It's three a.m. when Monica blinks in an owlish fashion at her alarm clock. The red numbers appear mocking, a cruel reminder that she hasn't fallen asleep in the three hours since she laid down to do so. She knows why - doesn't want to admit it, but she does know why. And, it's more to do with the man laying on her couch than anything. She just can't get that kiss out of her head, the feral look in his eyes, luminous green changing so quickly, she thought she imagined it, and the rough way he'd let her know what he really thought about her.

It'd felt bruising, almost as if he was branding her, claiming her as his and as much as she hated the idea of belonging to anyone, she can't help but feel some sort of magnetic attraction. It drives her crazy.

And, straight to the kitchen for a snack.

There was leftover Chinese, right?

The apartment is dark and quiet, except for the sound of Zoe's TV that she always left on to fall asleep to. She never understood how her roommate could be awake for hours in a silent apartment but sleep like the dead to reruns and infomercials. When she makes her way into the kitchen to retrieve her prize of cold fried rice and a bottle of water, she's surprised to find Andrew already there, slowly sipping a bottle of water at the table.

"Oh." Monica blinks slowly, the shock of finding him there not quite as prevalent as the shock of having him kiss her earlier had been. "Couldn't sleep, either?"

"Uh, no." he drags a hand through his messy hair. "Alcohol doesn't - I'm not a tired drunk. I'm not even sure I'm drunk, just…"

"Wired?" Monica suggests, pulling the fridge door open to grab the box of take-out and a bottle of water. The fried rice would be better warmed up, she's sure, but considering her previous luck with a stove, she's not willing to tempt fate, on the off chance it happens again. She drops the water on the counter and snatches open a drawer to get herself a spoon.

"That works." the bottle is halfway to his mouth when he realizes that she has no intention of warming up her food. He doesn't realize his face is twisted in disgust until her eyes narrow and she mumbles an embarrassed, "What?" around a mouthful of rice. "Please tell me you're going to warm that up before you eat anymore?"

"I - uh, well, you see there was an incident and I - " she points at the stove with her spoon, hoping to deflect his attention away from the heat flushing her pretty face bright red.

"You can't cook." Andrew barely suppresses his amusement at the revelation. "That how you get the nickname fireball? 'Cause you made one?"

"Uh, no." Monica shakes her head, scooping out another spoonful of rice. "That nickname - it's one Adam gave me because he said I reminded him of a whiskey he had while visiting relatives in Canada."

"Adam has relatives in Canada?" Andrew raises a skeptical eyebrow at that. He knows Adam pretty well and he knows that all of Adam's family is either in Salt Lake or still up in Bangor, Maine where the sarcastic quarterback was born.

"You know Adam, bartenders are his relatives." Monica giggles around her spoon. "Utah is a dry state. He wanted alcohol."

"He couldn't go to Wyoming or Nevada?" Andrew makes a face at that. "Don't answer that. It's Adam. He doesn't like the easy way."

"Uh, I guess not?" Monica lifts her shoulders in a shrug.

"Okay, I can't watch this!" he reaches her in two long strides, taking the container of food from her. "Where's a pan? I'm warming this up for you."

"Andrew, you don't - " her protest is futile, he's holding the container up out of her reach.

"Pan, Monica?" he rolls his eyes at her stubbornness.

"Top right above the stove." she caves, shrinking back against the counter.

He's not typically a showman, but he gives the skillet a skillful twirl as he sets it down on the stove and turns it on. She's a little shy in her approach but she wants to watch - Lord knows, she can't help. Andrew seems unfazed by her appearance at his elbow, merely stepping back to wrap his arms around her and lift her up onto the counter.

"Where did you learn to cook?" Monica's almost hesitant to ask but he seems a little more willing to talk, not spit insults at her.

"My, uh, my Mom." his face turns red at his answer. "I grew up in a small town. Unless you played football, there wasn't much to do so I learned how to cook."

