The Night Is Still Ahead
Rating: M, but barely. It's all pretty vague.
Spoilers: Right up through the end of season 5
Summary: "I could totally seduce you right now. No problem." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "Well, if I wanted to anyway."
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
A/N: A very kind anon on Tumblr asked for a story where Jeff and Annie sort of compete over who can seduce the other more effectively - I'm not sure this is exactly what s/he had in mind, but it's where my mind went. I wanted this story to be mostly lighthearted, and I think it is, but a little angst slipped in because I can't seem to write anything for these two these days that doesn't address what happened in the finale. I'm stuck on that moment, and expect to be until we finally get season 6.
The whole thing starts because someone leaves an old, dog-eared copy of Cosmo on the bar.
(Well, technically, there is a lot more to it than that, like five or so years of circling one another, constant pushing and pulling, mixed signals galore, and knee-deep, persistent denial, but that's an old story that she's long grown tired of.)
Jeff's pouting definitely contributes too – he's been sulking for most of the night despite the fact that he lost the game of Rock, Paper, Scissors that left him in the role of designated driver role fair and square (She's told him before that he needs to be more random with his choices, but he always plays Paper following a loss with Rock so beating him is pretty much a piece of cake), and he sullenly orders Diet Coke after Diet Coke in a loud, booming voice so everyone in the bar knows that he is abstaining in order to play hero.
Really, though, he just looks like a little boy, forced to sit on the sidelines while his friends are allowed to play and have real fun, and as warm, tingly, and pleasantly buzzed as she is, all Annie wants to do is cheer him up.
If she's honest, though, it's not just about tonight. Something's been a little off with him for the past few months – ever since he mixed a bottle of scotch with Korean fountain of youth pills, since he proposed to Britta in a moment of total fear and panic, neither of which seems like the actions of a man in his right mind.
He'd be mortified if he knew, but she's seriously started to wonder if he is in the midst of a full-blown midlife crisis. Her dad was a good five or six years older when he started going off the rails, but she still remembers the warning signs – how she'd find him sitting alone in the dark sometimes, listening to the classic rock station like a zombie, how he seemed defeated by even small inconveniences like the car needing a new battery or the leaves on the azalea bushes in the yard turning brown. But she is fairly certain that Jeff wouldn't appreciate her advice that, while it may be a well-played out cliché at this point, buying a flashy sports car (her dad went with a motorcycle) is probably a better way to handle the whole thing than self-medicating or rushing into an ill-advised marriage that's even more likely to end in divorce than any of Kim Kardashian's whirlwind nuptials.
So she's kept her mouth shut – it's not really her place to tell him what to do anyway – but whether she is conscious of it or not, she has kind of made it point to look after him.
Because she can pretend that a lot of things don't bother her, but a gloomy, rattled Jeff Winger manages to strike right at the heart of her where it's simply impossible to ignore.
So when she spots the magazine lying near the end of the bar and catches a quick glimpse of the cover, she sees the perfect opportunity to cheer him up. She slides it toward him with a smile, even though he is slightly distracted, looking across the room to where Britta and Duncan are playing darts. Annie may be a little past tipsy herself, but Duncan is totally blitzed, wobbling on his feet and drooling a little bit, so Jeff is probably worried that he might take someone out with an errant throw.
"Let's do the quiz," she says, slapping the magazine against the bar to get his attention even as she signals the bartender for another drink. "'Are You Way Too Picky When It Comes To Guys?'" she reads. "We'll just change the questions to apply to women in your case."
Apparently, that's enough to get his attention because he turns to her with a grin and she earns a genuine laugh.
"That's okay. I already know my standards are extremely high. But that's to be expected when you look like this."
She groans and shoves at his shoulder, but that only has the effect of nearly sending her tumbling from her stool to the dirty floor below so Jeff has to grab her around the waist to steady her. Her reflexes may be way off, but when the bartender brings a fresh margarita over, she still takes a sip, trying to ignore the flush that she feels creeping from her hairline all the way down to her chest because of the way that Jeff is watching her.
"Forget the quiz," he says, tapping a finger against the magazine. "Why don't you check out this article instead?"
The magazine is covered in watermarks from the bottoms of countless glasses and bottles, and the ink is smeared in some spots, but she can see the title that he's pointing out in all its obnoxious block letter glory.
25 Ways to Seduce a Man in Seconds
He is only teasing, bored out of his mind watching his friends get good and sloshed for the past two hours and just looking for any way to amuse himself, but the alcohol warming its way through her system has her feeling bolder than usual so she shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a flourish.
"I don't need to," she declares haughtily.
