Fic: A Glass of Wine and Thee (1/2) (CM, Rossi/Prentiss, NC-17)
Title: A Glass of Wine and Thee (1/2)
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Author's Notes: The title has its roots in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For smittywing, just because, with huge kudos to mingsmommy and smacky30, for cheering, beating, and betaing. The fact that there are no mysterious extra limbs is due to their influence. The fact that I ignored their comments about the past perfect is no one's fault but my own. This started out as kink!meme comment!fic but got long. Stop laughing.
Prompt: "At a college goth party/club, Prentiss has sex with a guy she later recognizes as David Rossi. Either Rossi figures it out later, or she tells him before they sleep together again. Bonus points for Rossi in a priest collar (first encounter) or Prentiss digging out one of her old corsets because it makes her come hard."
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You have to know the past to understand the present.
-- Dr. Carl Sagan
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It's a good night.
It isn't always. Sometimes she can't get out of her own head enough - can't shed that little voice that sounds a lot like her mother, can't unwind enough to let the combination of clothing and music and alcohol loosen her up. Sometimes she can't get enough perspective, which is the whole point anyway.
It hadn't been a good night last week. She'd been fresh from an argument with her mother about her impending move to Georgetown, Karen had thrown out the pizza she'd been planning for dinner, and Nathan was being the biggest goddamn drama queen in six counties about the state of his eyeliner. They'd gotten to the club later than usual, so the crowds were thicker and all her favorite spots were claimed by people she didn't know. Nathan had promptly abandoned her for his harem, which would've been fine except the DJ was playing some crap that she didn't want to dance to.
Last week, she'd finally just headed back to the bar - Andy had taken one look at her and given Emily her money's worth on her liquor - and then some asshole had jerked his arm and spilled her drink down her front. He'd offered to clean her up, leering the whole while. Emily wasn't about to let some jackass ruin her favorite corset and use it as an excuse to feel her up. She'd told him so in no uncertain terms - not hard, since she had two inches on him in those boots. Andy had handed her a refill, she'd settled herself on the barstool, adjusting her skirts, and she'd seen him.
She still didn't know why he'd caught her eye, since she shouldn't really have seen him at all: the strobes were red tonight, the cigarette smoke was thick, and he'd been in all black. It might have been the priest's collar, a flash of white against dark hair, dark clothing, and dark walls. It might have been the fact that his body language made him stick out like a sore thumb - he looked like someone hunting for something. No one else in here was that curious, that alert. No one else in here cared that much. That was the point.
It might have been the fact that he was looking back at her.
Emily had straightened, feeling the gentle pressure of the corset around her ribs as she shifted. The bass had thumped in her ears. He'd been looking back at her, and he'd looked, well, hungry. She'd felt herself flush and given thanks for good makeup and bad lighting - she was pale, but her makeup was paler, and it wouldn't show. She'd lifted her chin, daring him to keep staring. He was easy on the eyes, though. Lean, muscled, intense - something utterly unlike anyone else in the room. He'd smiled at her scrutiny and then he'd given her a slow once-over that had made her fully aware of how much of her décolleté was exposed. Heat had flashed along her spine, but Emily had refused to back down. She'd stared back and raised an eyebrow in a manner deliberately copied from her mother. Men had been known to crumble before the force of that eyebrow. The priest across the way had just lifted his glass, toasted her, and taken a long sip.
You bastard, Emily had thought, but she could feel the thud of her pulse in her ears. The guy had grinned again, wolfish, and she couldn't help it - she'd given him a slow, small smile of her own. He'd taken a last look. Her skin had tingled like he'd actually touched her. Then he'd pushed off the wall, said something to someone she couldn't see, and walked away.
She'd sat very still for a moment, acutely aware that her nipples were hard against the satin lining of the corset, feeling the bindings catch as she'd struggled to keep her breathing even. Someone brushed her shoulder, no more than a passing touch, but she'd felt overwhelmed, stifled. She'd gotten out as soon as she could, the summer air thick against her skin, acutely aware of the dampness between her legs.
By the time Emily had gotten home, she'd been too impatient to do more than tug her skirts free and loosen the corset lacing. She'd shoved the covers off the bed, clumsy in her boots. Her vibrator had gone in easy, though the angle was a bit awkward - the corset stole her flexibility, made her fight for it, fight her way up and up until she'd been desperate, biting her lips to keep herself from cursing too loudly. She'd come hard, fumbling for the off switch as her body shifted abruptly from not-enough to too-damn-much. It hadn't been satisfying, but it had settled her down enough that she could think straight.
She'd wondered, tugging off her boots and yanking on her stays, if she'd see him again. She'd wondered, and then she'd been annoyed with herself for wondering, and then she'd fallen asleep - only to be woken up when Nathan had mistaken her room for his own, towing behind him a girl with a laugh shrill enough to crack glass.
It hadn't been a good night.
Tonight, by contrast, is much, much better. She'd found a gorgeous bustled skirt in a tiny shop tucked away on a side street and had splurged shamelessly on the corset that went with it, black tapestry and jet beads and a neckline that plunged. Laced properly, it cuts just above her hips, dropping lower over her abdomen. Nathan will throw a fit - it isn't historically accurate in the slightest - and Emily can't care less. She's gone all out: thigh-high fishnets that peep through a high gather in the skirt; platform granny boots that give her another three inches, easy; a slim velvet choker with a drop that hits her collarbone just so. She's gone pale with her makeup - pale even for her - painting her eyes huge and smoky and her lips a deep red that's just shy of black. And she's left her hair down - the corset leaves her shoulders bare and she likes the way her hair feels against her skin.
She feels like she's left herself behind, like she's someone else, someone exotic and older and strange.
She feels gorgeous.
Tonight, she thinks, watching Nathan's jaw drop and his current harpy spit nails, accepting Andy's nod of appreciation along with her drink - tonight is a good night. She sips at her glass, the red wine smooth and lush on her tongue, and watches the dance floor, waiting for the music to match her mood. When the DJ switches to something halfway between ambient and trance it's perfect.
She bobbles the glass a little as she turns to set it on the bar. A few drops splash onto her arm, winding around to the inside of her wrist. She brings her hand to her mouth without thinking about it, tasting her sweat mingling with the wine, and laughs at herself before moving into the crowd.
Emily's not dancing with anyone - she just lets herself get lost in the rhythm and the meandering melody, feeling it twine around her arms, her hips, her legs, her wrists. Face turned up, she curves and twists, watching the lights play in the haze.
She thinks, later, that the reason she turns around is because she can actually feel the weight of his gaze. He's back by the bar tonight, still wearing that priest's collar. If he'd been interested a week ago, tonight he's making no secret that he's basically undressing her where she stands. Tonight she's not Emily, so she smiles back at him slow and sly. She drops her head back, feeling the beat of the music, closing her eyes for a moment - when she looks back, he's gone.
