Author's Note: With thanks once more to my lovely betas Asphaltcowgrrl (who is writing damn good Common Law/Chuck fic over at livejournal) and Beth - Geek Chick (who's writing Late Nights, another fantastic Wes/Kendall fic here at fanfiction-dot-net.) And thanks to all my lovely reviewers, including indigo colored rain, pumpernickle, rosesareforwriters, raven, jagged, Mascha, Lady Shaye, and the anon guests. Your reviews make my day- and believe me, I'll answer all of them!

Last Chapter:

And somewhere between his sudden upswing of affection and the cognitive haze that came from all the alcohol he'd already taken in, Wes' extremely fuzzy brain made a move that would have brought tears to his partner's eyes due to Wes' sheer lack of game.

"Hey pretty lady…" Wes murmured into her ear, trying to sound as seductive and mysterious as possible. "Do you happen to have any known STDs?"

It took a good thirty seconds for Wes' underperforming brain to realize how profoundly he'd just screwed up and thus, would never be screwed in an infinitely more positive light tonight, tomorrow night, or possibly (given how terrible he apparently was at this not offending people business) ever again.

He probably would have come to the realization even quicker without dangerous amounts of liquor coursing through his blood-stream; as it was, he knew he would look back upon this moment in the future and wish he still had the wits and reflexes left to… oh, he didn't know, jump out of the open window in a paroxysm of pure humiliation, or get down on his hands and knees and promise to commit hari-kiri in order to dissolve away the shame he had just brought upon generations of uptight Mitchell ancestors.

"Umm," he squawked instead, his voice intruding into the gaping void of shame as he demonstrated that he had all the brains God would have granted a headless chicken. "Er… I mean… um, which is to say… not to say that you're… I mean… you look like you have good hygiene… and… ahhh… really…"

She would have been completely in her rights to throw him out the window herself. And given all the terrifying femme fetales he regularly ran into (half of them harpies, the other half harlots) in his line of work, he wouldn't be surprised if she tried to take a few swipes at him for his insults. So even whilst spread atop of her with his underpants tenting at a damn uncomfortable angle, Wes found himself spluttering while wondering if whether he should try protecting his head above or his all-to-eager head below.

And that, of course, was when his mystery woman began laughing her head off.

He'd expected outrage; he'd anticipated tears; laughter threw him out of a loop completely. And before his still-dumbfounded brain could connect the dots and let him get off of her long enough to apologize profusely, he saw her continue to dissolve into a mass of girlish giggles.

When she finally finished, her next few words didn't do much to make him feel he had escaped retribution. Manfully, Wes tried to brace himself.

"Oh Blondie," she finally said, her flushed face breaking out into a cheeky grin as she sat up and slid away from him toward the head-board of his rented bed. (It wouldn't have been so bad if she weren't apparently heedless of the fact that the dress he'd unbuttoned eagerly moments was now sliding down her waist. And it was getting damned hard not to stare.) "You seriously don't know what you're doing, do you?"

He had to laugh a little too, slouching away from her and trying manfully to ignore his own hyperactive libido, which was urging him to stop with the talk and do some more things that would get him thrown out the window. "You can't say I didn't give you fair warning."

"Definitely," she agreed, laughing again, and Wes had to fight not to let him eyes travel down her quicksilver smile to the delicate curve of her collar-bone and the skin that lay gleaming below. (He was still a gentleman, after all.) "You've been scrupulously honest, so far! It's a commendable trait."

"Now you're just making fun," he returned, and when she laughed again at that, had to fight a smile of his own. "I don't think that's kind, Miss Scarlet."

One dark red eyebrow rose as she smiled, slouching further against his head-board, which did more interesting things to her rapidly falling dress that Wes continued to ignore and thus, did not even notice.

(No, really, he didn't).

"Miss Scarlet?" she said, and her smile had gone incandescent.

He fought to keep a straight face. "Is that any less creative than Blondie?"

She shrugged coyly, biting a plump lower lip that he absolutely did not relish the thought of taking between his own teeth. "If you want another name, you'll have to surrender your own."