Jeff grins, and for the first time all night, he looks almost happy.
"Oh really?"
She nods emphatically.
"I could totally seduce you right now. No problem." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "Well, if I wanted to anyway."
He bites at his lip, and she is pretty sure that he's fighting off a laugh – he isn't taking her seriously in the least, but even in her fuzzy-headed state, she wants to believe that it's just because she's drunk and not because he finds the idea of her being able to bend a man to her will utterly laughable.
"Is that so?" He smiles a little crookedly, and she really wishes that it wasn't quite so sexy. "I didn't realize you were such a femme fatale. Remind me to check your bedpost for notches the next time I visit."
The four or so shots of tequila in the margaritas that she's had so far aren't enough to get her to shrug off her annoyance, and she feels her face get even hotter. She really hopes that the bar's lighting is dim enough to hide the furious blush on her cheeks.
"I'm not saying I could do it with just anyone," she snaps, knowing that she sounds more than a little petulant. "But I could with you. Because I know you that well."
When Jeff laughs again, a deep, rumbly chuckle that she can practically feel vibrate through her own body, she makes the very unsexy and not at all seductive move of flinging a damp cardboard coaster at his chest. He holds up his hands in surrender, still chuckling a little.
"Okay, fine." He turns on his stool so he's facing her dead-on, his eyes surprisingly bright. "Let's see what you've got."
She shakes her head, trying to ignore the wave of dizziness that accompanies the sudden movement.
"Not when I'm drunk. You'd never give in when I'm drunk. Cause you'd think you were taking advantage."
He shifts awkwardly on his stool, sitting up straight and stiff like the conversation has suddenly unsettled him. It's hard to keep track in her foggy head, but she doesn't think that she's said anything that could have offended him – being decent enough to refrain from sleeping with a woman because he can't be sure that she really knows what she's doing certainly isn't an insult – so she doesn't quite understand his reaction. He clears his throat and lifts his shoulders almost wearily.
"Then I guess we'll never know."
She doesn't like the dark, sad look in his eyes – is that what he looked like before he washed down those pills with scotch? Before he asked Britta to marry him? - so she reaches out and pats his arm gently.
"I'll do it another time," she promises. "When you least expect it."
It takes a moment, but he smiles again, even if it might be a little half-hearted, and lays his hand over hers where it's curled around his forearm.
"Yeah? Well, thanks for the warning."
He seems amused by the prospect again, and she thinks that she knows why he is back to being so relaxed about the whole thing when too often he tenses up if the unspoken attraction between them is even referenced in the slightest – he doesn't expect her to remember any of the conversation later or he's chalking her confidence up to liquid courage that won't still be there in the cold light of day. Honestly, that line of thinking makes a lot of sense because she knows that the pocket blood alcohol chart in her wallet would definitely declare her legally impaired at the moment.
But while the steady supply of margaritas may have made it easier to be honest with him, it really isn't responsible for her confidence. Because the truth is, there's always been some part of her that's thought that if she really wanted Jeff Winger and made an effort, she could have him – with the right approach and a little careful planning.
Because she knows all of his weaknesses, especially where she is concerned, and she is pretty sure that she knows how to exploit them too.
She just hasn't always been sure that she was ready to take that leap.
After all, it doesn't take a genius to know that getting involved with Jeff in any capacity, even if it's only terms of sex, is like opening Pandora's box – there is just so much potential for disaster and hurt and drama – and she can't pretend that she isn't downright terrified of the prospect most days.
But then, the past few months - all the way back to Pierce's death and Troy's departure - have delivered a crash course in just how short life is, how fragile and capricious it can be.
They could be trapped in Borchert's lab right now, waiting in vain for rescue.
She could still be joylessly peddling pharmaceuticals like some kind of snake oil salesman.
Greendale could be churning out the future sandwich makers of America instead of television repair people and medical billing specialists.
Jeff could be married to Britta.
Sometimes, a moment has to be seized before it passes completely – and she may not know exactly how to describe whatever it is between she and Jeff, but she is certain that there's real desire arcing between them, even if it's only physical in nature, and she doesn't want look back on her life in five, ten or twenty years and realize that she let an opportunity to experience that kind of passion, even just once, pass her by.
So when she wakes the next morning with a dull headache and total recall of their conversation at the bar, she decides that she wants Jeff to forget all about it just as he expects her to – that way, when she finally makes her move, he won't see it coming at all.
And the surest way to make him forget is simply to wait.
If just the right amount of time passes, he's not likely to remember a silly drunken conversation in a dive bar on a random summer night.