It's disappointing, but there are other eyes on her and she's not going chasing after some damn priest when there's a world of other options. That's what she tells herself; she repeats it when the song ends. She decides to head back to the bar for another glass of wine.
Emily's leaning against the corner of the bar, waiting for Andy's attention, when a rough baritone murmurs, "May I?" She knows who it is before she turns around. His breath skitters over the curve of her shoulder and sends a shiver down her spine. He's standing there with two clean glasses and an open bottle, and she may not be Emily tonight, but she's not stupid, either.
But she isn't Emily, not tonight, so she takes more of a chance than she might some other night. "Only," she says, taking the wine from him and gesturing at Andy, who's finally paying attention, "if I choose the bottle."
Andy grins at her, and says, "Told you so," to the guy in the collar before he opens another in front of her.
The priest just laughs. "Don't trust a man in uniform?" he mocks gently.
He can't know, she thinks, feeling herself sliding back into Emily. "Never trust a priest," she replies. She's trying for smooth, teasing, urbane. It comes out as something more twisted.
He frowns, and she feels the evening slipping away from her until he reaches out and trails a finger down her upper arm. "Never's a long time to be afraid."
She glowers at him. "Fear has nothing to do with it." Emily twists on her heel and takes a step back towards the dance floor.
"Say it like that," he says behind her, his voice cutting through the din, "and I could almost believe you."
"Almost?" she demands, pivoting back to him. Damn him anyway, she thinks, reaching for her earlier mood. If she weren't Emily, if she were the woman she'd been when she walked in tonight, the answer would be easy. She lets her shoulders go loose, lets her body relax into the structure of the corset. "What would it take for you to be certain?"
He shrugs easily, offering up one of the empty glasses he's still holding. "Have a drink with me. You already chose the bottle. Shame to let it go to waste."
"Waste not, want not, Father?" Emily asks, and reaches for the glass.
He brushes his fingers against hers as she takes it. "I don't know about want not," he says, low enough that she has to take a step toward him. "That would take all the fun out of it."
She grins. "Wouldn't it just."
He pours. She catches his hand to steady the bottle and feels his muscles tense under her touch. When she looks back up, the heat's back in his eyes and her earlier confidence surges back in full. "You were here. Last week. Watching me."
"Not just you," he prevaricates.
"Maybe not," she answers, "but there's no one else here tonight."
"Not tonight." His agreement is rough, another unexpected truth in the middle of their game.
It should be unnerving to be this closely scrutinized. But Emily knows what she looks like tonight - knows she's relaxing back into the dress and the wine and the music - and so it isn't. It's heated and unexpected and slightly risky, and she wants more. "Why me?"
He sets his glass down carefully - takes hers and does the same - then reaches out and gently turns her around so she can see the dancing crowd. He's pulled her snug up against him. One hand is pressed gently against her stomach. The other gathers her hair and twists it to one side. His breath is warm against her ear and she arches back against him. "Because," he answers quietly, "you didn't look away."
"From what?" she murmurs. It seems very unfair that he is the only person doing any touching. She reaches up, languid, trailing her fingers through his hair, along his neck.
"From anything," he says, and it doesn't make sense to her, not really, not if she thinks about it, but she isn't Emily tonight and she doesn't have to think about it. Especially not when his hand has released her hair and started a slow glide along the line of her neck, down her shoulder, along her waist. "And then," he says, "I watched you dance. Wearing this."
Emily feels her lips curve into a smile. "And what," she asks, "did you think about that?"
"I thought," he answers, sliding his hand over her skirts, along the line of her thigh, "that I wanted to know what you had on underneath it."
His hands are warm, heavy. The taste of wine is still on her tongue. There's heat zinging through her, stiffening her nipples, throbbing in her clit. "Oh?" she says, remarkably calm. "What a limited imagination you have."
"And then," he continues, like he hasn't heard her, "I wondered what you'd sound like when I fucked you with my fingers. What you'd taste like on my hand. What you'd feel like when you came around me."
Emily is suddenly very grateful for his arm around her waist, because she hasn't ever had her knees do that before. She's aware that his body has gone taut, his voice almost harsh. The damn corset's laced tight - she can't seem to get quite enough air.
"Then I thought," he says, "that I needed some way to convince you to come home with me. And it's a very good bottle of wine."
She manages to laugh and pull away. She's not Emily, not tonight, and she knows exactly what she wants to say next. "Who says," she asks, turning with an arched eyebrow and a smile, "that we have to go home?" The hunger that flares in his eyes sizzles over her skin. "Bring the wine," she says and saunters off with a deliberate sway to her hips.
There's a small set of tiny booths along the far wall of the club - velvet, high-walled, and curtained. They're a totally ridiculous indulgence, which is, of course, the point. Too often they're crowded with huge groups, and tonight's no different, but then her - her paramour, she thinks, laughing - catches up. She can't hear what he says to the current occupant, who's holding court while decked out in his own fishnets and heels, but suddenly the last booth is emptying with satisfying speed.
It's dark and shadowy inside, the gloom broken only by a stray reflection from the dance floor. She catches the barest fleck of grey at his temple, a flash of white from his collar, and then they're tucked back as far as possible. He reaches around her and tugs the curtain closed; they're secluded, enclosed, with just a sliver of the club visible through a chink.
The close quarters make Emily momentarily nervous, her pulse pounding, the boning in the corset tight against her ribcage. He's tugged her so she's curled into his lap, her skirts rucked up, but his hold is loose, easy. The merest brush of his thumb against her wrist, across the palm of her hand, is the only suggestion of an agenda.
She touches the side of his face, lets herself take advantage of the opportunity to explore. Even in the dim light, she can tell he's older than he'd looked in the haze of the club, feeling the lines at the corners of his eyes, the deeper furrows around his mouth. She touches his lips and he nips gently at the pad of her finger. There's an insistent heat and pressure making itself quite evident against her thigh.
"I think, Father," she says, her voice going throaty with the effort of keeping quiet, "that you'd been telling me your plans for the evening before we found a more suitable location." There's an odd freedom in using that title, in listening to the man's breathing shift, in feeling his body tense. "I hope you weren't lying."
"I think," he returns in kind, "that we are going to have other sins to worry about this evening." Before she can answer, he's leaning in and kissing her.
It isn't gentle. He isn't gentle. He's demanding, tasting, testing. He isn't rough or rude - Emily's had enough of both not to have any patience with either. But he's not interested in moving slowly and that suits her - or the person she is tonight - just fine. She wraps a hand around his neck, the short hairs there prickling against her fingers. She fists the other into his shirt, using it as leverage as she turns to meet him halfway.
She tastes him shamelessly, discovering the smooth line of his teeth, the warm curl of his tongue, and she lets him taste her back. His lips are hot over her skin, against her mouth, taking her breath away like it belongs to him. Emily shifts again, straddling his thigh. He's warmth and strength compared to the cool, soft cushions, and she can't get enough - if she's going to take, she wants it all. She moves forward, rising up, catching his face between her hands and tipping it back. She touches her tongue to his, nips at his lower lip, refusing to ask and relishing the fact that he doesn't hesitate. When she pauses, it's because she's actually light-headed. The corset's biting into her harder now, her ribcage heaving. As she tilts her head back to get more air, it occurs to her that the corset's not the only reason she can't breathe.
