Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-04-04 23:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman |
Who: Luke and Wren
What: A(n ill-advised) challenge. (1/2)
Where: Marquee.
When: Recently~
Warnings/Rating: Anger and jealousy and foreplay, oh my.
There hadn't been a lot of time to talk since Luke and Thomas had spoken in New York. Gus had alternated between being clingy, telling stories, and looking at them with distrust for the rest of the day, and they'd needed to take separate flights again, with Gus switching between them on one, single shared layover. That was the thing about having a four-year-old around; there wasn't really time to talk about how terribly things had gone with MK, or how Jack had gotten worse, or how she was having a really, really hard time not meddling. There wasn't time to discuss just how things with Thomas had gone, not beyond the assertion that they hadn't gone terribly. And, really, Wren was almost scared to ask for clarification there. Thomas had so much power, so much control when it came to Luke, and she didn't really trust the man to understand that.
But there hadn't been time. And, once they'd gotten home, there'd been even less time. Jack was always home, which made privacy scarce, especially when both she and Luke were watching Jack like he might grab a kitchen knife and lock himself in a bathroom at any moment. There were a dozen cats that needed homes, even if Gus seemed happy to name them all after food and drink, while he tried to cluster them all beneath the bed with him when he had the old nightmares about being abandoned. And Luke had school to make up, and he had work, and her new job at the restaurant was running over twelve hours a day, and without any days off to speak of so far.
Maybe, given all that, she should have considered calling off this little game they'd set up for themselves at the Marquee. But she didn't call it off because of it.
The Marquee, around the edges, was golden reds and roped off tables. But the center was a mass of bodies and noise, a DJ and the bar, and only someone attached to someone wealthy could get out of the bustle. Wren knew neither she nor Luke could afford those tables; she was counting on it.
It wasn't that she wanted to do anything with another man, and it wasn't that she wanted to see Luke so much as breathing on another woman. But she had so much tension, stress, anger and frustration built up, that she wanted a way to deal with it. The Pit still chasing through her veins made her want to just talk it out, but too much honesty had caused her so many problems lately. And, truthfully, this was a little thrilling as an alternative. Maybe if she'd had less trust in Luke's immediate desire to get her away from anyone else she might be with, she would have questioned the plan. But she trusted that much, and she didn't focus too much on her own jealousy, on whether or not she would be okay seeing him with someone else.
She'd paid attention to his rules when she'd dressed, but she knew the dress barely complied with the requirements. With nothing beneath the ropes that held the top closed, and only the flimsiest thong beneath the skirt that barely covered the white undergarment, she was legal, but only just. She wore stilettos in grey, and her hair was tousled and her lips were glossed. As she pressed her way through the crowd, she was looking for the kind of suit that could afford one of those roped off tables. After all, Luke would have a better view that way, wouldn't he?
Limited time meant that Luke had kept his encounter with Thomas to himself, only able to give the barest details in Gus’ presence lest he hear too much. But as much as he wanted to talk about it, a larger part of him wanted to hold it close to his chest, to keep it inside, while he tried to figure out if the ache he’d carried around for five years had gotten better or worse. It was hard to tell. On the one hand, he no longer had reason to fear Thomas hating him, and things felt like they had settled between them, like they’d come to some sort of understanding. Yet, at the same time, seeing Thomas again had made him inexplicably sad, and so he was almost glad for the time to himself on the way back to Las Vegas, as much as he loved having Gus back with them again. He didn’t know about MK, but his worry for Jack was suffocating, and it seemed like he hit a dead end every time he tried to find a way to help him.
On top of everything else, he’d been consumed by school and work as soon as they landed back in Vegas. He wanted desperately to graduate, and he was only weeks away, but if he fell behind any further then his entire career would be in jeopardy. So no, he and Wren barely had any time to talk about anything, especially with the lack of privacy in the rare moments when they were at home together. He wasn’t angry after New York, but he felt raw, his emotions not quite having settled, and maybe he should have just called off their little game altogether. He knew he could have; one word was all it would have taken. But, in truth, Luke didn’t want to be the one to cave, and he reassured himself with the knowledge that Wren had said this was about them, not anyone else. It didn’t mean anything, this challenge of theirs. As long as he remembered that, he’d be fine.
And maybe, if he repeated it to himself enough, he might actually start to believe it.