Which is why she bides her time, waiting nearly a month, until the start of the new semester when she is sure that he's distracted enough by his slate of full-time teaching responsibilities and the Rockies' playoff run to read too much into her behavior.
Her plan comes together so easily, without much real thought, that she starts to wonder if she's getting cocky, overestimating her appeal where Jeff is concerned just a bit. But then she reminds herself that the goal is simply seduction, not the impossible task of making him fall in love with her or engage with her on some kind of emotional level, and her nerve comes back in a hurry.
So it's the second week of September when she starts telling everyone about the big date that she has on Friday night.
Well, everyone but Jeff.
Not directly anyway.
Instead, she lets him walk in on the end of a conversation with Shirley about the restaurant, a fancy, little place downtown that she knows that Jeff loves, and an inquisition from Abed about whether she needs the apartment afterward because he and Rachel are planning a "Friday the 13th" marathon, and she angles her phone just so when he's sitting next to her at lunch so he can read a text from Britta about how she shouldn't feel like she has to put out just because some guy buys a her steak but if she does feel like putting out on the first date, she shouldn't let society shame her into feeling bad about it because it's her damn body and she can do whatever the hell that she wants with it.
But if, by some miracle, he's missed all of these little clues, she knows that the news will eventually trickle back to him anyway – gossip is practically a sport at Greendale.
When Friday night rolls around, she curls her hair a bit to give it a messy, tousled look, slips into a little black dress with a deep V neckline and scalloped hem that ends well above her knees, slicks on some dark, berry-colored lipstick, and takes a cab to the restaurant. She sits at the bar and orders a drink, just before pulling out her phone to call Jeff.
She is taking a chance, of course, that he won't have a date himself, but he answers on the second ring so it seems like the risk pays off.
"Aren't you supposed to be on a hot date?" he says instead of a greeting, and the slight sulkiness that she detects in his voice is a boon to her confidence.
"That's the thing. There just wasn't any spark … and when he realized that he had zero chance of getting lucky, he ditched me. And he drove so I'm stranded." She sighs, trying to sound weary. "Would you mind coming to get me? Abed's busy with Rachel and Britta's working so…"
He matches her sigh, sounding as put upon as she would expect – it's the part that he always has to play.
"Fine," he grumbles half-heartedly – and somehow, even though she can't see him, she knows that he's smiling. "Give me twenty minutes."
So she sips at her drink, reads a few emails on her phone, and just when twenty minutes are almost up, she calls the bartender over to order a glass of the scotch that Jeff likes so it'll be waiting for him when he arrives. She is a little surprised by how calm she feels, as if this is the kind of thing that she does every day – which is obviously ridiculous because, truth be told, she's never actually tried to seduce anyone before and she isn't really sure if she could do it with just anyone.
Actually, she'd probably be a disaster with some random guy.
But she can handle Jeff –she is sure of that somehow. Maybe it's because she expects him to figure out what she's up to pretty quickly and then they'll be in on it together. She shifts on her stool, angling herself so he'll get an eyeful of her bare legs and strappy stilettos when he comes in but she isn't actually facing the door directly so she can still pretend that she doesn't see him.
Even if she's sneaking discrete glances at the entrance every minute or so to look for him.
Somehow, though, he manages to sneak up on her anyway, sliding onto the stool beside her with an infuriating grin that nearly throws her off her game. He spots the glass of scotch and cocks his head.
"What's this?"
"It's for you," she says, turning on her stool to face him and nudging the tumbler toward him. "To thank you for coming to my rescue."
He lifts the glass, swirling the scotch around and shooting her another sideways grin. She watches as he takes a sip, studying him from head to toe without bothering to hide it. She doesn't know what he was planning to do tonight, but he is dressed to impress in one of his favorite dark button-downs and he smells clean and crisp, like the ridiculously expensive cologne that he usually saves for special occasions. Maybe he had plans that he dropped as soon as she called or maybe he's all dressed up just for her – either way, she feels a twinge of satisfaction so deep that she's practically squirming on her stool.
"So what happened?" Jeff asks. "With your date?"
She doesn't want to lie any more than necessary – she plans to tell him the entire story later anyway and she knows that he'll understand that it's all part of the game that they started back in that dive bar – so she decides to play it coy.
"I guess I just have really high standards," she says, toying with the straw in her drink. "When it comes to guys."
He takes another sip of his scotch, nodding slowly.
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"There isn't," she agrees. "But there is kind of a problem…" She hesitates for a moment because while this is all part of the grand plan, there is also a grain of truth in it and saying it out loud is vaguely terrifying, particularly when Jeff is looking at her with an expression so soft and serious that she can feel her heart racing. "The problem is that I compare everyone to you. And no one seems to measure up."
