songofsong | AU } Maybe in another life, we wouldn't be alone tonight

Part of him had worried that she might have disappeared while he'd gone to fiddle with the machine in the toilets, but when he steps out and finds her still there, there's a warm smile on his face. His new purchase is now tucked away in his pocket. All five of them. Well, never hurt to be overprepared. The machine ate about five quid more than it was supposed to, but he really can't bring himself to care, not when he's watching her get to her feet and thinking that before long he might have her with her ankles around his shoulders.

The thought is more than a little thrilling.

"Ready," he smiles, stepping back out and moving with her back the way they came, the short walk next door to the tired looking travelodge he booked into earlier.

His head turns towards her, as if checking on her, making sure she's okay, and he pauses just a moment. "Did you want me to get us a bottle of wine or something to take up?" he asks, wondering if he might be able to go run back to the pub to get one.

“Wine? Oh, yes, wine would be good,” she says, seeming to hear that sole word and latch onto it. “Tell you what, you go and get us a bottle, I’ll head up, shall I?” She looks down to his hand, reaching forward to hopefully take the keycard from his fingers.

There may be an ulterior motive to this suggestion - namely so she could spend a few minutes preparing herself, both physically and mentally. That, and she just needs a moment to come to terms with what’s happening here.

"Right, course yeah," he almost fumbles a little. Strange, it's not like he's ever nervous, not like he's usually awkward over these things. Maybe he's just looking forward to this impromptu little encounter.

Quickly, he pulls the keycard and it's little envelope from his pocket and hands it over towards her. "Room 437," he reads from the little piece of paper, memorising it for himself.

"You head up, I won't be long." And on that, he turns aside and quickly heads back to the pub. He can't afford a full bottle of the wine he brought her by the glass, so it's a house white this time. He pays for it and tucks it into his jacket before turning back. Outside the rain is heavier than ever, and in the short walk between the pub and the hotel he's practically soaked through. Still, not to matter, and he heads quickly to the lift and up towards the room, rapping gently on the door when he gets there.

As James hurries off to do just that, Melody heads up to room 437. Slipping the key card in, she steps into the modestly sized room. It's a little basic, but recently decorated, and certainly not something to turn her nose up at.

Alone, she feels a little more sure of herself, and she steps into the bathroom to try and neaten hair that never wants to be neatened. An extra spray of perfume is assessed before she plucks a lipstick from her bag and tops it up. Not that she needs to do any convincing now, but she ought to look her best.

Stood there, she watches her reflection in the mirror, seeming to notice all her flaws in the harsh bathroom light. She doesn't understand what he sees in her. She wonders if he expects this to be a fleeting one off. Grab an older woman for a fling and then never speak again. Put like that, it doesn't sound so assuring, but if she tells herself that all she wants too? Then it doesn't seem so bad. It's just not going to be the kind of encounter she tells her friends about - unless she's really drunk.

Stood there, she wonders if she should change. Not her clothes, they don't matter, but she's sure she has a nicer bra in her suitcase. One that shapes her bust much more pleasingly, but she realises it probably won't be on for long and she rolls her eyes at such silly thoughts.

It's just then that the door knocks and she jumps, startled by his arrival. Calming herself, she fixes one last look in the mirror and with a final pep talk to herself, she takes a deep breath and goes to open the door.

He stands outside the door for a moment, glancing back out along the corridor. He wonders for a second if she might not have come up. He'd understand if she changed her mind. But that possibility is quickly disproved when he hears movement inside and the door opening.

Standing tall, he takes his hands from his pockets, and pulls the bottle from out of its place in his jacket.

"Still cold," he tells her with a smile. "Got them to get me one from the fridge."

He can see that she's reapplied her lipstick, smell the renewed perfume, but then that's hardly unusual. Women, he's found, always seem to get the most nervous about the way they look when it's the most obvious he likes them. Strange, that.

Stepping into the room, he glances around. Not too bad a room, especially for a Travelodge. A bit cold but they'd soon fix that. He looks around, no glasses, but a couple of mugs. He frowns a moment before stepping and turning into the bathroom, pulling out two small plastic cups wrapped in a plastic bag.

"These'll do," he says, setting them out before shrugging out of his leather jacket. Underneath, he's wearing a faded baggy t-shirt with David Bowie emblazoned on it. He has a necklace around his neck, and the rolled up sleeves show the muscles of his arms.

Reaching for the bottle of wine, he twists the cap (luckily it doesn't have a cork), and pours some into each of the plastic cups.

"You get comfy," he tells her. "I'm just going to grab a towel." His hair is dripping wet, and his feet practically squelching in his shoes, so quickly he disappears and emerges a moment later, boots tugged off and throw to the side and a towel around his neck which he rubs his hair with.

