This Is What You Came For
Rating: T- some sorta schmexy stuff.
To ragingscooter who I am shamelessly trying to bribe with fic so she writes more of her StarWars! Golly fic. Forgive any mistakes. I am old and tired.
You weren't even supposed to be there. You weren't even supposed to be in the crowded club that evening. Your plan had been simple- a soak in the large tub of the hotel you were staying at for the forensics conference you were scheduled to speak at tomorrow, a quick look at the slides for the presentation you had over rehearsed over the past month, and then, bed. That was it. It was not walking into the hottest gay club in Los Angeles, hot on your best friend (who had basically invited herself along on the trip to scope out "the scene" as she'd called it) Lisa's heels, trying not to lose her in the throng of people.
You weren't even supposed to be sliding up to the bar and watching Lisa smirk slyly at the bartender, sliding her a 20 and receiving a brush of her arm and two Jack and Cokes for her trouble. The drink is strong- a little too strong- and it burns pleasantly down your throat as you turn and survey the crowd. It's young- but, you have to admit, a little begrudgingly- sort of ridiculously attractive. The exact sort of crowd Lisa had hinted at entertaining. You sigh as you watch her catch your eye, wink slowly, and disappear into the crowd, following after a blonde who couldn't be older than twenty two.
You shake your head, continuing on with your observations, mindful of the bodies surrounding you on the large level lofted just above the dance floor. The music is loud, the bass thrumming in your ears and reverberating in your temples. You're just about to drain your drink and declare the night a bust, yourself too old for this, and return to your hotel when the flash of a camera catches your attention. Your eyes skirt to the edge of the floor you were on, to the back. You peer further, noticing a small crowd buzzing with excitement around where the light had flashed, realizing that the people have surrounded a person, whose face you couldn't see but whose hair glinted, bright, almost white, in the flash of the camera.
Your curiosity piqued, you'd mindlessly moved a few feet to your left and tried to catch a glimpse of her face. When you do, your mouth goes a little dry. Because you recognize her, this woman. Your mind goes to the last time you'd seen her face, heard her voice, on the t.v. in your living room, wine glass clasped firmly in-between your fingers as she'd poured her heart out to her best friend, begging him to love her back.
It was Gail Peck- the hot young star of your Thursday night "guilty pleasure" medical procedural, "Rookie"- and Jesus, hot she was. You'd admittedly started watching it for the woman now a few mere feet in front of you, first seeing that face when you'd been channel surfing and, startled by her sharp eyes, and overall graceful structure, you'd stopped and watched over the rim of your wine. And that had turned into binging the show which had turned into weekly viewings of the show. She was- fucking beautiful, yeah- but also very talented and seemingly intelligent, and-
You swallow and try to tame your speeding heart. It was silly- all of these feelings and the way that you were almost buzzing with excitement because you- you are a grown, 30 year old woman, and you should not be fan-girling over a straight (was she, though? This was a gay bar- what was she doing here? Maybe just out with friends?) woman trying to mind her own business in a bar. No matter what she did for a living, she deserved to not be gawked at by people while she tried to enjoy a night out.
It's that thought that causes you to finally drain your drink and turn toward the bar, intent on getting another.
You're standing in the long line when two things happen in rapid succession.
First, a woman- short, dark haired, attractive- sidles up to you and asks you to dance. You consider it for a moment, trying to banish the woman you'd turned away from out of your mind, when another voice echoes in the space you've given yourself to decide about the brunette's offer.
It's the sound of someone clearing their throat.
You and your would-be paramour turn toward the sound and are greeted with the tall form of a man. Solid, tall, man- form. He doesn't waste any time, touching your shoulder with a sure hand. When you're opening your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, this was a gay bar and you were very- he speaks softly.
"Hey- my friend. I- I'm a bodyguard. My name is Chris. And my friend- my client-friend, Gail? I saw you looking over at us earlier, sorry- so maybe you recognize her? The blonde over there- well, she was sort of wondering if you'd like to come over and- uh- hang out? She kind of wants to kill me over all of this but she has been talking about you for the last 10 minutes and that's- unusual, is all- and security's been a little tight after last month because we had some issues a little bit ago- but she's just- sorry if I- uh-"
You can't even contain yourself as you spin around, bewildered, to find the blonde, now in full view, looking at you with wide eyes, blush high on her cheeks, before glancing away quickly. When your eyes connect, she looks away, doing everything she can to look anywhere except for you. She fails once or twice- her eyes locking on your face for a few stolen seconds- before skittering away and it makes you smile despite your thundering heart and disbelieving mind.