For a moment, the entire room seems to go silent and all she can hear is white noise roaring in her ears. Jeff opens his mouth, but if he makes a sound, it's lost on her. But his eyes are bright and his cheeks go kind of red, so she can tell that while he's surprised and maybe even a little uncomfortable, there is something in her admission that pleases him. She manages to tap into some deeply buried reserve of confidence and look him in the eye the entire time without flinching even a little.
"Annie," he chuckles almost nervously. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry?"
"It's not your fault," she practically purrs. She reaches out to slide a hand over his knee, keeping the touch light and teasing. "You can't help how you are."
He shifts forward on his stool, so his knee presses into her thigh and there is barely any space between them. His breathing is a little unsteady and he doesn't seem to know where to look – his gaze darts from her eyes to her mouth to the generous view of her cleavage in her tight dress to her bare legs, and then repeats the path almost against his will. She certainly feels every bit the femme fatale in that moment, like she is the sexiest woman in the room, and she rests her cheek on her palm, offering up her flirtiest smile. Jeff cocks his head, not quite sure how to process her boldness, and then his eyes narrow slightly, like he is puzzling something out, and all of sudden, he is laughing, warm and low in the soft light of the restaurant.
"I get it," he tells her. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to seduce me."
She grins, drumming her fingers against his knee.
"I'm not *trying*," she declares. "Because it's totally working."
He smiles, lifting his shoulders like he can't exactly argue.
"Do I get to know your secrets? What your plan of attack was?"
She stirs the straw through her vodka tonic, watching the lime wedge ricochet against the sides.
"Well, first, because I know jealousy *totally* gets you going, I invented a fake date and carried on and on about how excited I was. And then, I picked this dress because, you know…" She gestures down at herself, feeling only a little self-conscious. "It showcases my assets."
His eyes rake over her once again.
"I'll say," he mumbles under his breath.
"The most important part, though, was appealing to your massive ego," she continues. "So I tell you that no guy can compete with you so you've essentially ruined me for all other men." She juts her chin toward his glass. "And finally, I threw in your favorite scotch just in case you needed a little extra convincing."
He is still smiling, looking charmed by the whole thing. His hand falls over hers on his knee, his thumb stroking against her skin so softly that it doesn't seem like he knows that he's doing it.
"I'm that easy, huh?"
She rolls her eyes playfully.
"It's been like six years, Jeff. I don't think you're going to get a reputation after this." She inches her hand further along his thigh, her fingertips temptingly close to his inseam, and leans in so she can lower her voice. "But I'm still going to brag about it for a while. Just so you know."
The corner of his mouth lifts again in an almost smile as he watches her hand move over his dark jeans.
"Okay," he practically whispers. "Fine. You win. Cosmo's editors have got nothing on you."
She grins, and the adrenaline rushing through her system leaves her a little lightheaded. She genuinely expected her seduction to work, but now that it actually has, she feels giddy – because in less than a half hour, they could be in his bed, tangled up in the sheets and each other. Just this once, she is even willing to overlook his speeding on the way back to his place.
Before she can suggest that they leave, though, his fingers curl around her hand, halting any progress that she might be thinking about.
"But we can't do this," he whispers. "Not like this."
She's not really sure what he's worried about – their friends knowing, the age difference again, some other stupid detail– but it doesn't really matter. He is ripe for picking; he just needs a little more persuasion. She shifts forward even further, so she's practically sharing a stool with him, and rests a hand on his shoulder to tug him even closer (For a fleeting minute, she wonders if they're making a scene in this very nice, very respectable restaurant, but they've taken years to get to this moment so she's willing to cut them some slack. Besides, she knows that they'll leave way before things get too unfit for public consumption.) Her lips wind up right against his ear, and she knows that it's not her imagination when she feels him shiver against her.
"Come on, Jeff," she murmurs. "No one even has to know. It can be our little secret."
The heat of his breath against her neck as he exhales raggedly is enough to get her trembling too, but then his hand is at her waist, pulling her toward him almost like it's an involuntarily reflex, like his need to touch her is so great that he can't help himself, and she isn't always the most confident woman in the world so knowing that she has that kind of power over him is such a turn-on that she's starting to think that she's done a pretty good job of seducing herself too.
Jeff's lips brush against her throat then and she closes her eyes, ready to melt right into him – until she feels him shake his head and pull back just a bit.