Marquee wasn’t really his style; too many people, too loud, too crowded. Fortunately, though, Luke had spent a lot of his younger years around the wealthy and the powerful, and he’d watched them closely. If there was one thing he was good at, it was pretending, and he had a feeling he was going to be doing a lot of that tonight in order to make Wren as jealous as she intended to make him. His outfit wasn’t technically his, borrowed from a coworker, and nothing at all like what he would usually wear, but he wasn’t going to show up in a t-shirt and jeans when he suspected Wren would look like an absolute knockout. No, tonight he wanted to look good, to show her that he was just as much a contender in this game as she was. He had his doubts again when he saw what she was wearing, and he almost called it off right then and there before catching himself just in time. No one had even touched her yet; he couldn’t cave that easily. But it was dangerous, playing like this; he was jealous, and he had a temper, and those two combined made for a very volatile, very bad combination. Best case scenario, he got kicked out of the place; he didn’t really want to think about the worst case, because he planned on doing his best to control his temper.
Luke knew he couldn’t afford the roped off tables, but there were people at the club who could, and that was what mattered. He didn’t waste any time, not wanting to sit back alone while Wren went off with some other guy. The last thing he wanted was another woman, but if she wanted to play, then he’d play. He didn’t even need the roped off tables, not if that was where she was heading; he could get close, if he needed to, and he was curious to see if she’d be willing to give up her view of him to make sure he could see her. He moved through the crowd with feigned confidence, and he only met her gaze for a moment, eyes dark, before looking away.
It didn’t take long at all, really, to catch the eye of a woman at the bar. Dark-haired, short, in a blue sequined dress that sparkled under the lights. Luke smiled, all winning charm, and he bought her a drink, and he intentionally stood much, much closer than was necessary, speaking close to her ear to be heard. She didn’t seem to mind, not in the slightest, nor did she notice that his attention wasn’t really on her, but out on the crowd, on someone else entirely.
Wren didn't bother pretending she didn't notice him.
Maybe she should have pretended, and maybe it would have gotten him over to her quicker, but she didn't bother. She looked right at him, grey eyes perfectly lined, long lashes and an intense look, even across the distance, crowd and press of bodies. It wasn't a long look, but it was an appreciative one. A long drag of grey along the unbroken black he wore, and then a sweep upward, just as unhurried. He was beautiful, but she already knew that. Seeing him across a room full of people wasn't going to change her opinion, not when years and years hadn't managed it. And maybe it was obvious, too, that she wanted to cross the room and go to him, because she didn't bother hiding that either. After all, tonight wasn't about him thinking she didn't want him. It was starting to blur with the second drink a man in an expensive black suit had just bought her, the why, but she knew it wasn't about not wanting him.
The man at her side was saying something, but she wasn't listening. She was licking at the edge of her martini glass, chasing droplets with her tongue, pretending to listen as the man's hand settled on the bare small of her back. But she wasn't actually listening.
She was watching.
She wasn't surprised someone had gotten Luke on a hook so quickly. She didn't like it, but she wasn't surprised. And she knew she could walk over there and drag him away. She knew he wouldn't fight it if she tried. But there was something about the wanting, the longing, the jealousy that was already bubbling bright green, that kept her where she was. She hated it, but it wasn't consuming her yet. And maybe that was it. Maybe she wanted to make sure it consumed him first. She always worried about him being bored, about a house, and a wife, and a child becoming repetitive. Maybe she needed to prove to herself that he wasn't bored. She wasn't sure, but she didn't move toward him, though it was very, very obvious that she was watching.
She leaned into the hand at her back, and when the man whispered in her ear, she turned her gaze up to him and smiled an inviting smile, one full of hidden promises and pleasure. She nodded then, when he asked her to go to his table, and she stretched up and whispered in his ear, telling him that she wanted a view of the dance floor, and pretending not to notice when his hand slid up her bare back and along the skin just beneath her arm, just at the edge of the white and blue fabric.
The man agreed, and the roped off table he led her to had a perfect view of Luke and the woman in blue. The view of the table was equally unobscured, and Wren slid in and let the man get close enough to drape an arm over her shoulders.
Like Wren, he wasn’t listening to what the blue-dress woman was saying, her words little more than background noise, and it was fortunate that she didn’t notice that any more than she noticed his wandering gaze. The arrival of the man in the black suit made his gaze narrow, but it wasn’t enough to get him moving, not yet. Admittedly, the blatant way she watched him soothed some of his doubts, and he stared right back, not bothering to hide any more than she did. Still, he didn’t like the fact that the man was there at all, or that he was buying her drinks. Jealousy began to stir beneath the surface, tiny sparks becoming small flames by the sight of his hand on her back, but it was the way she smiled up at him that made the flames burn wilder and had him seeing red. Luke tried to remind himself that it was all an act, that she didn’t really want him, but he tensed up all the same and his narrowed gaze became a glare when the man grew more daring, his hand sliding along her skin. The woman at his side noticed, stretching up to whisper in his ear that he needed to relax and, with a smile he felt rather than saw, that she could help him do just that, tipping her head towards the dance floor.