An intriguing thought… but surely she was up to something. He knew a trap when he saw one, even if the giver of this one was significantly more attractive than most people he interrogated.

(She didn't appear to have any prison tattoos garishly proclaiming her love for her mother smeared across her comely chest, for one.)

(Not that Wes was looking.)

"Does that mean I get your own in return?" he managed eventually, trying to sound rakish instead of sincerely curious. "It would only be fair."

She cocked an eyebrow theatrically at him and it was probably a sign of how impaired his judgment was that he found it kind of… charming. "Maybe… or maybe not. To be honest, Miss Scarlet is starting to grow on me."

Now it was his time to shrug and look arrogant, pretending at far more calm than he felt. "Are you sure? If you don't give me your name, I won't give you mine… and Blondie will be one hell of a thing to scream out in ecstasy."

That got a laugh out of her—sharp and bright, of the sort he wasn't used to evoking from anybody. And when the warm sound finally died down and she looked at him again, running her tongue over her swollen lips with delightful insouciance, Wes knew she wasn't about to let that go easily.

True to form, she practically cooed her next words. "You sure you're still going to get to that point, buddy?"

Wes shrugged again, trying to look indifferent and not let on that he was practically at a point in his life where seeing a pair of actual, real-life breasts might well make him get down on his knees and thank God for giving him a sight he'd never thought to see again.

"Would it be wrong to admit that I'm still hoping?"

And that was when—as though to prove even the smallest deceit on his part would get him immediately and severely punished—his mystery woman showed that she had a working pair of eyes by cocking one eye-brow, pursing her lips, and delicately pointing at the case of hand sanitizer he kept by the bed.

The one he set out for use… once in a while.

After certain personal times.

Of extremely personal exploration.

Oh Jesus. If he knew he was going to have company, he would have hidden the damn thing as though it were evidence of a Class I felony and he were under federal investigation.

But before Wes could spend too much time contemplating hari-kiri to get over this fresh level of shame, his mystery woman once again distracted him by leaning forward until her face was once again tantalizingly close to his own, her dress dipping as though she knew precisely what had been gaining his careful inattention before.

(He wouldn't put it past the tricky minx.)

"Well," she murmured, her voice so sweet he could almost be fooled into thinking she didn't know exactly what she was doing, "I guess can't fault you. Personal hygiene is very important."

"Can you blame me?" Wes replied, trying to stay steady even as she leaned so far forward that under any other context, he'd feel sexually harassed. "There's a lot of muck out there in the world."

"Too true…" she answered, somehow improbably drawing all the closer, her breath so near it mingled with his own. "But most women still don't like to hear that in reference to their genitals."

"To be fair," Wes murmured in return, "I would imagine men take exception to that also."

"Undoubtedly." And oh, he was already coming to know that one smile of hers, wicked and mischievous, the one that lit up her entire face and promised absolutely nothing but trouble. "So does that mean I don't get to inspect you ahead of time for any second heads you might have growing down south?"

He found himself surprised into another laugh and when it mingled with her bright peal, Wes decided he could get used to this—at least for the here and now.

When he finally stopped, he sternly pointed a finger at her, prepared to defend his honor. "Miss Scarlet, I'll have you know that I get myself tested every three months…" (A good precaution that every detective should take, especially when he got into as many gunfights as Wes did) "…and I am as pure and wholesome as an unplucked blossom."

Her returning nod was surprisingly neutral, her lips solemnly pursed, as though he'd had told her about a dental appointment he'd gone through with the other day. "That is certainly good information to know."

And perhaps that should have put him on high alert—after all, since when had this demon woman ever been anything less than a spit-fire? When had she not teased and enticed him at every turn? Right now, she was almost like a female version of Travis going in for him instead of a random assortment of deranged women—a terrifying notion that Wes wanted to set down and never, ever think about again.

So of course it was when his mind was occupied with that godawful thought that she ended up pouncing on and upending him like some sort of recreational sex ninja, her tiny body somehow managing to flip him over until Wes found himself trapped by an improbable combination of her slender legs straddling his thighs and her fingers pinning his own up over his head.

