Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives is not mine in any way, shape or form. I swear I'm just doing this because random ideas pop into my head and won't get out.

Story Summary: Five first times that didn't happen, and one that did. Tom/Lynette. Pre-series.

A/n: One image in this fic came into my head on Sunday and spun out of control, so here we are. I'm not sure that all six parts of this fic will be this long, but we'll see. Rated M for a reason. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

Hook Up

A story by Ryeloza

One: Drunk(ish)

"Hey. Sorry I'm late," said Tom breathlessly. His eyes swept over the table as he pulled out the chair next to Lynette and sat down, taking in each of the six empty seats before settling on her. She was running her finger around the rim of her wine glass with a rather bored expression on her face. "Er, am I late?"

"Yes, but it doesn't matter. They're not coming."

"What?"

"They're not coming. Apparently they're going in another direction."

Tom frowned, beginning to comprehend what she was saying with an edge of incredulity. "We flew two thousand miles," he pointed out, as though this could possibly make a difference now.

"I know."

"And they couldn't even come tell us this in person?"

"They left a message with the maître d'." She flashed him a somewhat self-loathing smile that he had trouble returning, but she seemed to take this with a grain of salt. With a slight raise of her glass, she silently toasted their failure and downed the rest of the drink, and Tom raised his hand to attract the attention of their waiter. This abysmal ending seemed almost poetic considering what a horrid business trip this had been—a flight delayed four hours; a pathetically dingy hotel room; and their near-constant bickering over every aspect of this presentation. Now they weren't even going to make the pitch. To Tom, there seemed only one thing left to do.

"Yes?" The waiter Tom had flagged down was looking at him with every vestige of snootiness—like he knew they were staying at that crappy motel across town and didn't really belong here. Tom supposed he was the one giving off the vibe; Lynette looked like she'd walked right out of the pages of a magazine. Ignoring the attitude, Tom smiled pleasantly and said, "We'd like some alcohol."

"Tom." Lynette said his name like a warning, her eyes sliding over him like fire. He found it much harder to disregard her than the waiter, though he managed to keep the fake smile plastered on his face.

"What? We've had a shitty day, and the company is footing the bill."

She stared at him for a second—he couldn't quite tell if she was going to lambast him for the breech of ethics or walk out—and then to his surprise, she turned to the waiter and said, "Scotch. Just bring the bottle."

The waiter gave a beleaguered sigh (not that Tom could blame him; his night with them was bound to only get worse), and stalked off, leaving Tom to ogle Lynette. He was impressed, more so than he wanted to admit. He'd had her pegged as a stickler for the rules, though he wasn't entirely sure what had given him that impression in the first place. Maybe because she usually looked so straight-laced.

Usually. Tonight seemed to be the exception.

"Stop staring," she ordered firmly, but Tom hardly felt embarrassed to be caught, nor did she really seem to mind. At least, she only looked mildly annoyed, which was a step up from how she generally looked at him.

"Sorry. I was just thinking you look different tonight."

"I showered."

Tom grinned, more at the slight flush in her cheeks than her deadpan. She looked unnerved. He liked that. Mostly because she didn't seem like she was unnerved very often. "Seriously," he said, "the dress…the hair…It's…"

Lynette turned to face him, some serious, warning look on her face, and his stomach did a back flip, the word "sexy" dying on his lips. Suddenly, the flippancy seemed wrong—no matter if it was true.

"…pretty," he finished lamely. It didn't begin to cover how drop dead gorgeous she looked tonight with her hair pulled back in some elaborate knot and her red dress hugging her in all the right places and him being able to see skin that he'd only imagined before (not that he was imagining her—ever). Anxiously, he rubbed his palms against his pants, glad that the tablecloth hid the movement.

"Thanks," said Lynette, and this time the slight laughter in her voice made him redden. She knew, he thought, that he'd chickened out at the last second.

With impeccable timing (boy was Tom going to give him a big tip), the disdainful waiter chose that moment to return with their alcohol, thumping the bottle down right between their glasses. Still smirking, Lynette immediately reached for the bottle and began to pour each of them a drink, and Tom was able to breathe a sigh of relief. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No."

