ikissdhimbck | OOM: Room #100 -- for Tommy Gavin

She tilts her cheek against him, letting his long hair tickle her skin. A line forms between her brows.

"You accompanied me t'Carlotta's weddin' already. We could go as friends."

Two invitations in as many minutes? It's odd, like he's rushed for something. Like he wants to keep her near. Like he can't get close enough. She holds him, uncertain in his embrace.

"I might not make a very good companion. I don't do much 'round the holidays."

She brushes his temple with her lips, and pulls back.

"But, I — I could try."

Friends.

Yeah, they're friends. But anybody who looks at them when they're near each other can see that they're a lot more than just friends.

As she voices her reservations, he plants more kisses up the side of her neck, inhaling her scent, indulging in the softness of her skin--

And then he picks his head up and meets her eyes. He doesn't know why she's suddenly withdrawn -- he had her just a few moments ago, before he asked her to come to New York. He thought she'd be excited about it.

But he nods, one of his hands sweeping up and down her back.

"Okay. Trying is good."

He smiles a little, his mouth close to hers.

She shivers.

Her smile is wan when he catches her eyes, her kiss quick and careless. She is excited about New York. It's just the timing.

And — other things they haven't talked about.

However, she's not going to offer up the discussion if he isn't going to ask, and so she takes a breath to settle her nerves and gives herself a little shake, making her smile a little wider. She gives him another peck, and slides off his lap.

"So what happened t'me gettin' everythin' I deserve, hm?"

He's relieved to see her smile again. It always seems that way -- if she loses the will to smile for whatever reason, he tries to bring it back. He's not always successful, but he tries.

They're both trying. And they have the whole night to catch up and figure things out.

But as of this moment, Tommy has some big talk that he has to make good on.

With a spreading grin, he leans in toward her, his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips.

"Hmmm," he purrs thoughtfully, his breath hot on her cheek as he skims his lips along her jaw. Shifting his position, he eases her down on her back, and her hair spills over the edge of the bed. He looms over her, just taking in her jewel-blue eyes, the delicate curve of her lips.

And then he bends down to press his mouth to her skin, starting at her pulsepoint; moving lower to the pit of her throat; and lower, to each breast, her belly, and beyond, until he covers her entire body with the kisses he would've given her had time and space not separated them.

This is easy.

It's comfortable.

She smiles as he hems her in, hands by her hips, the warmth of his skin jumping to hers without them ever needing to touch. And then he lowers her to the bed, and she breathes a quiet, gentle laugh into his skin.

She's ready to explore. To find every sweet spot, to touch every inch of him. Only, he has the idea first, and she bites her lip as he descends her body, arching as he scatters kisses across her breasts, squirming when his lips close over her hipbone.

She hasn't shed her shyness, not entirely, and this is something new — her legs draw together a little more modestly, her breathing quickens, her eyes follow his trek. Watching him, curious, nervous, and raw.

It's pretty easy to tell what her comfort levels are at this point. Tommy had already figured she wouldn't be ready for what he plans to do -- at least, not right this second. She might take some warming up first. He can work with that.

So he changes tack. His lips and tongue travel back upward to linger at her navel, then further up again to give her breasts more thorough attention, the fringe of his hair sweeping over her skin with every tilt of his head. Meanwhile one of his hands caresses the inside of her thigh. His touch is sure and firm through her nervousness.

As much as it's a new experience for her, going slow isn't something Tommy does very often.

No, and the foreplay surprises her, to be honest. She never has to ask for anything — he's quick to offer, and attentive enough to what she wants on his own. But she hasn't yet figured out what it means to be vocal in bed.

Her stomach jumps, and she's forced to swallow back laughter with every sweep of his hair in sensitive places. She's not wholly successful, grin plastered across her face, choked chuckles shaking her shoulders. She runs her hands through his hair, closing her eyes to the touch of his hand.

"Where y'goin', Fireman?"

It's whispered half tongue-in-cheek, a little playful, a little curious. She arches against him, head lolling to one side.

Her giggles make his lips curl; she'll feel it against her skin.

"Anywhere you want, Cowgirl."

He means it. It's in his insistent, indulgent kisses; in the press of his fingertips as he slips his hand even further up her thigh.

Anything she wants -- everything she deserves.

Her body language is one way to take his cues, but sometimes he has to hear them. Good thing that he takes direction in bed really well.

She chuckles breathlessly, catching the inside of her lip between her teeth.

"But you're so far away."

She gazes down at him, mussing his hair; humming as his hand steadily inches higher. She bends a knee, leg grazing his ribs.

"What d'you think you're gonna do down there?"

She must be asking in jest.

"Oh, not much," he murmurs casually as he plants a trail of kisses back down the center of her belly, her skin so deliciously smooth like warm cream. "Only make you feel so goddamn good that you'll forget your own name."

Her breath hitches.

"S'that so."

Breathless and amused, curious and hopeful.

When his tongue grazes her low belly, her skin jumps.

"But wh–what are y'doin'?"

"Um."

