"So, dis whole 'first date, second date material'…ye don' actually follow a set o'rules, do ya?"
Connor had collapsed on the bed next to Pam, sweating and stark naked save for the smirk. He fished around blindly for his jeans and found them, digging the cigarettes from his pocket.
Beside him, Pam laughed, staring at the ceiling, still throbbing between her legs. "What do you think?" Her answer was the cool click of his Zippo opening and then closing, and the sweet smell of tobacco.
Sighing, she turned onto her side and watched him for a moment. To say that he had just melted her brain was a fair assessment. Connor continued to smoke, sprawled on his back with his eyes closed. She focused on his lips.
"Ye just don't shut up, do ya?"
He smiled slyly. "Maybe ye should make me."
She'd found all sorts of things for him to do with his mouth that required little to no talking. It had started off in the stairwell of her brownstone where she rented the upper floor. No sooner had she announced that 'This is me' did Connor haul her back to him and slant his mouth against hers, his fingers gripping at her waist more insistently. His lips moved from hers and across her jaw to land on her ear, sucking and biting at the lobe while his hands found her breasts once more.
"Shit, lass," he groaned. "We keep this up and I'm likely te have at ye right here on the stairs."
The breadth of his brogue spoken in his soft voice was enough to make her toes curl in her boots. Her blood grew hotter. "I have neighbours," she chided, spinning out of his hold reluctantly and trying to slide her key into the lock. "And the neighbours have kids," she added when Connor's hand caught her belt and pulled her back against his front.
"Early education," he mumbled, moving aside the long tail of her braid and giving a quick lick to the nape of her neck. "Ye smell so good," he breathed, raising goose bumps on her shoulders.
Her resolve, if she ever had any, was stripped away as he pressed his pelvis against her ass. A muffled groan floated up from the pair, along with a hissing breath and Pam dropped her keys as Connor yanked her around once more and held her against the glass door. His fingers hooked her belt loops and moved her against him in a rocky rhythm that conveyed just exactly what he wanted to do. "Tell me if I'm goin' at ye too fast," he breathed.
If she was going to answer, she lost her chance as he kissed her harder than before. With his fingers still hooked into her belt loops, he flipped the button open with his thumb and traced light circles on the soft skin of her belly as he licked her mouth. She automatically bucked into his warmth and snapped her head back, breaking the kiss roughly. "Fuck, Conn," she breathed, "inside. Keys. Now." Her speech was as broken and jumbled as her thoughts; the only thing she knew for certain was that she needed to get him upstairs in order for this to go the way she was hoping it would.
He swooped down, leaving Pam to catch her breath, and appeared again seconds later dangling her keys in front of her face. "Right." He stole another kiss. "Let Connor handle this, aye?" He nudged her aside and popped the lock quickly. "After you, lass," he gestured to the open door.
Because really, he wanted to see that ass as she climbed the stairs. She smirked and sauntered into the foyer, putting extra effort into the sway of her hips. Connor growled, pressing the heel of his hand against the fly of his jeans and wincing at the spike of pleasure that rocked through him. She knew exactly what kind of effect she had on him, he was fairly sure. She climbed the stairs, casting him small glances from under her lashes every so often, and when she had finally led him to her door, he almost trampled her with his eagerness.
She giggled as they fell into the apartment, and held him at arms length for a moment. "Easy, Irish. We have all night. Can I at least take my boots off?" She gestured to her heavy combat boots.
"If ye have ta," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Pam grinned and pulled at her laces. "Take your coat off. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want another beer?"
Connor's face brightened as he toed his boots off. "Ye got Guinness?"
"Harp," Pam clarified.
"Piss in a bottle. Harp's fer kiddies, lass." He chuckled and hung his coat up on the hooks behind her door. "Take yer bag?"
"Thanks." She handed him her purse and led him to the kitchen after he hung it up.
Her apartment was small, really no need for more space when there was only one person there, and he paused at a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, jammed with all sorts of interesting reads. He perused the titles, tilting his head to the side and reading them off to himself.
"I have some Jamieson," she called out.