He stretches up, laying a kiss at the base of her throat, just above her collarbone. One of his hands is on her hip, hot even through the layers of fabric. He's not grabbing, just steadying, and it's oddly reassuring. Then his other hand slips through the gather in the skirt, one finger tracing a long, slow path along the outside of her thigh, up and around her ass, stopping just below the line of the corset. Emily doesn't actually recognize the noise she makes. He repeats the gesture with his whole hand and the ragged sound that escapes her lips can only be called a moan.
She can see the self-satisfied smirk on his face even in the half-light filtering around the curtain. Anyone could see them if they brushed the curtain back. Anyone could see her. Tonight, she thinks, she might not mind being seen. The realization makes her pussy throb, makes her grind herself down against his thigh. One of her hands slips down to his chest, the material cotton-soft under her palm, and she feels, rather than hears, his rumble of approval.
She lets go, trusting him to keep her from slipping, and carefully, deliberately, rearranges her skirts, rucking them up so she can fit her hand between them, so she can work the buckle of his belt. The leather slides free of the metal without any trouble.
Emily realizes she doesn't know his name. Then she realizes she doesn't want him to tell her. He's looking up at her, eyes hooded and unreadable in the almost-dark. He hasn't said a word since they first kissed. She's not sure she wants him to do that either. Then he starts to talk, and she doesn't want him to stop.
"There's someone ten feet away," he says, so quietly she has to lean down, his breath stirring her hair as he whispers against her ear. "Ten feet." The hand on her hip shifts to splay against her back. He lets go of her ass to trace the top of her stocking. She's abruptly aware of the smell of her own arousal, the odor of wine on his breath. "Do you think they'll know?" he asks. She struggles to follow the line of the conversation. His hand moves higher, tugs at the scrap of damp silk between her legs, shifting it to the side. His finger traces along her inner thighs. She's breathing in short, erratic bursts, caught among the weight of his hand and the press of his chest and the strictures of the boning. "Do you think they'll have any idea," he asks again, "that I'm sitting here, with you?" She's clutching at his shoulders. "Do you think they'll know," he says a third time, "that I'm doing this?" He slides two fingers up and in, easy given how wet she is, crooking them just hard enough, all of it so fast that it makes her surge against him, shoulders back, head back, a gasp in her throat. It's bright and gorgeous and totally unexpected, for all she knew it was coming. For a minute she thinks she might come from this alone.
He barely moves, apart from a chuckle that sounds different, somehow, from his earlier laughter. Appreciative, rather than smug. As she fights herself back down, refusing to give in and just fuck herself on those long, strong fingers, he adjusts just a little, the pad of his thumb settling just next to her clit, indirect pressure that makes her shudder.
If she were herself tonight, she'd take him home. Or follow him home, maybe, though Emily's a cautious girl. Or she'd walk away. But she's not herself, she thinks, rocking experimentally against his hand. If she were herself, this wouldn't feel so good. She wouldn't be reaching out for it, greedy. She wouldn't be letting go of his shoulders, balanced between the fingers in her cunt and the hand on her back, to touch her nipples through the fabric of the corset - to pull at the fabric there until she can feel her own skin. She wouldn't roll a nipple between thumb and forefinger and hear him groan as the sensation makes her rock her hips against him again. She's not herself, Emily thinks, defiant, and she wants this.
She snakes a hand back down between them and cups him firmly - not hard, just enough that she feels the involuntary jerk of his hips. Just enough to hear the breath he sucks in as she strokes down and up and down again. He'd asked her a question, she remembers.
"They'll only know," she says, her lips against his ear, "if you can't keep quiet, Father." She pops the button on his fly. He's holding so still she thinks he might've forgotten how to breathe. She tugs the zipper down slowly. "Silence is golden," she teases, and shivers again as he moves his fingers against her pussy, a quick, shallow stroke.
"I am not," he grits out, "a fucking monk."
She negotiates the opening of his boxers, careful not to touch him more than absolutely required, then licks a stripe along her palm. "Well," she answers, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice, "I certainly hope you're fucking someone tonight." He laughs, and chokes on the tail of it as she palms his cock. She's good at hand jobs, and it's kind of gratifying to see him respond.
He is, she realizes, as his head falls back against the back of the bench, remarkably attractive. Strong lines, strong angles, thrown into relief by the glancing light. The tendons on his neck stand out starkly - he has been very turned on for quite some time. The thought makes arousal curl along her spine and she bucks hard against his hand. He licks his lips and looks back up at her. "I beg your pardon," he says dryly. "I've forgotten the Golden Rule."
"Mmm," she agrees, as his thumb makes a small circle just shy of where she really wants it. "Do unto others." She's working him over steadily, feeling the tension gathering in his thighs and abs as she moves again.
"My goal," he says, "is to do you. Which won't happen if you don't stop that right now." She blinks at him. He smiles back, oddly gentle, another unexpected thing, and then he takes her hand from his cock. Emily frowns, but then the hand on her back shifts lower, curling her hips forward, till she's leaning back, her elbows against the laminate of the table. His arm's holding her up, stretching her out. Her back arches, the corset catching tightly as she leans back, hair spilling over her shoulders. She has just a moment to grab for air before he sets up a rhythm that short-circuits her brain.
She can't think - can barely move, balanced as she is. His fingers take and take and take, invading her, seeking her out, and she wants it - aches for it - she'd chase it if she could, but she can't, can only let him take her there, this person she doesn't know. She's laid out here, light filtering in around her, and it's the thought of how she'd look if someone saw, stretched out there, wild and uncaring, that makes her come hard around his fingers.
Emily's hauling in air as he removes his hand, as he helps her shift and resettle. It's not enough, not even close. "Now," she rasps, almost chanting in her need. "Now, now, now." Sanity surfaces, just barely. "Condom," she manages, "because fuck, now. Now."
"Now," he agrees, and she sees him pull the packet out, tear the foil, roll the condom on. "Right now," he demands, and she's in total accord. "Turn around." She doesn't stop to argue, just does it, gathering her skirts and cursing at the bustle until his hands settle at her waist. "Hold still," he says, and laughs when she hisses in impatience.
His knees nudge hers apart, till she's straddling his legs. Then he wraps an arm around her, under her skirts, urging her back and down, slowly and carefully. She pauses when she feels his cock against her entrance, hears him curse and feels his arm tense. They take a minute, adjusting, and then his arm tightens, and she's sinking on to him, his arm still around her, feeling full and gorgeous and needy. Whomever she is tonight, she wants this.
