holy Hell, she really didn't want to contemplate her ex-boyfriend when Lamb was rolling onto his back, holding her carefully, and then pistoning her slowly up and down above his body. He nipped and kissed his way down her throat, nuzzling her breasts and scraping the sensitive tips with his stubble as she rode him.
A look of determination crossed her face, although he was too distracted to see it. This time, she was taking him with her. While he closed his lips around one nipple and tugged, she skimmed her fingers down between them and stroked the heavy sac of his balls. "Jesus. *Fuck*, Veronica."
"That's the plan," she laughed, as he thrust up against her clit and they both hit the edge and tumbled over.
They rolled apart, panting and satisfied. After a moment of recuperation, Lamb stood up and made a quick trip to the bathroom. When he returned, he cast an appreciative glance at Veronica's body draped across the bed, and asked, "Now what?"
She yawned, and pulled down the coverlet and sheets beneath her. "Now...now we sleep."
"You sleep," Lamb advised, wryly, climbing in beside her. "I'll go with 'passing out.' Remember to leave me ten bucks for a cab."
Veronica's sex-addled mind almost took that as a hooker reference, until she remembered he'd thought she was stealing his wallet. How romantic. Tequila shots, salt in uncomfortable places, and theft. Just what grand romances were made of. The thought rendered her wide awake…and within minutes, Lamb was fast asleep and snoring lightly, while she was stuck staring at the disgusting ceiling of room 207 at the Camelot Motel. She flipped over onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow, trying to pretend that she wasn't in the throes of post-coital confusion over a man she didn't even like.
But the shrill buzz of her phone brought a quick end to all the "why me"s and "oh my God"s. She grabbed her Sidekick on the second ring, both gratified and irritated to see that it was the reason this whole night had begun. "Cliff!" she hissed, rolling out of bed and moving towards the window. "Cliff, I'm going to kill you."
"Veronica, I'm so sorry. You should've seen this woman. Fantastic…eyes. Kid, where are you? You're not still out looking for me, are you?"
She looked back at the bed, at Lamb on his stomach in the tangle of sheets, hugging a pillow and looking all of sixteen years old. She was very likely never going to see that guy in that particular incarnation again.
She didn't know why, but that prospect made her throat tighten and her eyes water. Or maybe that was just the onset of the hangover.
"Veronica?" Cliff prodded.
She choked getting the words out.
"C-cliffie? Come pish me upsh."
"Sure, doll. Just tell me where you are."
Before she could reply, a hand closed around hers, gently prying the phone from her fingers. Without a word, Lamb ended the call and set the Sidekick on the nightstand.
"I...I thought you were still asleep."
He still didn't say anything, and it was starting to freak her out. Even more than the fact that she was naked in a hotel room at the goddamn Camelot with none other than Don Fucking Lamb. Who was also naked. Very, very naked. And looking at her like he had just discovered his next meal.
Her body clenched at the mere thought of that.
She waited for him to speak, to make some big, cheesy declaration, because wasn't that what good ol' boys from Texas did after a night of roof-blowing sex with their nemesis?
But all he said was "Don't leave yet."
And then he kissed the salt from her cheeks.
Any protests or excuses Veronica might have had vanished as Lamb picked her up and carried her back to the bed.
"We're out of condoms," she reminded, softly.
"We still have hands."
She could handle this...the physical was always easier. If she could focus on the jutting hipbones and the prickly stubble, then the weird clench of her heart when he asked her to stay didn't matter.
Just like when he'd asked her to rescue him at the bar, she stayed. She drank. Maybe Logan wasn't the only one with a savior complex and an alcohol problem. She bucked up against Lamb's fingers, whispered his name and downed one more shot for the road.
Authors: monimala and angel_grace
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Character/Pairing: Veronica/Lamb
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5194
Disclaimer: We don't own the characters. We just play with them.
Summary: Gracie tells Mala to write "some pron." Mala says to Gracie "No, you write some pron." They decide to write some together on AIM, with the help of starrwisher's prompt: a bar, a salt shaker, a lemon.
And one final "Grace" note...all the good dialogue is Mala's. The boring bits are mine.
