AN: to the usual suspects: Ciara, May, and Sally, thanks so much! And to everyone reading this and laughing along with us, thanks to you too!
Chapter 5: Licence to Thrill
20:15 hours, February 25th
Location: The Fentiman Arms
The pub is crowded, and Cullen and Swan end up propping up the bar, Swan slipping onto a stool as soon as someone disappears.
"God, it's manic," she says to Cullen.
"Well, it is almost 8:30 on a Friday. What do you expect?"
She shrugs, suddenly very aware that outside of work, she's not quite sure what to say to him. It's not like they can discuss particulars here. Anyone could be eavesdropping. Spy school 101: do not talk about spy school. Not even her family know she's a sspook. They think she works for the government. She does, just not in the role she told them about.
And although Swan loves her job, at times it can be incredibly frustrating not being able to talk about it. It makes it hard to maintain a relationship too. She can work ridiculous hours, be overseas for months, and she can never say exactly where, what, or with whom. It takes a lot of trust from a partner, and she hasn't found that special someone yet.
Her gaze finds Cullen, his tall figure leaning against the bar, as he waits, cash clenched in between long fingers.
He leans over to be heard when the barmaid finally decides it's his turn. He's flirty and utterly charming. She laughs, and he winks when he slides her drink over to her, with a number written on a napkin like they're in a shitty rom-com movie.
"Really? I didn't think she was your type?"
He raises his eyebrows as he takes down a mouthful of beer. It leaves his top lip with the smallest line of foam that Swan suddenly finds herself wanting to lick off.
She doesn't even like beer.
"She isn't," he confirms.
"So then, why?"
"Jesus, Swan, and you're supposed to be good at your job. A little flirty banter and she'll be gagging to serve me all night. First. Before the masses."
Swan takes a dainty sip of her vodka and Coke through a striped paper straw.
"I see. A tactic that works?"
"Always. Apart from … you can't venture into the pub again for a while. There's only so many times you can blame losing her number on being too drunk, or too forgetful, or both."
"You have no shame."
"No shame, all the game." He's smug, watching her as he drinks his beer.
Three drinks later, they've secured a corner table to themselves. It's dark and kind of out of the way. There's a candle burning in the middle of it—a tealight that's giving off a certain smell that irritates Swan's nose; she can't pinpoint the fragrance though.
Cullen appears with more drinks.
"That was fast."
"I told you."
She sips on her drink.
"Do you ever regret this job?" she asks.
"Don't go all philosophical on me now," Cullen warns. "I'm on my fourth beer—there's only so much a man can take."
Swan isn't sure whether Cullen's referring to the beer, or his job—their job.
"I bet you never thought you'd be reading about a priest having sex," she murmurs, leaning in to him.
"Is that where your question came from?" She looks confused. "Reading about a priest breaking all sorts of vows and now you're questioning your own role? Wait … did we make a vow of celibacy? Because I don't remember that, and I'm afraid … forgive me, Father, for I really have sinned in that department."
Swan flushes but laughs, shaking her head. "No, I don't think that's a requirement of our job."
"Thank fuck." He sighs.
"Amen."
They both laugh, their eyes locked across the table as they drink—something passing between them that they no longer choose to ignore four drinks in. Swan's vodkas are now doubles, and she's … warm. Everywhere.
The way he looks at her sometimes, it sets her body on fire. His eyes are intense, and when he looks, he really sees; when he speaks, the world listens; and when he's near, she can't think of anything else.
They sit in comfortable silence, absorbing the atmosphere around them, between them.
Cullen watches her closely when she's not looking: her lips as they purse around the straw of her drink; her soft, warm eyes as they scan the pub; the way she fiddles with the torn beer mat on the table … everything. He notices everything.
23:45 hours, February 25th
Location: Balham
They share a black cab home, Cullen paying her fare, asking the cab driver to wait as he walks her to the door of her house. This is London, after all.
"Thanks. You could have just watched from the cab though," she says as she turns the lock and opens the door.
It's then they hear the sound of the cab driving off down the street. Cullen watches wide-eyed as it disappears.
"Bugger," he says. "I'm sure I told him to wait."
"I'm sure you did too. Well, you better come in and we can call you another."