His hands are wrapped around her hips. Her skirts are tumbled every which way, the lining of the corset rubbing against her skin with every movement. She leans back into him, feeling his cock in her, feeling the stretch, the slight pull in her thighs. She feels his head drop forward, feels him press kisses into her shoulder, along the curve of her neck, and reaches up to hold him to her. "Now," she orders again. "Fuck me. Now."
He laughs or groans or something in between and she feels him shudder. "Now," she demands, shifting her hips, grinding back as best as the angle allows. "I want it. Can't you tell how much I want it?" She reaches up and pinches at her nipple, whining at the sharp prick of pleasure. "I'm so wet for it. For your dick. In my pussy." She moves again, breathing hard, feeling her body start to chase after the feeling. "Now," she says, desperate. She reaches down, needing the pressure on her clit, needing something more, but her skirt is in the way and his hands are holding her against him. "Touch me, damn you," she snaps.
His thumb is on her clit almost as the words leave her mouth. It's both a relief and not nearly enough. She leans back into his shoulder, her feet fighting for traction against the floor, and the shift in angle makes her clench around him. Which is apparently all it takes, because he starts to move, and Emily forgets how to think.
She can feel every inch of him, every thrust, every shiver. Whatever had held him back has disappeared - he's fucking her with short, rapid strokes, his thumb a slow, rolling pressure just where she needs it most. A sweet, tight ache is curling out along her body, tension humming in her calves, her arms, her abs, her thighs - in the arches of her feet and the line of her neck - building and building until she's almost sobbing with it, aching for air. She's trapped, the corset a band around her ribs, stealing her air, his cock filling her cunt, his thumb pressing against her clit. It's amazing until it's almost too much, until a sudden combination of just right and right there shatters her into a million pieces. It's like flying apart, every muscle trembling with it, and as she hears him gasp and feels him jerk beneath her, the sudden warmth and pressure sends her over the edge again, softer this time, gentle and shivering and utterly gone.
Time goes soft around the edges. She's vaguely aware that the music is still thumping away on the other side of the curtain. His arms are still wrapped around her, holding her against him. She feels boneless, her head turned into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and wine and cologne. He shifts beneath her; she manages an inarticulate protest. "Shh," he murmurs, his lips against her temple. "Stand up, just a second." She grumbles but complies, feeling oddly empty as he slips from her. There's a moment where she has to lean against the table, shaky with the burn in her calves and thighs. She hears him strip off the condom, feels him shift behind her. Then his hands are back on her waist, smoothing at her skirts.
Emily's brain is threatening to restart. There's a thin layer of endorphins between her and a tumble of thoughts that have started to roil. She doesn't want to let them break over her, not just yet. She lets him tug her down, wrapping an arm around her, till she's tucked between him and the wall, her legs across his lap, her face against his chest. Not yet, she thinks, and rubs her face against the cotton of his shirt.
His hand is warm against her shoulder. She's sweaty, her hair sticking and clinging and feathering in a way that is about three minutes from driving her completely insane. When she shivers with a sudden chill, he settles her closer and strokes a lazy path down her arm. It's lovely and snug and she tries to burrow into it, her eyes closed. She reaches up, curling a hand against his neck, tracing along the line of his jaw and then down to his collar. It's not till she touches the cool plastic of the white insert that reality crashes down. She drops her hand.
She's just had sex. Very good sex. Very public sex. With a man she's never met before. Who is wearing a priest's collar. Who had, at least, thought about a condom. Whose name she does not know. Because she did not ask. And she'd been the one to drag him to the booth. She can't even blame the alcohol - she's had maybe three glasses of wine tonight. She hiccups a breath, aware that her pulse is racing again. The things she'd said to him - she'd been completely unfiltered. And it had been fantastic. She's not sure what, exactly, terrifies her more: the fact that she hasn't been acting like herself or the possibility that she has.
He's still rubbing gentle lines along her arms, his head tilted back against the cushions. She can't imagine he's missed that she's having - has had - a minor panic attack, but he's kind enough to ignore it. It's the kindness, oddly, that puts her chin up. She doesn't need condescension. This has been as least as good for him as it has for her. Emily reaches for the persona she's worn all night and imagines it settling around her like a cloak as she forces her breathing steady, letting the boning in the corset substitute for her spine.
She stays still a moment, gathering herself. Then she twists a little in his arms, setting her feet firmly on the floor. He lets her go when she stands, leaning into him in the small space. She's thankful he doesn't try to hold her. She can just see his face in the light coming in around the curtain. He seems softer, looser, the tension around the corners of his eyes a little lessened. Anyone looking at him would think him entirely relaxed - if they could ignore the sharp, almost wary look lurking at the back of his eyes. Maybe, she thinks, looking at him - maybe kindness is okay.
She smiles, surprising herself, and brushes her thumb against the corner of his mouth. Her lipstick is everywhere, she realizes, and blushes. There's pale powder on the front of his shirt. "You're a mess," she says quietly.
"Like you can talk," he answers, but his tone matches hers.
She leans down till her lips are nearly against his. "Sign of a good night," she murmurs. Then she does kiss him, simply, just a touch of their lips. When she pulls back a little, his eyes are closed. "Thanks," she says, and slips past him and around the curtain without waiting to see if he watches her go.
There's a back door that puts out just down the street; she gets through it without running into anyone she knows. It's late enough that she calls a cab - the streets are pretty bare. She makes it home and in the door and into her room without losing her composure. It's not till she's fumbling with the laces on the corset that she lets her hands shake. She steps into the shower, washing the smoke out of her hair and the makeup off of her face. When she steps out and bundles her hair into a towel, her lips are still puffy and there's a suspicious-looking red mark just below the juncture of shoulder and neck. She looks at herself in the mirror and wonders what, exactly, happened tonight. She flicks off the light and curls into bed and wonders why, exactly, she doesn't regret it.
Emily never does bring herself to get rid of that corset. She hangs it in her closet with the others. Every so often she brushes her hand over it, and she wonders.
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Part Two
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And a beta-requested outtake....
"She can't hear what he says to the current occupant, who's holding court while decked out in his own fishnets and heels, but suddenly the last booth is emptying with satisfying speed."
It's a bad idea, says the voice in the back of Dave's head. It sounds a lot like Bill, but his partner's not here, not this time. Tonight he's on vacation, a full week of it, all because of the woman behind him. She's all in black, slim and delicate and young, his brain tries again, but he's watched her hold her own and he has no doubt that if she hadn't been interested, she'd have sent him packing. Instead, she'd headed towards the curtained alcoves at the side of the club, and that's enough that he doesn't waste a moment in catching up to her.
He passes her, actually, because the booths are all full and he is not about to let that get in the way. The kid who's the center of attention looks like something out of Dave's vaguer recollections of the seventies - Ziggy Stardust meets Dracula. He bridles when Dave walks up, the rest of his coterie frowning in distaste. Dave could not care less. He holds the kid's stare until the boy looks away, and then all he says is, "Time to go." He doesn't have to say anything else - he's pretty sure his body language is making it clear that there's an easy way and a hard way, and he'd been damn sure which way this kid would jump before he opened his mouth.