"Of course," agreed the waiter, and Tom wondered how much of an effort it was for him not to roll his eyes. "Enjoy."

"Jackass," muttered Lynette, throwing back her first drink in one swift movement. Her face scrunched up as she swallowed, her nose contracting in a way Tom thought could be considered cute (if he was allowed to have such thoughts, which he wasn't). Annoyed with himself, he followed her lead, letting the burning of the alcohol momentarily distract him. The second he set his glass down, Lynette promptly refilled it, and though she did a second shot without blinking, he simply stared at the amber liquid.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Oh God," she said, stamping her glass down and propping her elbow up on the table. "Are you one of those maudlin drunks?"

"I'm not drunk." He furrowed his brow, suddenly wondering how many glasses of wine she'd had before he'd arrived. "Are you drunk?"

"Soon. What did you want to ask?"

Tom watched her take a third shot, and he had the sudden, wicked thought that there was a good chance she was about to become very chatty. Someone as outspoken as she was, was bound to be a talkative drunk. On a scale of one to ten, he wondered how evil it was to take advantage of that.

"Hell-ooo," she said, waving a hand in front of his face. Tom pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, and decided he didn't really care if he was going to go to hell or not.

"Did you let me oversleep for this dinner on purpose?"

Lynette snorted, pouring herself a shakier drink that sloshed onto the tablecloth; Tom could already imagine the waiter's face when he saw. "You overslept?"

"I told you that I was going to take a nap."

"Yeah…" Lynette shrugged, and then began to giggle uncontrollably. Somehow this didn't stop her from having her fourth drink. Tom shook his head, amused in spite of himself. "I'll take that as a yes," he said.

"Yes-ish. Ish. Ish. Ish."

"Lynette!"

"I was a little, tiny, kind of bit mad at you, so I just came over here without you. But I didn't know you'd be late. So ish. Ish." She continued to repeat this as she tried to pour herself a fifth drink, but when more of the drink ended up on the table than in her glass, she abandoned the effort and stole his untouched drink instead.

"Why were you mad at me?"

"Because you were on the phone with you girlfriend."

"So?"

"So!" She leaned toward him, clutching his forearm and then staring down at her hands like she was surprised she was touching him. "I—We—You were supposed to be working with me. Working. I don't know." With a slight shake of her head, she reached out for the bottle again, but Tom preempted her by grabbing her hand. To his surprise, she turned her hand in his, entwining their fingers and squeezing.

"You're very drunk."

"Mm-hmm," she agreed, the sound coming out like a low hum from the back of her throat. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Oh!" she suddenly gasped, pulling her hand out of his and bouncing a little in her seat. Tom rubbed his now lonely hand over his neck, trying to erase any trace of excitement he'd felt; Lynette remained blissfully ignorant. "You know what I want to do?"

"What?"

"Get a hotel room."

Tom swallowed hard, thinking that she couldn't mean what he thought she meant because they didn't even get along that well and they were on a business trip and he had a girlfriend and they both knew it. Throat dry, he managed to gasp, "What?"

"This place is like a five star hotel. I want to go get a room."

"Ooh," said Tom, relief and disappointment both twisting in his gut. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea—"

"That motel sucks. It sucks," she shouted. From nearby, their waiter glared at them, and laughing, Tom shushed her. "Seriously, Tom, let's do it."

"Do you know how much a room here probably costs?"

"Yeah, but we have the magic card." Unclasping her purse, she dug inside and pulled out the corporate credit card they'd been given to schmooze the clients. "Let's do it."

"Please stop saying that."

Lynette giggled, and he hoped she was too drunk to get the double entendre. "Come on."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Tom as Lynette stood, swayed a little and promptly sat back down. "We have to pay for your drinks first, drunky."

"You pay," she said, shoving the credit card in his hand and standing up more slowly. "I am going to go…"

"Go where? Lynette?"

She didn't respond, simply staggering toward in the general direction of the hotel lobby. Tom cursed under his breath, pulled out his own wallet and threw down several bills on the table. Then he stood and hurried after Lynette. Their waiter scowled, though Tom could only imagine that he was secretly pleased with their classless exit. They were definitely living up to his expectations.