"No," he says. "It's not that… I just don't think…"
She frowns because honestly, she is more confused than anything else. He wants her - she is as certain about that as she is that her episodes of 'Once Upon a Time' didn't disappear from the DVR due to some technical glitch but because Abed purposely deleted them to make room for the 156 shows that he watches; she just doesn't have concrete evidence of the latter – and she isn't 18 anymore so there isn't a single good reason to hold back.
Unless, of course, he still sees her as a kid after all this time (which seems kind of ridiculous considering the reaction that he's had to her tonight). Or maybe she's misread things and he is more broken up about things not working out with Britta than he's let on.
More likely, though, he's probably convinced that the moment after he sleeps with her, she'll be picking out china patterns and painting his bathroom pink.
He should give her more credit than that, even if she can kind of understand why he might have concerns.
"Quit worrying, Jeff," she says, as breezily as she can manage. "I'm not expecting some happily-ever-after with hearts and flowers or anything."
He huffs out a weak laugh, rubbing his thumb against her knuckles even as he avoids her eyes.
"Maybe I am."
She cocks her head, squinting in confusion, because while she knows that she heard each and every word that he said, they don't make any sense given what she knows of him.
"I don't understand."
He reaches for his scotch, draining the rest of it in one slow, deep sip. He taps the heavy edge of the empty glass against the bar and the sound seems to echo, even above the music from the piano player and the din of conversation all around them.
"Remember that impassioned speech you gave back in Borchert's lab a few months back?" he asks. "About how we should let each other want the things that we want?"
She nods numbly, as if on auto-pilot. She can feel her stomach roiling and wonders if she is still that stupid, little girl who misinterpreted everything, who read into every tiny interaction between them like they were characters in some stupid melodrama.
"Jeff, I…" She hesitates, sliding her hand out from under his. Her palm feels sweaty, but she resists the urge to wipe it against her dress. "Is this about Britta?"
"No," he sighs, sounding annoyed. "This has nothing to do with Britta. But it's just ... this is kind of hard for me, so …"
She nods again and forces herself to look him in the eye - she has no idea what he is about to say, but she knows that it's important.
"I've wanted you for longer than I would ever admit to myself," he says. "Or to you. And I knew how you felt about me, no matter how much I tried to tell myself it was just some stupid crush that you'd grow out of. Because when we were stuck in that basement and it really mattered, it wasn't about wanting to sleep with you or you writing my name in a heart inside your locker. It was more than that."
The prickly, burning sensation in her chest makes her painfully aware of each breath that she takes, how shallow and fast they seem. She thinks of all the ways that she imagined this evening would end, and she is certain that nothing like this ever entered her mind.
"Because it was you, Annie." He shrugs, like it's honestly that simple. "Thinking about you made me feel enough to get us out of there."
Maybe there is something a little sheepish in his expression, but it's entirely earnest, open and vulnerable too. Her vision goes a little blurry, so she is pretty sure that there are tears in her eyes. Once again, the entire room seems to have gone silent, and the only thing that she can hear is her own heart, pounding inside her ears like a drumbeat.
She thinks back to that moment in the lab months ago, how he made everyone turn around and how evasive he was later about what he'd done to get the power back up. She honestly hasn't given it too much thought since because she figured that as shallow and self-absorbed as he can be, the passionate feeling had something to do with himself, like admiration for his perfectly sculpted abs or the strong line of his jaw.
And even if she had ever entertained the notion that it might be something outside of himself that had inspired such emotion, she doesn't think that she'd ever, even for a hopeful second, contemplate the idea that it had anything to do with her.
She is stunned, maybe even speechless.
"I don't know what to say," she admits, and her voice sounds breathless and weak even to her own ears.
Jeff smiles, and there's something almost self-deprecating about it.
"That makes two of us."
It could be nerves or confusion or awe or happiness or just the simple fact that she has no idea how to react, but she finds herself laughing then, and after a moment, Jeff is too, and she thinks that maybe this is what love is supposed to feel like – unexpected and thrilling and silly and bewildering. She nudges his foot with the tip of her shoe.
"Looks like you didn't need that article either," she says. "Because honesty and sincerity are the fastest ways to seduce me."
He shrugs, grinning.
"Dumb luck. Because you know those aren't two things I'm usually known for."
She looks at his hand, resting just beside hers on the bar top, and she wants to touch him, but somehow, she doesn't know how to right now. It's ridiculous because she was ready to sleep with him tonight, without any sort of real conversation about their feelings, and now that he's made it clear that he knows there's something real between them, she finds herself hesitant.
It doesn't make any sense.
But she manages to slide her hand over a couple of inches and curls her pinky over his, the barest of touches. Jeff doesn't move at all.
