OOM: Milliways Room 15

[luvs_yogurt]

After their quick walk, Michael let Emma lead the way back to the bar. He hasn't been up to his room since the apocalypse, but unsurprisingly it's exactly as he'd left it - looking vaguely like every single mid-range hotel room in Miami. A comfortable double bed occupies the center of the room with a small table and two chairs off to one side. Immediately beside the table is a minifridge on top of a small counter sporting a two-cup coffee maker and an unopened bottle of whiskey with two fresh tumblrs. Along the other side of the room is a small closet that Michael hopes still has a fresh change of clothes and assorted odds and ends he needed at one point or another.

"Feel free to make yourself at home," he smiles as he unlocks and then pushes open the door. "It's not much, but it's private and comfortable."

Pacing inside, he does a visual check on autopilot - confirming everything is where it should be (the whiskey being a nice and welcome touch, the bottle had been empty and wine the last time he left) and no nasty surprises were waiting.

"Do you mind if I..." he's already shouldering off his dirty, torn jacket; "put on something a little less destroyed?"

Comments

[luvs_yogurt]

Part of the beauty of not looking for anything is that it's really hard to be disappointed when things don't pan out a certain way.

He knows the dance, when flirtation takes a bold step to potential - feeling each other; asking the silent questions and giving away answers. He's played it entirely too many times, casually chatting up a mark - a few special touches and the right words to get what he wants. When it's for real? He's back to being awkward teenager that doesn't know if he's doing the right thing. He doesn't want to play her, that'd be sleazy and not at all who he actually is.

Swallowing hard, he forces back the spy, the training, the urge to lead her through the steps. It's all real, and if the awkward chuckle that closes his throat is any indication - he hasn't been real like this in a long time.

"Questions count." He murmurs, I guess if I was trying to flirt in Russia, I could always say; 'You could keep my bed warm all winter.' But, uh... I'm not and that would be a little inappropriate."

He subconsciously brushes against her hand again; "I'm a fan of kissing before implying... Bed warming."

[notinthebook]

"Wow."

It's hard to keep her voice light when her chest feels this tight, but she does her best. "Those Russians don't mess around."

Her fingers loosen on her tumbler, but she doesn't move them, because she doesn't know where to move them to. This would be one thing if they'd just met at the bar and were guaranteed never to see each other again: whatever he might think, she's got nothing against picking someone up for a night.

It's just that she knows him now, and she likes him, and this kind of thing can get...messy.

And she's never been great with cleaning up her own messes.

(The problem with sticking to one-night stands is that if you take the time to get to know and like the guy first, it's a whole hell of a lot harder keeping it to one night.)

Whiskey's fogged her brain -- that, and the way she feels like she's running hot and cold all at once. Would it be so bad to take him up on that tentative offer, feel like someone wants her for once, take a little comfort and fun after a long, hard day that's left her feeling bruised and kicked?

But doesn't Michael deserve better than that?

Her smile is all nerves. "I've got to be honest. This is...not what I came up here for."

It's not a shutdown. It's almost encouragement, even. There's something there that's almost a question and almost an invitation, but that brash exterior of hers is gone, wiped away in the face of utter uncertainty.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael's spent the majority of his life relying on measured conversations; from how far he can push his Dad before getting hit to how much information he can get out of a drug lord before it's obvious he's not going to kill them; it's all the same. Just like feeling out a girl that has probably been hurt by moving into the zone between people you like and people you sleep with. They aren't always mutually exclusive, but things are easier when they are.

"I think if it was we'd both be wearing considerably less clothing right now." It's an honest answer, there were chances; maybe not the best ones but if she had made a move he'd be hard pressed to say he would turn it down. Then again... With the ball more or less comfortably in his court there's no saying it couldn't change.

Slowly looking back up from the their anxious hands, he swallows back his own uncertainty and asks; "What would happen if I did kiss you, Emma?"

It's definitely a question.

[notinthebook]

It's a good question, and one she doesn't have a good answer to, because she doesn't know.

(She does know that she really shouldn't, unaccountably, feel a little guilty right now.)

She feels a little light-headed, from booze and this problem she seems to be having with breathing correctly, and when he looks up at her, she stares at him for a moment with wide eyes before looking down to where his fingers are just the barest warm touch against hers.

"Hard to say."

She wets her lip, looks back up with a tiny smile that's got just a shade of the challenges she'd issued before. "You could find out."

[luvs_yogurt]

Cards on the table, ladies and gentleman - all in.

He probably should hesitate, take another drink, ask himself why he wants it so bad and why this girl has him so wound up. But it's there and her eyes are giving away her own reluctance despite the tiny vixen smile. There's only one way to find out.

Michael's fingers slowly unfold over the top of her hand, cupping it as though if he were somehow tender enough it would communicate that he doesn't want to hurt her, that no matter what happens he considers her an ally. Confident, but wary, he uses his other hand to gently tilt her chin towards him.