He let out a long, heavy exhale and nodded, forcing the tenseness out of his shoulders until his posture was much more relaxed. Alcohol was like adding fuel to the fire, but he ordered himself a shot nonetheless and tossed it back while the woman laughed delightedly, and once he saw Wren at the suited man’s table, well, his mind was made up. Luke grinned down at her before sliding an arm around her waist, and she leaned against his side as they moved through the crowd of bodies to find an empty patch of floor. Unbeknownst to the woman, he was also making sure that they wouldn’t be obscured, wanting Wren to see as much of him as he could see of her. It took a bit of maneuvering, but they claimed some of the dance floor for themselves, and he only glanced at Wren once before turning his attention back to the woman.
She pressed against him as the music pulsated, back to his chest and one arm slung around his neck. His hands lingered on her thighs, just below the hem of her dress, and his lips were against her ear, but he couldn’t have stopped his gaze from being drawn back to Wren even if he’d tried. Which he did, without success.
By the time the woman in the blue dress stretched up to whisper in Luke's ear, Wren hated her. She knew she'd remember the woman after this was all said and done, and it was only Luke's repeated gaze in her direction that kept her from wondering if he liked the woman better than he liked her. It felt so young, that feeling, liked, as if they weren't almost twenty-five, married, and with a child. But there it was.
She stared as the woman whispered, and she watched with greedy eyes as he slammed back that shot. She wondered if he should be drinking, but she already had two glasses in her, and she didn't have the presence of mind to shake her head, or to suggest he stop. She just stared, watching possessively as Luke led the woman to the dance floor. There was undeniable jealousy in her gaze as she watched them, and she wasn't sure what was worse, the woman's body pressed back against Luke's, or Luke's hands below the hem of the woman's dress. His mouth against the woman's ear, Wren decided a second later, was worse. She wondered if that considered as kissing, and then she couldn't remember if that was one of the rules she'd obliterated.
Either way, she stared long enough that her own companion noticed, and it took more than a little effort for Wren to turn her face back toward the stranger in the black suit. But she was good at this, she reminded herself. She was better at this game than Luke was. And, as she watched Luke's fingers and jealously glanced at the woman in blue's curves, at what those curves were pressed against, she forced herself to remember that she was the one with the experience here.
By the time she turned her full attention back to the man at her side, her expression was flirty, rapt with interest. Her grey eyes were hooded, and her fingers dragged along the man's sleeve as she turned her body slightly toward him. It was intentional, the way she uncrossed her legs, left them spread wider than was decent, the skirt hiking up high enough to bare the soft white fabric beneath. The man noticed, and his gaze dropped almost instantly, even as he handed Wren a fresh drink. She took the glass, whiskey from the color, and she watched Luke over the rim as she took a slow sip. The man's hand slid along the outside of her thigh, and moved in with careful slowness, testing the waters. Wren didn't stop him.
Despite what appearances might suggest, the woman in the blue dress was only a means to an end. Luke wasn’t interested in her beyond their game, and while he thought she might have given him her name at some point, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to remember. No, it was all little more than an act for Wren to see, but while he was good at pretending he had no experience at all when it came to playing like this. He could feign interest insofar as physical actions went, but he couldn’t ever look at another woman like he looked at Wren, and if the woman in blue had been entirely sober she likely would have noticed something was off. He looked over at her table too many times, despite having another woman pressed up against him; he didn’t consider his lips against her ear kissing, since it was really just a brush of contact, and he only kept his hands beneath the hem of her dress because he thought it might make Wren more jealous than, say, having them elsewhere. The way she stared, and the blatant jealousy in her gaze, was the whole point of the game, and he looked satisfied with himself, a teasing little smile playing on his lips.
But then she turned her attention back to Mr. Suit, and that smile dropped right out of sight. He hated the way she smiled at him, hated the way she looked at him, and when she uncrossed her legs no amount of willpower could keep Luke from staring, albeit in a different manner than her companion. He was all jealous heat and anger towards the man, not realizing that the woman had noticed his waning attention and was none too pleased. She turned to face him, her body moving flush against his and manicured fingers on his jaw to turn his face back to her. Reluctantly, oh so very reluctantly, he complied, shaking his head when she asked if something was wrong and even managing a weak smile.
He lasted no more than a few seconds before looking back over at the table, and he froze when he saw the man’s fingers sliding along her thigh. The woman had brought her lips to his jaw, one hand sliding over his chest, but he was oblivious to it, fixated on the progress of that hand, which shouldn’t have even been touching Wren in the first place. Yet somehow, Luke managed to keep himself still as he stared, jealousy burning a hole in his stomach, waiting to see if the man would go further and whether or not she would stop him if he did.
