Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Walking Dead.
. . . . .
Leah Cartwright was immensely pissed off and incredibly turned on when, upon leaving her bathroom and reappearing in the living room sans shirt and bra, Daryl Dixon barely batted an eye.
Instead, he looked her up and down like this was just nothing new and took a swig from the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. "Hell of a first date."
Leah wasn't used to a reaction like that, and she sure as hell hadn't anticipated anything different this time, but many hours in the courtroom had trained her to hold tight to her best poker face. So, she only propped an arm against the hallway wall, ever so casually, and if her breasts happened to press together as she did, well, so be it. "It's not really a first date, though, is it? I mean, aren't we just celebrating my saving your brother's ass?"
Daryl moved closer, bottle swinging in his hand. "Any lawyer coulda done it."
"Any lawyer coulda gotten the judge to drop a drug possession charge like that? No. Sweetheart, you're taking for granted my impressive skill set. My very impressive skill set." She smiled a closed-lipped smile she knew would get him, it had to, and pulled the whiskey bottle from his hand. She sent the drink burning through her like all the other drinks before, let the buzzing in her head stir itself up happily. The hangover tomorrow would be hell. Screw work, though. Everyone at the firm already knew she was top fucking dog. Daryl was very close now. His forehead almost touched hers, his hot breath moved her hair, flooded over her neck, touched her chest like warm fingers.
"You talk big," he said.
"Maybe I do. Tell you what. Man up and decide yourself, Dixon."
The words rolled from Leah's tongue and she got lost in it all as soon as they were gone – his hot breath and the whiskey and smoke that clung to them both thanks to too many drinks and cigarettes, everything seeped into her, moved through her blood and muscles and bone and brain and she liked it, she liked this getting lost, she liked him, Daryl Dixon, she liked him, his tattoos, his stubble, how he said ain't, how he wasn't husband material, how he wasn't father material, how he was the last person – the last person – a promising young lawyer should be involved with, and goddamn, she liked the way his lips were moving against hers now, no reservation, hungry, and how he dug a hand into her hair and they went deeper, deeper. She liked it when he pushed her against the wall, she liked how the whiskey bottle fell to the floor and cracked and she couldn't be bothered to give a damn about it because her drunken mind was no longer concerned with mundane things likes spills and stains and landlords, there was only murmuring through the haze how this one-night stand didn't have to be a one-night stand, and then Daryl's shirt was off and Leah's hands were at his belt and her drunken mind didn't think a thing anymore.