"You didn't play football?" color her surprised. With those shoulders, she would have thought for sure he played.

"Uh, no. I tried but it wasn't for me." Andrew pours the container of rice in the warm skillet and gives it a toss. "I didn't like the violence of the game - at least, not to be in it, anyway. I still like watching it."

"Hearing them - Adam's been to the hospital more than once." Monica sighs, folding her knees up to her chest, resting her cheek on them. "I don't think I could handle being with a football player."

Andrew nods, giving the rice a quick toss. "Adam's lucky but some of them aren't so lucky."

"So, what small town are you from?" Monica inquires quietly.

"Amory." the name slips off of his tongue easy. "It's a little town. Quiet - too quiet, when you're a teenager. Sits on the edge of the river. So, we used to sneak down to the river at night and swim, skip rocks, and smoke cigarettes." he looks over at Monica, who is paying apt attention both to his story and to the easy way he reheats her food. "Seems silly, but we were teenagers, y'know?"

"So, how did you end up in Utah?" another question, a little more reluctance in her voice, this time.

"I didn't have Ivy League grades." Andrew shrugs, reaching around her to grab a clean plate from the dish drainer. "And, I didn't come from money so there was no way in hell I was making it on the west coast without working myself to death. But I wanted out. Utah has reasonable tuition, all the classes and credits a pre-med student needs, and I found a job easily enough." he pours the warm Chinese food onto a plate and makes his way to the table with it, while she gets off the counter to follow him. "It's a little weird being a bartender in a mostly dry state."

"You're a bartender?" Monica can't help but giggle at the thought.

"It's a lot of pouring beers with almost no alcohol." Andrew grins at the sound of her giggle; it's a sweet sound, a soft one, and one he finds himself wanting to hear again. "Do you know how lime twists I make a night to stick in a glass of soda because I can't serve a Cuba Libre or a Jack and Coke if they haven't ordered anything to eat?"

"What do you mean?" a head tilt spills tangled curls over one shoulder and his eyes absently trace the line of her jaw.

"Well, there's laws in place. In Utah you can serve alcohol from 10 a.m. to 1 a.m. if it is served with food." Andrew explains, "I can't serve them if they haven't ordered food. You don't have to order food at the same time but they have to have eaten something before I can legally serve them alcohol."

"Oh." Monica nods in understanding. "I don't - um, I try not to drink too much. I'm not good with alcohol. I definitely don't fit that Irish stereotype."

Andrew chuckles at that - of course, he's well aware that there is probably a deeper story there, a reason why she's not good with alcohol but she's not comfortable telling him and he isn't going to push her into anything she's not comfortable with.

"How does a little Irish fairy end up in Utah, anyway?" Andrew teases gently, reaching over to steal a bite of rice when she sets her spoon down. "Were you an exchange student or…?"

"Sort of.' Monica shrugs. With a deep exhale, she gives voice to the story she hasn't told a soul since meeting Tess. "I was born in a country plagued by conflict and violence. As soon as I was able I got out."

Ireland.

Damn.

While history was never his strongest subject, he does know of the ongoing civil and religious conflict between them and it was no place for a little girl to grow up, especially someone like Monica.

"How did you end up in Utah?" he returns her earlier question gently.

"I was eighteen and a bit desperate to leave." Monica swipes her spoon back and absently stirs her rice. "So I started applying for scholarships and filling out applications to any college I thought I stood a chance at. I, uh, I didn't have Ivy League grades or money either," her cheeks heat up a little at this - it's nothing to be ashamed of, she realizes, but it's more the realization that she has something in common with him. "And, I wasn't sure what I was going to do when I got here but...I needed away."

"And, Utah accepted you?" Andrew doesn't need to ask but he wants to hear more and he wants to hear her tell it.

Monica nods, sliding the bowl his way, a silent offer to share. "Full ride scholarship so I took it. Applied for a student visa and got here in time for freshman orientation."