He caught up with Lynette just as she made it to the reception area of the lobby; she leaned heavily against the counter, practically invading the personal space of the employee manning the desk. Sheepishly, Tom stepped up next to her and gently wrapped an arm around her to pull her back. The skin of her shoulder was warm and soft beneath his hand, and he found it impossible to find the willpower to release her. The man behind the counter glanced at them, amused. "Can I help you?"

"We need a room," said Lynette.

"No—"

"Not him. Me. Me is we."

"Sir?"

"Um, excuse me," snapped Lynette, and Tom tightened his hold on her to keep her from leaping over the counter and decking the other man. He didn't doubt she could do it, even when this intoxicated. "I am right here, and I am the one ordering this room. Tom, give him the card."

"Lynette—"

Her hand drifted down to his pocket, slipping inside and groping around, and Tom jumped nearly a mile in the air. Without thinking, he handed over the card. "One room," he said.

"Smoking or non-smoking?"

"Look," said Tom, desperately trying to ignore the fact that Lynette's hand was still in his pocket, touching him somewhere she absolutely shouldn't have been, "I need to get her to bed, so just get us the cheapest room you have."

"Mmm," giggled Lynette mischievously. "Did you hear that? He's taking me to bed."

"No. I'm not. We're not."

Lynette grinned and finally pulled away from him, stepping away from the desk and throwing her head back to look at the ceiling. She was humming something under her breath, her hands working to unpin her hair. Tom was painfully aware that he was staring at her again, and as her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, he had to grip the counter to keep from reaching out to run his hands through her locks. He never should have ordered that alcohol, he realized now, though he'd had no way of predicting that she'd be so…

Well, to be honest, so damn fucking sexy.

It wasn't like he hadn't noticed how beautiful she was; that had been obvious since the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. But at work she was all business—suits and serious faces and dead focused; it was a lot easier to ignore her looks in that kind of atmosphere. When she was drunk and uninhibited and practically groping him, it was a lot harder to overlook the obvious.

"Your key, sir?"

Tom turned and flushed at the bemused look on the concierge's face; he had a feeling his thoughts were incredibly transparent. "Thanks," he muttered, taking the key and turning away. "Lynette, let's go."

Refusing to touch her, Tom kept a safe distance between them as they headed for the elevator. This was it, almost over. He was going to take her upstairs, make sure she got into her room, and then head back to the motel. That was it.

"I'm going to have to sleep naked."

Tom shut his eyes and swore under his breath.

"Seriously," she said. He opened his eyes and to his dismay, found that she was practically on top of him. "I don't have my pajamas here."

"That's okay."

"Do you think they have one of those hotel bathrobes?"

"I'm sure they do."

"Hmm." She stepped away from him, leaning back against the wall of the elevator and shutting her eyes. Against his better judgment, Tom gazed at her, taking in her appearance from head to toe: the slight curl of her hair, her flushed cheeks, the long, smooth stretch of her neck, the plunging neckline of her dress that drew his eyes right to her breasts. His eyes got caught there as though magnetized. He wondered if she was wearing a bra.

"You're staring again."

Tom drew his eyes upward and met hers. She didn't seem at all upset by his gawking; if anything, she seemed pleased. "Yeah," he admitted hoarsely. "Your dress is…really nice."

"You weren't staring at my dress."

Before Tom could respond, the elevator doors opened to a sprawling, decadent, deserted hallway. Smirking, Lynette walked out without looking at him, and he recklessly appreciated the new view for a moment before following her. The room wasn't far from the elevator, and when they got there, Tom fumbled with the key card. Lynette was standing way too close to him; close enough that he could feel her chest against his back. It took him three tries to get the door unlocked.

"Okay," he said, opening the door and standing aside so she could go in. This was it. He was going to say goodnight and leave. Lynette took a step forward, but then turned so they were face-to-face in the doorway. Slowly, she reached out and ran her hand down over his tie.

"You want to come in?"

"I…shouldn't."