The kiss is brief, nearly chaste, the gentlest brush of lips and the tip of his tongue tasting the shared whiskey and lipstick. It stills him for a long moment, his gut knotted with the familiar tug of restrained arousal.

He wants more, to touch her and taste her and he knows its a dangerous road but one hell of a ride. Instead, he surrenders to her - where Michael the spy would have pushed her back against the table, pushing through the wall of awkward uncertainty to what he wants - Michael the man waits, holding his breath until she let's him know he's not the only one.

[notinthebook]

The first thing she notices is that his hand is really warm and it feels nice, slipped gently over hers. The next is that when he leans close, those blue eyes of his are nearly dizzying.

After that she doesn't have time to notice anything except how it feels when he kisses her.

If anything, it's good to know he's as unsure about all this as she is: this isn't like hooking up with a flirtatious stranger, there's none of the immediacy and passion disconnected from herself. This is personal, like he doesn't think she's just some nice piece of tail, like he likes her, thinks she's worth being cautious.

It's a nice feeling, and it's a nice kiss.

Better than nice, really. He tastes like whiskey and it's damn near as addictive as the drink itself. Coils tie themselves tight in her stomach, and goosebumps race over her bare arms, and when he breaks away, she leans forward with her hand curling around the back of his neck to kiss him again.

This might be a bad idea, but it sure as hell feels like a good one.

[luvs_yogurt]

He likes her. He likes her a lot. Enough that when she kisses him again he doesn't feel the gentle touch on the burn at the back on neck, only the weight of her palm drawing him in.

Michael Westen is a man of restraint, grace under the worst kinds of pressure, and putty in the hands of a certain kind of girl. He's had two women in his life that could seal him in a kiss; and he's increasingly sure Emma just may be the third.

"Emma..." He groans against her mouth, letting his hand fall away from her chin to stroke straight down her back to rest at her waist. Without waiting for reply or permission, he pulls her toward him - deepening their kiss until he can feel the bruising of his lips.

The steady throb building inside isn't fair, like the raised pulse and dilated pupils.

[notinthebook]

He's not going to get any argument from her if he wants her closer. His hand is firm at the small of her back and when she slides to the edge of her chair, their knees knock together until she slips one of hers between his, but while these chairs are fine for the sort of chaste, uncertain kiss this started out as, her blood is beginning to run hot and there's really only so close they can get without moving.

Her hand lifts from beneath his to rest on his shoulder as her fingers thread up through the short hair at the back of his head. The rough edge to his voice strikes like a match against sandpaper, sparking a dull explosion where her stomach is all knotted and tense.

When this one breaks, her breath is coming hard and unsteady and her eyes are wide and a little dazed, her cheeks flushed. He's close enough that she can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the scar by his eye.

"I guess we can rule out punching," she says, breathless, a smile fighting to break free.

[luvs_yogurt]

He sure feels like he's been sucker punched in the best way possible, the sort of assault that leaves your body aching and your pulse throbbing.

A wild smile crosses his lips, coupled with a breathless laugh; "Yeah, good... I was a little worried you might when I did this..."

Both of his large hands easily find the small of her back and then sweep her off the edge of the chair. Braced underneath her thighs, he hefts her up without losing momentum, turning her toward the bed only a few feet away in the small room.

She's solid, soft and feminine and the weight of her against him drives him even harder than it had when it was Fiona's thin, angular form. His fingers dig gently into her, and it's all he can do to stay focused on getting her down to the bed instead of how badly he wants to touch and trace her curves.

"Still no punching?" He murmurs, taking tentative steps toward the double bed - his intent obvious.

[notinthebook]

She can't help the startled noise she makes when he pulls her off and up, hiked up against his hips with her hand tight at the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder -- it's been a hell of a long time since anybody picked her up like she was some kind of damsel in distress.

Not that this is exactly headed that direction.

She's not a small girl; she's tall and long-legged and there's plenty of muscle on her slim frame, but she guess if anybody's going to be able to toss her around, it's going to be a guy like Michael, who is, as it turns out, just about all lean muscle under those elegantly cut suits.

"I make no promises," she warns, but it's not like they've got a long way to go. The whiskey and surprise are making her head spin, and the best way she can think to make the room stop swirling around her is to kiss him again, lips parting, tasting the alcohol on his mouth.

(She remembers, vaguely, that she'd thought this was probably a bad idea, but it's hard to stay focused with her head fuzzy with drink and his hands on her legs and his body pressed up against hers.)

[luvs_yogurt]

Definitely not a damsel in distress, it takes a strong woman to wind him up like this. He lets out a low groan against her lips, digging into each increasingly needy kiss. It's been a long time since he's gotten even close to sleeping with someone, and he's feeling it acutely.

"God I want you... He whispers, his voice dropping even lower as he guided her down to the mattress.