Andrew just nods and motions to the pictures of her and her roommates held on the fridge with magnets. "That how you met Zoe and Maggie?"

"In a way - I met Zoe at orientation and I had Tess' theology class with Maggie." Monica explains, "Zoe got me a job at her parent's club, even though I'm not technically old enough to serve alcohol." she looks down at the worn cotton sorority shirt. "Zoe suggested I rush different sororities for the social experience. She even went with me even though it's not her thing. Maggie suggested Chi Omega because they don't do parties as much as the others. And I had Tess' theology class with a member and she recognized me and I ended up there."

"And, the cheerleading?" Andrew can't help but teases her a little bit.

"I'm not a very good singer," Monica is embarrassed at this knowledge. "But I love music and when I first got here - I didn't know anyone and Zoe basically just took me under her wing and I ended up on the team."

"Sounds like Zoe's been a good friend." Andrew is relieved, almost, that she has someone, but he only knows bits and pieces but from what he's heard - Monica's not someone that can be on her own.

"Zoe's like my sister." Monica explains softly, fiddling with the hem of her t-shirt. "She tried so hard to make Utah feel like home but I had a hard time adjusting until I met Tess."

"Tess King?"

"The theology professor - yes." she nods, tilting her head, a wistful smile on her face. "I don't even need the class, really. I just enjoy it."

"Me too." Andrew's voice is just a touch higher but nearly inaudible. "She has a way of teaching that made me stick around."

"You took her class?" she's certain they've established this before, but she's since had alcohol and one hell of a kiss and he'll have to forgive her if her memory is not the best.

"Uh, yeah. Last year." Andrew nods, "I was actually there to get a recommendation from her for med school. I'll be going to med school after I graduate."

"Oh." she's not sure why that information knots up her stomach. "You're a senior, then?"

"No - uh, no, I'm just a junior." he corrects her with a soft smile. There's so much uncertainty lingering around the mere concept of him - why is he the way he is? And, why is that smile so reassuring? And, why is she so damn attracted to it all? "But," he pushes the bowl away and crosses his arms on the table. "There's a lot of prep for med school so I'm doing as much of it as I can, now. Including finding another job."

"Another job?" the poor guy looks completely overworked and exhausted as it is, balancing school and the one job he already has.

"I'm here on a partial scholarship but med school - I can't get one for med school." Andrew's a bit sheepish, absently rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm going to have to pay for it so I need some extra work."

"Oh."

"What about you?" Andrew's question catches her off guard.

"Oh. Uh, teacher. Kindergarten teacher." Monica smiles fondly at the mention of her chosen profession. "I read at the library every other Friday and the wee ones are so precious."

"Seems like a good fit for you." there's something entirely honest about his voice; maybe, it's the lack of gasoline, it's not fueling the fire that is her temper, and it isn't a match being struck. It's soft and earnest and she feels like she's hearing the real Andrew, not the asshole, he tried to present himself as.

There's nothing disingenuous about either of them at this hour, when it's almost five in the morning, when Zoe's not giggling about how cute he is and Adam's not warning them not to burn each other. There's nothing holding them back, really, except for themselves, and those walls won't hold for much longer. They've both been lonely for far too long to leave them up when there's someone desperate to break them down.

"You're not at all who I thought you were." Monica finally admits after a long silence.

"Neither are you, Fireball." Andrew teases quietly, but there's something different in his voice. It's a sticky sweet rasp, a barely audible noise, so similar yet so different from the one she heard in the cab. This is molasses and smoke and she almost visibly shudders at the way it slides down her spine and curls heat in the pit of her stomach.

"I, uh, I should put this away." in a rush, for reasons that have entirely too much to do with needing away from that voice, she scoops up the bowl and makes a dash for the sink. He watches with a tilt of his head, a little confused but not surprised. "We should probably go to bed, I mean - "

"Monica," it's the first time she's heard her name in such a way that didn't speak of his utter distaste for her. It doesn't sound like poison he's attempting to spit out. Instead, it sounds like rum, all warm and sweet and smooth. "There's no rush, here. It's four in the morning. It'll be hours before campus is awake."