Ziggy leaves just as the girl in the corset catches up.
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Author's Notes: The title has its roots in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For smittywing, just because, with huge kudos to mingsmommy and smacky30, for cheering, beating, and betaing. The fact that there are no mysterious extra limbs is due to their influence. The fact that I ignored their comments about the past perfect is no one's fault but my own. This started out as kink!meme comment!fic but got long. Stop laughing.
Prompt: "At a college goth party/club, Prentiss has sex with a guy she later recognizes as David Rossi. Either Rossi figures it out later, or she tells him before they sleep together again. Bonus points for Rossi in a priest collar (first encounter) or Prentiss digging out one of her old corsets because it makes her come hard."
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You have to know the past to understand the present.
-- Dr. Carl Sagan
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It's a good night.
It isn't always. Sometimes she can't get out of her own head enough - can't shed that little voice that sounds a lot like her mother, can't unwind enough to let the combination of clothing and music and alcohol loosen her up. Sometimes she can't get enough perspective, which is the whole point anyway.
It hadn't been a good night last week. She'd been fresh from an argument with her mother about her impending move to Georgetown, Karen had thrown out the pizza she'd been planning for dinner, and Nathan was being the biggest goddamn drama queen in six counties about the state of his eyeliner. They'd gotten to the club later than usual, so the crowds were thicker and all her favorite spots were claimed by people she didn't know. Nathan had promptly abandoned her for his harem, which would've been fine except the DJ was playing some crap that she didn't want to dance to.
Last week, she'd finally just headed back to the bar - Andy had taken one look at her and given Emily her money's worth on her liquor - and then some asshole had jerked his arm and spilled her drink down her front. He'd offered to clean her up, leering the whole while. Emily wasn't about to let some jackass ruin her favorite corset and use it as an excuse to feel her up. She'd told him so in no uncertain terms - not hard, since she had two inches on him in those boots. Andy had handed her a refill, she'd settled herself on the barstool, adjusting her skirts, and she'd seen him.
She still didn't know why he'd caught her eye, since she shouldn't really have seen him at all: the strobes were red tonight, the cigarette smoke was thick, and he'd been in all black. It might have been the priest's collar, a flash of white against dark hair, dark clothing, and dark walls. It might have been the fact that his body language made him stick out like a sore thumb - he looked like someone hunting for something. No one else in here was that curious, that alert. No one else in here cared that much. That was the point.
It might have been the fact that he was looking back at her.
Emily had straightened, feeling the gentle pressure of the corset around her ribs as she shifted. The bass had thumped in her ears. He'd been looking back at her, and he'd looked, well, hungry. She'd felt herself flush and given thanks for good makeup and bad lighting - she was pale, but her makeup was paler, and it wouldn't show. She'd lifted her chin, daring him to keep staring. He was easy on the eyes, though. Lean, muscled, intense - something utterly unlike anyone else in the room. He'd smiled at her scrutiny and then he'd given her a slow once-over that had made her fully aware of how much of her décolleté was exposed. Heat had flashed along her spine, but Emily had refused to back down. She'd stared back and raised an eyebrow in a manner deliberately copied from her mother. Men had been known to crumble before the force of that eyebrow. The priest across the way had just lifted his glass, toasted her, and taken a long sip.
You bastard, Emily had thought, but she could feel the thud of her pulse in her ears. The guy had grinned again, wolfish, and she couldn't help it - she'd given him a slow, small smile of her own. He'd taken a last look. Her skin had tingled like he'd actually touched her. Then he'd pushed off the wall, said something to someone she couldn't see, and walked away.
She'd sat very still for a moment, acutely aware that her nipples were hard against the satin lining of the corset, feeling the bindings catch as she'd struggled to keep her breathing even. Someone brushed her shoulder, no more than a passing touch, but she'd felt overwhelmed, stifled. She'd gotten out as soon as she could, the summer air thick against her skin, acutely aware of the dampness between her legs.
By the time Emily had gotten home, she'd been too impatient to do more than tug her skirts free and loosen the corset lacing. She'd shoved the covers off the bed, clumsy in her boots. Her vibrator had gone in easy, though the angle was a bit awkward - the corset stole her flexibility, made her fight for it, fight her way up and up until she'd been desperate, biting her lips to keep herself from cursing too loudly. She'd come hard, fumbling for the off switch as her body shifted abruptly from not-enough to too-damn-much. It hadn't been satisfying, but it had settled her down enough that she could think straight.
She'd wondered, tugging off her boots and yanking on her stays, if she'd see him again. She'd wondered, and then she'd been annoyed with herself for wondering, and then she'd fallen asleep - only to be woken up when Nathan had mistaken her room for his own, towing behind him a girl with a laugh shrill enough to crack glass.
It hadn't been a good night.
Tonight, by contrast, is much, much better. She'd found a gorgeous bustled skirt in a tiny shop tucked away on a side street and had splurged shamelessly on the corset that went with it, black tapestry and jet beads and a neckline that plunged. Laced properly, it cuts just above her hips, dropping lower over her abdomen. Nathan will throw a fit - it isn't historically accurate in the slightest - and Emily can't care less. She's gone all out: thigh-high fishnets that peep through a high gather in the skirt; platform granny boots that give her another three inches, easy; a slim velvet choker with a drop that hits her collarbone just so. She's gone pale with her makeup - pale even for her - painting her eyes huge and smoky and her lips a deep red that's just shy of black. And she's left her hair down - the corset leaves her shoulders bare and she likes the way her hair feels against her skin.
She feels like she's left herself behind, like she's someone else, someone exotic and older and strange.
She feels gorgeous.
Tonight, she thinks, watching Nathan's jaw drop and his current harpy spit nails, accepting Andy's nod of appreciation along with her drink - tonight is a good night. She sips at her glass, the red wine smooth and lush on her tongue, and watches the dance floor, waiting for the music to match her mood. When the DJ switches to something halfway between ambient and trance it's perfect.
She bobbles the glass a little as she turns to set it on the bar. A few drops splash onto her arm, winding around to the inside of her wrist. She brings her hand to her mouth without thinking about it, tasting her sweat mingling with the wine, and laughs at herself before moving into the crowd.
Emily's not dancing with anyone - she just lets herself get lost in the rhythm and the meandering melody, feeling it twine around her arms, her hips, her legs, her wrists. Face turned up, she curves and twists, watching the lights play in the haze.
She thinks, later, that the reason she turns around is because she can actually feel the weight of his gaze. He's back by the bar tonight, still wearing that priest's collar. If he'd been interested a week ago, tonight he's making no secret that he's basically undressing her where she stands. Tonight she's not Emily, so she smiles back at him slow and sly. She drops her head back, feeling the beat of the music, closing her eyes for a moment - when she looks back, he's gone.
It's disappointing, but there are other eyes on her and she's not going chasing after some damn priest when there's a world of other options. That's what she tells herself; she repeats it when the song ends. She decides to head back to the bar for another glass of wine.