"Damn it, Cliff," Veronica muttered, pacing outside the entrance to the Seventh Veil. She'd hoped he would've learned something about picking up strange women after that incident with the handcuffs Dad had told her about... which, note to self, she still needed to bleach from her brain. There was only so much a girl could take when it came to stories about good old uncle Cliffie and women of the hooker persuasion.
The guy was handy in a public-defender sort of pinch, but he really needed to learn some self-control. Also how to read a watch--she'd been pacing out here for nearly ten minutes.
"Come pish me upsh, Ron," he'd mumbled, the scotch fumes practically choking her from across the cell network. And, really, who was she to deny a man some pishing up, right? The least he could've done was actually *be here.*
But when were the men in her life ever conscientious of her feelings? There was no getting around it--she was actually going to have to go into that den of iniquity.
Veronica took a deep breath, stiffened her shoulders and prepared for skanky, sleazy battle. It was just another Saturday night, really, and what did that say about her? Maybe that she needed to quit going to Pi Sigma Sigma parties. But that was a thought for another time, perhaps one where she was wearing a toga.
The inside of the club was dark and smoky--California anti-smoking laws be damned--and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the haze. She had hoped that Cliff would be readily visible, so she wouldn't have to venture farther in, but Lady Luck was obviously on vacation in Bermuda.
Cliff was going to owe her big. Very big. This went beyond Get Out of Jail Free cards for her friends. This was quite possibly Bentley territory. Not that Cliffie could afford a Bentley, but a girl could dream. This, however, was a nightmare. One with G-strings and cellulite and, oh God, was that R. Kelly blaring from the speakers? Worse than R.Kelly...was that *Lamb* hunched over the bar, ogling the G-strings?
She would have to find out if it was Lamb later, as there was currently a mountain of a man blocking her path. "Hiya, Tiny," she chirped, though his name tag said, "Maurice." Did he speak of the pompatus of love? What the Hell was a pompatus anyway? She was going to have to debate that when, and if, the mountain moved.
"I.d.!" he snapped, while she was wondering about the appropriateness of Mohammed-and-mountain jokes. Or maybe "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" jokes. Her dad could attest that she did a pretty mean Mother Superior.
She slipped her wallet from her purse, and smoothly handed him the very convincing license that declared her to be a child of 1984. And, just for the sake of credibility, she pointed at the man at the bar who was, at the moment, salting his wrist. "That's my boyfriend...and he is *so* dead." The mountain looked over his shoulder, and realized that she was pointing at the local law enforcement. Grunting, he handed back her i.d. and moved aside.
As she walked towards the bar, she could almost swear that she heard Tiny Maurice mutter, "Go get 'em, Girl." He probably watched a lot of Tyra or Dr. Phil.
All thoughts of daytime talk shows flew out of her mind as she got closer, and saw Lamb prepping for yet another tequila shot. There was something almost hypnotic about the precision with which he snaked his tongue across the pale skin of his inner wrist, sprinkled it generously with salt, and licked it once more. He wasn't even focusing on the girl on the pole just a few feet in front of him. All his concentration was on the rhythm of salt, tequila, lime. And damn it if Veronica's wasn't, too.
Something coiled low and hot inside her as he slammed the empty glass upside-down on the bar and bit viciously into the wedge of lime. How had she never noticed that his teeth were perfect? Lime juice trailed down his chin and she felt her mouth water. If she didn't know better, she'd think she was tempted to close the distance between them and lick it off herself. She swallowed, convulsively, repeating her earlier refrain of "Damn it, Cliff."
Speaking of the hapless attorney, where the hell was he? She hadn't ventured into this hellhole for her health, and if he had disappeared entirely, she was going to cut his balls off when she finally tracked him down. Not that she ever wanted to see his balls. So it was going to be a strictly through-the-clothes maneuver.
The industrious girl on the pole was attempting a through-the-clothes maneuver of her own, practically grinding her crotch into Lamb's face. He still took no notice, and Veronica realized that a half-full bottle of Jose Cuervo was perched at his elbow.
And it wasn't a bad elbow. It was actually kind of nicely-shaped.