All this from a woman that was likely ten years younger, sixty pounds lighter, and nearly a foot shorter than him.

He hated to be a chauvinist but it wasn't doing to soothe his ego. But when he gaped at her in shock, she answered him with another cheeky grin.

Yet—as his libido helpfully reminded him as it came roaring back to life at the feel of her impossibly supple skin rearing against him through a few flimsy layers of fabric—it was hard to get upset when he was really enjoying all the things she was intent on doing.

And from dewy innocence now shining forth from her wicked little face, she certainly knew it.

"And since I really like men who keep safety in mind at all times," she went on, almost primly, as though she were inviting him to shake her hand rather than driving him almost out of his mind with the way she was now grinding, "I think that means you deserve a reward."

Wes should have protested then and there. He should have told her that his respect for her person and presence had nothing to do with any sexual favors so she needn't give him any if she didn't wish to grant them. He should have sat her down and had a talk about proper consent and how she needn't do anything if she didn't want to and to resist peer pressure at whatever college she might be at—

At the least, Wes probably should have asked her to gargle with mouth wash and put on hand-sanitizer before she continued on with whatever wicked plans she'd hatched. He was quite sure he'd be horrified by possible germ exposure the next day—horrified and not in the least tantalized, no sir, never mind the state of his trousers, never mind what happened in the heat of the moment.

Then again, even thoughts of proper sanitation were surprisingly inconsequential when Wes had a scarlet-haired succubus gently and patiently and most certainly cruelly rolling her hips atop of top of him.

If nothing else, this was not help him impress her later by demonstrating his usual level of steely control over his various personal eruptions.

Of course, it didn't help that she rode him with a sort of gentle, unsteady, imprecise passion that so easily revealed both her surprising ardor and her lack of experience. It didn't help that she bucked into him so easily as she did so, her undone hair trailing obscuring her face and trailing her maddening scent all over, mingling sex and pale flowers into his very skin. And it most certainly didn't help that she was taking ruthless advantage of his occupied hands—which were somehow holding onto her hips as she continued to rock against him, and he still couldn't explain how the hell that had happened—to run her own over his chest, undoing his shirt-buttons even as those clever fingers of hers curled around his restless flesh.

And while it might have helped to have her stop momentarily—never mind the sudden spike of impatience that ran through him, never mind his urge to buck up against her and bring her down harder against his cock, never mind his desire to throw all consideration away and make her grind with him—he regretted his wish in but a minute.

After all, if he had known that she'd take this minute to look down on him and give him another one of those smiles that clearly meant mischief, he'd have swallowed his tongue and shut down his brain and brand himself a true one-minute-man.

As it was, he just braced himself at her expression, and didn't end up disappointed.

"You haven't done this in a while, have you?" she asked, her hips stilling for the moment but her hands apparently restless, moving beneath the loosened fabric of his shirt and leaving imprints of soft heat wherever she went, as though she were intent on branding him.

"How can you tell?" he managed, trying very hard not to arch beneath her and give it away any further. "It was the erection that tipped you off, wasn't it?"

That got another laugh out of her, even as she reared back against said object as though to make sure it was still there. Wes did his best to swallow back a groan. "Yeah, that was a bit of a clue. God, it's like one big pillar of sexual frustration!"

He glared at her, trying to simultaneously not appear pleased and to look as haughty as was possible in his present state of supreme humiliation. "Would I be canoodling in my room with a strange woman if I wasn't?"

Her smile flickered for a minute and, as he always did when he knew he had done something terrible to some unsuspecting and undeserving person yet again, Wes instantly regretted what he had said. But before he could… god, who knew… apologize or even point out that moments like these were exactly why it had been a while since he'd done this, she went on, her voice low but caressing him as surely as the hand that was trailing down his chest.

"So being with me is merely a sign of desperation?"

He had been keeping his hands almost decorously on her hips, holding them there to make sure she didn't topple over during any of her more enthusiastic gyrations. But now, following an impulse he barely understood himself, Wes let them move up her body with a more confident touch, his hands trailing up her body as though he knew it as well as his own, however unfamiliar it truly was.