It was so easy to forget it was a game. It was so easy to believe that he wanted the woman in the blue dress. Even with his waning attention, there was a hint of doubt, and there was more than a hint of jealousy. She couldn't keep the jealousy off her face when the woman in blue turned to face him. She was staring at her, then, not at his distracted expression. She caught that shake of his head, that hint of a smile, but it was the woman's manicured fingers on his jaw that had the bulk of her attention. She hated anyone touching him. It was a simple touch, compared to the hand on her thigh, but she hated it every bit as much as if it had been something more intimate. For her, there was a distinct difference in someone touching him. People touched her all the time, but she knew he wasn't like that, she knew; it made her even more possessive, that trespass, and there was a distinct jerk of a shoulder, the aborted attempt to stand, before she reminded herself that this was a game. Even as the woman pressed against him, even as she saw red, she managed to keep herself in the seat.
But she knew, then, that he might actually win this game. Her willpower wasn't what she'd thought it would be. She had only considered the fact that she would go further than him, that she would do anything it took to make him break and come for her. She hadn't considered that she might not be able to last long enough for that to happen, that she might not be able to watch that long.
She didn't stop the man's hand when it slid further down, rather than up, down to her inner thigh, possessively petting as he whispered something she wasn't paying attention to. It was an unthinking thing when she spread her legs a little wider, a reaction to pressure and coaxing from the fingers at her thigh, and nothing based in thought or logic. Oh, no, any ability she had to reason was currently lost in the green haze that the woman's lips on Luke's jaw caused. She wondered if he liked it, if he liked her, and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to let her thoughts turn like that. She looked angry, tense around the shoulders and obviously having to work to stay where she was. And that anger translated to her turning to look at the man that was whispering in her ear. She whispered something back, something that had him looking at Luke and the woman in the blue dress himself, a chuckle on his lips, his hand still moving, still coaxing.
The jerk of her shoulder and the jealousy in her expression should have felt like victory, but it didn’t. Luke was too far gone to care about the stupid game, anger and jealousy swirling in his stomach, the sight of her with another man bitter tasting on his tongue and near impossible to watch. This had been such a bad idea, he knew that now, and he forgot that they were playing entirely when she spread her legs wider. Hurt joined his other emotions, and he focused only on what he saw, which was Wren reacting to the other man’s touch, and her whispering in his ear, and that smug smile on his lips as he looked over at him and the woman, who he’d all but forgotten was still there. If she looked angry, he looked downright thunderous, and the fact that the man was looking their way while his hand still moved was what made him snap. She was his, and no one else had a right to touch her. Not like that, not at all.
He scowled and shoved past the woman, his heart pounding in his ears and head gone fuzzy from jealousy and rage, and it took the last bit of self-control he had to keep from climbing over the ropes and smashing the bastard in the suit’s face in. Somehow, Luke managed to make himself stop moving just shy of the ropes, and he didn’t even realize the woman had followed until she was tugging on his arm, telling him to leave it. He shook her off, still scowling, and after his gaze swept possessively over Wren, fixed the man with a glare. “You have something you want to say to me?” His body language was entirely threatening, the struggle to keep himself still blatantly visible.
The distance masked the nuance of hurt on his face, but she knew what he looked like when he was angry. New York, back when they were kids, was constant anger. More recently, when they'd first found each other again, it had been the same kind of anger, the same kind of rage, only all grown up. She recognized it a moment too late, and she didn't even have any time to feel smug pleasure in it, because it all happened too fast. One second, she was so angry she only wanted to push him to feel what she felt. It brought up all those feelings of MK, of Brielle, and no, this hadn't been a very good idea. She wanted him to know what that was like, and that was the last real thought she had. The next second, he was standing there, that woman pulling at him like she had some kind of right to tug him away. It was the woman, really, that Wren reacted to. She should have reacted to that threatening anger that was rolling off him, but it was the woman that earned her rage.
"Don't pull on him," she said, and it was quiet, a whisper, rage that barely had any sound to it. It was likely telling that, throughout it all, she didn't tell the man to stop touching her. That was an old thing, ingrained in from way too young, that men got what they wanted. She didn't even notice it. Her grey gaze was on the woman's hand on Luke's sleeve, and she only looked at his face a moment later.
By then, the man at her side was talking. His, "go away," dismissive. That was all he said, just, "go away," like he had all the rights in the world, and Luke had none. "You were enjoying yourself."