"You shouldn't go back to that crappy motel. There's probably mold in the walls."

"You think?"

"Yes." She stretched out her arm and flicked on the light, illuminating the spacious room. Simultaneously, they glanced inside. "That is a really big bed."

"You don't have pajamas."

"You said that wasn't a problem."

Lynette went into the room then, leaving him to stare after her as she walked over to the dresser, turned, and jumped up onto it. Fairly certain that his brain had taken a leave of absence, Tom stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

"How drunk are you?"

"Drunk enough."

Tom sighed, coming toward her and standing just out of her arm's reach. "What does that mean?"

Smiling naughtily, Lynette reached up to undo the knot holding up her dress, letting the top fall open and exposing her breasts. She was wearing a bra—strapless, red, and lacy—and Tom's mouth went dry. "You wanted a better view," she purred quietly. "Right?"

"We shouldn't be doing this."

"Why not?"

"Because you're drunk. And I'm not sure you know what you're doing."

Lynette crooked a finger at him, beckoning him forward, but Tom bit his lip hesitantly. She smiled. "Don't worry. You don't have to touch me."

Sighing, Tom stepped forward until he was standing between her open legs, resisting every urge in his body to touch her. "I'm going to tell you a secret," she said. She glanced around the room surreptitiously, as though someone else might be listening, and then whispered, "I am a control freak."

"Yeah. I kind of picked up on that."

"Really?" She looked at him with genuine surprise, though he couldn't imagine that anyone didn't realize that about her within minutes of meeting her. "Well then you know," she said. "So you don't have to worry."

"Why?"

"Because I know how to take care of myself. And I don't do anything I don't want to do."

"Lynette—"

"And I have wanted to do this for quite awhile."

Tom's eyes widened, astonished by this revelation. There had always been a tension between them, but he'd never imagined that all the bickering and snarky comments had had any deeper meaning—at least for her. The fact that he'd wanted to touch like this since the first time he saw her was unsurprising to either of them.

Oblivious to—or maybe in spite of—his internal debate, Lynette took his hand, holding it up against hers so they were palm to palm, finger to finger. "Your hands are so big," she said, a deep, lustful quality to her voice. "I want you to touch me with them."

Slowly, she scooted forward, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He was breathing rapidly now, aching to touch her. "You're sure?" he whispered.

"God, you think too much."

Lynette tugged him toward her, her lips meeting his and sending a shiver straight down his back. Finally, he let his hands roam, one running up and down the soft skin of her bare back, the other settling on her breast. She gave the tiniest moan, the backs of her heels digging into his thighs so he was forced to come even closer to her. He was so hard already that he straining against his pants, and judging by the way she squirmed against him, she was entirely aware.

"Did you plan this?" he mumbled against her mouth. His hand drifted up to tangle in her hair, tugging her head back slightly so he could look her in the eyes.

"No. But I might have been hoping. I didn't put this bra on for me."

Tom groaned and kissed her again, their teeth clicking together before she opened her mouth and he pushed his tongue inside. He could taste the alcohol on her breath; mixed with the intoxicating smell of her perfume, he practically felt drunk himself. Eagerly, he found the clasp of her bra, struggling to unhook it. At the same time, she was having much greater success with undoing the buttons of his shirt, and he nearly lost it when her hands met his skin. Nimble fingers ran over his pecs, down to his abs, and then around to his back to pull him toward her. Finally, he unhooked her bra, pulling it off and flinging it across the room.

Aching to put his mouth on her breasts, Tom began to kiss a path down her neck, only to be sidetracked when his lips touched a particularly sensitive spot. She dug her nails into his back and moaned, and Tom grinned against her neck. Slowly, he kissed her again there, soft and open-mouthed, repeating the motion again and again. Lynette stretched her neck, giving him more access, and her breathing grew heavier. "You like that," he mumbled into her skin.

"Yes. Yes, right there."

