Disclaimer/Observations (not necessarily in any specific order):
1) I doubt Mme Gordon, my second year French teacher, would be proud
2) I owe nothing
3) Goldfrapp is obnoxiously addictive - apologies if you spent the next day Ooh-la-la-ing (I certainly have been)
4) I'm a Microsoft gal, OpenOffice is like foreign language to me
5) Thank you all the lovely people who actually read this (I should be writing a terribly dull technical paper for work but FA are providing a marvellous displacement activity)
6) How hot is Flack?!! Nomnomnom :)
Switch me up
Turn me on
I want to touch you
You're just made for love
I need la la la la la la
I need ooh la la la la
Goldfrapp – Ooh La La
Flying was one of the things in life that he truly loathed; all the waiting around before hand, having to remove his shoes at security and walk on a filthy floor, being crammed into a tiny seat which crushed his legs. Even the thought of air travel lowered his mood, changed him from amenable and laid back to testy and sullen.
She'd groaned, shaking her head in despair; arguing that a flight meant the start of a great adventure or the sweetness of coming home, that airports were prime people watching territory and a source of endless entertainment. He'd relented a little, conceding that a flight to the Keys to lie in the sun for a few days with her might be okay, but a flight to Chicago to babysit Mac Taylor was certainly not.
When she'd called him the day he was scheduled to arrive back, suggesting they catch a late dinner, he'd enthusiastically agreed. She didn't often suggest going out; it wasn't that she played hard to get, just that she had a healthy social calendar and still saw their relationship a little more on the 'no strings attached' side than he'd like. The aircraft had been sitting at the gate when the flight attendant announced the delay; he'd sighed, taking out his cell to call her and apologize. He heard the smile and understanding in her voice as she soothed, "Sure Don, don't worry about it". He knew he should be grateful; his erratic work schedule had been the bone of contention plenty of times before but couldn't hold back his surly mood, snipping "Yeah no worries Jess, sure you've plenty of others guys to have dinner with".
He knew arriving at her apartment late at night and unannounced wasn't part of their deal, especially considering his outburst earlier in the day but he'd taken a chance. Slipping in behind a late night delivery boy, he'd knocked softly on her door, mostly expecting to be hailing a cab within a few minutes. He'd heard the footsteps and then a pause as she peered through the peep hole before the door opened. Seeing her stand there, sleepily, in faded t-shirt and garish Hawaiian print pajama shorts had instantly lifted his mood. Smirking through the yawn, she'd cocked her head a little, "Back from Chicago then Flack?"
o-o-o
He leant against the counter top, sweat pants slung low on his hips, watching the rain batter against the window pane.
His watch lay on her dresser and the dark sky made it difficult to assess the time but the dull rumble of his stomach made him guess it was still before six. Idly he tried to speculate the contents of her fridge, debating whether he could make breakfast or whether he'd suggest eating at Café King before their shift.
He was so caught up in his thoughts that her arms slipping comfortably around his middle startled him. "Bonjour ma crotte" she mumbled against his back, hands gently rubbing over his toned stomach before letting her fingers rest under the waistband of his sweats. He stood for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of their bodies being separated only by the shirt of his that she wore. Turning in her arms he smoothed her tousled hair, tilting her chin up towards him to steal a sweet gentle kiss, "Mornin' Jess".
Her warm body leant closer into his as she yawned and stretched, a hand teasingly patting his rear. Her lips found his, roughly this time, with a deep hunger. His hands tangled in her hair, swept across her body; her arms snaked around his neck, finger stroking the sensitive patch behind his ear. As one hand skimmed across the fine cotton of her panties, his thumb tracing the path of the lace trim, she moaned into his mouth.
With one hand clamped firmly to her waist he stepped back, drinking her in, "Christ Jess, you're beautiful". Her cheeks flushed at his words and her hand reached to tenderly stroke his prickly cheek. As he dipped to kiss her again, she murmured against his lips, "Tu es la seule". He intended the kiss to be deep and full of lust but her words threw him, instead kissing her sweetly and gently.
He'd only recently discovered that "…speak enough [French] to get by", really meant "...my Mother was French and I guess I'm bilingual". He adored when she spoke to him in her Mother tongue, although he had no idea what she said to him it drove him crazy, in the very best way. These words were different though; the usual teasing tone was gone and replaced with an almost distant softness.
His brow creased a little in expectation of a translation, his thumb rubbing small circles on her hip. She stretched up, distracting him by grazing his lips with hers. He opened his mouth to protest but she pressed a finger against his lips, grinning slyly.
Stepping back to the opposite row of cabinets, her fingers worked tantalizingly slowly to free the few buttons that held his shirt together. Casually shrugging the garment from her shoulders, she let it pool on the ground at her feet; revealing herself to him, oozing confidence and allure. He moved to step towards her but she raised an eyebrow in reprimand. As she slipped fingers into her panties his eyes widened and breath caught, watching her slide them down her long dusty golden legs and unceremoniously drop them at his feet. She leant back against the counter top, cocking her hip and sending him a knowing smirk.
He rubbed a palm over his jaw, exhaling a long breath before stepping forward.
His tongue burned trails across her skin. She tasted herself on his lips.
She begged for release as he kissed and nipped. His body shuddered with desire when she touched him.
His eyes grew dark with hunger as he pushed into her. She whimpered and cried out his name as he stroked firmly in, and languidly out again; her legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in deeper.
As they stood tangled, skin slick and spent, they continued to explore. Her finger trailed back and forth across the bridge of his nose, his finger traced the pattern of the tattoo on her hip. Their breathing synchronized and slowed, their bodies melted into one.
"Tu es la seule" she mumbled.
He groaned, laughing gently, "In English Jess…in English".
Pulling back a little, she cupped his chin in her hand, "You're the only one Don." He frowned a little, confused by the statement, but she continued "I'm not having dinner, or anything else, with other guys, you're the only one".