Wren looked back at the woman, at that tugging that persisted. Really, the man's words were still ringing in her ears. Had he been enjoying himself? And maybe all that rage should have registered as something dangerous. Maybe it did, somewhere. Maybe she wanted it. She wasn't even sure anymore. She didn't know if she wanted to break a glass and threaten the woman with it, or if she wanted Luke to get so worked up he grabbed her arm and didn't let go. It wasn't even the Pit, not really, it was the past few months, the lack of control, all of it. And her own past, too, tangled all up in it.
"You can have a room on the house," the man said, lifting the hand that wasn't caressing, a summons for a host.
And that made Wren tense.
Luke had spent too many years being treated like nothing. Too many years being talked down to, not taken seriously, and dismissed. Years where he believed the worst of himself, and he cowed beneath those wealthier, stronger, more powerful. But those years were behind him now, in the past, and he was no longer a boy who looked down and kept his mouth shut on command. He was so angry that he didn’t even hear Wren’s whisper; the man’s dismissal rang too loudly in his ears for anything else. A thousand thoughts marched at whip-quick speed through his mind, and god, he wanted to kill him, to strangle him, to break every bone in his body starting with his fingers. And that woman, she kept tugging, and he kept shaking her off, but she wouldn’t stop. Finally, he turned to face her, and the sheer amount of rage in his expression made her take a step back. “Stop,” he snapped. “Just stop. Go. Leave me alone.” And maybe it was cruel, maybe he should have felt something at the hurt in her expression, but he was too worked up to care. She threw curses at his back, but at least she finally backed off.
Then he turned back to the man, and to hell with the ropes; he plowed through them like they weren’t there at all, oblivious to whatever consequences might come as a result. “I don’t want anything from you,” he snapped. “You can go fuck yourself. And stop touching her.” There was so much rage wrapped up in those three words that his voice shook, but he didn’t wait for the man to comply. No, consequences be damned; he grasped the man’s suit jacket and hauled him out of his seat, giving him a vicious shove without bothering to control his strength. “She’s my wife,” he spat, before turning to Wren and reaching for her hand. “We’re leaving. Now.”
If Wren had realized the thoughts that were going through his mind, she would have been scared. Not because she feared Luke, and not because she feared this scene. She would have been worried that she'd managed to wake up all those homicidal instincts again; she would have hated herself for that. As it was, she realized that this had gone further than she'd realized when he started shaking the woman off. It made her think of Jude, of the past, of how he hated to be grabbed and touched, and she was already moving to stand when he snapped at the woman.
Unfortunately, the man in the suit had moved from being turned-on to needing to save face. His hold on Wren's shoulders tightened, and she couldn't stand without making this worse than it already was. She tried to scoot away, her gaze darting around the club, looking to see where security was, and knowing they would need to get out of there quickly in order to avoid them.
"Luke," she managed, a quiet thing, anger just beneath the surface and lingering from watching him with the woman in blue. But he was telling the man to fuck himself, then, and she could almost feel the rage in his voice. She moved again, scooted a little further away, and she thought she could managed to stand then. But it didn't matter; the man was hauled to his feet a second later, and he was already recovering when Luke grabbed for her hand. She almost snapped at his tone, that built-up anger making her want to point out that he had been playing the same game she'd been playing. She almost snapped, but she didn't get the chance.
The man in the suit threw a punch, more anger than skill, aimed at Luke's cheek. Wren just kept hold of Luke's hand, and she tugged, even as the man in the suit ran his mouth, intentionally goading. "Your wife didn't want to be with you, and you didn't want to be with her. Maybe she wanted a real man." The man was older, and the words sounded chastising, and Wren just yanked harder on Luke's hand.
She knew he would get angrier at the pulling, angrier at the man's words, but she wanted to diffuse him alone, in private, not here, where security was quickly approaching. "Let's go," she said, letting go of Luke's hand a second later, pleading. He would follow, right? If she turned, he would follow? She closed her eyes, trusting that he would, trusting that he would chase her down, and she turned on her heel and darted into the crowd.
It was an indication of just how deeply his anger ran that the sound of his own name didn’t even register. Quiet as it was, normally Luke would have responded, calming somewhat, but normally he didn’t let his temper get this out of control, nor did he have enough of a grasp on reason to realize that he’d been doing his best to make her jealous too. But it was different with her; it always was. Thinking about how far the man might have gone had he not intervened just made his anger worse, and he was torn between the overwhelming desire to beat him to a bloody pulp and a greedy, possessive desire to take Wren somewhere quiet, where it was just the two of them and no one else could touch her. But then the man decided to throw a punch and made up his mind for him; even in such a blind rage, his instincts were too good to let the blow meet its mark, and he brought his free hand up to block his fist and knock it away. He wasn’t letting the man save face, not if he had anything to say about it. He was ready to throw a punch of his own, one which would be much more effective than the man’s pitiful attempt, but then Wren was tugging on his hand and that registered in a way nothing else had managed to up until that point.
