šµ š šø š« š·š¶ š» (jukejoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-07-24 15:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae, phantom |
Who: Sam and Neil
What: Almost-sex? And panicking.
Where: Cathouse
When: Just before the Memories Plot
Warnings/Rating: Drugs, language
It had taken Sam a good hour of pacing across her room at the Ranch to calm down about her conversation with Loren. She should have just stayed the fuck out of it, like Zee and Daniel had recommended and, in her defense, she had fucking tried. But Loren would have just gone looking for the information anyway, and she'd thought she was doing the right thing by not letting him hire a PI and get his ass arrested for crimes he didn't even remember. But then he'd mentioned some shit with a girl now, and it was all too close to home for Sam. So, yeah, pacing. She put onNorma, and she took two Blues, and she chased it all down with some cheap, domestic beer. Once the edge was off, she hunted through her closet for something that was the opposite of understated. And, yeah, so maybe she'd bought a few dresses before going to Simon's party. What the fuck of it?
Lip gloss and a good brush to her untamed tresses later, and Sam was in a cab on the way to Cathouse. Despite the anti-anxiety pills in her system, the heavy Doc Martens on her feet thrummed a beat against the back of the driver's seat, and she pointedly ignored the glares he kept shooting her through the rearview. She hadn't seen Neil since the morning after the fucking hotel, and she was nervous. She wouldn't admit that shit aloud, but there it was. She futzed with the neck of the dress, knowing the red-meshed over shoulder was a fuck you to the vivid scar that was visible beneath the fabric, but she was embracing Zee's idea of just letting the thing be seen, because it was better than the alternative, which was hiding. She wasn't going to hide. And it's not like there was any point, not when she kept almost chiseling people within an inch of their lives.
She popped the backup pill she had tucked in her shoe, leaving the baggie on the backseat as she exited the cab, and she paid the fare and shortchanged the tip. She was going to have to find new work, as well as a new place to stay, and she wasn't going to throw extra cash at the glaring cabbie. Fuck that.
Cathouse was loud and bold, and not at all what she expected from Neil. She arrived a half hour early, offered the doorman a great contact for a hit in order to bypass the line, and headed inside to spend the spare time getting used to the crowd, the noise, and the nearly-naked chicks dancing on tables. If she could get through this night without punching anyone, she would totally consider it a fucking success.
Neil liked knowing what he was getting himself into. It wasn't always possible, and all this Phantom door madness made predictability a lost concept, but that didn't change the comfort of familiarity and how he felt about it. Now, meeting Sam at the Cathouse, that was a whole lot of unknown, and he wasn't sure why he'd even suggested it save for the non boring aspect. There was no understanding of why, or what either of them were going to get out of the night, and Hell, sure, he was a little apprehensive. Maybe nervous might've been more fitting, but he wasn't going to admit that, not even to himself. He had no idea what she'd been up to since he'd last seen her, and okay, he might have followed every mention of this Daniel character in the journals with a sort of irrational jealousy he blamed entirely on Erik, but things had calmed lately. It was amazing how Erik's mood changed when Raoul wasn't around to torment him, and thoughts of Christine were guaranteed to put him in a good mood rather than make him want to die of heartbreak. Maybe it wouldn't last, but he'd enjoy it while it did.
As tempting as it was to have a whiskey or two for courage before the car showed up, Neil was very much sober when he arrived at the place, his wealth ensuring that there was no tedious wait to get inside. Tonight he looked the part, like old money rather than new, but cash was cash all the same and he turned a few greedy heads as he made his entrance. Not that he was going for full exposure, of course; he liked blending in with the crowd. His suit was gray, the open collared shirt beneath it white, and somehow it was casual and crisp, sharp class simultaneously.
It wasn't until he'd gotten himself a drink that he realized he and Sam should have been a little more specific about where to meet. Shouting was pointless with all the noise, so Neil opted to search the crowd instead, trying not to feel like a total creep while he did ago. Spotting her was chance, really, a familiar figure in red, and he approached from the side rather than behind and tapped her shoulder once he was close enough. "Hey," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the bevy of sounds.