The door opens to reveal him stood there, drenched by the rain and somehow looking all the better for it. She laughs a little as she steps out of the way, watching as he shrugs out of his leather jacket. The look she gives him tries to be discreet, even though there's no need for it. Very soon she could be looking at all of him.

Taking one of the plastic cups, she tilts it aside slightly as she studies it. Her smiles fades somewhat as it seems to symbolise all that's happened and going to happen. Quick, convenient, unplanned.

Perching on the bed, she tries to get rid of the bitter thought with a large gulp of wine, which would've helped more had she not immediately recognised it's value.

She tells herself it doesn't matter. Little things like that don't mean anything, and if she can stick this through, nothing else will mean anything for the rest of the night. And isn't that an enlightening thought?

His footsteps sound and she looks up again, giving him a smile as he tries to dry out his hair.

"Here," she says, standing up and bringing him his cup. "Think you need this."

"Thanks," he says, giving his hair another quick rub with the towel before discarding it off to the side, dropping it down against a wooden luggage rack. He reaches out and takes the cup, giving it a quick sip.

But the drink soon earns a distasteful look, and he coughs, a noise turning into a laugh. "Christ this is awful," he says, still laughing. "Drink it quicker and you'll never notice, right?"

He shudders at it a bit though as he takes another swig, and moves about the room, settling himself down on the edge of the bed, lifting his feet up and crossing them in front of him, casual and relaxed. Maybe it's less unfamiliar for him.

"So right then," he says, not attempting to push this to a new place just yet. "You ask me a question, and I'll answer it truthfully. Any question, anything at all. Then I'll ask you one." He did this once in a team building class. "Call it a bit of a getting to know you thing."

She laughs when coughs, glad she's not the only one who thinks it's awful. It seems to relax her a bit, and she nods, making a point of knocking the rest back in one swig. It does help, as does the amount of alcohol she's trying to consume.

Grimacing it down, she watches as he goes to sit, seeming much more as ease than she is. She'd thought they'd get down to business and just as quickly say goodbye. That almost seems easier to deal with.

This part? The talking? That makes it a little more personal and she wonders why he's doing it. If he just wants a shag out of her, why bother with this?

Curious, it seems he's opened the floor for questioning at the right time, and she considers her words as she walks over to the dresser. She goes to refill her cup, speaking as she does so.

"Forgive me if I seem a bit new to all this, but.. why me?"

Why her, and not the pretty redhead behind the bar? Or the girl on reception? Or anyone that makes more sense than she does.

Is it because she's older, she's easy? It's possible, she knows that. And she also knows there's some truth in it.

For all the questions she could have asked, for anything at all she might have said, somehow she's picked the most easy thing to reply to.

He almost laughs, because it's obvious isn't it? Baffling that she can't see it.

"You're kidding, right?" he asks, smiling like she's about to tell him she's doing just that. "You have seen you?" After all, she's gorgeous, sexy, eye catching and incredibly compelling. Why not her? Why anyone else?

She looks back at him, his tone of voice catching her by surprise. She gives a small sort of laugh, raising her eyebrows at herself and shaking her head in a way that makes her curls bounce.

“Yes, I see me every morning in the mirror!” she replies, in a way that suggests she doesn’t think it’s as pretty a sight as he.

He might well see it for himself, but she’s already wondering if she should spare them both of that monstrosity and go home tonight.

It's baffling to him how she can seem so insecure. It's not who he sees. He feels like he knows somewhere deep down just how strong she is; a strong and wonderful woman with fire in her heart. He'd bet his life on it.

He'd opened the floor for questions, and by all rights it's turn for his own, he'd answered hers after all. But he doesn't speak, at least not at first. Instead he uncurls his legs and pushes himself up from the bed, standing and then taking a step towards her.

"Lucky you," he says, "seeing that face every morning." His tone has dropped a little, a little more intent as he steps closer towards her. His hand lifts, reaches out and settles ever so gently against her hip.

His fingers curl gently against her side before he speaks again. "It's okay," he tells her, "I know you're nervous. But you don't have to be. I'll be gentle. We can do this however you want. Whatever you want, and I won't do anything you don't want me to."

And then his question. "Sound good?"

Hearing the bed creak, she looks back in time to see James walking towards her. Her breath seems to falter slightly as he stops in front of her and she feels his hand go to her hip. Silenced, she looks up at him, engrossed by what he was saying, or more accurately, the way his voice sounds when he speaks.

His reassurance does help, not that she’d doubted any of what he was saying, and she nods slowly in response. It really does seem he means this, that he sees her as not an easy catch, but perhaps a difficult one, one he’d have to try hard for. That gives her a little more confidence, and she begins to smile in a way that would’ve once been familiar.

“Yeah,” she replies, glancing over him at this close proximity, over his face and down to the neck of his shirt. “That sounds good.”