Emily's leaning against the corner of the bar, waiting for Andy's attention, when a rough baritone murmurs, "May I?" She knows who it is before she turns around. His breath skitters over the curve of her shoulder and sends a shiver down her spine. He's standing there with two clean glasses and an open bottle, and she may not be Emily tonight, but she's not stupid, either.
But she isn't Emily, not tonight, so she takes more of a chance than she might some other night. "Only," she says, taking the wine from him and gesturing at Andy, who's finally paying attention, "if I choose the bottle."
Andy grins at her, and says, "Told you so," to the guy in the collar before he opens another in front of her.
The priest just laughs. "Don't trust a man in uniform?" he mocks gently.
He can't know, she thinks, feeling herself sliding back into Emily. "Never trust a priest," she replies. She's trying for smooth, teasing, urbane. It comes out as something more twisted.
He frowns, and she feels the evening slipping away from her until he reaches out and trails a finger down her upper arm. "Never's a long time to be afraid."
She glowers at him. "Fear has nothing to do with it." Emily twists on her heel and takes a step back towards the dance floor.
"Say it like that," he says behind her, his voice cutting through the din, "and I could almost believe you."
"Almost?" she demands, pivoting back to him. Damn him anyway, she thinks, reaching for her earlier mood. If she weren't Emily, if she were the woman she'd been when she walked in tonight, the answer would be easy. She lets her shoulders go loose, lets her body relax into the structure of the corset. "What would it take for you to be certain?"
He shrugs easily, offering up one of the empty glasses he's still holding. "Have a drink with me. You already chose the bottle. Shame to let it go to waste."
"Waste not, want not, Father?" Emily asks, and reaches for the glass.
He brushes his fingers against hers as she takes it. "I don't know about want not," he says, low enough that she has to take a step toward him. "That would take all the fun out of it."
She grins. "Wouldn't it just."
He pours. She catches his hand to steady the bottle and feels his muscles tense under her touch. When she looks back up, the heat's back in his eyes and her earlier confidence surges back in full. "You were here. Last week. Watching me."
"Not just you," he prevaricates.
"Maybe not," she answers, "but there's no one else here tonight."
"Not tonight." His agreement is rough, another unexpected truth in the middle of their game.
It should be unnerving to be this closely scrutinized. But Emily knows what she looks like tonight - knows she's relaxing back into the dress and the wine and the music - and so it isn't. It's heated and unexpected and slightly risky, and she wants more. "Why me?"
He sets his glass down carefully - takes hers and does the same - then reaches out and gently turns her around so she can see the dancing crowd. He's pulled her snug up against him. One hand is pressed gently against her stomach. The other gathers her hair and twists it to one side. His breath is warm against her ear and she arches back against him. "Because," he answers quietly, "you didn't look away."
"From what?" she murmurs. It seems very unfair that he is the only person doing any touching. She reaches up, languid, trailing her fingers through his hair, along his neck.
"From anything," he says, and it doesn't make sense to her, not really, not if she thinks about it, but she isn't Emily tonight and she doesn't have to think about it. Especially not when his hand has released her hair and started a slow glide along the line of her neck, down her shoulder, along her waist. "And then," he says, "I watched you dance. Wearing this."
Emily feels her lips curve into a smile. "And what," she asks, "did you think about that?"
"I thought," he answers, sliding his hand over her skirts, along the line of her thigh, "that I wanted to know what you had on underneath it."
His hands are warm, heavy. The taste of wine is still on her tongue. There's heat zinging through her, stiffening her nipples, throbbing in her clit. "Oh?" she says, remarkably calm. "What a limited imagination you have."
"And then," he continues, like he hasn't heard her, "I wondered what you'd sound like when I fucked you with my fingers. What you'd taste like on my hand. What you'd feel like when you came around me."
Emily is suddenly very grateful for his arm around her waist, because she hasn't ever had her knees do that before. She's aware that his body has gone taut, his voice almost harsh. The damn corset's laced tight - she can't seem to get quite enough air.
"Then I thought," he says, "that I needed some way to convince you to come home with me. And it's a very good bottle of wine."
She manages to laugh and pull away. She's not Emily, not tonight, and she knows exactly what she wants to say next. "Who says," she asks, turning with an arched eyebrow and a smile, "that we have to go home?" The hunger that flares in his eyes sizzles over her skin. "Bring the wine," she says and saunters off with a deliberate sway to her hips.
There's a small set of tiny booths along the far wall of the club - velvet, high-walled, and curtained. They're a totally ridiculous indulgence, which is, of course, the point. Too often they're crowded with huge groups, and tonight's no different, but then her - her paramour, she thinks, laughing - catches up. She can't hear what he says to the current occupant, who's holding court while decked out in his own fishnets and heels, but suddenly the last booth is emptying with satisfying speed.
It's dark and shadowy inside, the gloom broken only by a stray reflection from the dance floor. She catches the barest fleck of grey at his temple, a flash of white from his collar, and then they're tucked back as far as possible. He reaches around her and tugs the curtain closed; they're secluded, enclosed, with just a sliver of the club visible through a chink.
The close quarters make Emily momentarily nervous, her pulse pounding, the boning in the corset tight against her ribcage. He's tugged her so she's curled into his lap, her skirts rucked up, but his hold is loose, easy. The merest brush of his thumb against her wrist, across the palm of her hand, is the only suggestion of an agenda.
She touches the side of his face, lets herself take advantage of the opportunity to explore. Even in the dim light, she can tell he's older than he'd looked in the haze of the club, feeling the lines at the corners of his eyes, the deeper furrows around his mouth. She touches his lips and he nips gently at the pad of her finger. There's an insistent heat and pressure making itself quite evident against her thigh.
"I think, Father," she says, her voice going throaty with the effort of keeping quiet, "that you'd been telling me your plans for the evening before we found a more suitable location." There's an odd freedom in using that title, in listening to the man's breathing shift, in feeling his body tense. "I hope you weren't lying."
"I think," he returns in kind, "that we are going to have other sins to worry about this evening." Before she can answer, he's leaning in and kissing her.
It isn't gentle. He isn't gentle. He's demanding, tasting, testing. He isn't rough or rude - Emily's had enough of both not to have any patience with either. But he's not interested in moving slowly and that suits her - or the person she is tonight - just fine. She wraps a hand around his neck, the short hairs there prickling against her fingers. She fists the other into his shirt, using it as leverage as she turns to meet him halfway.
She tastes him shamelessly, discovering the smooth line of his teeth, the warm curl of his tongue, and she lets him taste her back. His lips are hot over her skin, against her mouth, taking her breath away like it belongs to him. Emily shifts again, straddling his thigh. He's warmth and strength compared to the cool, soft cushions, and she can't get enough - if she's going to take, she wants it all. She moves forward, rising up, catching his face between her hands and tipping it back. She touches her tongue to his, nips at his lower lip, refusing to ask and relishing the fact that he doesn't hesitate. When she pauses, it's because she's actually light-headed. The corset's biting into her harder now, her ribcage heaving. As she tilts her head back to get more air, it occurs to her that the corset's not the only reason she can't breathe.