By the time he tapped her shoulder, she had found a corner of the bar that kept her back away from random people and random people's body parts. The pills had kicked in completely, too, which meant she wasn't swinging at anyone who came too close, and she was more relaxed that she'd been in days. Even at Simon's, she hadn't been as high as she was now. Nothing hurt, and everything was awesome, and his hand on her shoulder only got a flare of scared eyes, inky blue and kohl lined, before a smile settled on her lips that was warm enough to show the gap between her front teeth. She wasn't even embarrassed about the fucking dress and her bare legs, and that was saying something. "Hey, baby," she said, turning to face him completely and giving him a brazen and blatant once over. He looked like money, but she'd gotten used to that a long time ago, and tonight she was actually willing to admit he looked hot. She noticed, too, that the crowd seemed to fucking agree, which just made her put her drink on the bar and tug him forward by the lapels of his suit jacket.
Unconcerned with appearances, she looked at his face and tried to find something there. Things had been weird lately, and she had no idea what the hell was going on with them, but maybe she didn't give a shit tonight. "This place is kind of daring for you," she said, even as she reached back for her drink and downed it in one go. "Do you like the chicks?" she asked of the women dancing on the tables. "Because they're hot," she admitted. Sam was equal opportunity, even if she was fighting off this little love problem that she refused to admit to, and some of the chicks were hot. The music was loud enough that she had to lean close to be heard, and her boots didn't give her any added height, which meant she had to tip her head back to look at him, which she didn't like, but the option was getting him off the floor or climbing onto a table herself, and she wasn't ready for either of those things. "Dance?" she asked instead, knowing perfectly well that this fucker? Yeah, he probably didn't dance.
Maybe Neil should have noticed that something was different, and he did, in a way, but what he didnāt realize was just how much Sam was relying on the pills just to get her through tonight. He wasnāt sure how he expected her to react, really, and the flare of fear was so brief and fleeting that he couldnāt be certain if heād seen it at all. In light of the smile that followed, he largely dismissed it, though some part of him still worried. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he should have suggested elsewhere; but it was too late now, and he was having a hard time keeping his focus on anything other than the blatant once-over she gave him. There was so much unknown when it came to her; how she felt, what she wanted, where the hell they were headed-- if there was a ātheyā to begin with. It was all there as she tugged on his lapels and their eyes met, him looking down and her looking up. What he wanted wasnāt so clear, but he assumed she knew, that she had to know by now.
āYeah,ā he shrugged. āDaring is the opposite of boring, right? I figured Iād surprise you.ā All the money in the world didnāt change the fact that this scene wasnāt really his style, even though most would have expected it to be. Saying no, he didnāt think the girls were hot, would have been a lie, and he wasnāt the least bit bothered by the fact that she seemed to share the sentiment. āI donāt think theyād be here if they werenāt hot,ā he commented dryly. An answer without really being one, maybe, but he was good at those. He knew she was expecting him to refuse the request to dance, and it was that expectation that made him nod, a hint of something challenging in his gaze. āSure, if youāre up for it.ā He took her hands in his and tugged without waiting for a response, leading her out into the midst of bodies which, by popular standards, were apparently ādancingā.
Sam knew fuck all about fuck all. She'd had a lifetime of one-night stands, a few relationships that involved more screaming and slamming each other against the walls than it did talking, and a whole lot of lesbian drama. Her husband didn't count, because grandpa wanted dinner, and he wanted to roll over and go to sleep after two-minutes of sex, and orgasms so weren't on the fucking table then. Yeah, no, feelings? Not so much. Fucking foreplay? Yeah, how about never? She had no idea what Neil wanted, and she didn't understand her own feelings, even if she was willing to admit they actually existed at this point. But whatever. She'd never met anyone she couldn't fuck out of her system, and maybe that was the problem here. Too much thinking and feeling, and not enough washing that man right out of her hair. And, yeah, so maybe she missed him. But telling him that would only saddle him with expectations, and that was so not happening.