Cullen is all eyes as they walk down a narrow hallway and into a far more open-plan kitchen-living area. It's very chic. Scandinavian. Key pieces of Ercol furniture, like the sideboard that a modest TV sits on top of.
"Would you like tea?"
"Coffee," is his immediate hopeful response.
He follows her into the kitchen, and she's leaning against the counter with a lazy smile on her face, the kettle starting to hiss as it boils.
"Not happening. I don't have any in the house."
Cullen doesn't believe her. He starts opening and closing her cupboards in disbelief until he's reaching over her, his proximity so close her nose catches the scent of his cologne, and the heat from his body floods into hers.
"Not even an emergency jar? Not even for visitors?" He's shocked and appalled. Swan just giggles. And Cullen thinks she's never looked prettier.
He's not sure how it happens—one minute he's staring at soft pink lips, the next his own are on them.
They're both momentarily stunned, their lips touching softly, tentatively; eyes closed. But then something in the air snaps, and they're all arms, desperate hands as they grasp at each other. Swan pulls him closer by the lapels of his jacket, jaw slack, lips together as the gap between them closes.
"Fuck," Cullen hisses into her mouth as his hands find her hips, lifting her, groaning deep in his chest as her legs wrap tightly around him.
Coffee is the last thing on his mind when his hands lower to her ass, pulling her flush against him, swallowing her moan as she comes into contact with his straining erection.
She can't breathe; she can't think. She doesn't want to. What she wants … is him.
Two weeks of sexual tension—fictional and otherwise—comes to a precipice and breaks, taking them both under.
Placing her on the counter, he stands between her legs, his hands wandering, feeling every clothed inch of her.
He leans back slightly, breaking their kiss, looking into her hooded eyes, silently asking permission, begging not to be denied. When she nods—one dip of her chin—it's all the permission he needs.
His jacket hits the floor as she pushes it off his shoulders and down his arms, her fitted cashmere jumper thrown over his shoulder, and their lips crash back together, the pull too strong to ignore any longer.
It's a hazy blur of passion as they fumble with clothing, undressing each other quickly as though they're against the clock and time is not on their side.
His lips against her bare shoulder, he reaches around and unclasps her bra, letting the straps fall, kissing the bare skin that's uncovered to him. Her skin is soft against his mouth, flawless—he can't get enough, he can't stop, especially when her head falls back and she whimpers, her hands in his hair, gripping tightly—tighter when his mouth finds one of her nipples, tongue hot, breath heavy against her … tit?
She shivers and arches into him, pleading with him through feral noises that escape her open mouth.
"Where's your bedroom?" he asks huskily, lips against her neck, right under her ear, and she can't focus enough to answer straight away.
She points over his shoulder, and Cullen lifts her, following her silent direction.
His shoulders are strong under her hands, muscles rippling, and she's overcome with the need to feel his skin against hers. She works quickly, unbuttoning his shirt as he carries her, his feet faltering slightly when her nails graze his nipples, a whispered "fuck" from his lips and her back is against the wall, winding her, making her laugh as his palm slams above her head catching them both.
Stumbling, laughing into each other's mouths, they finally make it into her bedroom, clothes discarded like a trail of breadcrumbs behind them.
Cullen drops her onto the bed, kicking his legs free from his trousers, pulling on Swan's skirt and dragging it slowly down her legs, leaving her in nothing but white, lace underwear. She watches, looking up at him from the bed, as his eyes trail from her head, slowly down to her feet; his gaze almost predatory, his groan deep, making her body tingle all over. She fights the urge to cover her bare breasts, her cheeks flushing, but the way he looks at her makes her feel … sexy.
Spurred on, she sits and pulls him towards her by the elastic of his tight boxers, opening her legs so he's standing in front of her, erection eye-level, straining and begging. She whimpers, so desperate to taste him—all of him.
"We're doing this?" she asks, her voice breathless as she meets his eyes, looking up at him, desperate to taste him.
"If you stop now," he says, almost panting, "I'll cry."
She smiles and bites her lip before pushing his boxers down, exposing the rest of him, inch by delectable inch.
Oh, she intends to make him cry—loudly … with her mouth.
*fade to black*