Suits in Sweaters

"I came here to get picked up."

Even though she couldn't meet his eyes, Stef knew, could feel it with her entire body, that this guy was glaring at her. Like he was mad. Like he didn't realize how much such an admission could work in his favour.

Stef was suddenly thankful for all the gin and tonics she had had that night. Otherwise, she doubted she'd still be in her seat at the bar, looking up at this guy like it was nothing, saying those words to him like it was something she did all the time. Stef did not talk to men like this. Men like this did not talk to her.

"No, you didn't."

His voice was low and scratchy but completely clear over the din of the club. Stef sat back a little bit. His amber eyes were too intense - way too cold for such a warm colour.

He sounded almost annoyed, and she could see a faint pulsing in the corner of his impeccably sharp jawline. She waited for him to continue but he remained quiet, looking at her intently. He moved only to brush off some suspiciously underaged, over-eager kid who was trying to squeeze behind him up to the bar. She watched him flick the kid away like it was nothing, and she felt her own spiky burst of irritation.

Stef had come here with a plan, and she intended to go through with that plan. All of her life she had been told, by herself most of all, that she didn't go after the things she wanted. Not hard enough, anyway. And here she was, looking unbelievable, being unbelievably forward, and this asshole shot her down with three words.

Stef was not pleased.

"Yes, I really did. Can't you tell? Is this dress not tight enough? A man like you looks like he'd know how to tell when a woman is looking to get picked up."

Shit. That is not something you say to strangers.

Thank god she didn't live here. In one week her placement would be over and she'd be able to go back to San Francisco, back to Piddles, back to Lula and the apartment. Back to real life. With her, she hoped, she'd bring a newfound sense of confidence, or at least a believable fake one, which she would in turn use to - she hoped - get an actual date.

Stef turned back to her empty gin and tonic, looking up and down the bar for Petie. She needed something to occupy her mouth, and, now, her mind. Nerves had made her ramble - as I do, Stef thought - and she may or may not have just insulted the big, beautiful slab of a man next to her.

She didn't feel too bad, though. The man really did look like he'd know all about women, especially whether or not they were willing to be seduced. She doubted he had much experience with the latter.

Stef almost wanted to laugh, he was so attractive. He had everything. Tall (at least 6'4), muscular (jacked, as her niece would say), and, worst of all, those stupid broad shoulders and thick forearms she was so fond of.

As close as he was, Stef had felt him stiffen at that last remark. A new type of tension wound itself around her stomach. Throughout the night Stef had been nervous. Down in this tacky hotel bar in this ridiculous makeup and these stunningly beautiful torture-chamber shoes, Stef was far from her element.

What she felt right now was entirely novel, a different type of nervous. Sitting next to this huge, dangerous-looking stranger, knowing she had at least minorly offended him, Stef's anxiety shifted within her. What was once a fuzzy feeling of insecure unease jumped quickly from a place of embarrassment to one of anticipation, melting and emulsifying. Stef had to look down into the mirrored bar to be sure she wasn't blushing.

"A man like me?" At least he didn't sound annoyed anymore. She registered this only dimly because as he spoke, his breath fluttered below her left ear, her hair tickling the delicate area.

Get it together! The tiniest part of her, the one resistant to both alcohol and lust, was screaming at her to hold onto some semblance of dignity. This man did not matter.

He was not what she was looking for tonight. Or ever, really. He was too good-looking, too aware of those good looks. This guy could ruin her. First in the good way, and then, inevitably, in the bad way.

Turning to face her fully now, he leaned a thick, hairy forearm on Petie's impeccably windex-ed bar. He nudged her with his knee, the dark denim rough against the delicate skin of her upper leg, just hard enough to be purposeful.

Stef fell for it. As soon as his leg touched hers, she jolted. Instinct pulled her gaze to exactly where he wanted. She stared at his thighs, bulging tightly as he perched on the tiny barstool. One of those thighs could support her entire weight, no problem. Stef was having difficulty not picturing it.

Swallowing, Stef channeled every bit of sense she had into an outer shell of indifference. Men loved excited vulnerability, and that's exactly how Stef felt. Excited and vulnerable. This one looked particularly alert, though. His eyes may have softened just a little bit, but Stef knew all about men like him. They were not to be encouraged.

"Tall, burly, broad-shouldered. You know!"

That wasn't what she had meant to say.

He didn't say anything. That little bump in his beautiful jaw, though, the stubbly one she wanted to bite, it tic'd a little, jumping once, then twice. She thought briefly about what would happen were she to lick him there. Would it still pulse? When she raised her gaze back to his, Stef swore his eyes had narrowed a bit.

Staring contests had never been a favourite of hers. "I know you know."

She did know he knew and had to roll her eyes at such a disingenuous exhibition of humility. Briefly, she played with the notion that he was, indeed, fucking with her - just on an entirely different level, one she wasn't privy to.