"That'll do, lass," Connor answered. "Didja read all o'dese, den?" He asked when she came back with a glass of whiskey for him and a beer for herself.
"Most of them. These ones here," she pointed to the top shelf, "I've read more than once. They're my favourites. These ones are more coffee table material," she continued with the second shelf. "You know, random things like Greek Architecture, The Pyramids…"
"Irish History?" Connor mused, pulling out the book and looking over the cover. "Lot of contradictin' facts in that, I bet." He put the book back and took a sip of whiskey. Turning back to the bookcase, one particular title caught his eye: "The Handbook of Knots and Knot-tying," he read out. He glanced back to Pam with a cocked eyebrow. "Now, what's a nice lass like you doin' wit a book about knots?"
Pam answered with her own eyebrow raised. "Sometimes a girl just needs to know things."
"Is dat right?" Connor murmured. "An' does Gradma O'Reilly know that ye know so much about knots and knot-tyin'?"
Pam narrowed her eyes with a chuckle. "You know, fer a fella who's trying to get laid, ye sure know how t'kill the mood. Don't bring up my Grandma." She made a face and sank into the couch.
Connor laughed and sank down beside her, her knot-tying book in one hand and his whiskey in the other. Propping his feet up on her table, he let the book fall open in his lap. "What d'we 'ave 'ere…the handcuff knot. Now, this is interestin'." He flicked his gaze to Pam who was trying her damndest not to blush. "Any reason as to why this book falls open to this particular page, love?"
"You'd just love to know, wouldn't ya?"
Connor leaned forward and set his drink down. "Aye. As a matter o'fact, I would."
"Tryin' to tell me ye like bein' tied up, Conn?"
He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. "Don't know, lass," he shrugged. "Never been tied up b'fore."
"That's actually third date material," Pam quipped with a chuckle.
Connor snorted and took up his whiskey again, draining it in one shot. "Can I get another?"
Pam gave him a sideways look with half a smile and took his glass. "Sure." She stood smoothly and headed into the kitchen.
Connor trailed behind slowly, still taking in the details of her apartment. His perusal of her DVD collection was interrupted by a small crash, followed by Pam swearing sharply. "Ye all right?"
Pam shut her eyes tight and bit her lip against screaming. "Fine," she called back in a shaky voice. "Just broke a glass." She glanced down at her left hand, wincing at the gash at the base of her thumb. "Fuck," she swore again, tightly. She cranked the cold water and shoved her hand underneath, squealing sharply at the stab of pain.
"Pam?" Connor wandered into the kitchen and joined her at the sink. "Ye all…" he trailed off as he poked his head over her shoulder. "Ah, shit, lass, 'ere. Lemme help." He took her injured hand in his and tilted it towards the light. "I tink dere's glass innit." He moved to push it under the running water again and Pam went rigid, trying to pull her hand back. "Shhh," he soothed, looking into her eyes, never letting go of her hand. "C'mon, lass, let Connor 'elp, aye?" He gave her a small smile.
Pam felt the tears welling in her eyes. It didn't actually hurt that much but the thought of being cut open, of the possibility of stitches…well, it didn't sit quite right with her. She shook her head and whimpered. "No," she mumbled, pulling against him.
Connor laughed softly. "S'just a little blood, aye? 'Ave to get it clean, love, so I can get the glass out." He was gentle but firm and held her hand under the water. "Look at me, love," he instructed. "Shh, that's right."
"M'not a spooked horse," she grumbled. Still, she let his gaze hold hers and finally softened her muscles enough for Connor to drag her hand under the rushing cold water. "Fuck!" she yelped, kicking the door of the bottom cupboard.
"Ye sure yer not a spooked horse? Those legs kickin' an all…" He glanced down and frowned. "I can see a piece of glass from here. Don't move – keep it under the water, yeah? Ye got tweezers? A first aid kit?"
She nodded, her teeth chattering slightly. "Under the sink in the bathroom. Second door on your right."