He faltered, then, looking back at her over his shoulder, but the man’s goading drew his attention again and raised his ire. “Shut up,” he snarled, fighting against the hold she had on his hand like a dog straining at its leash, full of hatred for the man and jealousy and fury at both him and at himself for agreeing to this stupid game in the first place. “You don’t know a fucking thing about being a real man, you--” He broke off when he no longer felt Wren’s hand in his, and as much as he wanted to stay and teach the man a lesson, the desire to follow her was stronger. His jaw tightened painfully, and he cursed under his breath, but after one last spiteful glare he turned and went after her, maneuvering through the crowd and shoving past those who were too slow to move.
That block almost made Wren falter. It was so easy to forget to Seattle, to forget everything that had come after, too. She had grown used to thinking of Luke as sweet, as pretty, as beautiful. To her, he was nothing dangerous, and even the scars on his body had become something that didn't say the things they used to, not anymore. They should have reminded her of just how capable he was, of just how well trained he'd been, but they were just part of him now, and she didn't think about how they'd gotten there, not anymore. But that block, effortless and graceful in his rage, made her remember. She faltered, her step skipped, and she probably tugged harder because of it. She had no idea, really, because it wasn't a logical thinking thing. It was mindless realization, and the reminder that they both, even if she'd forgotten, had it in them to kill people. She might have made a strangled sound then, or maybe it was just the growing crowd.
That snarled shut up, though, that made her grip his hand tighter. His analogy was a good one, because she felt sure this would all end in disaster if he managed to get his hand free of hers. She tightened her grip mercilessly, her fingers strong from wielding a crop and whip. And staying there would have been disastrous; she knew that. She needed him to follow.
She could still hear his voice when she pushed through the crowd, and she only glanced back when she couldn't hear it anymore. There was the sound of the security that had arrived, but the place was so thick and so crowded, that she was sure they'd be fine in the hundreds of bodies pressed on the dance floor. She could hear complaining behind her, and she assumed the angry voices were caused by his angry shoves, and she took a second to figure out how to turn it around, how to redirect his adrenaline, his anger. Her heart was racing, beating a staccato in her chest, but she wound back around quietly, not disrupting anyone as she moved. If he was a bull in a china shop, shoving through people, she was a ghost of a thing, not there at all. Only visible in glimpses of blue and white. She managed to find him once, and she whispered up behind him and touched a hand to the small of his back. Press and soft, and she didn't even make a sound; she just pressed against him, familiar curves for the span of time she managed to keep him still, and then she lost herself in the crowd again.
Maybe shoving his way through the crowd wasn’t exactly subtle, especially since he’d left security behind at the roped-off tables, but Luke’s patience was virtually shot to hell and he couldn’t seem to make himself calm down. Losing his temper was easy, but regaining control was much, much harder, and this place certainly wasn’t helping. It was too loud, too crowded, and he just wanted some air and some space but refused to leave the club without Wren in tow. There was no more need for pretense, so he didn’t bother hiding his disdain for his surroundings and everyone in them. He had no sense of which direction she’d gone in, and so he was erratic, changing course on a whim, pursuing even the faintest glimpse with single-minded focus. Confusion joined anger, because he didn’t understand why she continued to evade him when all he wanted to do was find her and get out before security got lucky and caught up with one or both of them. In the midst of music and people he didn’t hear her come up behind him, but the feel of her hand on his back made him still, and the press of familiar curves kept him from panicking. For a moment, at least, his anger waned, and he let out a long, relieved sigh, but he wasn’t expecting the loss of contact, or for her to be gone when he turned around.
He paused, scanning the crowd as it slowly sank in that she’d disappeared again, and this time frustration took the lead ahead of his anger as he moved forward again, his shoves not quite as harsh and merciless as they’d been before, but he still lacked the patience to be subtle and move amongst the crowd unseen. As the seconds ticked by he became more and more impatient, and he finally paused, just for a moment or two, to regain his bearings and try to recapture that lost calm; plowing through people wasn’t making this any easier, even if it did make him feel a little better.