She quirked a brow when he said darling was the opposite of boring, because she didn't think of daring things when she thought of Neil. He might be one of the least daring people she'd ever met in her life, but if he wanted to play, well, she was drugged enough to manage it. And she had a long fucking history with pharmaceuticals; she knew how to handle them. His agreement about the chicks made her laugh, because at least he wasn't going to try to pull that prince charming bullshit, and she liked that about him. He was always straight; no bullshit. Even so, she wasn't expecting him to actually take her hands and tug her into the middle of the crowd. Her fingers tightened in his, but she relaxed almost immediately, and she slid her hands back up along his chest to his shoulders. "Never took you for a dancer," she managed, nearly screaming to be heard over the thrumming beat that was all sex and anger. Ok, yeah, this was ok, she decided, and when her little Scottish friend, the one Tiffani had hooked her up with at the Ranch, came around with his oh, so familiar accent and offered up two blotters of really "light shit, darlings," she eagerly let him put one under her tongue - then she waited to see if Neil was willing to be that daring.
Neil had a strange sort of mix in his past of flings and actual relationships, but none had gone very far, and he thought it a product of his inability to settle on just about anything in his life. Not knowing what he wanted, just moving from one point to another, it was safe and predictable, and maybe that was why no one ever lasted very long. Sam didnāt fit any mold heād ever known, and she kept him on his toes, which was new. The problem was now that he actually did want to keep someone around, he had no idea how to do so. If she wasnāt one to be tied down, and he wanted more than she did, he was heading down a path he should really get right the hell off as soon as possible, lest he end up like Erik, but unfortunately he didnāt exactly know how to do that either. So here he was, taking things as they came.
āThatās because Iām not much of a dancer,ā he admitted wryly, straining to speak loudly enough to be heard. āI donāt think anyone will notice, though, do you?ā Someone could be murdered in the midst of this crowd and he was pretty sure half the people in attendance would remain oblivious to it. Maybe being part of a crowd emboldened him or something, but he found it easier to be close to her without having to be coaxed into it. His hands were on her hips, her body flush against his, when her Scottish friend appeared, and he quirked a brow at the eerily familiar accent without commenting on it. This, he figured, was probably one of those things he didnāt want to know, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from protesting when Sam accepted whatever the hell it was that the guy was offering without so much as a thought to what it might be. Normally Neilās response would have been a very emphatic hell no, and even Erik bristled at the prospect of putting a foreign substance into his body. He should have remained sober, the responsible one of the two of them, but it was the realization that she would expect him to do just that which had him throwing caution to the wind and accepting the blotter with only a tinge of apprehension. He looked down at her afterward, all smug challenge; she hadnāt been expecting that, had she?
"Not surprised, baby," she quipped when he said he wasn't a dancer, and he was right about no one noticing anything. The place was crowded, packed and loud. The dance floor was nothing but a hook-up spot for sex in one of the rooms that could be booked for "private parties" or for somewhere in the looming hotel downstairs. Regardless, it was more grinding than dancing, and she really did expect him to be completely fucking uncomfortable. She was counting on it, really, because it would give her the upper hand, and Sam liked having the upper hand with Neil, since she always felt like she had no fucking clue what her feelings were doing when he was around. And, as a result of that expectation, she was surprised when his hands found her hips, and equally surprised at the feel of his body against hers. Her surprise meant she wasn't as embarrassed as she could have been by the appearance of the Scottish hooker whose name she didn't even fucking know.
And, yeah, no, she wasn't expecting him to accept the blotter, and she almost forgot to close her mouth and let hers dissolve beneath her tongue. Ok, so much for being in fucking control. She remembered to thank What's-His-Name, the hooker, a moment later, and she just wanted the floor to fucking open up and swallow her when he told her that he was "on the house" the next time around. Yeah, great, and thank god for the feel of the acid starting to swirl in her system within seconds, meeting up with the Blues and making everything fucking ok. The hooker, the uncertainty, the fucking dance floor crowded with people that jostled this way and that. Ok, yeah, she could do this. Her hands slid from Neil's shoulders to the nape of his neck, calloused and coarse fingertips pressing into skin, and she moved her hips with surprising ease and grace. Blame Christine, but music was something that came easy for Sam these days, and even finding the beat beneath the angry music was a cake walk. "So, how about telling me how bored you've been without me? How much you fucking wish I would come home," she teased, the corner of her mouth raised in a half-grin, and her body against his as she stretched to get her mouth close enough to his ear so that she could be heard above the music.