Veronica kicked herself for the inappropriate postscript, deciding to put full blame on the tight black t-shirt he was sporting. It was easier to mock him in ugly brown uniforms that made him look like a UPS man. The t-shirt, on the other hand, accentuated mouth-watering biceps, and hinted at a washboard stomach that she had a sudden, inexplicable urge to caress. With her tongue.
She wasn't sure what brown could do for her, but black…black was apparently doing a LOT.
"You're staring at me, Veronica Mars. Don't think I haven't noticed." Lamb spoke with the deliberate enunciation of someone who'd had, well, half a bottle of Jose Cuervo.
"Aren't I wearing too many clothes? Miss Bump 'n' Grind up there is going to be crushed."
He glanced up, as if noticing for the first time that a woman wearing a silver thong and size DD silicone was only inches away. "Taffy, could you give us a minute?" The blonde with the breasts pouted, but moved to the next pole over, and Lamb turned his scrutiny back to Veronica.
Too late, she remembered that Cliff's drunken call had pulled her out of bed, and she had driven to the bar wearing a ratty pink tank top and a pair of Happy Bunny pajama pants that sported a chipper little white rabbit saying "Hi, Loser."
Rather fitting, given her present company.
"Cute," Lamb murmured, tilting the salt shaker at her in invitation.
"Cute"? That was all he had to say? He was worthless as the sheriff, but she had come to count on him for scathing repartee. Since when was she cute? Even in Happy Bunny pajama pants?
She snatched the salt shaker from his hand, trying to ignore the shiver she felt when their fingers brushed. Locking eyes with him, she very deliberately licked her wrist. She felt more than a little vindicated when his eyes followed the motion. She gave her wrist a single shake of salt, and steeled herself not to cringe as she licked it off. His eyes widened slightly as she stepped in close to pick up a filled shot glass off the bar.
Just one shot. And then she was going to find Cliff's worthless drunk ass and take him home. Not even his home. He was going to have to make do with sleeping it off on her couch.
Perhaps it was cliché, but the tequila burned its way down her throat and into her belly. She reached for a lime, and felt an altogether different heat when Lamb grabbed her hand.
He stared down at her wrist deliberately, like the pale skin and blue veins had the answer to why he'd been sitting here getting plastered with Taffy. He noticed a few grains of salt still stuck to her skin, and before he could stop himself, his tongue flicked out and licked them off.
A gasp of shock escaped her throat as the rough pad of his tongue moved across her skin. She was still staring at him, wordless, as he pressed a slice of lime into her limp fingers and raised her hand to her lips. Dutifully, she sucked on the sour fruit and her mind whirled. Who the hell did Lamb think he was, touching her like that? And why the hell had it felt so damn good? She added the spent lime to the growing pile on the bar, and turned to face him, venom on her tongue along with citrus. Before she could speak, he yanked her sharply closer, one knee insinuating itself between her thighs.
"You're everywhere, aren't you?" he asked, still with that earnest, precise speech of the inebriated. "I can't escape you. I can't drink you away." His thumb flicked over her pulse, where his mouth had just been. "You even taste real."
"I'm the most real thing in this place," she pointed out dryly. "The only plastic on me is on my shoes." As if on cue, Lamb craned his neck, taking in her bright blue flip-flops. They totally clashed.
For his part, he didn't notice the color. All he saw were the cute, pink-painted toes. He sucked in a shaky breath, keeping a hold of her wrist -- afraid she'd disappear if he let go -- and set up another two shots with his free hand.
She eyed him warily, trying to ignore the quickening of her pulse beneath his thumb. "I didn't come here to get drunk with you," she protested.
"Why are you here, Veronica Mars?" he asked. "If it's not to torment me?"
"To rescue Cliff McCormack, actually." And it was high time she remembered that.
"Rescue me instead."
She blinked at the oddly pleading tone of his voice. "How am I supposed to do that?" she all but stammered.
He didn't answer. Maybe he couldn't. Instead, he gently pushed her hair aside and poured what felt like a river of salt into the hollow of her collarbone.
And then he licked.
And licked.