He dashed off and while she was alone, she mustered enough courage to look at the cut once more. It wasn't oozing blood as quickly and the water washed it clean as it welled. The ebb and flow of blood was almost hypnotic and she didn't notice Connor's return until he was right beside her. He pulled a towel from the oven door and wrapped her hand in it before raising it above her head slowly, his eyes finding hers again. "Elevation," he murmured, reaching to turn the taps off. He led her to the kitchen table and sat her down under the overhead light.
When he'd rummaged through the first aid kit and found what he was looking for, he laid everything out – gauze, tape, scissors, tweezers, and peroxide. "Hand it over," he ordered, smiling at his own joke. He didn't wait for her to move, merely took her hand in the towel and laid it on the table between them, and unwrapped it slowly. "Bleedin's slowed," he muttered.
She was staring at a point over Connor's shoulder, not willing to look at the cut in her hand. "Does it need stitches?" She prayed it didn't – that would really set her back at the tattoo shop.
She felt more than saw Connor shrug. "Don't tink so. But I'm not a doctor, aye?" She felt his fingers close around her wrist and hold her in a steely grip before a wave of hot, stinging pain flashed through her thumb.
"Shit!"
"Shhh," he admonished.
The heat was replaced by cool air and she glanced down to see Connor blowing on the cut as he set the bottle of peroxide aside. Immediately, she focused on his mouth, unconsciously licking her own lips. She wouldn't have to move much, just lean in and…
"I'm gonna take the glass out now," he announced, looking up at her. He grabbed up the tweezers and steadied her hand once more. "So, are you going to tell me why you really started tattooing?"
Her eyes flew back to the point past him, knowing that he was trying to distract her. She tried to focus on his question instead of what he had done with his lips just ten minutes ago. "Ummm," she started shakily. "I was really good at art in high school. I went to an art and design college in Virginia and spent a lot of time in a shop one summer in Richmond." She stifled a whimper as she felt Connor dig around with the tweezers.
"Because of that?" he questioned, motioning at the vine on her shoulder. "Ow long did that take?"
"Five visits in total," Pam breathed out. "I only had to pay for half. I worked the other half off, doing stencil work, taking out the garbage, working the front desk…grunt work." She hissed at a particularly sharp tug.
"Sorry," Connor mumbled. "So, let me get this straight, you sat for five visits and got a tattoo from top to…well, I'm assuming bottom…" he paused and caught her fleeting glimpse with a smile. "An' yer squirming about a tiny cut?"
"I'm left handed," she sighed. "So if you could not botch this, I'd be grateful."
"Right," he said, setting the tweezers down. He took her hand in both of his and tilted it further to the light, pulling gently at the edges of the cut. "I tink I got it all," he announced softly. He handed her a piece of gauze. "Hold it over the cut."
He worked quickly with the tape and in less than two minutes Pam was sporting a rather impressive looking bandage. "Let me guess," she said wryly, wiggling her fingers. "Pre med?"
Connor howled with laughter and gathered up the supplies, replacing them in the first aid kit and closing the lid. "Close," he purred. "Cub scouts."
Pam rolled her eyes with a smile. "Seriously?"
"What?" Connor sniffed defensively. "I was actually quite good at it, I'll have ye know."
"Murphy, too?"
"Nah, Murph played baseball." He nodded to her hand. "Think you can still use it?"
Pam moved her fingers with a small wince. "Maybe not right away. Should make doing most things interesting." She frowned. "It's throbbing."
Connor smirked. "Aye, dat's what she said." Before Pam could say anything, Connor reached to the counter and pulled the bottle of Jamieson to the table. "Have a drink, lass. Make it numb."
Grabbing the bottle by the neck she unscrewed the cap and fixed Connor with a curious gaze. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Don' 'ave to try to 'ard, do I?" he quipped. "I'll get ye a glass."
Connor watched as Pam rolled the glass along the tabletop until it thudded gently on the side of the Jamieson bottle. "More, please," she sang softly.
He finished his own glass and poured for the both of them.
"How many is this?" she asked, maybe a little on the slow side.
He smirked. "Four. How are ye feelin'?"
