"You know what's really great?" Cordelia slurred as she set her shot glass back down on the table. A drop of tequila sloshed over the side of the glass as Angel poured her another shot.
"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me," he replied with a sly smirk, throwing a drink down his throat. He hissed as he sucked air in through his teeth.
"Friday night, boys out on a mission, just the old Sunnydale gang, hangin' out," she grinned before pushing a tortilla chip onto her tongue.
"I'm sure Wes and Gunn wish they weren't out hunting demon babies…" Angel grimaced.
"Demon babies, schmeemon babies. They're fine. Fine." Cordelia wobbled forward in her chair, bending clumsily forward to grab another chip.
"Shall we toast?"
"Toast! To Sunnydale!"
Their glasses clinked together, spilling golden tequila down their wrists and onto the table. Angel stumbled to his feet, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. The stripes on the wallpaper bled together. He fumbled with the needle on a record player. A brassy jazz trumpet filled the aging hotel room. A few feet away, Cordelia swiveled up from her overstuffed easy chair. The hem of her skirt rippled around her thighs as she swayed out of time to the music. Her drink sloshed again, dumping alcohol down the front of her shirt.
"I could go for some toast…" she began, dropping her chin to stare at the wet stain on her blouse. "Oh…damn."
"Toast?" Angel blinked, turning to stare at her. He retrieved the tequila bottle with surprising dexterity and poured her another drink. "What are we toasting to now—hey, you spilled."
"Yeah, think so…"
"You should take that off…don't want it to set," Angel frowned, tucking the bottle under his arm so as to help her remove her shirt.
"Angel?" Cordelia asked, wriggling out of the chemise. She folded her arms over a tan silk brassiere. The top fell in a forgotten heap near her ankle.
"Hm?" Angel replied, dropping his eyes to stare directly at her breasts.
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
"Cordy…you already know you're pretty," Angel sputtered, knocking back another shot.
"Still nice to be told," she frowned, dropping her arms to grab for the bottle wedged in Angel's elbow.
"You're more than pretty," Angel sighed, dragging his eyes back up to her smooth face framed by a short yellow bob.
"Kiss me," she whispered hoarsely, slinging her arms around his neck. The bottle dropped from his arm, smashing to bits on the hardwood floor. His hands scooped under her bottom, lifting her bare feet off the floor. Her hands cupped his jaw, turning his mouth toward her waiting lips.
They hesitated while the trumpet whined into the early night, exhaling alcohol-soaked breath down flared nostrils. Cordelia swung her legs up, hiking the hem of her skirt up over her thighs. Her ankles wrapped tightly around his waist, resting on the smooth, muscular hips. Her mouth was warm and succulent; the scent of hot blood, warm skin, sickly sweet tequila was intoxicating. His large hands grasped her hips, tugging her small figure closer. Small defined muscles poked from her lightly tanned abdomen. His thumbs slid over them, tracing the sinew.
"Angel," she whimpered before flicking her tongue over his. Her aching mouth trapped his lower lip. Her teeth clenched with anxious desire. Her fingers slid up into his hair.
"Ssh," he murmured, prying her tight body from his. He gently tossed her onto the rumpled sheets of a bed near the shuttered balcony. A stream of moonlight peeked beneath the curtains.
His fingers slid beneath the cup of her brassiere, pushing the article up over the mound of flesh buried inside it. Her murmur of contentment egged him on as he dropped his mouth to taste her skin. The breast seemed to swell between his lips, engorging itself as if to choke him with pleasure. She tasted of lime and dark musk, a combination that left him elated. Her fingers twisted through his skewed brown hair, tugging at the short spikes. His voice vibrated against her as he growled lightly.
Her skirt bunched up around her waist as he ripped away the few articles blocking their passion. Shoes clunked heavily against the floor as they were discarded, useless. Cordelia wiggled her toes as she thrust her legs into the air, waving them like candle flames. A cool hand thrust between her thighs, sending a shiver sparking along her spine. Her coos and cries of pleasure filled the empty suite, covering the sounds of the soulful horn.
His hips dove into the growing space between her legs, and the hand fell away, only to be replaced by something far more powerful, more enamored, more rapturous. His hand reached up to hold down her flailing wrist, while his mouth covered her quivering, quaking lips. The headboard knocked loudly, repeatedly against the striped wallpaper which seemed to become more lucid with each thrust. Her loosened fingers clawed at his bare chest, leaving pale red scratches. Her tongue buzzed in his mouth as her voice rose in ecstasy. Still he knocked her against the headboard, her breasts rising and falling rapidly.
Her fingers uncurled, and her body loosened. Her eyes fell shut and her breathing slowed. Angel rolled away, his arm tucking around her sweaty body as she curled up on her side. His lips pressed lightly against the nape of her neck, between chunks of sticky blond hair. She murmured quietly, beside herself with the pleasure of climax.
--
His eyes shot open, bringing the dark stripes of the wallpaper into blaring focus. Beside him, tucked into the nook between his arm and hip, Cordelia Chase mumbled quietly in her sleep. The stickiness of her skin had subsided, but still the scent of tequila and lust lingered, overwhelming. He pushed back the sheets and scrambled from the bed. The balcony shutter rattled as he threw the door open and stepped out into the pale moonlight that washed the porch. His hands wrapped tightly around the iron balustrade. The rail quivered in his grip, and the sound caused his sleeping bedmate to smack her lips and turn over. Angel let go and slumped into a wooden bench.
"Perfect happiness," he murmured, closing his eyes to void out the glowing moon. Behind his eyelids, buried in dreamy memories, Buffy's skin trembled beneath his touch. He slid his hand over her cheek, and whispered into her ear. Was she okay? Did she feel safe? Her warm pink lips stuttered over a quiet, creamy voice. Her breast heaved when she drew in a difficult breath. Her chin rose as she tilted back her head. Her hips filled his hands. She tasted like heaven.
A bottle of beer stood abandoned on a small wooden table beside the bench. The evening had started here, only an hour after sunset. They'd celebrated something that seemed so insignificant now, something he couldn't even remember accomplishing. Hell, I don't even remember accomplishing… he thought as he got to his feet. The hinges creaked as he pushed open the balcony door and slid back into the room, filled only with the sounds of her sleeping breath.
Broken glass crunched beneath his bare foot as he moved across the suite. A record looped silently on its turntable, the needle stretching out and away like an empty hand. Angel pulled open the door to the silent hallway and slumped into it, shutting the door behind him.
"Smart gypsies," he grunted aloud as he hobbled down the hall, holding the cut ball of his foot up off the carpet. "They knew it wouldn't be worth it…"