Her eyes fluttered shut and her head tilted back, inviting him in even as her common sense screamed that she was out of her mind. But his tongue was hot and gentle, and she couldn't stop a tiny moan from escaping. He took it as encouragement, probably because it was, drawing her more securely between his legs and cleaning her skin of every last grain of salt. Just like before.
His hand drifted down to cup her ass through the thin cotton of her pants, and the heat of his touch felt like a brand. He trailed kisses down her collarbone, and then his face dipped between her breasts. Her eyes opened for a moment, and she noticed that Taffy was staring daggers at them. Although everyone else seemed to be enjoying the show.
"L-lamb, you should take your shot," she whispered, unevenly.
"I am."
Gathering her will, she pushed against his chest. "Of tequila," she corrected him.
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, leaning back just enough to swipe one brimming shot glass.
She read his intentions in his eyes, and reached out a hand to still his. "Don't even think of pouring that on me," she warned. "I didn't come here to give the fine patrons of the Seventh Veil a show."
"And what about me?" he purred. "Do I get a show?"
Good God. Get some Jose in the man and he was relentless. And vulnerable. And sexy. Maybe he needed to be drunk all the time?
He was waiting for her answer, the shot glass still clutched in his hand. She picked up the remaining glass from the bar, clinked it against his, and whispered, "Take your shot."
He slammed it back like a good little alkie and she did the same, shuddering the whole time. And when she was turning the glass upside down on the bar, he pointed out, "You didn't lick." He actually sounded offended by her breach of tequila etiquette. Okay, drunk and offended, but still.
She was treading in dangerous waters, but she found that she really didn't care. She supposed she had Jose to blame for that. "Then I guess you'd better line them up again."
She watched him pour the shots, settling more comfortably onto his leg as he did. When he was finished, he handed her the salt and waited expectantly. This one would be the last one, she promised herself. Then she'd look for Cliff. And she'd call a cab for all parties concerned.
In the meantime, she had to lick something.
And as she didn't want to kick off a career in porn, it was going to have to be something decent. She was, quite literally, going to have to find a decent bone in Lamb's body. Pity, that.
Well. She had been rather impressed by his arms, right?
She dusted a fine line from his bicep all the way down to the crook of his elbow. His muscles were taut, hard from hours spent in the gym. At least she knew the taxpayers' money was going to some good use. This was a cop who hadn't seen a doughnut in years. She actually whimpered a little thinking about all the places she could lick powdered sugar off of. Funny how years of dating Duncan had never given her such ideas. And you'd think they would've been obvious.
"I'm waiting," Lamb prodded, one hand slipping beneath her tank top, not-so -discreetly skating up the line of her spine.
She couldn't quite hide her eagerness as she bent her head and licked her way up that most impressive arm, her tongue lingering on the ridges and contours of his muscle. Her face was flushed when she lifted her head, and she was gratified to note that he was breathing hard.
After she downed the requisite shot, she reminded him of his own breach of drinking etiquette. "You didn't suck."
"Oh, yeah?" He bit down on a slice of lemon -- they'd probably gone through every lime in the place -- and then leaned down and kissed her. She could taste the citrus and tequila in the heat of his mouth, and in her own. It tasted, quite frankly, like sex. Which, if they didn't get out of here now, they would be having in sight of God and Tiny Maurice and Taffy.
"Cliff McCormack left twenty minutes ago with some stacked redhead," Lamb murmured against her lips. "You're all mine."
"You couldn't have mentioned that sooner?" she gasped.
"I needed a reason for you to stay."
"You thought I was a figment of your imagination."
"That, too." With that, Lamb fumbled for a stack of bills, presumably meant for Taffy's thong but now covering their tequila consumption, plunked them down, and urged her off his lap.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Getting us out of here before I throw you down on the bar and have my way with you."
It freaked her out a little how incredibly appealing that sounded. She didn't normally go for the macho posturing bullshit. Then again, none of the previous men in her life were particularly capable of macho posturing. Especially while she wore adorable pajamas and they were drunk. At that point, they generally just wanted to cuddle. Or tell her all their problems. She had never understood how signing on as a girlfriend made her their shrink.