Now all she could manage was an internal eye roll. This dude was a stranger. He didn't matter at all.

She leaned down the bar, trying to get Petie's attention. "Petie!" She wanted to snap her fingers, but that would be rude. She whistled instead. "Come serve your legal customers!"

The bartender shot her a nod from down the bar, but continued to pour Patron for what Stef was sure were a pair of high schoolers.

All she wanted was a gin and tonic. It was not an unreasonable request. Some tonic, a fair amount of gin, a lime; there was a pile of them, right there, all wedged and sliced down the middle, just sitting on the plastic cutting board.

"Fucking men."

The big brute next to her actually laughed, and his scent rolled off him with the movement; clean laundry and expensive whisky. She wanted to tell him that she had thought he had left, but she knew he wouldn't believe her. Stef could feel him next to her, his composure a steady presence even in the jostling, sweaty bar.

He inhaled deeply, as if gathering himself. "You're done, anyway."

She snorted and crossed her legs, trying to make it as clear as possible that she wasn't about to go anywhere. He laid four twenties on the bar.

"I most definitely am not done. I told you, I came here for a reason." Stef jiggled the ice in her empty glass, waiting for him to leave. "It was nice meeting you, though!"

Trying to inject what she hoped was the distinct tone of dismissal into her voice, Stef turned once again to peer down the bar. Fucking Petie. She squared her shoulders and sat up straight, the move pulling her dress even higher up her thighs.

He would leave, she told herself, more determined than ever to find a new, non-insufferable man in this dirty club. One who wouldn't question her; one who take her home, fuck her, and leave. Someone younger, less intimidating. She needed this, and she was not about to let this hulking downer of an asshole, as hot as he was, ruin it for her.

"Petie!"

It came out a little bit more shrill than what she was going for.

This was fucking ridiculous. Tuck needed to get the fuck out of this skeezy shit-hole of club. He was just itching to throw the girl over his shoulder and haul her out without a second glance at Petie or his tacky bar. He watched the inbred bartender hit on a couple of teenagers while some bouncer, 250 pounds of more fat than muscle, led a stumbling young woman toward the back of the club.

He couldn't believe it when the Doc pulled into the parking lot of this slimy crater of a club. Looking her over for the millionth time, Pete moved his eyes from the strappy little stilts she wore on her feet to the creamy swath of thigh that extended from beneath her dress. The sparkly little scrap was shorter and tighter than anything he thought the Doc would even look at, let alone wear.

It was made of some shiny, deep purple colour, and had to be at least 6 sizes smaller than the scrubs she normally wore. Tuck's favourite detail, though, was the neckline. Plunging low enough for him to easily imagine licking his way down to it's lowest point, it was also just tight enough for him to picture his tongue moving between the tailored cups that hugged her pert little tits exactly the way he wished his hands could.

Shit. Tuck didn't even want to know what Gustavson would do if he could see the images cycling rapidly through his brain. His sexy little charge sat stiffly in front of him, determinedly ignoring his presence. Images of her bent over any number of objects were quickly replaced by those of castration; first flashes of the Captain gleefully cutting off his dick and then himself, hungry, homeless, cock-less, the victim of an abruptly cut-short career. Or - and this was most likely - dead in a ditch somewhere, shot dead by the Captain's goons.

As unappealing as these outcomes were, Tuck's self-imposed warnings were stifled as Stef leaned over the bar. While he tried to shove away the hazy, lust-driven thoughts that were currently clouding his judgment, he was only partly successful. An image of her lithe, taut form, naked and spread out along the mirrored bar, shimmered dimly in the back of his mind.

He watched her try to ignore him, her delicate shoulders tense as she fluttered a tiny hand again in Petie's direction.

"He seems a little busy."

Stef didn't have to look at him to know he was laughing at the way she jumped when she heard his voice. It was so close, so low and scratchy, that she swore she could feel it physically, his breath abrading her sensitive skin, her neck tingling long after his words drifted off.

His twenties still sat on the bar. Stef knew that, if her night was to go as planned, she had to put an end to this immediately. Putting her hands on the edge of the bar, she grabbed the cool, mirrored exterior, bracing herself.

"Look, I see what you're trying to do here. I'm very flattered - honestly - but I'm not interested. You're not my type. Not at all what I'm looking for. I'd say I was sorry, but with you looking the way you do, I really can't say I feel that bad. I'm sure you're not hurting for female attention."

She had started off strong; she swore to herself that her intentions were pure. She was even looking him right in the eye when she began her little tirade. It wasn't long, though, before she began to unravel. Somewhere along "not interested" her eyes had drifted down to his broad shoulders, and, eventually, much lower. From then on she was lost, only moderately successful in her attempt not to falter, her voice breaking and stumbling before she was even halfway through. By the time she was done, her gaze had dropped completely, fixated on her lap as her hands, entirely of their own volition, began to shred the paper napkin Petie had laid out upon her arrival.