(His mystery woman was much smaller than Alex had ever been, in form and frame and movement. Her figure was so delicate it almost felt as though he were stroking a china figurine rather than a real life woman, albeit one with skin that felt almost sinfully soft as he curling his fingers tentatively time and again.)

(The span of her hips, the weight of her thighs, the little dip of her navel, the curve of her spine…)

(All of it unfamiliar, but none of it wrong.)

(Only new, and beautiful, and different.)

"That isn't it," he said at last, and knew as he said it that he meant it. "I don't care how much I have to drink—I still have standards regardless. And I wouldn't do this with someone who wasn't…"

Lost for words, he trailed off, his hands flexing slightly on the ripples of her ribs, his gentle exploration having somehow undone her dress so that it lay crumpled around her waist. She gave a shaky laugh and answered for him, more tentative than she'd ever been before.

"Interesting?"

"No," he corrected, feeling far more himself than before. "That isn't it either. I simply won't settle for someone who isn't…"

He groped for words; she exhaled shakily under his gentle touch; he found it in another moment.

"Intriguing in at least one sense."

She hadn't blushed earlier when she had first kissed him. She hadn't blushed when he had practically assaulted her mouth as they did some extremely unhygienic things downstairs as their bar-keep had none-too-discreetly ogled them. She hadn't blushed when she had implicitly offered to come up to his room, or when he had taken her up on her offer, or even when they had first tumbled into bed.

Given all of that, Wes wouldn't have been surprised to realize that she was just one of those lucky people who wandered easily through life, one of those awful, annoying, terribly enviable people who had the ability to simply not give a damn.

But she was blushing now, her cheeks going pink with shocking rapidity, blushing so hard it moved down her front and spread to her chests, her pert, pretty breasts going nearly as pink as her delicate aureoles as he made her so strangely, so easily, happy.

He hadn't known ahead of time that even a simple compliment could undo her so completely.

"Dare I ask which one?" she said at last when she finally answered, clearly trying to pretend she wasn't really so very pleased. (Her returning smile kept giving her away. Wes didn't bother hiding his smile either.) "If you're going to pay a lady a compliment after so many insults, you might as well be specific."

He grinned back, raising one sleek blond eyebrow at her, determined to tease her just a little for all that she'd done before. "And what if I prefer to keep you in suspense?"

She pouted at that. "For such a big man, you're very coy."

"Well, for such a tiny woman, you're scary."

She laughed at that, and then shook her head, looking shocked at her own pleasure. "Blondie! Right after you finally give me a compliment! You… you're so… you're so absolutely…!"

"Look who's being non-specific now," Wes murmured, sitting up so that he could take a closer look at her beautiful flush. He had to let go of her for that and even as he propped himself by his elbows, her arms wound around his shoulders for balance. "You can't expect me to follow your directions if you won't do as much either."

"You are incredibly strange," she finally said, raising her chin to look him straight in the face, blushing still but being brave. (God, she was so young. God, she was so lovely.) "But… I… don't think it's a bad thing either."

He touched her face at that— purely on instinct, purely on desire, purely out of some strange need to touch her at that moment. And though he half expected her to flinch away from his fingers unexpectedly stroking her cheek, she leaned in toward him instead.

She had a very faint, almost ghostly trail of freckles dusting the top of her rounded nose and beneath her thick swoop of lashes. A man could only see it when she came this close, drew this near to him. It looked as though it had been delicately painted atop her smooth, creamy skin.

"I'm glad," he said at last. "And me too, I guess."

And that was when he leaned in to kiss her once more, first to kiss that secret flock of freckles and then the sweet, warm lips that lay below.

He half expected her to flinch away; instead, she simply leaned back in, her own lips parting for his as though he was welcome inside her skin.

(It wasn't his surprise that actually shocked him most. It was gratitude that undid him.)