The hand on her side grips just a little firmer. His eyes rake over her, watching her, drinking her in, doing anything but hiding the way he looks at her.

Her agreement makes him smile, just a little, and it's that that brings that same hand up a little, sliding along her side before slipping away to move elsewhere. Her hair has been pinned back, that magnificent hair, and instinctively it's there he reaches first, gentle fingertips curled slightly as they touch the edge of her curls and reach around behind her head as he talks.

"But equally," he starts slowly, finding one of the pins in her hair with deft movements (it's almost like he's done this sort of thing before). "Anything you do want me to do, I will. Anything at all."

Carefully, he pulls the pins back, freeing her hair from its restraints, his fingers pressing into the curls to rearrange them and let them fall more freely.

"You're in control here," he tells her. He wants her to know that. He knows she's nervous, and he gets it. But this isn't about getting a quick fix, it's not about a notch on a bedpost, it's never that, and he can see that she might need a little more delicacy, at least at first.

"What you say goes." A promise as his eyes flick over her again, a smile at her newly freed hair.

"Much better," he tells her.

Melody can barely take her eyes off him as he speaks, feeling his fingers carefully removing the pins out of her hair. She feels the weight of her curls slip forward, hanging more naturally, a little more voluminous from being help up all day. He’s saying all the right things, reassuring that small voice in her that isn’t used to taking risks, that isn’t known for spontaneity.

She’s all planning and diaries and always on time. She isn’t this. But maybe, tonight, she can be. Maybe that’s what she needs. For so long she’s lived her life by some kind of rules, when she was the only one who had made those rules in the first place. Maybe tonight, those rules would be broken.

“What about you?” she then asks softly, her voice having dropped to a low note, encouraged by their proximity and the way he holds her. “What do you want?”

Edited 2014-09-17 14:25 (UTC)

He doesn't answer at first, too enthralled by simply watching her. His head is tilted down and his lips parted a little.

While his one hand still sits against her hair, his other is now on her other hip, his body a little closer and his breath a little more drawn. The touch shifts, sliding inside her cardigan that falls gently open, his touch pushing it aside a little, hand raising.

He's not ripping her clothes off, not pushing her up against a wall, it's not some drunken hurried rush of bodies against bodies. Two fingers curl against the soft silk of her blouse, and his eyes flick down to where the buttons meet. His gaze moves back to hers, just a moment, before back to the buttons as with one hand he carefully begins to open it.

"Me?" he says eventually. "Isn't that obvious? I want you." He knows it isn't really what she was asking, but it's the answer she's going to get.

Her eyes drop downward when she feels his hand slide over the silk of her blouse, coming to the topmost button. The sensation of that button coming undone seems to trigger something in her, an understanding, and she breathes a little heavier at something so simple.

She can feel it all building, the desire between them, the anticipation, all while knowing just how long it had been since she'd been with someone like this. And yet never like this.

"You barely even know me," she whispers softly, almost frowning as she looks up at him. They don't have the same connection she's shared with other partners, an understanding of each other before it becomes anything more. Their connection is a different emotion entirely, one she doesn't quite understand. She hasn't felt like this in quite some time. Perhaps ever.

With one button open his fingers drift lower, another getting the same treatment as the first, enough to give room for a hand to slip past the fabric, should he so chose to do that.

His eyes glance down again, taking in the bra beneath her blouse, plain, functional, a little off white and covering most of her skin. But it's what lies beneath it that he's more interested in.

Her question brings a wry smile to his lips. He doesn't know her, no, barely knows her at all. He can't even remember her last name, but isn't that just a little bit exciting? She has no idea who he is, not really, and nor he about her. But the best books are the ones without covers, the ones who's pages are a mystery to be discovered.

"I think we're getting a little better acquainted," he says as his hand slips inside her blouse and inside her bra too, his fingers sliding over her breast, feeling the soft supple skin beneath.

"And anyway, who said we have to do things in the right order?"

She lets out an unsteady breath when his hand slips into her bra, the touch seeming to lull her eyes closed. She exhales softly as she stands there, summoning up the strength to open her eyes again and look up at him, meeting that gaze with a meaningful one of her own, determined. Determined to get what she wants, despite her uncertainty.

His words twist her smile somewhat, and she blinks up at him, repeating them in her head. They sound so familiar to her, like a strange sense of deja vu. But then Melody has a habit of remembering strange things, and she dismisses her thoughts. It means nothing.

"We don't," she replies, shaking it off by concentrating on him, doing so with a little more confidence. He's bringing it out of her now, and she smirks a little as she brings her hands towards his waist, eyes wandering him appraisingly. After all, he's quite the catch himself.

"So where would you like to start?"