The brunette disappears when you just shake your head, not waiting for Chris to lead the way, simply heading straight toward the table and stopping mere inches from it, gulping once you break through the throng of people and the you're standing mere feet from her, separated only by a table and holy shit- she's pretty on television, yeah- but here, in person? She literally takes your breath away, the glib words you'd been planning on saying dying in your throat with the theft of it. So, then you're just looking at her- wide eyes locked with wide eyes- maybe for seconds, maybe for hours, before a voice is breaking through; it's a fan who asks to take a photo with the blonde. The voice and the process breaks you both out of your revere and you watch the flash of the phone, the handshake the fan leaves the television star with. It makes you smile, a bit, and gives you a moment to think of something coherent to say to the other woman. And just when she finishes with the woman and you're opening your mouth to say something, Gail Peck smiles almost warmly at you before speaking her own words.
"Finally get tired of looking and decide to actually talk to me?"
The words, you get the feeling, are supposed to be a bit biting, almost a warning shot. But instead of putting you off, it lifts a slight laugh from your lips, your eyebrow quirking in challenge.
"Hey- at least I worked up the courage to come over and do something about it. Didn't see me send over one of my "bodyguards" to talk you up, did ya?"
She blinks at you, her cheeks flushing.
"Yeah- I, uh, told him not to do that."
A beat as you simply smirk at her. She isn't like you thought she'd be, at all. In the best way, you stomach rolls pleasantly.
"What did he say? I mean, I'm already going to kill him tonight. But I feel like when I'm using his ass for target practice, I should know exactly why he has to die."
You shake your head, your hands coming down to rest of the table in front of you.
"Nope. I took an oath years ago. Do no harm. I can't be responsible for the death of another human being."
She quirks her own brow.
"You're a doctor?"
A slight nod. This- this is it, you think.
You jut your hand out as smoothly as you can, hoping to God that your palms aren't reflecting your current nerves and pounding heart.
"Dr. Holly Stewart. Just so you have a name to be put on the face of the person you've been talking about for the last ten minutes."
When she scowls but slides her hand into yours and squeezes anyway, the smile on your face hurts it is so wide.
"Yeah. He's- uh- he's dead. Real dead."
A beat as your hold her hand far longer than you should, trying not to think about its softness.
"But- murder aside, it's nice to meet you, Doctor Holly Stewart. I'm Gail Peck. Not an M.D."
That draws another laugh out of your lips. When you finally break the clasp of your hand on hers, she uses it to pat the stool next to hers. You tuck your head bashfully but move the few feet over to the seat, swallowing against the pounding in your ribs.
"What are you drinking?"
She holds her hand up, gesturing to the bartender who nods, rapidly making her way over to take her order. Tables side service, indeed.
"Oh, uh- you don't have to-"
She places her hand on top of yours where it now rests on the table top.
"It's the least I can do. My asshat friend got you out of line when you were trying to get another. Really- it's- I want to."
You swallow and tell her a Jack and Coke and watch as Gail smiles slightly, echoing the order for herself, with an added "make mine a double" before handing the woman a couple of bills and telling her to keep the change.
It only takes a few moments to get your drinks. And you don't know what it is- maybe that you both feel more comfortable with the social lubrication the alcohol provides, but she's asking a question-
"So, are you a doctor- doctor or what?"
And you're answering and then the conversation is flowing and yeah she's a little jagged around the edges- a little sharp and short but you find yourself leaning into it and giving back as good as you got, matching her wit for wit, smile for smile.
An hour and two more drinks pass when you finally look up and notice how close she's gotten to you throughout the course your conversation, her hand resting comfortably on your knee underneath the table. Your bare knee, the red lace of the dress you had basically been forced to wear at Lisa's insistence because she was "sick of your soft butch thing, already- you have legs, lady" riding up to the middle of your thigh. Where her hand sits. Warming the suddenly raised, goosebumped skin of your knee.