"Shrink" wasn't exactly the word she'd use to describe anything in her current situation. And Lamb most definitely didn't want to cuddle. She grabbed the salt shaker for good measure and let him lead her out the door.
The cool night air should have been a slap in the face, a return to reality. Instead, it just raised a layer of goosebumps on top of the ones she already had from the feel of Lamb's tongue in her mouth. All that mattered was finding a horizontal surface, pronto.
Or a vertical one. The alley beside the club didn't look all that bad at the moment.
But Lamb was already pulling her across the parking lot, his grip on her hand strong and warm. "Where are we going?"
"I have a room at the Camelot."
She froze at the name, her eyes locking on the neon flashing across the street. So many bad memories associated with that dump, and she didn't want the past haunting her tonight.
"W-why do you have a room there?"
"You think I was going to stumble back to my apartment complex wasted? Give me some credit, Veronica."
"I've given you more credit tonight than I've given anyone in my life," she reminded, thinking again of how she'd tasted him. How he'd tasted her.
He stopped pulling and turned to face her, his arm easing around her waist. "You won't regret it."
"What if I already do?"
He flashed her a familiar smug grin that for once didn't have her itching to slap him. "Not possible, Mars."
Two seconds after they got to his room, she said "see ya" to her Happy Bunny pajama pants.
Two seconds after that, he was putting the Seventh Veil's generic salt shaker to work again.
If he was this creative with kitchen condiments, she wondered what he'd be capable of with actual sex toys. And the man did own a pair of regulation handcuffs...
He seasoned and licked every inch of exposed skin between her ankle and her inner thigh. And then he smiled up at her, suddenly and wickedly sober. "What was that about me forgetting to suck?"
She moaned with pleasure as he went to work, and she was totally buying the man a case of Jose Cuervo and a crate of limes if this was what it got her. "You…are so…fucking…cute…" he growled, hands sliding beneath her legs, lifting so he could lick deep inside her. This time, she had no complaints about being called 'cute.' He could call her anything…absolutely anything he wanted if he…
"Oh…fuck…*Lamb*."
"That's the plan," he lifted his head long enough to say. She giggled even as she gasped, because his tongue was *there* doing *that*, *again*, and while Logan was no slouch in the oral pleasure department, he was in the freaking minor leagues compared to the man with his head currently between her thighs. And Duncan, bless his sweet heart, had never met a missionary he didn't like. Maybe he'd switch positions now that he was in another hemisphere, but she doubted it. And then all debates on boyfriends past were drowned, buried, blown apart, and crucified because she was coming so hard.
It took a moment before coherent thought returned, and when she looked down at him, that smug grin was back. Fortunately for him, he had everything in the world to be smug about. This must be why so many women preferred older men. Who needed a nineteen-year-old amateur when you could have a 34-year-old with a killer body and a truly remarkable tongue? Speaking of his body...he was seriously overdressed for the occasion, and she was in the mood to do a little salting of her own.
"My work here is done," Lamb murmured, flopping down on the pillows beside her, throwing one arm across his eyes.
"The Hell it is." Veronica languidly sat up, still feeling delicious tremors all the way down to her toes. "That's just like you, Lamb, to cut out and leave me to do the real job. You are not getting off that easy," she warned, shucking off her tank top, which had somehow gotten tangled around her neck during his erotic ministrations.
"Ah, but I *am* getting off, right?" He smirked, moving his arm and cocking an eyebrow at her.
"It only seems fair," she conceded. She eyed his still-clothed body sprawled across the ugly motel bedspread. As much as she enjoyed the way that black t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, it was simply going to get in the way.
With a move that he clearly wasn't expecting, she straddled his waist, her body settling perfectly atop the prominent bulge in his jeans. The friction alone nearly sent her over the edge a second time, but through sheer force of will she focused instead on getting him naked.
He groaned softly at the first touch of her hands against his bare skin. Slowly, teasingly, she worked the fabric up his chest, pausing occasionally to trace the contours of his abs with her fingertips. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, and it was all he could do to keep from flipping her over, tearing off his pants, and burying himself deep inside her.
