Beware, mature content and spoilers for A2A episode 6 ahead.
An idea based on the dream sequence Alex has, and written from Gene's pov, after the end of ep. 6.
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"I've bloody dreamt of doing this."
His mouth curled up in a lopsided smirk at the memory. Flimsy blue shirt, buttons popping off, creamy curves of soft skin and that black bra that was going to haunt him now. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he recalled the rising panic he felt as his gloved hands touched her, not in the intimate caresses he'd dreamt about, but the frantic impromptu heart massage that brought her back to him. He breathed out a relieved sigh, pushing away the powerful waves of 'What if?'
Well, some of the waves anyway. Stamping on 'What if she hadn't woken?' he turned his attention to 'What if she'd not begun to ramble like a bleedin' lunatic when she opened her eyes?'
He was pouting unconsciously now, his imagination filling in the feel of her perfect mouth. She wouldn't be wearing that shirt again, he thought ruefully, thinking again of the unsubtle glance he'd taken down her magnificent cleavage. His come on; clumsy, over-confident bravado, hadn't fallen completely flat, and he was looking forward to taking her back to Luigi's and indulging in some more outrageously bullish flirting. The sudden interruption of his plans had set him off-balance, left him reeling like a teenager who'd been walked in on, mid-kiss, by his parents.
He winced at his unsteady goodbye to her, hating that he'd stumbled over his words when he was normally so sure with his gob. He wanted to retain the safe thrill of wrong-footing her with chauvinism, the way he felt when they sparred, her infuriating expression when she was antagonizing him.
Blinking, he took another glug of whisky, and tuned out the sound of murmuring voices around him in the bar. Shaz and Chris were giggling with one another in a booth in the corner. The rest of the team, Ray included, were being intermittently raucous over by the tables. Gene propped up the bar, his tall frame bent forward, elbows resting.
He realized regretfully that she wasn't going to turn up now: probably in bed, resting after her knock on the head. He considered briefly going up, just to check she was ok, but he steeled himself against it. It looked too needy, over playing his hand. There was a steady ache in his chest, something hungry, but forbidden for now. He allowed his mind to wander into that kiss-that-never-was again, and the ache subsided for a moment.
He pursued the thought at first because it eased the hunger, even though he knew it couldn't satisfy - like making do with a packet of salt 'n' shake crisps when he really wanted the steak and chips. He didn't want to examine how much he was craving the steak, that way lay madness, lack of control. So he contented himself with the short-term comfort of the thought of her in his arms, under him, looking up with heavy-lidded desire, the feel of her hand gently stroking his face.
He threw back the last of his drink, and while the warmth of it hit him in the back of the throat, he replaced her mad, concussed ramble with imaginary declarations of what she wanted from him. He savoured the charged incongruity of that cultured, well-spoken mouth saying such filthy things to him. The details of the red couch in the restaurant became sketchier and in his imagination they were in her flat and she was arching upwards to him, the power balance all his, cupping that softly yielding breast, kissing those immaculate lips, his other hand slipped around the gentle swerve of her waist, reaching down to the peach of her arse.
He took a sharp breath in as he remembered he was standing at the bar in Luigi's, and his erection was threatening to make a public statement should anyone come over to him. No one would though; he looked around. Everyone else was engrossed with something or someone else, and he stood alone.
Again the temptation to go up to her. What if she wasn't there anyway? Well, it couldn't hurt to go up if that was the case, Hunt. What if she was, then? What then? He despised himself for his indecision. She had been ill when he'd gone up yesterday. He'd had visions of her opening the door, her head at that haughty angle, ready to tell him to piss off. God, that turned him on.
But instead, she'd looked lost and a little frightened, and the overwhelming instinct to protect her had pushed his desire down. That infuriated him more - the way she could illicit raw arousal and tender concern from him by turns. He wanted to take her, make her say his name, watch her face as she came around him. But he also wanted to cradle her gently, revel in the feel of her sobbing against his chest, soothe away the tremors of fear.
He looked down at the empty glass and snapped himself upright, slapping his hands off the bar decisively. He practically leaped up the stairs now he had made the decision, as though he had to get to the door before she de-materialized. He took a heavy, halting, slightly drunk breath in through the nose and knocked.
There was a long pause, and he was just about to turn and go, feeling stupid, but in some senses relieved, when he heard the shuffle and click of the door opening. He looked up. She was dressed in a black silk nightshirt, her curls tousled, her eyes clearly adjusting to the light out in the hallway behind him. Damn it, she'd been asleep and he'd woken her.
"Oh, I was just... wanted to check on you, see if you were ok." He said, hands on the doorframe, almost reaching for her, almost pushing himself back.
"Yeah." Her voice cracked a little. She opened the door wider and stood to the side, inviting him in. It rose on his lips to decline, but a brief image of the kiss-that-never-was came unbidden and a surge of adrenaline thrust him forward into the flat.
"Sorry, were you havin' a kip?"
"Sort of. Not sleeping too well, actually." She admitted. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets. She came and sat on the sofa, hitching one long leg under her. It occurred to him that she was naked under the shirt, and he swallowed hard, running a careless hand back through his hair. He flopped down beside her, his legs splayed out, thankful to be in control of himself now.