"I know but - "

Her sentence is cut off by the feel of him at her back. If it wasn't for the smell of whiskey and cologne and the heat emanating off of him, she might not know he was there but he is and she's becoming acutely aware of every breath, every shift, and the way it moves his shadow.

"Andrew - " again, he cuts her off, this time, though, it's with the abruptness of his hands grabbing her hips and spinning her around. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to have a snack." Andrew jokes, leaning his head down.

"What - ? You mean me?" Monica's seems to have caught on rather quickly - then again, his hands are slowly moving up under the hem of her t-shirt, over the snug fitting shorts she was wearing, and she's a little helpless against it, at this point.

"Yes."

"We can't - Andrew, my roommate." Monica shoves roughly at his shoulders and ducks under his arm, eager to get out of his hold before she gives in.

"Your roommates are asleep." Andrew points out quietly, turning his back to the sink and curling his knuckles over the edge of the counter, grip tightening until the knuckles whiten. She's difficult and difficult to resist, but his Mama didn't raise a predator and she obviously had boundaries and he would respect them.

"You do things to me, Andrew." she finally breathes, loosening her own grip on the back of a kitchen chair; her eyes are closed while his are heavy and dark with arousal. "Things I didn't want to ever admit to but tonight, in that taxi. Your voice, God, it almost made me…"

"Made you what, fireball?" he murmurs, tightening his grip on the counter until it felt like he might end up splitting the skin over the bone. "You can tell me."

"I wanted you to keep talking so that maybe I could…" Monica can hardly find the words for what his voice had nearly achieved. "I don't even know." She sounds a little frustrated with herself for not being able to voice what had happened to her in the back of that cab. A toss of her hands and she's pinning him with a glare that is as accusatory as it is helpless, desperate for something she can't seem to name. "I don't know what I want from you, Andrew. Sometimes I think I want to be your friend but then other times, you speak, and all I can think about is how I'd like to have you do things to me that I shouldn't be thinking about you doing."

Andrew freezes on the spot - she, what now? "M - Monica.."

"Sometimes, I just want…" Monica's frustration grows, blooms out into the space between them. It's sexual, primal, and she's desperate for relief. "I just want you!"

"Then," his voice is barely a growl. "Have me."

...

But, it is Monica, not Andrew, who is promptly spread over the table, knees bent over the edge, back arched, and hips pushing into his eager hands. She would wonder how the positions got reversed - she was supposed to be the one having him - but his hands are wandering and it all feels a bit too surreal.

Her t-shirt and bra are on the floor at her feet and he's bending over just enough to reach her breasts.. "If I'd known what was under that dress when we met…" his boyish grin makes her giggle. His mouth latches onto a breast and sucks the nipple to a hard point before he speaks again. "I do have a question, though."

"What?" Her voice is a pant, a mix of noise and breath.

"Do you taste as good as you look?" again, with the boyish grin, only this time, it doesn't make her giggle. It makes her want him to find out, it makes her curious about her own body, simply because he is, and she's as desperate as he is to answer his question.

"Why don't you tell me?" she shrugs, lifting herself up into a semi-sitting position, breathless, and waiting for him to do something, anything to relieve the ache.

His expression changes; dark eyes and a darker expression. He doesn't say anything, merely presses a hand to her stomach and spreads her back across the table. He's not exactly gentle but she doesn't want him to be. She wants him to be strong and abrupt and she wants him to answer his own questions and find out how she tastes. She wants to reap the benefits of this man's curiosity.

"You said, your roommate is home, right?" he rasps the question, already reaching for his belt buckle, before she can even answer his question. The worn leather snaps when he pulls it off. She watches him fold it half and snap it, again, before holding it to her mouth. "Bite down on this, fireball."