You're quite honestly pretty impressed you're functioning at all given the circumstances but you do and God- it's nice. Because she's breath taking and sexy, yeah, but she's also smart and funny and talented and you forget halfway through the conversation that you watched her on your television every week, that you had ever seen her at all before this goddamn fairytale of an evening. And you've learned quite a bit about her. About the before- before fame in Los Angeles. About life in Toronto- your heart gives a thrill at the ridiculous coincidence- about how she had started at the academy and one day, out of the blue, had been approached by an agent while scouting for a movie location. Who had told her she as one of the most striking women he had ever seen and had she ever acted? Modeled? She'd scoffed at the time, but then- then a fallout with her family and she'd cut and run away for the "Peckspectations" in Toronto. To Los Angeles and Al Lankman who was a little skeezy but also lived up to his promise and booked her a couple of commercials before getting her seen by a couple of the right producers. And then- a lead in a pilot that had gotten picked up and the rest, five years later, was history.
"I never expected… any of this. This life and-," she'd said, "And it's great, really. And I'm thankful. So many people- they work and wish for this their whole lives and never get here. But, uh- it's just really not my scene, I guess? The parties. I mean- I'm all for the alcohol. Just not for the people."
And moments later when the topic gets less serious, as she leans into you and you both giggle at something acerbic she's saying about one of her cast mates, now you can barely stand it. Now that you've realized how close she is and how soft her hands really are and how close you've come to her.
A silence as you take a deep breath and move back a little to give yourself some air, turning toward the table and pulling the drink back to your mouth. This was- amazing. She was amazing. And yeah, you're pretty sure she's been flirting with you all night and yeah she's gorgeous and yeah you really just want to lean in and just fucking kiss her already but you have no idea what she's thinking, no idea what she's feeling. And, you remind yourself, she sort of has an aversion to your home city. So- you need air. And to think, and to-
"Is it yours, then?"
The words jolt you, and you look at her, asking her to repeat the question.
"I said- this wasn't really my scene. So- is it- yours?"
And that draws a laugh out of your lips because God no- and you tell her.
"I'm a bibliophile and a homebody. So, no. My friend Lisa- who I think might have actually left me- bitch- wanted to go out while we were at the conference. I'd normally be at home with Netflix or a book and a glass of wine. I mean- I'm not even dressed the way I normally am, you know? This- is also Lisa's. "
"Oh?"
Gail is asking, a raise to her brow and a smirk on her lips.
"Because, you look- I mean, I'm sure you look good in your pants and your button downs but, uh- this. This is a good look for you, too."
"Yeah?"
Yeah. Definitely flirting. Your heart is trying to rip itself out of your chest you swear to God.
"Yep," she smirks, popping the 'p', "beauty and brains, Stewart. It's a thing people tend to be attracted to."
A smile, a blush of your cheeks.
"Oh really? Know anybody who's into that kinda thing?"
She waits for you to meet her eyes before she speaks the next words, dripping with another meaning altogether.
"I might know somebody."
She's in your space again and you're dizzy.
"So- anyway- seeing as this isn't my scene and it's not quite yours and your friend Bitchtits has left the building, I was wondering if maybe you'd want to get out of here? Maybe- maybe come back to my place? Be the bums and homebodies we really are inside?"
Again with giving yourself credit because you don't pass out right then and there.
A long pause as you try to sort yourself out. She takes your hesitation for an answer.
"I'm sorry- I shouldn't have-. For the record, I really did just want to hang out and maybe watch a movie and maybe talk to you a little bit more because I actually don't hate talking to you and I'm sorry-"
It's the genuine concern on her face, in her words, that makes you shake your head and put your hand on her mouth to bring the words to a stop.
"Yes," you're whispering, trying your best not to stare where your fingers tingle against her lips, "Let me grab my coat and- yeah. Why not? Seeing how you're famous, it'll be pretty easy to i.d. if you end up trying to murder me. It's safe."
She smiles as you shoot of a text to Lisa (with very few actual details) and grab your coat and purse, turning to Gail as she motions toward the bartender and settles her entire tab, tipping the woman nicely with a wink and a subtle slip of her hand. But then that hand is at your elbow, guiding you out of the building with Chris at your heels before sliding into the backseat of a very nice SUV, doing your best to ignore the flashes of various cameras going off as they tried to capture your companion's photo.
The drive is quiet- the expanse of highway giving way to long, winding roads as the vehicle climbed further and further up into the Hollywood Hills. Her body presses into yours, her hand finding its way to your knee once more but now making maddening, slow circles against it.
You meet Chris' eyes in the rearview and try to ignore him as he fixes you with a stare.