Okay, that actually sounded like a legitimate question.

Bewildered, he raises his head a bit, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

"I'm..."

Holy crap, does she really not know?

"I'm gonna go down on you, if that's okay?"

There's nothing but confusion in her cloudy blue eyes.

"You're ... gonna what?"

Oh.

Oh, wow. Okay.

This has never happened before.

Does he actually have to explain? Oh god, he so does not want to explain.

He props himself up on an elbow, his other hand curled around her thigh.

"I'm just gonna-- y'know-- It's simple, really, if you noticed where I was going-- d'you see what I mean? Although if you don't want me to do it, I can do something else."

Probably not the best clarification, but he hopes she gets what's implied.

"Tommy."

She should probably find some ease in the fact that he, too, looks like a rabbit caught in a hawk's talons, but his surprise only stokes her own.

"You mean — ? You — oh, gosh. I don't — with your ... ?"

She props herself up on her elbows, turning crimson.

"That's a — thing?"

"Um-- yeah."

A beat.

"I mean, it ain't a-- a thing for everybody, but-- well, I'm good at it, if that's any help."

Another beat.

"Though if you're not into it, I can totally do whatever else you want me to do. I just thought, y'know, you might really like it."

"Um."

She probably looks like one of his shiny firetrucks, chin tucked toward her chest, eyes downcast. He's deferring to her, and she has no idea what to do with that.

"I've never — I mean, I–I didn't know there was different ways of — more ways'n we've already — that's–that's all I've ever ... "

She'd laugh if she didn't feel so foolish.

Her voice drops conspiratorially, as if there are others listening in and she's sharing something meant only for his ears. Or, perhaps, she's halfway hoping he won't hear her at all.

"I'm not used t'callin' the shots in bed."

And he might look a little annoyed and impatient with her inexperience, with his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. But he's just thinking.

Changing tack again. This is going to take some imagination.

"Alright."

He gets up and slides off the bed. Striding across the room, he grabs her white Stetson off the hook and comes back, holding it out toward her.

"Put this on."

She bends her knees, draping an arm across her breasts when he leaves her. Manufacturing modesty in the cold room.

Her eyes never stray from his when she takes the hat, cautious fingertips and confused eyes. She sits up, running her good hand through her hair, and settles the Stetson on her head.

He lies down across the bed, flopping onto his back. Looking up at her with a challenging gleam in his eyes, he then says,

"Get up on me. Look, you call the shots in every other aspect of your life, don'tcha? You're a goddamn outlaw, honey. Show me you can do what you want and enjoy yourself while you're doin' it."

She eyes him over her shoulder, mouth pulling into a smile. The challenge makes her chortle — a quick, amused scoff — turning away to shake her head.

When she turns back, there's a spark to match her crooked lips.

"Y'want me t'take advantage of you?"

She's back to quiet playfulness, teasing, ribbing. Rolling onto her hip, she crawls astride him.

"And you're okay with that?"

"Yes! Please! Take advantage of me anytime you want."

He stares up at her, skimming his palms up her thighs.

"Tell me what to do..."

Raising himself up onto his elbows, he doesn't break his gaze.

"Push me around..."

He sits up, cupping her cheek in one hand, bringing his lips close to hers.

"Rough me up..."

His eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth pulls back.

"--If you can."

Darkening eyes shift between his narrowed gaze and his mouth, mirth teasing the corners of her lips.

She's the captured mustang, and he just knocked down the whole damn pen.

Tilting her head, pushing back her hat, she steals a kiss. It's slow and thorough, answering his every challenge. She pushes him to the bed, hovering over his body.

"I think I can manage that."

Her smile is molasses. The leather tie from her hat traces his windpipe; hair, breasts, ghosting over his skin. This kiss is rougher, though no less thorough. Her teeth drag at his lip when she pulls away, voice husky.

"Don't. Move."

He doesn't reject the outlaw, and so the outlaw is what he will get. Rope, and grit, and steel; strong hands, and strong thighs. She wanted to know what made him tick, and so she'll draw the answers out of him with every inch of her body.

He would dance a jig of joy if not for the fact that, well, he's flat on his back with a cowgirl on top of him, kissing him like she wants to eat him up. Her forcefulness thrills him. The tickle of her hair, the warmth of her breasts, the sting of her teeth make him want more.

In the shadow of her broad-brimmed hat, his eyes still gleam with a certain defiance at her order to stay put. Just to make her work for it. Just to push her as far as he dares.

There's a joke — or maybe a taunt — in there somewhere about not making her work too hard. It's enough work as it is getting excited when he's all impatience. However, seeing as how she's too nice to tease him like that, all he'll earn himself is wild frustration and a stubborn will if he pushes her too hard.

He will stay put.

Or else.

She's standing by the table in the corner of her room almost half an hour later, wearing nothing but her blouse (buttoned just enough to cover what's important, hem just grazing the tops of her thighs), and that Stetson. Watching him, a pleased smirk hanging off her lips, ankles crossed in leisure. She nurses a bottle of juice.

Her throat's sore.

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