Had Neil not been acutely aware of what kind of person he was, he might have been insulted by her lack of surprise. Some people were dancers, and some people just werenāt; he belonged to the latter group. He hadnāt been one of those stereotypical awkward teenagers who lurked in corners at dances by any means, but heād simply never had much reason or occasion to dance, and in the past heād managed to slip out of any such tricky situation when it involved a woman and dancing. Distraction was the name of the game-- and, in this case, faking it well enough to make the act believable. If he noticed her surprise, he didnāt comment on it, though the hint of an amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips, although his good mood was temporarily dampened when his Scottish doppelganger confirmed what heād already suspected and tried to ignore. Right. He gave the hooker a too-wide smile, combined with a look that hopefully portrayed a silent desire for the other man to get the fuck away, though he couldnāt be sure how well it translated, not when everything was going fuzzy and control over himself seemed to be slipping away bit by bit.
āOn the house, huh?ā He couldnāt help it, that little jab, though he tried to keep it light and casual and not at all jealous, regardless of how he really felt. Focusing on the stupid Scottish hooker was tricky, though, when she moved her hips against him, and the fuzziness of the world suddenly became very warm. āHome,ā he repeated, mock thoughtful. āAnd if I tell you all that, will you come back? Or do you just want to hear me say it?ā Oh, heād learned from Erik that laying yourself bare was the worst way to go, but the way her body pressed against his combined with her voice in his ear made it impossible to pretend like he didnāt care in some way.
She liked that amused smile on his lips, damn him, and the fucker really had no right to be any more attractive than he already was. But Sam's mood was already improving tenfold, and nothing looked as fucking good as one of those quiet corners just then, off the edge of the dance floor, and fuck the hooker - well, not literally. But Neil was giving the guy a look that definitely wasn't an eyefuck, and she watched that expression blatantly for a little longer than she would have done if the world wasn't suddenly completely fuckin chill, candy and sex and music and whatever else she wanted.
"Yeah. It means he'll fuck me without charging Tristan for it," she explained unnecessarily, because the Scottish guy had just been part of the benefits package, really, and there was no need to tell Neil just how unimpressed she'd been with the not-copy. "Unless you have a better suggestion?" she asked, emboldened by the drugs in her system. And, seriously, since when had she needed drugs to hit a guy up? But the feel of him against her, that drove that uncertainty away, and she let a satisfied sigh escape her lips, the brush of breath against his jaw as she tightened the hold on the nape of his neck to keep from being bumped off balance by the press of bodies around them. She barely registered the mocking tone when he said home, but she caught it at the very last minute. "You're pissed at me. Why are you pissed?" she asked, curiosity catching in her voice and making her look young, young as she tried to figure out what the fuck she was missing here. 'But, yeah, maybe I just want to hear you say it. If you want me to come back, it might be a good fucking idea to tell me, don't you think?" And that was a rather telling question, because there was a hint of wanting in it, of wanting to come back.
"Or, you know, we could just fuck and get it out of our systems," she suggested, intentionally holding his gaze when she made the suggestion, even with the flashing lights and the bodies jostling them all the fuck over.
Her bluntness came as no surprise, and Neil felt a surge of something he identified as jealousy, pure and simple, which raged beneath the layer of warm numbness that had spread across him like a blanket. āThatās nice of him,ā he remarked, trying to maintain his usual dry, sardonic tone, rather than giving in to the glowering bitterness that made him want to shove the Scottish hookerās head through a sheet of glass. Which, admittedly, was a little excessive, but he chose to blame that particular urge on Erikās violent tendencies. āYeah, I do. Let him go find someone else to fuck for free.ā The words slipped past his lips without abandon, and he didnāt let himself dwell on them, no fucking way, because heād just end up regretting coming here in the first place. Besides, whatever the hell the hooker had given them was working its magic, and it was easier to say things without thinking about them, the sort of thing heād never really been able to do. āIām not pissed,ā he told her. Maybe that was a lie, but he wasnāt to the point of full disclosure just yet. āI didnāt think you thought of my place as home, thatās all. If you want to come back, why the hell donāt you just come back? Iāve never told you that you canāt.ā Which he hadnāt, but then again, he hadnāt exactly said flat-out that he wanted her back either. āI do want you to come back,ā he added, a low, almost irritated growl, like she should have been able to assume as much somehow without him having to say it.