He helpfully raised his arms so she could pull his shirt over his head and Veronica was suddenly rocked by the look in his eyes. He'd never, ever, looked at her like that before. All those years, all the insults flying back and forth across his desk, and he'd never once looked at her as if he never wanted her to leave.
"Is this just the tequila?" she wondered, throat constricting, head swimming. "Is that what's going on here?"
"It's the salt and the limes, too," Lamb chuckled. And then he threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her face down to his. "And it's this," he added, against her lips.
She could taste herself on him and, like so many other things tonight, it should've given her pause, it should have woken her up, it should have snapped her out of the insanity. But no, it just made her frantically fumble with his zipper as she kissed him back so thoroughly she could tell he'd had a tonsillectomy at some point in his life.
Not that Lamb was any less enthusiastic. Impatiently, he brushed her hands away, making quick work of the button and zipper and shedding his jeans like it didn't require some sort of contortionism. "Who are you, Houdini?" she murmured, breathlessly, grabbing one leg of the garment before it could slide off the bed and extracting his wallet.
"If you're going to rob me blind, Veronica, your timing is off. You're supposed to wait till you've fucked my brains out and I'm asleep."
Her look when she held up the condom was a mixture of triumph and a clear telegraphing of the words "you moron."
Much to his surprise, she didn't tear into the condom packet. Instead, she placed it carefully on the nightstand and began rummaging around on the bed.
"What are you doing now?" he asked, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.
"Lining up another shot."
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
"Not really, but I'll keep the technique in mind for the next time you really piss me off. Which will probably be...tomorrow, I'd guess."
As she shook salt in delicate designs all over his chest -- oh, look, a butterfly -- Lamb studied her with a knowing gleam in his eye. "Yeah, but tomorrow I'm also going to be among the ranks of the privileged few who know where your G spot is, Veronica…and judging by your reaction, I'm the only one in the category who can find it just using my tongue."
"I liked you better when you were drunk."
"I bet I could find it drunk, too."
"We can test that theory another time."
He didn't point out that she had just implied there would be another time. He just filed the information away for future use. And then he stopped filing entirely because her mouth was on his chest and she was licking away all her condiment artwork and he could only imagine what kind of mischief she could get up to with mayo or Worcestershire sauce. Or even better, whipped cream and Hershey's syrup. He'd always had a sweet tooth.
She flicked her tongue over his nipple and he bit off a few words of the "fuck" and "goddamn" variety. She giggled and it was a purely evil sound of feminine satisfaction. He wanted to hear it again. Multiple times. But for now, he was content to let her have her wicked way with him.
"Wicked," though, was an understatement, as she slowly worked her way south. Her hair, so long and curly these days, whispered over his skin as she kissed her way down, and he couldn't resist threading his fingers through it again.
She reached the hem of his boxer-briefs, and briefly dipped one finger beneath the elastic before pressing a final damp kiss to his belly button and sitting up. Her cheeks were flushed, and the word "gorgeous" flashed through his mind as she perched above him, naked.
Veronica brought both hands down to his waistband, and he obligingly lifted his hips. Carefully, she pulled the fabric down until all that was left was skin. She'd always thought Lamb was good-looking, in an abstract kind of way. All the parts were in the right places. He had a nice face. It was just too bad he was a complete jerk. But now, as she tore open a simple foil packet and he followed her movements with his eyes, he was absolutely the sexiest man she'd ever seen…mindblowingly handsome as she unrolled the latex over an erection so stiff and so impressive that it had to be hurting him.
Wasn't there something in Shakespeare about drink provoking desire but impairing performance? Well, here was proof to the contrary. Lamb was ready to perform. And then some.
"Veronica, you're staring at me again." Lamb had a vaguely hysterical note in his voice. Apparently balls didn't actually *turn* blue. If they did, he'd probably be Papa Smurf.
"Lamb, I…"
"Oh, fuck it," he gasped, grasping her hips and quickly flipping her beneath him. He sheathed himself inside her in one swift stroke. She winced slightly as her body stretched, because it had been a while, and Lamb wasn't what a girl would call small. Or even medium. In fact, Don Lamb was a giant dick with a giant dick. And he knew how to use it. Multiple times. Their mouths melded, all clashing teeth and dueling tongues, as he thrust inside her. He was probably going to leave bruises on her hips and thighs and wrists from the way he was clutching her for purchase. But she didn't care. She rose to meet him every single time, gripping his shoulders and riding the heightening tension until it took them both right *there*. Or at least it took *her* right there, while Lamb held back and chuckled. He was such a tease.