You don't blame him for being protective. Gail had told you about the scare a few months before- the stalker who had managed to worm his way through security and knock her out with homemade chloroform before being caught at the gate with her in the trunk. You look over at the woman who is staring determinedly out the window, lost in thought, and shift a little bit closer unconsciously.
When you do arrive, you try to conceal your amazement. It's not a mansion by any means but it is nice and large. Very modern, very white, very clean. Gail opens the door to let you inside and you step into the home and marvel at its simple, sleek design and high vaulted ceilings and open layout and clean, white, furniture while she talks lowly to Chris about the schedule for tomorrow.
Glancing toward the far side of the room, you find yourself drawn over to it. Well, the huge window- floor to ceiling- that is tucked into it, complete with a stunning view of Los Angeles in all its glory. You're still staring when you hear footsteps behind you along with a light chuckle.
"Yeah- the house, again, not quite my style, but this- this view? Totally worth it. And that's saying something because L.A. real estate? Fucking. Ridiculous. You know?"
You nod, still looking out. You try not to be disappointed when you hear her walk away but smile softly at the, "Tequila or red wine?" that she tosses over her shoulder. You don't care and tell her as much, still captured by the view. Yeah- you could… you could maybe get a little used to all of this.
She's gone for a few more minutes and just as you're thinking of going to see if she needs any help, you hear footsteps padding softly back into the living room.
A small sound- like glass against a solid surface and then the sound of the television turning on, the sound of the Roku powering up and, Netflix, you think, coming up on the screen. More shuffling and then- then-
Then her body is behind yours, mere inches away. And you know what she said- you know what you'd been thinking earlier in the club- but this- this stolen moment in the expanse of her home, looking down onto the shining city below- it possessed you and set something within you alight in a way you'd never felt before.
It causes your body to move of its own accord, closing the last few inches and backing into her body, shuddering as her body is finally, wholly flush with yours.
A few long moments as she breathes into your neck and shudders herself. As she brings her hands to your hips and nuzzles her lips into the nape of your neck, into the fine hairs there, pressing a feather light kiss before sliding those warm hands up, up, up, pausing at your rapidly constricting rib cage, waiting for your enthusiastic nod and then- then you're absolutely gasping because she's palming one breast roughly in her hand and threading her hand through your hair with the other and pulling your head to the side, her lips descending on your bared throat and smiling against it as you hiss out your approval, your hips moving further back into her ass with every desperate lick and suck against your pulse point and God help you, she is speaking against your ear, her lips moving up and tongue finding the shell of your ear and tracing it.
"I- I know I know I said with the movie and the wine- and we can. We can. I have everything pulled up on the t.v. and I poured us a couple of very adult glasses of good red wine and we can hang out and just watch whatever- but- Holly. I can't, I mean I can but- I don't want to stop."
Her fingers find a nipple through the lace fabric, the cotton, of your bra and you gasp out at the feel of it. But she's speaking and you want to see her so spin yourself around, determined to be adult and cool headed about this and speak your peace and ask your questions but- holy shit she's looking at you like she wants to devour you and her chest is heaving and holy shit holy shit.
Her lips are being crushed by yours very shortly thereafter, her arms winding themselves around your neck and clutching you to her body. A few stumbled footsteps and then your back is pushed against the glass of the large window. You barely notice, your mind otherwise occupied by her gasping her moans and ever moving tongue that takes its turn slipping into your mouth, and twisting against your own before retreating and doing it all over again. She bites at your lips and removes her hands from your shoulders to push herself slightly back, catching a lip between her teeth as she drifts her eyes over your body. You will yourself to breathe as you begin to ache with want, fingers unconsciously tightening in the fabric of her ow shirt as she begins to skate her hands over your hips and down your thighs before moving up, fingers catching the hem of your dress and slowly inching it up.
You should stop, you think, you should stop all of this and-
But then she's moaning out a needy moan and plundering your mouth with needy wanton kisses and asking a "please, Holly, can I have you?" and you're powerless to resist it, the sound of your hair rustling as you nodded your head enthusiastically, loud in your ears.