For a second heād thought he misheard her, whatever sheād really said lost in the sound of music and waves of conversation that filled the room. āGet what out of our systems?ā Neil was still trying to decide whether or not sheād really said what he thought sheād said, and after a moment of coming up with nothing else he decided to just go with it. āOr we could do both,ā he suggested with a raise of his eyebrows, looking down at her like they werenāt just casually discussing fucking each other. āFuck whatever it is you think we have to get out of our systems, and then you can come back.ā There. Everybody wins.
Sam didn't associate Neil with any kind of violence, and she would have been surprised to learn Neil was jealous at all. She just didn't associate Neil with any strong feelings below the surface, Erik or fucking no Erik. And so the words that slipped past Neil's lips left Sam staring for a minute, because wait, had she just fucking heard that? But the acid meant that nothing held on for very long, no thoughts persisted, and she was trying to follow whatever he was saying about home, which was kind of hard when she hadn't seen him in awhile, and when all she really wanted to do was find out if he was into that foreplay shit like Daniel had been. She started to tell him that, fuck, no, she didn't think of his place as home, because his tone definitely called for that kind of defense. But then he growled, and since when did he fucking growl? "Yeah?" she finally asked, with exceptional intelligence, but thinking wasn't easy just then. "Then why didn't you ever fucking say so?" she asked of him wanting her to come back, because she was sure that's what she was supposed to say; feminists all over the fucking place would be proud of her.
Get what- Both, huh- But then he managed a full sentence and, ok, so that didn't sound like a bad plan. Fuck, and then go back to being roommates, and life would be peaceful again. No more wondering where he was, who he was with, if he even fucking realized she was a resident of Las Vegas, if it was all about Christine. Yeah, sure, this sounded like the best fucking plan she'd ever heard. Except for that whole thing where she didn't actually know how a guy like him fucked, and she looked around the crowded place as her calloused fingers dragged against the side of his neck without her even intending to use the scratchy touch as an island in the storm of bodies. "Where?" she finally asked him. "Bathroom?" Because bathrooms were great places for sex, really. Even rich people did that, yeah? And bathroom sex, now that was something she was familiar. There wasn't a lot of time for things like touching when you were having sex somewhere public.
It was incredible, how a laughably simple question could leave him at such a loss. Why hadnāt he ever said so? Neil was certain heād had reasons, good ones, but none were coming to mind just then, and he was still hung up on wanting to know if she really thought of his place as home or not. āI thought you knew I wanted you there,ā he said finally, and it was one hell of a pathetic answer, but it was all he had. āI didnāt know I had to fucking say it. Didnāt I make it obvious enough?ā Because he was pretty sure, at least just then, that he had. In his mind that was the way things had gone, at least. āDo you want to come back?ā He didnāt realize heād just asked a string of questions, and by then he just wanted her to say that yeah, she wanted to come back, and then everything would be fine. As long as he knew she wanted to be there, it had to mean something, right? Or else she wouldāve just stayed with her hookers. It made perfect sense to him.
Neil didnāt actually realize she was speaking so literally, right then and there, and for some reason fucking in the bathroom struck him as the funniest thing heād heard so far. The fact that she was asking, well, he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing, because he was pretty sure that wouldnāt go over so well. āNot very sanitary,ā he managed, turning a snort of laughter into a cough as he looked down at her. āYou really want to fuck in a bathroom? Actually, scratch that, it might not be a bad idea if it was, you know, a nice bathroom. And are we talking a one-time thing, or what?ā All that talking might have made her think he wasnāt interested, if it hadnāt been for the way his hands had slid down to bare skin and began to move upward, slipping beneath the hem of her dress, almost as though he wasnāt even aware of it.