Dizzy, drunk off kisses and cheap whiskey, he pushes himself on top of her. He keeps his stance open and to the side, knowing well enough how dangerous it can be to make a woman feel trapped. One hand braces him on his knees, straddling one of her thighs and the other boldly strokes up the fabric of her shirt to cup the curve of her breast.

"This is good?" He smiles dumbly, pressing another kiss to her lips before she can answer.

[notinthebook]

It is good. Headily so. And for a little while, she just lets herself get carried away by the pleasure of wanting and being wanted, that tight tension that wires itself all through her frame.

Is it such a bad thing to want to just lose herself in the feel of warm hands against her skin, kisses so deep and desperate that her breath comes ragged from them? Is it so damn bad to want to steal a little physical comfort after a day that's had her wound up, fear pushing at every single nerve in her body?

Lying like this, she's got leverage, and uses it; pushes at his shoulder and tugs her leg against his until he lands on his back and she's got both hands on his shoulders and her knees to either side of his hips.

She wants this. Him. After a day of being poked and prodded, needled constantly by Regina, he hasn't pushed once. He's a good guy.

That's what makes her pause, a breath away from kissing him again, her hair falling wild over her shoulder and her shirt askew as her eyes widen and search his face.

She lets out a shaking breath, shoulders slumping.

Crap.

She really likes him, too.

"I think this is a bad idea."

[luvs_yogurt]

When she pushes him, he doesn't resist; it would be simple to force her down - to take... Simple, and horrible. He's not that guy.

No, he's the guy the moans when she slams him down and sits so easily astride his hips. He's the guy that's breathless and digging painfully hard against his zipper.

And she's right. Every fiber of his body is demanding for her touch, to feel just a little more...

"I know," he whispers, closing his eyes and squaring his jaw to hold back the frustration."We're not thinking clearly."

He can practically hear Sam's voice beside him; 'Spent too long in the Army, brother - pretty sure you like jerkin' it in a cold shower more than women. She's hot, drunk and on top of you... Second guess or no, go for it.'

Thankfully he's never been hard up enough to follow the dating advice of a guy that thinks the good life is being a boy toy to middle aged women with more money than they know what to do with.

But damn if its easy. "I'm sorry, Emma..."

[notinthebook]

She sits back, letting out a long, heavy breath, rubbing a hand over her face as she frowns, hard, before swinging her leg over his and getting up. The floor feels unsteady and her head is still spinning, but at least she's not getting drugged off his kisses or his touch anymore, and she lifts a hand to stall his apology.

"No, it's fine. Look, I wanted this, too, but that doesn't make it a good plan."

Her hands go to her hips and she stares at the floor for a second, shoulders hunched, before looking back over at him with a wry, unhappy twist of a smile that goes nowhere near her eyes.

"I like you a lot. And you're better than just some drunken one-night stand, but you're not gonna get anything else from me, so better to just..." She slices a hand through the air in front of her, hip-level.

"Quit while we're ahead."

Her jacket's still where she left it, and she goes to the chair, slips it on, glancing at him.

"I should get going."

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael grinds the base of his palms against his eyes before forcing himself to sit up - staring straight at her. He's not disappointed, in a lot of ways she hasn't said anything he disagrees with.

"I don't know what you think I want from you, Emma..." He licks his lips, trying to form a sensible thought; "you don't owe me anything."

He means it to, whatever she's comfortable giving chances are he's in a similar place. But she likes him, and that's a whole lot more than he'd even bargained for.

"Look, you don't have to leave... I'm sure I can control myself..." Mostly. Pretty sure.

[notinthebook]

"I just think it's better to keep it friendly."

Friendly is simple, friendly doesn't confuse things the way sleeping with a friend does. They're well past the point where this would just be a random hook-up, and fun as it would be, she's not sure it's worth it.

She pauses midway through shrugging into her jacket; the leather feels stiff and cool after the heat of being all wrapped up in him. The glance she aims his way is quick, rueful, accompanied by a tiny smile.

"You're not the one I'm worried about."

Jacket on, she runs quick fingers through her hair, wincing when they catch on a tangle, and tilts a final, apologetic smile at him.

"See you around. Thanks for the drink. I'll, uh, show myself out."

It's just a few quick steps and then she's gone in a toss of blonde waves and a swing of the door.

[luvs_yogurt]

Kicking himself the slightest bit for letting her go, Michael forces himself out of bed to the partially empty tumblers, finishing his shot - and then reluctantly hers.

He knows that letting her go is the right thing to do, neither of them is in the right headspace to move past it without problems. That doesn't make it any easier, and its not the physical either.

A hard on can be dealt with by willpower or a few minutes of stimulation. Wanting to smell their soft blonde hair or wrap your arms around them... A bit more difficult.

Forcing back his frustration with himself for letting himself get attached at all, he poured out another triple and sat back in his chair - staring at the door as though something might change.