Pam shrugged, exaggerated by her foggy mind, and then thought about it for a moment. "I have to pee," she decided, standing up on wobbly knees. "Jayzus, I knew there was a reason I didn't drink whiskey." She flashed Connor a wide grin. "If you hear a loud crash, that's just me going head first in the toilet." She giggled and made her way down the hall.
Connor smiled at her retreat and sat back into the couch cushions. He felt comfortable here. He liked her space with her mad collection of books and random things on the bookshelves. He spied the stereo and unfolded his frame, shuffling towards it. Shit, it still played vinyl and sure enough she had a small collection of records nearby.
"Find anythin' good?" he heard her ask. He turned to answer and was caught slightly off guard by the open belt buckle and top button of her jeans. She looked down and shrugged. "It's amazing all the little things you can't do with only one hand."
He was still staring at the flash of red under her jeans. "Aye," he murmured, forcing himself to look up. "Doin' up yer pants," he said, nodding towards her.
Pam grinned. "Knitting."
Connor wandered towards her, knocking back the rest of his whiskey. "Tying yer shoes." He set the glass down on a nearby table and stood mere inches from her.
"Making bread," Pam breathed, her eyes dancing over his face as he closed the last few inches.
"Makin' love," Connor murmured against her mouth. He nibbled at her bottom lip and swiped at it with his tongue. "I can't knit, anyway."
Pam chuckled lowly and pressed her lips flush against his. "I'll teach you," she whispered as she pulled back. Her fingers caught the hem of his sweater and slid it up his chest, smiling as he raised his arms over his head.
Her touch was bold, palming the muscles of his chest and shoulders with her good hand, making a warm trail of tingling nerve ends. She tossed his sweater blindly behind her and snaked her hand around the nape of his neck to pull him towards her. As they kissed (and by Christ, he could spend hours kissing her) he found the fastener that held the tail of her braid closed and pulled it free. His fingers threaded expertly through the layers of her braid until her tawny waves tumbled free around her shoulders. She moaned and crushed her breasts against his chest.
He dove for her neck again, and quickly slid his lips and tongue to her shoulder, over the tattoo there, and his fingers pulled the tank top from her body. Her bra was red, brilliant against her soft, tanned skin, and he caught the straps with his fingers and slid them down, his lips following the trail of ink on the right side. Skimming her collarbone with his nose, he breathed her in, and the citrus and woodsy scent filled his senses. He felt her fingers slide into his hair and tug gently before curling back and tracing his ear. The space behind his earlobe was especially sensitive and she seemed to know this, tracing a spiral there and drawing a long groan out from him. He picked his head up and kissed her some more.
He slid a hand over her shoulder and down her spine, grasping the clasp of her bra between his fingers and clicking it open with one hand. His other hand grabbed the front of the bra and pulled it down her arms, baring her breasts to his eager eyes. He wasted no time and cupped her firm breasts, weighing them, squeezing softly as he rolled his tongue against hers. She gasped into the kiss, the sound searing him to the bone, and he let one hand drift to her hip to pull her up against him. He dug into her pelvis, moaning against her neck. His lips wandered down her throat, between her breasts, to draw one distended nipple into his mouth and flick his tongue against it. His cock throbbed in his jeans as his tongue rasped over the pebbled texture of her; the hand on her hip snuck to her open fly and he pressed his fingers gently against the top of her mound, feeling her heat through the cotton.
He heard her draw a shuddering breath and glanced up, his lips still firmly around her nipple, and grinned against her when he saw that she was looking down at him, her eyes brilliant green and shining. "This all right?" he murmured.
She nodded, clasping the back of his head and directing him to her other breast. "More," she begged. "Don't fucking stop."
Cliffhanger dedicated to Valerie E Mackin...bwhahahahaahahaaa!
A little self insertion here (kinda) - I had been with my husband (then boyfriend) for about six months when I cut my finger really badly. I'm not a fan of being injured, I'm kind of a wuss (even though I had a baby with no drugs!) and I had to endure Brian's first aid all the while kicking and screaming which was a source of amusement for him. I kinda knew right then that if he had the patience to patch me up, he was ready to handle just about anything I could throw at him!