It was a pathetic answer, and she started to tell him it was a pathetic answer, but then he started on his slew of fucking questions, and she was way too fucked up to wrap her head around them quickly enough. "No, you didn't make anything obvious," she managed, with a triumphant tip of her head at managing to get that thought processed correctly, thank you very fucking much. But then he was asking if she wanted to come back, and hello, red fucking alert. Saying yes might make him aware that she felt things for him, but saying no might lose her the sometimes-room at Aria. Who knows, maybe he had some other low-rent, twentysomething with aspirations of moving in. It wouldn't be fucking surprising. In the end, she decided he might think she wanted to come back because he was loaded, and because the bathrooms at Aria were made of marble, and because she missed the fucking sound system that she constantly abused when she was there. Ok, yeah, sure, that worked. "Of course I want to fucking come back," she managed, and maybe the pretense of it being only for money was kind of ruined by the way her hand spanned out along the side of his neck as she said it, fingers calloused and possessive.
It took her a few seconds to realize what being sanitary had to do with anything, but he cleared that up with his blunt question, which he followed by something that sounded like he wanted some kind of confirmation of something. She almost bolted, because confirmation of anything was something Sam had serious issues with, but his hand slipping beneath the hem of the dress kept her where she was, and she thought maybe there was something to dressing like a chick, because the easy access was kind of sweet. She avoided his question neatly by arching a brow, eyes all unfocused and her thoughts a jumble of flashing lights and the music pounding in her head. "Let's see how you fucking do," she said, and she pulled away from him and led him through the crowd without touching him, just glancing over her shoulder every few steps to make sure he hadn't gotten lost in trails from the acid trips along the way.
The bathroom was actually pretty fucking nice, even if it was public, and she shoved the door open to the men's (not the women's) and slipped up on the counter. Someone was pissing, and they watched the door to see if they should leave or make themselves available, all depending on whether or not she was being followed.
āNo, Iām pretty sure I did.ā Reality had ceased to matter, and all that mattered to Neil was what he believed, what his mind translated as logic, and he was adamant that heād sent a dozen signals translating as a desire to have her come back. What did she want, some dramatic declaration of his feelings? Considering she kept her own pretty fucking close to the chest, that wasnāt going to happen, not anytime soon. He didnāt really expect a proper answer when he asked if she wanted to come back, and so he was surprised when she did, though his immediate assumptions ran more along the lines of ulterior motives rather than an actual desire to be with him, in a manner of speaking. Maybe he should have asked for elaboration, but he didnāt want to , didnāt want to hear whatever the truth might be, and his attempt at words came out strangled and unintelligible as her fingers spanned out against his neck. āOh,ā he finally managed. āRight. So come back, then.ā Whatever her reasons, if she wanted to, she wanted to, and that had to mean something, didnāt it?
It was stupid, thinking she might give him anything at all, but he watched her regardless, his hand continuing upward beneath her dress, and when she pulled back there was something like disappointment in his eyes before he wiped it clean and regarded her with raised eyebrows. For a very, very brief second, he considered just going back home and letting the drugs and booze wear off with sleep, but it was so fleeting, and a moment later he was following her through the crowd, shoving past body after body in order to keep up. He was a few seconds behind, and maybe he barged into the bathroom after a little too loudly, but the world had taken on a sort of fuzzy, tangible quality, and everything seemed to require a little more emphasis.
āFinish up and get out,ā he told the other occupant, his tone flippantly cheerful, yet still underlain with a threat, and after a moment of hesitation the man did just that, and they were alone. Fucking in a bathroom was not gentleman-like behavior, but hell, where had that ever gotten him? Nowhere, apparently, and he braced his hands on the counter, on either side of her, before tipping his head back to look up at her with a grin. āAt least itās clean.ā
By that point, she was really fucked up, and she just managed to realize that he told her she could come back to Aria in the quiet seconds before he burst into the bathroom like he was trying to prove something. At least Sam thought that was what guys did when they were trying to prove something, but it's not like she had much practice. The bathroom was shocks of light, trails on the lights behind her head, and emitting from the fluorescents over the stalls, and everything was augmented to a point where reality and consequences weren't even in existence. Even the door slamming open was like fireworks, and it distracted her from the agreement she was working on, the one that would let her go back to Aria while saving face. But, yeah, distractions, and she watched him bark cheerfully at the other bathroom inhabitant and wondered if she was imagining the threat lurking beneath the flippant cheer that she always associated with Neil.