"So what do we do now?" she asks, low and tentative.
He smiles, all soft eyes and stubble.
"Well, I think you should finish your drink," he says. "Then I'll take you home like I came here to do. And then you prepare yourself… because when you least expect it, *I'm* going to seduce *you.*"
She looks up at him in surprise, and there is nothing tentative, cautious, or unsure in his expression any longer – he looks as smug and cocky as ever, his default mode. She wants to protest, wants to seize their moment right this very second, but he seems to have his mind made up, so the night ends just as he laid out – he throws some money on the bar to cover their drinks and he drives her home, parking in front of the building so he can walk her all the way upstairs. Abed and Rachel are in front of the TV when they come in, and Abed pauses the movie, eying Jeff and Annie suspiciously.
"I thought you were on a date," he says to her.
"It didn't really work out," she fibs, sneaking a glance at Jeff, who couldn't look more amused if he tried. "And I didn't want to disturb your marathon, so Jeff came and got me."
Abed cocks his head, studying Jeff next.
"It's Friday night. Didn't you have anything better to do?"
Jeff just shrugs and says good night before Abed can ask any more questions. Annie follows him to the door, smiling as she stares at him across the threshold.
"I still won, you know," she says, keeping her voice low so Abed won't overhear. "Because you were totally seduced."
Jeff grins, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb.
"I didn't know it was a contest. But if that's how you want to play it, you just wait untilI get my turn."
He starts toward the stairs, but stops and glances back at her over his shoulder.
"When you least expect it," he reminds her, and she can feel herself blush at the husky promise in his voice.
The flaw in his plan, of course, is that she is always expecting it.
There is a tingling sense of awareness, anticipation, every time that they're in the same room now, and even if he manages to wait six months, an entire year, she is still going to be expecting it.
At lunch, they wind up sitting next to one another in the cafeteria, their hands just inches apart on the sticky table top, and she is just waiting for his fingertips to trace over her skin. When he walks her to her car one night because they've all stayed too late helping the Dean with his latest crisis, she is certain that Jeff is going to kiss her under the ashy yellow lights of the parking lot, but he just smiles and waits for her to buckle her seat belt before walking away. At Britta's birthday dinner, they end up alone in the restaurant's coatroom at the end of the evening and she has visions of him throwing her down in a pile of leather jackets, cashmere shawls, and tweed blazers and mapping his way across her body with his lips and teeth and tongue, but he only holds her coat out for her so she can slip her arms inside and be on her way.
So when it's only been a little over a month since the night of her semi-successful seduction and his promise, she has to admit to herself that he is driving her completely insane. She has already had her 'life is too short' epiphany, so waiting any longer to do what they both want to just seems wasteful – and stupid. When she gets home on a Friday night at the end of a particularly long, frustrating week, she decides that she is just going to tell Jeff that she doesn't need some carefully orchestrated seduction the next time she sees him.
She just wants him, sooner rather than later.
Her phone rings then, and it's almost as if he's read her mind because Jeff is on the other end of the line– but she doesn't get a chance to tell him anything because he catches her completely off-guard, sounding as frantic as he ever gets.
"You're going to want to lecture me," he says. "But just try to resist the urge for a minute, okay? Because the thing is, I'm supposed to turn in the syllabus… wait, is the plural syllabuses or syllabi? I don't know. Either way, I've got to turn one in for each of the three classes I'm teaching next semester to the Dean by Monday and I'm having a little trouble finishing up…"
Annie sighs – she really should have seen this coming. She heard the Dean talking to him about lesson plans for next semester just last week, and she could tell from the blank look on Jeff's face that he hadn't given them so much as a passing thought.
"How far have you gotten?" she asks.
"Well, technically I haven't started them yet. And yeah, fine… I've known about this since the first day of the semester, but that's not the point, Annie. The point is that I've got lots of great ideas in my head… I just have trouble doing the actual work of translating them into anything remotely usable."
"And?" she sighs, because she knows where this is headed.
"*And* I just thought that because you like planning and organizing so much and you're such a good friend, you might want to come over and help me out." He pauses, dropping his voice down an octave to that wheedling, charm-laced tone he always uses when he's trying to get something out of someone. "I bet we can bang them out in like an hour, two tops… and I'll even buy you a pizza for your trouble."
"A pizza?" she repeats. "Wow, you're really pulling out the big guns… there better at least be pepperoni on my half."
He groans.
"You know what happens if we do that, Annie - the grease from the pepperoni transfers over to my half. And it's bad enough I'm eating pizza in the first place… you know, carbs and all… but I don't need the added fat. How about peppers instead? You like green peppers, right?"