Edited 2014-09-17 21:38 (UTC)

Her question makes him laugh. With his hand in her bra, he thought maybe they'd already done that. Oh she's going to be a tricky one, isn't she? He has no doubt she'll keep him on his toes.

His hand palms her breast a little more firmly, less gentle than the initial steps, pushing tighter into her bra, thumb over her nipple and flicking against the skin.

"I think I already have," he tells her, voice low and breathy. He moves up against her a step, making her step back once, the edge of the desk meeting the back of her thighs. He leans in further, tilting his head down, his lips seeking out her skin and finding it as he slowly begins to kiss her neck.

As his hand still grabs at her breast, his other moves to continue opening the buttons of her blouse, only half giving it attention as his lips move over her skin.

It had been a worthwhile tactic, and she chuckles as she finds herself being backed into the desk, feeling his actions turn all the more amorous. Somehow she had guessed he was a man who liked to prove his worth.

Leaning her head back, her eyes fall closed against as he kisses at his neck. She tries to come to terms with all that's happening, the many incredible ways in which he is touching her right now. This whole thing is madness, of course. But what a delicious madness it is.

"So you have," she approves throatily as she lets her head fall back some more, already breathless from his actions and easily wrapped up in his touch.

There's something in the way she laughs that he finds utterly thrilling. He can't pin it down, can barely recognise it's there, but he knows he wants her, and knows with each passing moment he wants her even more.

With his urgency to open her blouse, one of the buttons pops off in the process, but he doesn't care or notice, he'd gladly rip every shred from her if she'd let him.

The fabric now freed, he lets his hand pull back from her bra, hurried movements shoving her blouse back from her shoulders, her cardigan falling with it too, letting her do the rest as it slides along her arms. Both hands then around her, hurriedly working on the bra clasp that comes quickly free (it's not his first bra). Only then as it slips away does he allow his lips to stop their trail against her skin, his head drawing back a little to look down at her newly exposed body. One hand reaches to grasp about one of her breasts, and he lets out a slight hiss of a breath.

"Oh you've got incredible tits," he tells her.

She gives a small gasp of surprise when she realises one of the buttons has popped off her her blouse, part of her about to start looking for it, thankfully a bigger part of her realising its insignificance. Insignificance to the fact that he was taking off said blouse, and everything else.

Her arms pull to free themselves from the clothing, it soon fluttering to the desk behind her. Barely a second passes and he's working at her bra, and she's almost dizzy with how fast everything is progressing. To go from no touch at all, to all this, is almost too much to bear. She gasps and tries to focus herself, realising soon enough that her bra is now gone too and she looks down to find him gripping at her breast.

"Oh, God," she manages to utter under her breath, her eyes lifting to look up at him again, staring at him with something akin to wonder, before she launches forward off the desk, grabbing at the shirt he's wearing and making quick work of it, yanking it up and over his head.

Edited 2014-09-17 22:07 (UTC)

The spurt of her action has him feeling almost vindicated. A smirk spreads across his face as he shifts, lifting his arms for her to make light work of his tshirt.

"Oh I knew it," he says, mostly to himself. He knew she wasn't all gentle and uncertain. He sees a fire in her, in those eyes, she controls it well perhaps, but it's there.

"I'm gong to fuck you so hard, you know that?" he promises, stepping back against her once more, pushing her back again to the table. His hand reaches back to grasp for her breast once more, the touch hardly gentle as his head lowers and lips close around her nipple, tongue flicking eagerly over the skin. There's a noise, almost a groan, and his head pulls back a little.

"God these are amazing," he mumbles. "I want to come on these. Come so hard all over your tits." His head lifts again, eyes on hers, a glint in his own. "If you'll let me."

Her hands fall to rest on the heat of his bare back, on which she can still feel the damp of his shirt. Her grip tightens as he speaks, her breaths still shaking and her eyes a little wide. She's never been touched like this, never been spoken to like this, and it's so exhilarating, so wrong, that it's dizzying.

She moans breathlessly as his mouth devours her breast, her hand coming up to grip the back of his head, holding him to her as her body shifts needfully against the desk behind her.

"Y-you.. you really want to do that?" she mumbles through a gasp, her thoughts sidetracked by visions of everything he says, hardly able to keep up with what's happening.

"Oh you bet I do," he confirms. "God I'm so hard just thinking about it."

He looks at her, his eyes down to watch his hand as it kneads her breast between his fingertips, clearly enjoying the task, but equally mindful that she does too.

"What would you like?" he asks quietly. "Do you want to go to the bed? Do you want my head between your legs? Do you want me to fuck you? You tell me."

It's her opportunity, he won't shove her on the bed and get carried away, he remembers how she said it had been a long time, he remembers how uncertain and nervous she seemed. Even if she doesn't answer, he has to give her the chance.

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