She watched the man zip up and leave, and then she turned her attention to Neil, so close with his hands braced on the counter like that and his face tipped up to hers. She didn't look away as she reached beneath the red dress and tugged off a pair of red panties, and she tossed them over his shoulder without looking away. And ok, that was totally the fucking drugs, because she was brazen, sure, but intimacy? Not so much. And holding someone's gaze was definitely intimacy. But whatever, she wasn't thinking, not really, not in any true way. Which became immediately obvious a second later, because Sam? Not a whole lot of experience with anything that resembled foreplay, and that included kissing, but she obviously forgot about all that, because she cupped his cheeks with calloused fingers and pressed her mouth to his in a kiss that was more about heat and demand than skill. It was all sucking and heat and too much spit, and she groaned in protest as she kissed him, wanting more, the drugs making her entire body an itch she couldn't quite scratch.
Any concerns he might have had about her state of mind, fuzzy as they were, had gone straight out the window when her panties went sailing over his shoulder. It took a few moments to register what sheād just done, mostly because she was still staring at him, and Neil wasnāt accustomed to that kind of eye contact from her, but he liked it. Heād just leaned forward to kiss her when her fingers cupped his cheek, and even though it was nothing skilled, her kiss, he wouldnāt have wanted anything else just then. The drugs made everything a blur of light and warmth and pleasure, and he let out an approving groan, muffled by her mouth, as he pressed forward for more. His hands slid up her thighs, shoving her dress up and out of the way, before his fingers pressed into her hips to pull her closer. It no longer mattered that they were in a public bathroom, or that neither of them were thinking straight, or there were feelings lurking beneath the surface that made this all very, very complicated.
He dragged his lips along her jaw, mouthing a trail down the slope of her neck; hot, demanding, and raw, such a far cry from the control he usually fought to exhibit on a daily basis. Maybe the drugs just emboldened him, laid bare what was already there, and his fingers brushed dangerously low against warm, bare skin as his mouth found hers again.
She had enough drugs in her system that she didn't pull back when his hands slid up her thighs and shoved at the dress. She stilled, but it was only for a second, because he was Neil, and he was possibly the only fucking person who could manage this without getting a fist to the gut these days. When he pulled on her hips, she went willingly, and she didn't break the too-eager, too-inelegant kiss. If anything, she demanded more, because she'd wanted this for way too fucking long, even if she wasn't willing to admit it in the harsh light of day. There was too much bite, too many teeth, and the kiss savored of something kept too long in check, and there wasn't any fucking reality at all. Whatever was left was gone the moment her lips met his, and her hands slid from his cheeks down his shirt, pulling at buttons with absolutely no gentleness, yanks and pulls of calloused fingers that hinted at quick tumbles and fast fucks, but nothing that knew how to be slow.
For a brief second, when his lips trailed along her jaw, she had no fucking idea what she was supposed to do. It was a deviation in the path to sex that she wasn't familiar with, and she didn't recognize the moan that escaped her lips as her own until a moment later. She tipped her head back from his mouth as he trailed his lips down her neck, and her fingers slipped down to his waist, where she tugged his belt free and worked her fingers until she was pushing the fabric of his pants down his hips. She gasped into the kiss when his fingers brushed lower, panic slicing through the haze of drugs and pleasure.
Maybe it was the counter, so different than the bed at the Mandalay with Daniel, so much like that fucking counter in the kitchen at Passages. Maybe it was just how much she fucking wanted him. But it all came flooding back - the fear, the pain, all of it. She shoved him off, and she didn't even bother looking for her underwear. Her pulse was a hummingbird in her throat, and she couldn't look at him, and she couldn't breathe. Her inky eyes were crazed, unfocused, the drugs that were making everything numb doing a cruel flip and augmenting every terror she felt.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." And she was weeping now, unattractive sobs that she couldn't keep at bay, that she'd been avoiding since that night. "Sorry. Fuck. Sorry."
If he tried to reach for her, she didn't even feel it. Within seconds, she was through the door and lost in the pulsing lights and the press of bodies that made it impossible to find anyone at all.