Jack's Place is an oddly shaped building, appearing to follow the natural curve of the corner it is located on, while also being set back a good distance from the road itself. The long overhang shields her pounding head from the afternoon sun and she's relieved to find herself stepping into a dimly lit, air conditioned building, with few employees and fewer patrons.
"Uh, Andrew?" Monica takes a cautious step toward the bar where Andrew is rinsing out glasses in the sink. "Is Mr. Evans in, yet?"
"Not yet." Andrew's answer is rather short - actually, his entire demeanor has changed, now that she can really take a good look at him. When she stepped in the door, he'd seemed relaxed, vest unbuttoned, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his shoulders dropped down. But, now, his guard is up, and he appears uncaring and cold.
"Right." Monica sighs, clambering up onto one of the bar stools.
"If you're going to order a drink, you'll have to order food, first." he seems distant, now, frosty, despite their earlier attempts to warm up to each other. To become friends.
"I don't drink." Monica reminds him softly.
Andrew hums, clenches his jaw, and goes back to work, rinsing glasses, and putting them away. It's only three - there wouldn't be any patrons for another few hours, but he still needed to prepare the bar. Monica bites her lip to hide the tremble that's emerging from his behavior. He'd be so nice to her earlier, and now here he is, back to being the asshole that he'd been when they met.
"Did I - did I do something wrong?" she finally spits out when the tense silence between them is too much. Andrew's dark gaze over his shoulder lets her know he's up for playing her interrogative game. "We just - I thought we'd made so much progress and now you're acting like...well…"
"What?" the towel tossed over his shoulder is suddenly snapping violently between his hands and he's taunting, leering at her, daring her to say whatever it is she wants to say. "Please, tell me, Monica? What am I?"
"You're being an ass!" she finally sneers at him, curling her hands around the edge of the bar. "And, I would like to know why?!"
Five minutes from this moment, when he realizes he dropped his clean, dry towel into a sink full of hot, soapy water, he'll realize how not clearly he had been thinking, but right now, he doesn't care. Hasn't cared since she walked in, in that black dress that swished so prettily around her knees and those adorable flats that emphasized her dancer's legs; athletic but also delicate, almost birdlike when she'd tilted up onto her tip-toes to get onto the barstool.
He definitely hadn't cared when he noticed the messy tumble of dark, dark burgundy hair that spread like silk across her shoulders and curled under her breasts.
God.
Those breasts had been in his mouth a mere twelve hours ago. Not to mention that mouth - that fiery, crimson-painted mouth. Pouring fire and that lilting Irish. He swears he can still taste her, every single inch of her, hear her deep moan of ecstasy when he'd licked her clean and then kissed her, let her taste herself, and when he traces the neckline of her dress, the feel of her silky skin lights him up, again.
The taste of her hadn't gone away with toothpaste.
"Mon," Andrew grinds his teeth, voice low, dangerous, pleading with her to just leave it alone. Please. "Don't."
"Andrew…"
Shit.
That voice. That soft, girlish, pleading lilt that sounded so, so sad and lost. It weakens his resolve considerably - which isn't saying much, considering he didn't have a whole hell of a lot to begin with. He can't help but roll his eyes at his own inability to resist her, as he tosses the towel in his hands and reaches for her.
It's erotic.
Too erotic to happen in a bar, empty or swarming with people, but it does and it burns them both. His fingers dig into the hair on the back of her head, pulling her across the bar, forcing her to lean heavily on the wooden surface while his other hand comes to rest at the base of her throat, fingers curling, squeezing just enough that he can see her pupils widen and hear her breath catch. Their faces so close, she's sure she can taste him, again.
"Because I haven't been able to think straight since you walked in." he finally hisses an explanation, tilting his head to watch her reaction. The way her eyes widen and her mouth parts, a silent understanding that elicits a shudder from her. "Because everytime I look at you, I remember having you at my mercy, I remember every sound you made, how you felt, and it's taking every single bit of willpower I have left not to take you right here on this bar. Is that good enough?"
"Yes…" a breathless whimper is all she can manage.
"Andrew?"
"Jack!" Andrew pulls away quickly, eyes darting between Monica, who is righting herself as quickly as possible and the back entrance that Jack used. "Jack Evans - I'd like to introduce you to my friend Monica Clarke - she's, uh, she's here about the job."