And when she pulled away, her eyes were shining, her lips were parted, her body glimmered in the light cast by the bed-side lamp, and one of her soft, slender hands…

Wes' eyes went very, very wide.

"Oh," he said, rather stupidly. "Oh, are you—"

"Shh," she said, and leaned over once more, pressing her lips tenderly to his even as her hand gently cupped his prick through the few layers of fabric that kept them separated. "Don't say a word. Not another word. Don't utter a single new syllable or sentence. Please keep those lips of yours firmly zipped."

A fine thing to say when she was doing just the opposite, her own fingers easily bringing his trouser's zip fastener down, her wrist arching as one of her small, sweet little hands dipped into its eager contents.

Wes opened his mouth to say—something, anything. She stole his breath with another deep kiss that left his breath shaking as though he'd finished chasing down an errant suspect. And any other residual thoughts of self-control he might have had went flying out the window about the time she finally eased his cock out from its resting place, one of her thumbs gently swiping precum around on the head while her fingers slowly circled his shaft, stroking with soft, tender, almost shy motions.

She was as delicate and uncertain and ardent with this task as she had been when she had perched atop him. But given the almost instantaneous reaction his body had to feel of her fingertips slowly easing themselves up and down his length, even the soothing thought of hand-sanitizer couldn't make him come back down again.

Not that he didn't try—let no one say that Wes Mitchell wasn't, in his own way, chivalrous. He might want this but he didn't want this at her expense—didn't want her to do this if she didn't want to, or if she thought she had to, or if she thought she needed to just to stay the night—

His body might have felt like it had caught on fire but he didn't want her to immolate just for his pleasure.

But even as he opened his mouth in one last time to—well, not to protest, he was actually rather embarrassingly eager to get on with this—to say that stopping now would be fine, just fine, if she really didn't want to continue, never mind the embarrassing amount of moisture he was already releasing down her fingers, never mind the howler monkey noises he was barely holding in, never mind the fact that his hips were already bucking into her sweet grasp like he was a virgin on prom night who'd just been introduced to the sweet touch of a woman—

(Jesus, it really had been far too long for him. Who knew Travis could even be right about something like that?)

Even then, there was still a part of Wes that wanted to stop her and tell her that she could stop anytime she wanted to, that she didn't need to do this just for the sake of staying with him, that he wouldn't want her to do it out of fear or gratitude because he was not that sort of man.

But as though she read his mind, she stopped for a single moment to look at him and flash him another brilliant grin, even as her fingers never even loosened their easy, maddening grip.

"You're kind of amazing," she whispered at all, voice even lower and sweeter than ever before, one set of her fingers gently running themselves through his sweat-slicked hair, the hand she used to caress him further down never once stopping or stilling. "And weirdly charming and stupidly sexy and just the sort of guy I always wanted to run into on a lonely evening. Now shut up and relax before you say anything that could possibly ruin this beautiful and touching and extremely moist moment."

Not being a complete fool, Wes shut his mouth firmly after that much persuasion.

(And at least as far as the night lasted, he couldn't bring himself to regret it either.)

Author's Note: Please don't kill me for the sex-cliffhanger. Please! I assure you, I only did it because Kendall and Wes were having too much fun teasing each other to be rushed and if I tried to cram all of their first night into a single chapter, it would end up being longer than the rest of the fic combined. But never fear—next chapter is the last of their one-night-stand… although I'm still agonizing over how explicit I should be about it. (And how to write good smut if I go that route after two years of no writing whatsoever!) Well, we'll see what happens. ;)

Anyway, as always, I'd love to get reviews, questions, and comments from readers, as they give me motivation to keep writing. And I'd love to know: Do Wes and Kendall give off sparks in this chapter? This is only the second real scene I've written of the two of them interacting so I hope they come off realistically and still have chemistry. Are they good as is? Do they need to be changed in some way? Did Wes come off like too much of a tight-ass here? Is Kendall a little too much a manic-pixie?

Also, please feel free to PM me if anyone's interested in chatting about or role-playing Wes/Kendall with me. I need further inspiration for this story, and I'd love to meet more W/K fans to talk over possibilities.