She rested her head on the back of the sofa, her hand under her head, like a cat. She seemed subdued, thoughtful.
"What's on your mind, Bols?" He asked, more to break himself away from looking at her in a slightly awkward silence than anything else. He was content that he still sounded firm and assured.
She blinked slowly, and a small smile played around her lips. "Everything." she said finally, "Everything is on my mind. Or in it."
She had stopped, with a small frown, like she wanted to say something else but wasn't sure how to say it. She shook her head a little and smiled widely. "Doesn't matter." She said. He realized he was looking at her mouth too much and he sat forward.
"Right. Well. Better let you get some sleep then." He said, sensing the cue to call it a night. He was distracted, suddenly, by her hand in the crook of his elbow. He looked down and turned back to her. She was leaning forward too, now, delicate fingers only touching him there, but the rest of her so close he froze.
"Thank you. For today." She said, and they were both looking down at her hand, watching as her fingers squeezed his arm gently. He looked up just at the same moment she did, and he realized how close their faces were now, as close as they had been earlier that morning. Maybe it was the eye-contact making him dizzy, but it felt like they were leaning in further, suddenly right inside each other's personal space, and he felt his mouth slacken slightly and his eyes dropped to her lips.
"S'ok." He managed, a hitch in his voice, tension balled up inside him, barely daring to move in case she pulled away and the moment was gone. It seemed like an eternity later he reached her mouth and placed the most tender of kisses there, the ache in his chest again, stronger now he felt the warmth of her breath mingling with his.
She seemed to pause, and he was just pulling away when she came forward, her mouth pressing harder than his first touch, sucking his lower lip in and lifting her hand to his face again. He was pushed back a little by the force of it, and then returned the pressure, the sound of his own heartbeat banging in his ears as he positively devoured her. A second later, she had pushed him back on the sofa and was straddled over him, the kiss deepening and her hands now at his neck, now pushing his jacket past his shoulders. He recovered himself enough to open his eyes, stunned by the sheer reality of her above him, the smell of her, the weight of her on his hips.
Without wanting to break the kiss, he bent forward and pulled his jacket all the way off. Their lips parted briefly, but she grabbed at his loosened tie and pulled him back to her, pressing her body against his, the firmness of her breasts through the silk tripping something inside him and his tenuous hold on self-control disappeared and she yelped into his mouth as his erection returned with a vengeance.
His hands reached round her now, pressing her flush against him, slipping over her backside and squeezing. How many times had he imagined doing that? He moved forward, emboldened, and then he was standing, with her legs wrapped around his middle and the fire between her legs white hot against him.
"Bed." He whispered, gasping in a breath. It wasn't a question, there was no sense of doubt in his voice. He had given up on thinking this through, going on pure instinct now, in case he suddenly woke up and it was all another dream. She mewled a little, wiggling against him and he nearly lost his balance as she kissed him again, her tongue meeting his.
They fell on the red duvet, and he was over her, covering her neck with kisses, savouring the satin of her skin beneath his strong hands. Returning to kiss her mouth, he looked into her eyes, not sure what to expect, and the ball of tension returned to his stomach when he saw a distance there. But suddenly she was playful again, eyebrows raised and he felt her hands dealing with the buckle of his belt and reaching inside his grey trousers.
He gasped quickly at the feel of her fingers on him there, trying to stay in the moment, not wanting to let go too soon. He suddenly felt old again, here, in bed with this classy young woman. She must have sensed his sudden nervousness, and she gently bit at his lip and murmured "Bigger in every department."
He grinned lasciviously and his confidence returned, his right hand deftly undoing the buttons of her shirt. He pulled it fully open and ran his hand over her naked form, dipping between her legs and his heart rattling up a notch as he felt how wet she was. She arched, just as she had in his imagination, up against his hand and he couldn't hold himself away from her any longer. He swung himself fully over her, nudging her legs wider, and kissing her deeply as he pushed himself deeper still, sinking inside her.
He tried to pace himself, following the rhythm of her hips rocking against him, the sounds she was making, soft moans with every thrust. She was getting louder, words coming in between incoherent cries. "Ge-ene... o-oh.. again.. oh, again." His body was sliding against hers now, sweat glistening in the glow of the street lamps outside. Her breath was ragged, frenetic and then she was bucking against him, her thighs taut around his waist as she clung to him, gasping his name in blind passion.
He let himself go now, slamming into her, a heavy grunt with each movement, looking at her face as she fell back down from her own climax, coming to his own as she opened her eyes and looked directly into his. He shuddered over her, his mind an intense blur of sensation.
Then there was a slow, gentle kiss, and they both laughed breathlessly, he still not quite believing what had just passed between them. She nuzzled into his neck, and it felt right to go from raw desire to cradling her, protectively in his arms. He'd dreamed of this, but not this, not the depth of emotion he felt towards her, the confusing role of defender and antagonist all rolled into one. Her breath steadied, and he realized she was sleeping. He pulled the duvet over them both and, still in his black shirt, slept himself.