The aching between her legs is pretty much dictating her every move and any hope for relief relies on her following his orders, no matter how much she might hate it. She obediently opens her mouth and bites down on his belt.

"Now," he tugs his shirt from his jeans, and pulls up a chair between her legs, pausing to look up at her, spread across her table in only her panties, with his belt in her mouth. Her words from earlier come back to him and he makes sure to lower his voice. "You're gonna stay quiet or I'm gonna stop, understand?"

Monica's nod is less desperate than it is wanting. "Good girl." he murmurs, sinking down to settle in between her legs. If she tilts her head just right, she can just see the bit of chest revealed by the open buttons on his shirt and she barely has time to wonder what he would taste like before he's mouthing the soft skin of her inner thighs.

"You know, fireball," his voice is low, rumbling, and his mouth works her inner thigh, scraping teeth and swirling tongue. "He kind of deserved what I said to him."

Okay, so maybe now is not the time to revisit the night's previous discussion, but he rarely ever sees her this quiet, so it's a good time to take advantage. Plus, he's still remembering what his voice did to her and he wants to make damn sure she's aching for relief when he peels her shorts and panties away and tugs them down her legs. He tosses the wet lace and curls his arms around her thighs.

Monica whines at the view this allows of his arms. The pop of veins and the tension in the muscles as he flexes and tightens them around her thighs. It isn't until his tongue is licking a hot stripe up the length of her that she understands why the need for the belt. Her eyes widen and she's desperate to say his name around the leather in her mouth.

"Tsk, tsk, fireball." he lifts his head briefly, lips wet with her. "No talking."

Monica drops her head back in frustration. Her arms spread like wings, hands scrabbling against the table, gripping at nothing, when his tongue applies pressure to her clit and rolls it. Her hips don't move, his arms make sure of that, strong and sure around her thighs and his hands curled around her hip-bones. He continues on in this manner until she's thrashing and her heels are digging into his back.

She's desperate to make noise but she can't and the knowledge of this makes Andrew laugh, a noise that vibrates through her. It only takes a few flicks of his tongue to get addicted to the way she tastes, and it isn't long before he's sinking it into her in a wet facsimile of what she really wants.

"I think I like you in this position, fireball." he finally speaks, retreating from her wet heat for a moment. "Y'know, not talking."

Monica, however, is less than thrilled and can't wait to turn the tables on him. If he ever gives her chance, that is. But, it seems she'll never get the opportunity because he's alternating between scraping his teeth and licking her and thrusting his tongue into her.

His erratic rhythm has her first orgasm slamming into her without much warning. She squeaks around the leather, writhing her way through the splintering release of pressure and tension. But, he's relentless. The licking and the pressure on her clit continues and he releases one of her thighs to ease two fingers into her. She's not sure she can handle another, but oh God, she wants it. She wants the relief of it and he knows that. She wants more than she thinks she can handle.

"I know you want to, fireball." it's that sticky sweet rasp, again, the one that drives her insane and right now, it's particularly effective. Her hips arch as another orgasm crashes in on the heels of the first one. "Good girl."

He's barely let her come down from two back to back orgasms before he's knuckle deep inside of her, again, and this time he's sucking so hard on her clit, her eyes roll back. It won't take much, he knows. She's soaking wet and so sensitive, the lightest touch would probably do it, but he wants to push it.

He wants to see her fall completely apart.

And, she does, beautifully. Her third orgasm of the night takes her apart in a fit of writhing muscle and flushed skin and she whines around his belt, not caring about his previous order to not make any noise. She can't help it.

"Good fireball." Andrew breathes, unable to help but watch her fall apart. "Beautiful girl."

She finally comes down enough to get his belt out of her mouth and toss it to the floor. She lifts her head, all flushed cheeks, wide eyes, and messy hair, looking down at the man between her legs. "So, how do I taste?"