He is unbelievable – not even willing to concede on something as silly as dinner when he's the one asking her for a favor - but she drives over to his apartment anyway, not caring about pizza toppings. Her messenger bag is practically bursting at the seams with all of the law books and journals in her possession too because she knows that she can't trust Jeff to have any sort of resources on hand. She hopes that he legitimately has at least some vague ideas in mind because she refuses to do all of the work for him.
When he opens the door with a sly grin, she figures that it's just another attempt to charm her into bailing him out. She does absently note that he's changed out of the charcoal colored sweater he was wearing earlier into a cobalt blue button-down that she's always liked, but he changes all the time so it probably doesn't really mean anything.
"Okay," she says, pushing past him. "We need to set some ground rules. Because I'm not about to do all your work for you. You probably don't even…"
She trails off when she spots a stack of books and laptop on his coffee table all ready to go.
"You're surprised," he announces gleefully.
"That you actually own law books? And a computer?" She nods. "Yeah, I guess I am."
He guides her over to the sofa so she can sit in front of the laptop.
"But that's not all," he says, settling on the couch beside her.
He taps a few keys on the computer, opening several Word documents, and then pushes it her way. She skims over the first, feeling vaguely confused, and her confusion only deepens when she does the same with the other two files.
"I don't understand," she says. "These are syllabuses, all done. Why did you ask me over here if you didn't really need my help?"
He is still smiling that self-satisfied, sexy smile of his as he stands and holds his hand out to help to her feet. She tamps down the feeling that she is the punch line of some joke that he won't let her in on because she doesn't really believe that he's really trying to make fun of her. But as he walks her to what she knows is his bedroom door, his grin becomes so infuriating that she stops short just before he open it.
"Jeff, I really don't—"
"You're not expecting it all, are you?"
He sounds seriously impressed with himself, and she tilts her head, squinting a bit as she studies his face for clues to what he's up to. She recognizes something in his eyes from that night in her doorway as he said goodbye after she pulled off her (mostly) successful seduction, and the picture finally comes into focus.
"You're seducing me," she says, wondering if she sounds as surprised as she feels.
He cocks his head back and forth.
"Trying to, anyway."
She nods.
"So you call me over here…"
"With exactly the kind of project you love to tackle," he says. "And I wear your favorite shirt and then I get you all hot and bothered by showing you that not only am I capable of taking something seriously, I can do it all by myself. Without you standing over my shoulder to crack the whip."
She grins, nodding slowly.
"That is pretty sexy," she agrees.
"And now," he says, his hand closing around the door knob. "You can say all you want that you're not expecting hearts and flowers, but I know you. You like all that crap."
In the bedroom, she is faced with a quintessential seduction scene – the lights are off so the only light in the room is the soft glow from the four or five candles that are scattered about, and a single red rose lies across the nearest pillow. She can't be certain, but she thinks that the dark sheets on the bed might be silk or satin too.
"I'm sorry," he says, though he sounds anything but. "But I couldn't do the whole rose petals on the bed thing. That's just way too cheesy, Annie. And I have my limits."
She laughs, mainly because she is nervous all of a sudden – the reality of what is about to happen hitting her in a big way - and she doesn't know what else to do. She is willing to bet whatever modest amount is in her savings account that he's never put nearly as much effort into getting a woman in bed before so it's hard not to give him an "A" for effort.
"But if it helps," he continues, stepping in close so she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. "I've got champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries in the fridge."
She smiles, trying not to feel too shy.
"Well, that does it then. I'm officially seduced."
His hands slide around her waist, tugging her against him until she is pressed up against his body, and he feels better than she's ever imagined, than she ever remembers. His eyes go all dark and heavy, and every inch of her skin goes up in flames as they trace over her.
She is pretty sure that she has never felt quite like this before.
"Not yet," he half whispers, half growls, but really, he has to know that it's a mere technicality at this point.
She expects him to kiss her hard and fast, all greedy and impatient – because they've both been waiting too damn long – but his mouth finds hers so slowly that it almost feels as if time has halted to a crawl. He kisses her more gently than she ever would have imagined, with his fingers sliding carefully along her jaw and his heart beating steadily against her chest, but there is no hesitance or uncertainty behind it. It's almost like he is trying to prolong the moment, savor it for as long as he can – but then she makes a soft, sighing sound against his mouth and it seems to ignite some spark because he bites at her lower lip and tangle his hands in her hair, and she grabs at his belt beneath the hem of his shirt and licks into his mouth, desperate for a taste of him. It's as if they're both pulled along by something as strong as an undertow and they're frantically grabbing at one another's clothes, bumping against the bedroom door.