She waited, remaining behind him, out of his line of sight, no matter where he turned. She watched until the anger in his shoulders became frustrated impatience, but she stayed where she was, where he couldn't see. It was hard not to go to him, not to just pull him with her and away, but she didn't want him to shove all that anger away either, and she worried he might if he had the chance. He'd spent too many years bottling, and if she'd woken up the sleeping dragon, well, she was going to let him breathe some fire, one way or another. She was pretty sure bottling things up was how Jack ended up where he was, and she didn't want that for Luke. She stayed behind him, finding it easy to keep track of him, even in the crowded room. He stood out to her, and not just because of his height. No, for her, it was as if he was the only man in the room. It was always that way with him, all the way back to when they were little and didn't realize what their lives would bring. He'd been so innocent then, with none of the anger that tightened his jaw now. She tried to remember if he'd even had a temper, back in those early Seattle days, and she didn't think he had one. She would be lying if she didn't admit to liking the man better than the boy, though, and that temper, that rage, was part of it all, wasn't it?
When he paused, she finally moved. She wound her way in front of him, far enough that he wouldn't be able to grab for her, if he noticed her in the crowd, and she made her way to the barstools at the far end of the bar. The security team was seeking them out on the other end of the crowded dance floor, and they had a few minutes before the search came here, to where they were. The barstool she sat on was the very last and, even with the press of people, there was a good line of sight to it. She watched him, waiting for him to notice her gaze on him. And then, once she knew she had his attention, she let one of the straps of her dress slide down along her shoulder, the blue and white fabric coming to rest at her upper arm. She crossed her legs at the thigh, skin and stilettos, and she waited. It was like waving a red flag at an already angry bull, and she knew it.
It was probably a good thing that he didn’t know she’d been so close the entire time, as he was already stretched thin enough as it was and there wasn’t much left before he snapped completely. He was trying very, very hard to keep that from happening, for what it was worth, but he was better at going forward than he was going back. Fortunately, Luke looked up from his attempt to calm himself just in time to see her moving towards the far end of the bar, and he followed without hesitation. On some level, he was aware of the security team far behind him, prepared to bolt should they get too close, but she was his immediate focus and all he really cared about just then. For a few agonizing seconds he lost sight of her, but then the crowd shifted and he saw her again, seated on a barstool, and he stared. His gaze was heated and raw, blatantly hiding nothing, and grew darker when she slid one of her straps down over her shoulder. Surely, she had to have known the effect it would have on him, and the combination of jealousy and anger and want made it impossible for him to hold himself back. Normally he would have been able to, but tonight, he’d been pushed too far.
His first few steps towards her were slow, gaining speed and purpose as he neared, and he shoved past clusters of bodies that blocked his path without regard for how they reacted; he didn’t care. He’d wanted to touch her from the moment they’d arrived, and he’d hated every second that other man had been touching her instead of him, and now he just wanted to grab her and never, ever let go. He gripped her shoulders once he’d reached her and pulled her against him, and a second later his mouth was on hers, all of his jealousy and anger and possessiveness wrapped up in the kiss that took more than it gave. His hands slid up to her jaw, to hold her there, claim in the press of his fingers, an unspoken way to tell her how he felt, that he couldn’t do this again, without having to articulate it into words.
She knew she was pushing him. Maybe she didn't understand how much, how far, but she knew she was pushing him. And maybe the beginning of that slow approach made it seem less intense than she'd expected. She'd always expected him to move once he saw her, but she'd been expecting more shoving, more pushing, more immediate anger. That didn't come at first. At first, there was slow calm, and she had a few seconds just to watch him. She could still remember all the places the woman in blue had touched him, all the places she wanted to touch him herself, in order to chase away the other woman entirely. She was lost in that, and she didn't notice the speeding up at first. She didn't notice until he shoved at someone, and her gaze lifted to his face then, her grey eyes going wide with understanding. People complained, and she knew they'd draw attention sooner rather than later, but she didn't care. She forgot logic around him, forgot maturity and sense and all those things that were supposed to come with growing up, with growing older. She uncrossed her legs as he approached, knowing she would want him closer than he would be able to get with her knees in his way. And still, she was surprised when he grabbed for her shoulders, instead of hauling her off the barstool in some other way. The strap that had slid to her shoulder slid further, baring the top of one breast, and the skirt of the dress rode high up her thighs as she spread them, letting him come up flush against her.
Her bare knees pressed against his hips, and she whimpered into the kiss, a keening, needing sound. His fingers were bruising on her jaw, but she didn't pull away from them, or from the kiss, not at first. Instead, she bit at his mouth, even though she knew it would goad him. She bit, and she kissed, alternating between the two. She kept him close with the pressure of her knees, but she slid back a little, keeping him from pressing his body flush against hers after those first few seconds. Space and hot air between them, she fought his fingers to drag her lips along his tense jaw, denying him the kiss, as her hands slid over the thin, black fabric of his shirt. Her fingers pressed, leaving marks in the fabric as they dragged down from his shoulders, only stopping at his stomach. "Hi," she whispered against his ear, quiet, but perfectly audible so close, even in the loud space.