Nineteen-year-old boys definitely did *not* have this kind of stamina. Logan had pretty much defined "one and done," and holy Hell, she really didn't want to contemplate her ex-boyfriend when Lamb was rolling onto his back, holding her carefully, and then pistoning her slowly up and down above his body. He nipped and kissed his way down her throat, nuzzling her breasts and scraping the sensitive tips with his stubble as she rode him.
A look of determination crossed her face, although he was too distracted to see it. This time, she was taking him with her. While he closed his lips around one nipple and tugged, she skimmed her fingers down between them and stroked the heavy sac of his balls. "Jesus. *Fuck*, Veronica."
"That's the plan," she laughed, as he thrust up against her clit and they both hit the edge and tumbled over.
They rolled apart, panting and satisfied. After a moment of recuperation, Lamb stood up and made a quick trip to the bathroom. When he returned, he cast an appreciative glance at Veronica's body draped across the bed, and asked, "Now what?"
She yawned, and pulled down the coverlet and sheets beneath her. "Now...now we sleep."
"You sleep," Lamb advised, wryly, climbing in beside her. "I'll go with 'passing out.' Remember to leave me ten bucks for a cab."
Veronica's sex-addled mind almost took that as a hooker reference, until she remembered he'd thought she was stealing his wallet. How romantic. Tequila shots, salt in uncomfortable places, and theft. Just what grand romances were made of. The thought rendered her wide awake…and within minutes, Lamb was fast asleep and snoring lightly, while she was stuck staring at the disgusting ceiling of room 207 at the Camelot Motel. She flipped over onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow, trying to pretend that she wasn't in the throes of post-coital confusion over a man she didn't even like.
But the shrill buzz of her phone brought a quick end to all the "why me"s and "oh my God"s. She grabbed her Sidekick on the second ring, both gratified and irritated to see that it was the reason this whole night had begun. "Cliff!" she hissed, rolling out of bed and moving towards the window. "Cliff, I'm going to kill you."
"Veronica, I'm so sorry. You should've seen this woman. Fantastic…eyes. Kid, where are you? You're not still out looking for me, are you?"
She looked back at the bed, at Lamb on his stomach in the tangle of sheets, hugging a pillow and looking all of sixteen years old. She was very likely never going to see that guy in that particular incarnation again.
She didn't know why, but that prospect made her throat tighten and her eyes water. Or maybe that was just the onset of the hangover.
"Veronica?" Cliff prodded.
She choked getting the words out.
"C-cliffie? Come pish me upsh."
"Sure, doll. Just tell me where you are."
Before she could reply, a hand closed around hers, gently prying the phone from her fingers. Without a word, Lamb ended the call and set the Sidekick on the nightstand.
"I...I thought you were still asleep."
He still didn't say anything, and it was starting to freak her out. Even more than the fact that she was naked in a hotel room at the goddamn Camelot with none other than Don Fucking Lamb. Who was also naked. Very, very naked. And looking at her like he had just discovered his next meal.
Her body clenched at the mere thought of that.
She waited for him to speak, to make some big, cheesy declaration, because wasn't that what good ol' boys from Texas did after a night of roof-blowing sex with their nemesis?
But all he said was "Don't leave yet."
And then he kissed the salt from her cheeks.
Any protests or excuses Veronica might have had vanished as Lamb picked her up and carried her back to the bed.
"We're out of condoms," she reminded, softly.
"We still have hands."
She could handle this...the physical was always easier. If she could focus on the jutting hipbones and the prickly stubble, then the weird clench of her heart when he asked her to stay didn't matter.
Just like when he'd asked her to rescue him at the bar, she stayed. She drank. Maybe Logan wasn't the only one with a savior complex and an alcohol problem. She bucked up against Lamb's fingers, whispered his name and downed one more shot for the road.