She is breathless and a little dizzy when he finally moves his mouth to her neck, which is probably why she doesn't realize that he's bending to hook one arm around her back and another under knees to literally sweep her off her feet so she's off the ground and in his arms like the swooning heroine in those romance novels that she used to steal from her grandmother's bookshelf when she was a kid.
"This is part of it, isn't it?" he says, and he's a little out of breath too but he still manages a smirk. "The hearts and flowers crap?"
She lifts a shoulder almost absently, because she honestly doesn't care about any of the specifics anymore, and cups a hand around his cheek to pull him in for another kiss. Somehow, he manages to carry her blindly to the bed, and it turns out that sheets beneath them are indeed silk. She looks up at Jeff with a raised brow as she runs her fingers against the cool, smooth fabric.
"You don't even want to know how much I paid for them," he says, his hand easing beneath her sweater and inching up her stomach toward the edge of her bra. She is annoyed with him momentarily when she remembers that she's wearing an aqua and white polka dotted bra and underwear set, which, although plenty cute, isn't anywhere near as sexy as the sheer black lace that she wore beneath her little black dress during her seduction – he's caught her so off-guard that she didn't get to wear her prettiest lingerie.
But she pushes him back so she can sit up and pull off her sweater anyway, because it isn't like she's going to be wearing anything for much longer. She manages to kick off her jeans too and then she helps Jeff out of his clothes until there is nothing but warm, bare skin between them.
Just before the seduction is no longer technical or unofficial, she tilts his head back so she can meet his eyes. She can feel him between her legs, rubbing so slowly and firmly against her that she thinks that she might actually be able to come this way, but she manages to focus for a second.
"Just for the record," she whispers. "You didn't need to do all of this."
He smirks just a bit, but his rhythm doesn't falter.
"Now you tell me," he teases.
But she isn't having any of it.
"All you've ever had to do is be honest," she says. "Just tell me that you wanted me."
He stills his hips, and his expression becomes strangely serious.
"Then let's be very clear," he says. "I want you so much that most days it's impossible to think of anything else."
She moans, but she can't be sure that it's all due to his words because he slides inside her almost at the same time, and everything else seems to fade off into the ether.
Afterward, she is able to talk Jeff into eating the strawberries in bed, possible chocolate stains on his new, ridiculously expensive sheets be damned. She also convinces him that they can drink the champagne straight from the bottle because the seducing is long over and there is no one to impress any more. He lies opposite her, stretched out across the foot of the bed with the sheet slung low across his hips and a plump strawberry at his lips, and she thinks that maybe he's not quite done after all.
"What are we going to tell everyone?" she asks, playing with the remaining foil wrapper on the neck of the champagne bottle.
Jeff cocks his head, thinking it over.
"We definitely can't tell them I seduced you. Shirley'll kill me. Or drag me to church. And I'm really not sure which is worse."
She runs her toes along his bare thigh and smiles.
"I'll protect you," she says. "But that's not the truth anyway. Because I'm the one who seduced you."
He laughs, pushing himself up on an elbow.
"Excuse me? I'm the one who invited you over and bought strawberries and champagne and silk sheets … and a damn long-stemmed rose like a fucking tool."
She nods in agreement and sets the champagne on the nightstand, clutching her end of the sheet to her chest as she crawls toward him at the foot of the bed.
"Yes, but see, if I hadn't seduced you a few weeks back, you never would have told me how you felt. Because let's face it, Jeff - it'd been like four months since the whole thing in Borchert's lab and you still hadn't said a word. You were scared and needed a push. So clearly, my seduction led to all of this."
She waves her hand over the room almost imperiously.
"That's kind of a stretch," he says. "Don't you think?"
"Not in the least." She straddles his hips on her knees and pins his hands to the mattress on either side of his head, the sheet that's tangled around her falling to her waist. She doesn't miss the way his eyes fall to her breasts. "And it's already working again…"
She leans in to kiss him, but before she makes contact, he uses his considerable strength and size advantage to flip them, reversing their positions so she is pinned under him. She makes a mental note never to admit to him how thrilling it is to look up at him from this angle – every relationship needs a little mystery and his ego doesn't need any more feeding.
"Can't we just call it a draw?" he asks.
"So we tell them we seduced each other?"
She can tell that he's grinning as he swipes his tongue along the curve of her breast.
"How many details do they really need? I'm thinking the less said, the better." He reaches between them to wrench away the sheets, so they're pressed skin to skin once again. "For the record, though, yeah. That's exactly what happened."