"How do I look?" He sounded more amused than anything, if not a little deeper than before, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. His ruddy brown eyes stared fixedly behind her now, his gaze narrowing again. She wondered why he was scoping out the exit.

"You look like an asshole who won't take 'go the fuck away' for an answer." At the very least, her petty snap brought his attention back to her.

"You're completely right. I won't." She knew he noticed the flush in her cheek and the tremble in her hand as he held her gaze. He leisurely slid off of the barstool, his knees yet again brushing her legs as he stood, stretching in front of her to his full height.

Two big hands clamped possessively over her shoulders and before she could stop herself Stef shivered from heat of his grasp. "You're coming with me."

His low voice had hardened. But then she watched his gaze slide away from her, back to that same point in the back of the club. She took a large mental step back, her wits returning, tempering the lust pounding in her blood. She felt it in her veins, slowly swirling through her, making her tremble. It fucked with her neurons, made her feel weird and irrational.

"Nope." He still wasn't looking at her, but the grasp on her shoulders had tightened. Stef tried not to melt into him as he stood behind her, wanting desperately to prove to this stranger how much he did not effect her - as if the breathlessness in her voice was completely natural. "To be honest, you did this to yourself. Arrogance is only attractive in small doses. Nobody likes a heavy hand."

His grip eased as he began to rub her shoulders, his pressure firm as big, thick fingers brushed under the thin straps of her dress. "I think you like a heavy hand, Stefanie." His fingers dipped lower.

Stef caught his meaning immediately, looking up at him in what she hoped was a dry glare, desperate not to let him see the havoc he was wreaking on her. Under her dress, her nipples were hard and her panties were wet. It was taking every ounce of willpower she had not to arch her back and rub her tits against his chest while she ground her clit on the barstool.

She didn't even know this man, but she decided then and there that she hated him. This is exactly what she wanted, and while she refused to let him be the one to give it to her, she found that she could not bring herself to stand up and walk away.

His right hand began an ascent along her shoulder, winding up to the nape of her neck. Rough fingers glided gently over her skin, making her wonder what the sharp bite of his teeth would feel like. She felt his hand settle low at the base of her skull, fisting his hand at the nape of her neck, squeezing tightly and pulling her head back just far enough to scare her into looking right into his eyes.

Tuck watched a cavalcade of emotions play plainly across Stef's beautiful face. She was intimidated, yes, and he should have felt worse for knowing it, but she was also turned on. Really turned on. He knew she was wearing underwear - he had certainly looked hard enough at her tight little ass to be absolutely sure - yet still he could smell her hot, wet pussy. She really did like a heavy hand.

She actually bit her bottom lip, a sharp little incisor bearing down on the puffy red flesh as she she stared up at him. He had to bite back a smile as her eyebrows twitched, moving together as her eyes snapped wide open. While one part of him lamented the loss of her lust, the practical, task-oriented part was happy to have her full, untainted attention.

"How do you know my name?" He was grateful to have had her by the hair; she definitely would have bolted otherwise. As it was she sat perfectly still, her gaze narrowed as she looked up at him, her cheeks flushed and her lips full. Her breathing stayed surprisingly even.

Tuck couldn't help himself. He pulled down a little bit with the hand that was currently wrapped in what he was sure was the softest thing he had ever touched, baring her neck and resisting the urge to leave a mark on it. To anyone watching they looked like any other couple at the bar; horny and anxious to leave. He put his other hand on the side of her stomach, pushing gently and not at all failing to notice the way she shivered as he forced to her stand up.

"It's written in all caps at the top of your folder. We need to go."

The way his cheek rubbed roughly against her neck delayed her response a little bit, but eventually, Stef felt her alarm, already dampened by hormones and shots of Jameson, flood out of her. What followed was rage.

The delicious tugging she had shamefully been enjoying had disappeared and had reappeared in the form of a giant hand wrapped around her wrist. He stood behind her, pressing her up against the bar slowly as she struggled to regain freedom for her left arm. One night! All she had wanted was one night.

"Where's your jacket?"

"Not that it matters, because I'm not going anywhere, but I didn't bring a jacket."

Stef was tugging hard enough to pull her arm out of her socket, but he didn't appear to notice. He now had her completely sandwiched between the bar and his beautiful block of a chest. He had had his face buried in the crook of her neck while issuing his demands and fostering her now intimate acquaintance with Petie's bar, and Stef found herself suddenly missing the absence of the rough heat of his cheek on her collarbone.

She was drunk and horny enough to find herself wondering briefly how much chest-hair he had when the newly tense set of his annoyingly burly shoulders had her craning her neck to see what was up. Sure enough, he was scanning the crowd behind her. Wearing a sweater, definitely a suit.

"I'm not sure if my father told you, but I'm more than a file. Actually, I'm sort of a human. With rights. And the ability to make my own decisions. Like the decision to stay. And the decision for another gin and tonic. Petie!"