Your hands scrabble uselessly against the glass as she presses the heel of her hand into the heat between your thighs before pushing the flimsy, ruined fabric aside, and with one last questing look, pushes her fingers up and into you, gasping into the hollow of your mouth as you do the same. And she feels- God, she feels-
It's all just a pleasurable blur, then. And God- her eyes, the sound of her voice as she pants and husks in your ear just how good you feel, how much she wants you to come- you can barely think above "yes" and just when you think that it's all too much and her words her touch and her thrusts are going to bring you up and crashing over the edge, she stops. She stops and you whimper and try to chase her fingers. You stop complaining when she slips the ruined underwear down your legs. You forget to speak altogether when she drops to her knees, dips her head below the bright red of your skirt, and licks the length of you. When she adds her fingers seconds later, you're fucking lost. Your back is flush against the large window of Gail Peck's flat overlooking the city, your head turned to the side because the sight of her on her knees is doing things to you, and your are eyes wide and your hands buried in her short hair, her tongue and fingers never ceasing their pace.
With her name on your lips and the city blinking back at you, you come, your legs nearly buckling with the intensity of it.
A suggestion is made- something about a bed. When you finally make it to a similarly clean, well designed master suite, your earlier fatigue is forgotten. You know you'll always remember the way she sighed as you shrugged out of your dress, letting it pool around your waist, before making your own way down her body.
Hours later, both on your sides and looking at one another in the afterglow, you're still trying to make sense of it all. Still trying to reckon what all of this means.
But this woman- who you hadn't known for long but also felt like you had maybe for forever- she has surprised you since the first words slipped out of her gorgeous mouth, and these are no different.
"So- Toronto, huh? Flying back the day after next?"
You hum, sliding a hand down a pale arm, a fingers skating down the slope of her stomach into her hip.
"As luck would have it, I have a couple of weeks off and I was thinking that maybe- it was time I re-evaluated its merits."
A soft sort of wondering sound.
"Yeah?"
Gail smiles. You die, a little.
"Yeah. Plus- I met somebody recently. Hot, smart- I mean, she's totally a nerd but- like, in this sexy librarian sort of way. And in case you didn't figure it out yet that's kind of my thing."
You laugh. Honest to God, deep laugh. And sigh after. And die a little again inside, maybe.
You move a hand up to her face, cup her cheek.
"Well- maybe I can arrange a tour? If you're not too busy with this hot librarian lady."
"Deal."
You kiss her softly, sweetly. Almost like you're afraid she isn't real. When she breaks the kiss, she's smiling.
"But that's next week. What about tomorrow? You ready for your fancy presentation. Hope I didn't distract you while you should have been studying up."
You shake your head, paying more attention to where your index finger is absently tracing at her full bottom lip and muttering a distracted, "no, all good".
"Good. Wouldn't want your fellow nerds to suffer solely for my pleasure."
"Good to note. You're a true philanthropist, Gail. Really."
That draws a laugh out of her. A few moments of companionable, soft silence. And then-
"So- this conference? Is this something that I can, like sneak into? So I can see you in all your sciencey glory?"
You wrench her face to hers, kissing her with steady, heavy pressure. God, this woman-
"Maybe," you're speaking against her lips, "maybe- if you're really nice to speaker, something can be arranged."
The ragged "deal" is lost to the softness of her tongue and the wrapping of her legs around your own.
A week later, when Sunday morning rolls around and you're sitting at your kitchen table with a cup of coffee and thoughts of the slumbering woman in your bed with movie star good looks, you hear the knock of the door. You r brow furrowed, you walk toward the door and look in the peephole. When Rachel, your other best friend's face greets you, you open the door.
"Rach- is everything okay? It's early-"
She breezes right by you before stopping in front of your coffee table, spinning and throwing a colorful looking magazine on the table.
"Holly Stewart," she's tutting, trying, you think, to hide the smile on her face, "you got some 'splaining to do."
A nervous flick of your eyes toward your bedroom door as you think you hear the rustle of the bedsheets.
"You want to tell me why you're on the front page of a gossip rag apparently canoodling with t.v.'s highest paid actress?"
A nervous lick of your lips. A groan as you hear the beginnings of your phone beginning to ring and beep with notifications and texts.
"Oh, shit."
You weren't supposed to be there, in the club. And now you might be a little reluctantly famous but with another glace at the stairs that led to your bedroom and thoughts of the woman who you're kissing- first in a small café she'd taken you to celebrate your successful presentation and then again at the airport before your departure home- in the glossy pages of Rachel's magazine- sated and exhausted and bare- in your bed, you can't help but be thankful for all of the things that have led you to this point- and for all of the things that you know are going to come after.
You roll your eyes and push Rachel out of the apartment and promise to call her. You turn your phone off, turn your thoughts once more to Gail Peck, not M.D.
You're excited, for the first time in a long time, at all of the possibilities.