He stretches up, laying a kiss at the base of her throat, just above her collarbone. One of his hands is on her hip, hot even through the layers of fabric. He's not grabbing, just steadying, and it's oddly reassuring. Then his other hand slips through the gather in the skirt, one finger tracing a long, slow path along the outside of her thigh, up and around her ass, stopping just below the line of the corset. Emily doesn't actually recognize the noise she makes. He repeats the gesture with his whole hand and the ragged sound that escapes her lips can only be called a moan.
She can see the self-satisfied smirk on his face even in the half-light filtering around the curtain. Anyone could see them if they brushed the curtain back. Anyone could see her. Tonight, she thinks, she might not mind being seen. The realization makes her pussy throb, makes her grind herself down against his thigh. One of her hands slips down to his chest, the material cotton-soft under her palm, and she feels, rather than hears, his rumble of approval.
She lets go, trusting him to keep her from slipping, and carefully, deliberately, rearranges her skirts, rucking them up so she can fit her hand between them, so she can work the buckle of his belt. The leather slides free of the metal without any trouble.
Emily realizes she doesn't know his name. Then she realizes she doesn't want him to tell her. He's looking up at her, eyes hooded and unreadable in the almost-dark. He hasn't said a word since they first kissed. She's not sure she wants him to do that either. Then he starts to talk, and she doesn't want him to stop.
"There's someone ten feet away," he says, so quietly she has to lean down, his breath stirring her hair as he whispers against her ear. "Ten feet." The hand on her hip shifts to splay against her back. He lets go of her ass to trace the top of her stocking. She's abruptly aware of the smell of her own arousal, the odor of wine on his breath. "Do you think they'll know?" he asks. She struggles to follow the line of the conversation. His hand moves higher, tugs at the scrap of damp silk between her legs, shifting it to the side. His finger traces along her inner thighs. She's breathing in short, erratic bursts, caught among the weight of his hand and the press of his chest and the strictures of the boning. "Do you think they'll have any idea," he asks again, "that I'm sitting here, with you?" She's clutching at his shoulders. "Do you think they'll know," he says a third time, "that I'm doing this?" He slides two fingers up and in, easy given how wet she is, crooking them just hard enough, all of it so fast that it makes her surge against him, shoulders back, head back, a gasp in her throat. It's bright and gorgeous and totally unexpected, for all she knew it was coming. For a minute she thinks she might come from this alone.
He barely moves, apart from a chuckle that sounds different, somehow, from his earlier laughter. Appreciative, rather than smug. As she fights herself back down, refusing to give in and just fuck herself on those long, strong fingers, he adjusts just a little, the pad of his thumb settling just next to her clit, indirect pressure that makes her shudder.
If she were herself tonight, she'd take him home. Or follow him home, maybe, though Emily's a cautious girl. Or she'd walk away. But she's not herself, she thinks, rocking experimentally against his hand. If she were herself, this wouldn't feel so good. She wouldn't be reaching out for it, greedy. She wouldn't be letting go of his shoulders, balanced between the fingers in her cunt and the hand on her back, to touch her nipples through the fabric of the corset - to pull at the fabric there until she can feel her own skin. She wouldn't roll a nipple between thumb and forefinger and hear him groan as the sensation makes her rock her hips against him again. She's not herself, Emily thinks, defiant, and she wants this.
She snakes a hand back down between them and cups him firmly - not hard, just enough that she feels the involuntary jerk of his hips. Just enough to hear the breath he sucks in as she strokes down and up and down again. He'd asked her a question, she remembers.
"They'll only know," she says, her lips against his ear, "if you can't keep quiet, Father." She pops the button on his fly. He's holding so still she thinks he might've forgotten how to breathe. She tugs the zipper down slowly. "Silence is golden," she teases, and shivers again as he moves his fingers against her pussy, a quick, shallow stroke.
"I am not," he grits out, "a fucking monk."
She negotiates the opening of his boxers, careful not to touch him more than absolutely required, then licks a stripe along her palm. "Well," she answers, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice, "I certainly hope you're fucking someone tonight." He laughs, and chokes on the tail of it as she palms his cock. She's good at hand jobs, and it's kind of gratifying to see him respond.
He is, she realizes, as his head falls back against the back of the bench, remarkably attractive. Strong lines, strong angles, thrown into relief by the glancing light. The tendons on his neck stand out starkly - he has been very turned on for quite some time. The thought makes arousal curl along her spine and she bucks hard against his hand. He licks his lips and looks back up at her. "I beg your pardon," he says dryly. "I've forgotten the Golden Rule."
"Mmm," she agrees, as his thumb makes a small circle just shy of where she really wants it. "Do unto others." She's working him over steadily, feeling the tension gathering in his thighs and abs as she moves again.
"My goal," he says, "is to do you. Which won't happen if you don't stop that right now." She blinks at him. He smiles back, oddly gentle, another unexpected thing, and then he takes her hand from his cock. Emily frowns, but then the hand on her back shifts lower, curling her hips forward, till she's leaning back, her elbows against the laminate of the table. His arm's holding her up, stretching her out. Her back arches, the corset catching tightly as she leans back, hair spilling over her shoulders. She has just a moment to grab for air before he sets up a rhythm that short-circuits her brain.
She can't think - can barely move, balanced as she is. His fingers take and take and take, invading her, seeking her out, and she wants it - aches for it - she'd chase it if she could, but she can't, can only let him take her there, this person she doesn't know. She's laid out here, light filtering in around her, and it's the thought of how she'd look if someone saw, stretched out there, wild and uncaring, that makes her come hard around his fingers.
Emily's hauling in air as he removes his hand, as he helps her shift and resettle. It's not enough, not even close. "Now," she rasps, almost chanting in her need. "Now, now, now." Sanity surfaces, just barely. "Condom," she manages, "because fuck, now. Now."
"Now," he agrees, and she sees him pull the packet out, tear the foil, roll the condom on. "Right now," he demands, and she's in total accord. "Turn around." She doesn't stop to argue, just does it, gathering her skirts and cursing at the bustle until his hands settle at her waist. "Hold still," he says, and laughs when she hisses in impatience.
His knees nudge hers apart, till she's straddling his legs. Then he wraps an arm around her, under her skirts, urging her back and down, slowly and carefully. She pauses when she feels his cock against her entrance, hears him curse and feels his arm tense. They take a minute, adjusting, and then his arm tightens, and she's sinking on to him, his arm still around her, feeling full and gorgeous and needy. Whomever she is tonight, she wants this.
His hands are wrapped around her hips. Her skirts are tumbled every which way, the lining of the corset rubbing against her skin with every movement. She leans back into him, feeling his cock in her, feeling the stretch, the slight pull in her thighs. She feels his head drop forward, feels him press kisses into her shoulder, along the curve of her neck, and reaches up to hold him to her. "Now," she orders again. "Fuck me. Now."