"Let me show you." she can't say she's ever seen anyone look at her with that particular expression; affection and tenderness but also intense arousal, and he's breathless with it, barely able to speak for the way it affects him.

He crawls up the length of her body and presses his mouth to hers. She feels the tears sting her eyes when she tastes herself in his mouth. She doesn't really care one way or another about the actual taste of her own arousal but rather, the fact that he's giving her what she wants. He's giving her everything.

But, now it's his turn.

…

For being such a tiny little fireball, she's strong, and she forces her way into his lap with a simple shove of his shoulders, until his head tips to the side, curious and wanting and he grins, finally giving into her unspoken demand to be in his lap. She settles on his thighs with an impish little grin, grabbing the lapels of his shirt. "You're not attached to this, are you?"

"Not particularly," a ragged breath gives her an answer and she pulls hard enough to send several buttons flying. "It was a gift from my ex."

Monica can't help but giggle at that, even as she leans into him to kiss her way down his collarbone. His breathing gets heavier as she kisses his neck, his collarbones, and his shoulder. He gasps in surprise when her teeth scrape his nipples in a similar manner to the way he'd done hers, earlier.

"I hope you don't mind," she licks her lips, pulling away to admire her handiwork. There's a rapidly forming bruise around his nipple, courtesy of her mouth. "I left a mark."

"Go ahead." his hips shift but it's not enough to be comfortable. It barely moves her and his objective is to not throw her off. But, it's getting difficult to sit still and let her do what she wants when he's throbbing and desperate for his own release. "But, dammit, Monica, hurry up!"

Monica grins around his nipple, determined to mark the other one before she gives him what they both want. When she's satisfied that the other is bruised dark enough, she shifts back to undo the button of his jeans. The tight denim is tugged insistently until he gets her off of him enough to push them down onto the floor along with his boxers and she grabs him eagerly, jerking him with her hand, determined to drive him completely out of his mind before he's even inside of her.

"No…" but his protest is futile. She continues rubbing and squeezing him with her hand until he feels like he's about to explode. He's squirming and moving his hips, desperate for friction, for release, but trying his hardest to keep from bucking her off of him. "Mon, you gotta stop, fireball. I can't."

He barely has time to register that she's even left the room, before her hands are back, rolling a condom over the length of him and he's sunk deep into silky wet heat. It's his turn to experience eye rolling pleasure.

The rhythm is a slow one, but it is steady and more than effective. She rocks her hips to a beat that only she can hear, slowly, torturously, but so damn good, Andrew feels like his brain might actually melt and leak out of his ears.

"You were rude to me when we met." he groans when each word is punctuated by a sharp plunge of her hips. She tightens her movements, speeds up the rhythm, and grinds down so he's buried completely with each thrust. "I didn't like it."

"You were so gorgeous, that day, you took me by surprise." he grunts, lifting his hips up into hers.

Monica's response comes in the form of a brutal squeeze. One that she repeats with every slow grind of her hips until he's gasping, hissing her name followed by a few choice expletives, until finally she feels him jerk and hears the harsh shout of her name as he falls apart pulling her with him for her fourth orgasm of the evening.

The force of it slams her into his chest, and she presses her face into his neck as they both come down from their high. He smells like cologne and alcohol and sweat and when she breathes him in, she feels dizzy, lightheaded from it all.

"Y'know, fireball," he tangles his fingers in the hair on the back of her head. "We're gonna have to talk about this."

"I know." he feels her nod and press herself closer. "And, we will, but…"

"Let's get dressed before your roommate gets up." he finishes. He gently releases himself from her, and lets her ease out of his lap to gather her clothes and dress herself. She looks so small and he feels so much bigger than her, feels like he battered her to hell to wring those orgasms out of her, but nothing about her noises had suggested she didn't enjoy it and her closeness when she helps him to the bathroom to clean up is a reminder that it had been her idea. She'd wanted him, she'd told him that.

She wanted this, just as much as he did.

But, what now?