Tom pressed one last kiss against her and then moved down to her breasts, cupping them with his hands and then tugging one nipple into his mouth. There was a sheen of sweat on her skin now, and he reveled in the contrast of the salty taste of her with how supple she felt. After a moment, she shifted, using her hands to support herself as she arched her back—the movement pressed their lower bodies even more closely together, and Tom put his hands on her ass, squeezing and kneading her through the soft fabric of her dress.

"Are you wet?" he asked, flicking his tongue over her nipple and then biting her. "I want to feel you soaking wet and ready for me."

"I've been ready for an hour."

Tom chuckled, and the sound momentarily broke the tension between them, Lynette also letting out a shaky laugh. Gently, he kissed her right between her breasts, moving his hands to her thighs and skirting under her dress. She unhooked her legs from his waist; losing that tautness was unbearable, but he quickly pulled off her panties, throwing them aside and then dropping to his knees in front of her. He nudged her legs apart, and, getting the hint, she spread them even further, and then disappeared under the skirt of her dress.

He touched her slowly—she was soaking, her lips slippery as he parted them with his fingers. He nudged her clit with his nose, overwhelmed by the sweet, sexy scent of her, and then licked her firmly. Her thighs tightened around him and he pressed them apart again impatiently, continuing to run his tongue over her center. She was making a strangled, mewling sound, gasping and panting, and Tom increased his speed, ready to push her over the edge. Eagerly, he slipped one finger inside of her, thrusting it up, crooking it. She was so hot and tight and amazing, and he suddenly, desperately wanted his cock inside of her.

"Oh God. Right there. Please, please don't stop!"

He lightly bit down on her clit, and she shrieked, tightening against his finger, thighs closing in on him, her whole body trembling against him. He kissed and licked her as she came, prolonging her orgasm until she stilled, and then he stood up again to face her. She immediately pulled him toward her, kissing him hard as her hands struggled to open his pants. Barely able to hold on another moment, he brushed her hands away and did it himself, pushing his pants and boxers to the floor and stepping out of them.

She blew out a low breath at the sight of him, and then reached for her purse as Tom started to kiss her neck and chest again. His hands pushed her skirt up, pooling it around her waist, and he tugged her forward to the edge of the dresser. "Condom," she breathed, putting a hand on his chest and gently pushing him back. For a wild moment, Tom panicked—he didn't have a condom and the thought of not fucking her now was unbearable—but then he realized that she'd pulled one out of her purse.

"Amazing," he said, kissing her shoulder. "So fucking amazing."

Lynette didn't respond; she had opened the condom and now slowly pressed it to the tip of his dick, gently unrolling it. He shut his eyes, afraid he might lose it just from the feel of her hands on him, and the second she was done, he pushed her hands out of the way and took a firm hold of her hips. She spread her legs again and he stepped forward, guiding his cock to her opening and pressing himself into her. They both gasped, Lynette laid her head on his shoulder for a second, and that was all the time Tom could give her. He began to move, quickly building speed as she matched his rhythm.

"Oh fuck," she moaned, sitting up and tilting her head back. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Tom lifted a hand to her hair, pushing her forward and kissing her hard so her words were lost in his mouth. His thrusting was becoming more and more erratic—he was close, so close, and she was just so fucking hot and wet and tight.

She wrenched her mouth from his, gasping in this high, sharp breath like she could hardly breathe, and one of her hands went to her clit, rubbing herself in circles. "Come on," he groaned. "Oh God, come on, come on."

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Lynette bucked against him, back arching so far that her head almost touched the wall, and suddenly she was practically strangling his dick, and he was gone. Eyes shut, giving one last erratic thrust as every part of his body shook with ecstasy, and then he went limp against her.

Lynette brushed her hair off of her forehead, leaning back against the wall and breathing heavily. Her eyes were heady with satisfaction; a little grin played at the corners of her mouth, so irresistible that Tom couldn't help but kiss her.

"The room is spinning."

"You're still drunk. I think I'm drunk."

She giggled and kissed him again, rubbing one of her hands over the back of his neck. "I'm glad you came in."

Tom smiled and nodded, fairly certain that glad didn't even begin to cover how happy he was. In fact, he was pretty sure this might have been the best bad decision he'd ever made in his life.

He just really hoped she still felt the same way in the morning.