He laughs or groans or something in between and she feels him shudder. "Now," she demands, shifting her hips, grinding back as best as the angle allows. "I want it. Can't you tell how much I want it?" She reaches up and pinches at her nipple, whining at the sharp prick of pleasure. "I'm so wet for it. For your dick. In my pussy." She moves again, breathing hard, feeling her body start to chase after the feeling. "Now," she says, desperate. She reaches down, needing the pressure on her clit, needing something more, but her skirt is in the way and his hands are holding her against him. "Touch me, damn you," she snaps.
His thumb is on her clit almost as the words leave her mouth. It's both a relief and not nearly enough. She leans back into his shoulder, her feet fighting for traction against the floor, and the shift in angle makes her clench around him. Which is apparently all it takes, because he starts to move, and Emily forgets how to think.
She can feel every inch of him, every thrust, every shiver. Whatever had held him back has disappeared - he's fucking her with short, rapid strokes, his thumb a slow, rolling pressure just where she needs it most. A sweet, tight ache is curling out along her body, tension humming in her calves, her arms, her abs, her thighs - in the arches of her feet and the line of her neck - building and building until she's almost sobbing with it, aching for air. She's trapped, the corset a band around her ribs, stealing her air, his cock filling her cunt, his thumb pressing against her clit. It's amazing until it's almost too much, until a sudden combination of just right and right there shatters her into a million pieces. It's like flying apart, every muscle trembling with it, and as she hears him gasp and feels him jerk beneath her, the sudden warmth and pressure sends her over the edge again, softer this time, gentle and shivering and utterly gone.
Time goes soft around the edges. She's vaguely aware that the music is still thumping away on the other side of the curtain. His arms are still wrapped around her, holding her against him. She feels boneless, her head turned into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and wine and cologne. He shifts beneath her; she manages an inarticulate protest. "Shh," he murmurs, his lips against her temple. "Stand up, just a second." She grumbles but complies, feeling oddly empty as he slips from her. There's a moment where she has to lean against the table, shaky with the burn in her calves and thighs. She hears him strip off the condom, feels him shift behind her. Then his hands are back on her waist, smoothing at her skirts.
Emily's brain is threatening to restart. There's a thin layer of endorphins between her and a tumble of thoughts that have started to roil. She doesn't want to let them break over her, not just yet. She lets him tug her down, wrapping an arm around her, till she's tucked between him and the wall, her legs across his lap, her face against his chest. Not yet, she thinks, and rubs her face against the cotton of his shirt.
His hand is warm against her shoulder. She's sweaty, her hair sticking and clinging and feathering in a way that is about three minutes from driving her completely insane. When she shivers with a sudden chill, he settles her closer and strokes a lazy path down her arm. It's lovely and snug and she tries to burrow into it, her eyes closed. She reaches up, curling a hand against his neck, tracing along the line of his jaw and then down to his collar. It's not till she touches the cool plastic of the white insert that reality crashes down. She drops her hand.
She's just had sex. Very good sex. Very public sex. With a man she's never met before. Who is wearing a priest's collar. Who had, at least, thought about a condom. Whose name she does not know. Because she did not ask. And she'd been the one to drag him to the booth. She can't even blame the alcohol - she's had maybe three glasses of wine tonight. She hiccups a breath, aware that her pulse is racing again. The things she'd said to him - she'd been completely unfiltered. And it had been fantastic. She's not sure what, exactly, terrifies her more: the fact that she hasn't been acting like herself or the possibility that she has.
He's still rubbing gentle lines along her arms, his head tilted back against the cushions. She can't imagine he's missed that she's having - has had - a minor panic attack, but he's kind enough to ignore it. It's the kindness, oddly, that puts her chin up. She doesn't need condescension. This has been as least as good for him as it has for her. Emily reaches for the persona she's worn all night and imagines it settling around her like a cloak as she forces her breathing steady, letting the boning in the corset substitute for her spine.
She stays still a moment, gathering herself. Then she twists a little in his arms, setting her feet firmly on the floor. He lets her go when she stands, leaning into him in the small space. She's thankful he doesn't try to hold her. She can just see his face in the light coming in around the curtain. He seems softer, looser, the tension around the corners of his eyes a little lessened. Anyone looking at him would think him entirely relaxed - if they could ignore the sharp, almost wary look lurking at the back of his eyes. Maybe, she thinks, looking at him - maybe kindness is okay.
She smiles, surprising herself, and brushes her thumb against the corner of his mouth. Her lipstick is everywhere, she realizes, and blushes. There's pale powder on the front of his shirt. "You're a mess," she says quietly.
"Like you can talk," he answers, but his tone matches hers.
She leans down till her lips are nearly against his. "Sign of a good night," she murmurs. Then she does kiss him, simply, just a touch of their lips. When she pulls back a little, his eyes are closed. "Thanks," she says, and slips past him and around the curtain without waiting to see if he watches her go.
There's a back door that puts out just down the street; she gets through it without running into anyone she knows. It's late enough that she calls a cab - the streets are pretty bare. She makes it home and in the door and into her room without losing her composure. It's not till she's fumbling with the laces on the corset that she lets her hands shake. She steps into the shower, washing the smoke out of her hair and the makeup off of her face. When she steps out and bundles her hair into a towel, her lips are still puffy and there's a suspicious-looking red mark just below the juncture of shoulder and neck. She looks at herself in the mirror and wonders what, exactly, happened tonight. She flicks off the light and curls into bed and wonders why, exactly, she doesn't regret it.
Emily never does bring herself to get rid of that corset. She hangs it in her closet with the others. Every so often she brushes her hand over it, and she wonders.
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Part Two
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And a beta-requested outtake....
"She can't hear what he says to the current occupant, who's holding court while decked out in his own fishnets and heels, but suddenly the last booth is emptying with satisfying speed."
It's a bad idea, says the voice in the back of Dave's head. It sounds a lot like Bill, but his partner's not here, not this time. Tonight he's on vacation, a full week of it, all because of the woman behind him. She's all in black, slim and delicate and young, his brain tries again, but he's watched her hold her own and he has no doubt that if she hadn't been interested, she'd have sent him packing. Instead, she'd headed towards the curtained alcoves at the side of the club, and that's enough that he doesn't waste a moment in catching up to her.
He passes her, actually, because the booths are all full and he is not about to let that get in the way. The kid who's the center of attention looks like something out of Dave's vaguer recollections of the seventies - Ziggy Stardust meets Dracula. He bridles when Dave walks up, the rest of his coterie frowning in distaste. Dave could not care less. He holds the kid's stare until the boy looks away, and then all he says is, "Time to go." He doesn't have to say anything else - he's pretty sure his body language is making it clear that there's an easy way and a hard way, and he'd been damn sure which way this kid would jump before he opened his mouth.
Ziggy leaves just as the girl in the corset catches up.