Normally he was just as willing to give as he was to take, but not here, not now. He was selfish, and he wanted her so badly it ached, all of her, anything and everything that she could give. His fingers tightened on her jaw when she bit at his mouth, a frustrated growl muffled by the kiss as he strove to deepen it, possessive and unrelenting. The last thing he wanted was space, however slight, and he tried to move closer, fighting the hold she had on him with her knees with rising impatience. He whimpered when she dragged her lips along his jaw, no, because as good as it felt she was denying him what he wanted and he hadn’t even come close to getting his fill of her. The trail of her fingers along his chest drew his gaze downward, and he remembered his hands then, remembered that he wanted to touch, and one hand slid along her inner thigh, where the other man had dared put his hands on her, fingers rough and teasing as they slipped beneath her skirt. The other hand dragged down over her collarbone and lower, caressing bared skin, and he twisted his head when she whispered in his ear in an effort to reach whatever part of her he could with his mouth.
“Hi,” he whispered back, voice low and hoarse, and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her jaw, though he had to strain to manage it. “Mine. All mine. I don’t want-- not again, not ever.” Disjointed was about as much as he was capable of, and he strained forward for more, wanting to taste her skin as much as he wanted to feel it beneath his fingers.
Despite how badly she wanted to let him in, to let him close, she kept the pressure of her knees against his hips. He'd have to make her relent there, if he wanted her to. But she moaned when he whimpered, claiming that sound for herself. "She didn't make you do that," she whispered unthinkingly. The woman in blue hadn't; she knew that much. She knew what pleasure looked like on his features, on his face, and the woman in blue hadn't made it that far before he'd bolted. She watched him look down, watched his gaze follow her fingers, and wondered that it made him move his own hands. Her fingers slid beneath black fabric, and it was her turn to whimper when her hands found warm skin at his hip, scarred beneath her palm, muscles tense with all that rage he'd been feeling earlier. Hers, she reminded herself. When those rough fingers slid beneath the hem of her skirt, when they found the skin the man in the suit had been caressing, she had to fight the urge to spread her thighs for him. She didn't want to lose her control over him, didn't want to let him get closer, not without waiting to see if his fingers turned demanding and bruising, or if he begged instead. The hand on her collarbone made the fabric slip dangerously lower, the rope precariously holding that top together not made for this. She didn't care, and she let it slip, knowing his chest would hide her nipple from view. Instead, she kissed him back when he tried to reach her mouth, letting him claim that prize after he whispered the greeting. "What don't you want?" she asked, though she understood. She wanted to hear it; something in her needed to hear it. When he strained forward, she inched back again, just a little, putting a few more centimeters between them. "What don't you want, Luke?" she repeated.
For a moment, he had no idea who the she being referred to was, too lost in the feel of her hands on his skin to think clearly. But then it clicked, and he shook his head, encouraging her touch with a slow rock of his hips against her hands. “No,” he agreed. “Only you.” He hadn’t wanted that other woman, not even a little. It was all an act, part of the game they’d been playing, though he knew now that it was a game he never should have agreed to play in the first place. He wanted her to spread her thighs for him, which had more to do with wanting reassurance that she did want him, like he wanted her, and he kept coaxing, fingers pressing into her skin as his thumb brushed over the flimsy white fabric beneath her skirt. Part of him was aware that they were still very much in public, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop long enough to drag her away somewhere more private, not yet. His gaze was drawn back down when the dress slipped lower, undeniably wanting, but only for a moment, since he hadn’t been expecting her to relent and the kiss caught him off guard. He responded eagerly, trying to draw it out for as long as he could, and he thought she was going to drive him crazy with all this moving away when all he wanted was to have her as close as he possibly could. “No,” he growled, trying to tug her back, towards him, half-on the barstool himself at this point. “I don’t want other men touching you. I don’t want you touching them. I don’t want anyone else but you.” He strained forward again, begging without words. “Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me you didn’t want him, that you don’t want anyone else either. Tell me you’re mine.”
She shouldn't have needed that validation, that reassurance that he hadn't wanted the other woman, but she did. Two drinks in her, and she was buzzed enough not to care what she said, how open she was, how demanding she was. "Anyone else?" she asked, looking over his shoulder. "Is there anyone else you like?" She leaned further back, a hand on the bar and a request for two shots. The bartender grinned, perfectly aware of what was happening in the obstructed corner, and perfectly aware of how much skin was currently on display. The bartender slid two doubles toward them before stepping away, and she drank hers in one swallow, while Luke's fingers pressed against her thigh. His thumb against the flimsy white fabric earned him a moan, one that drew some glances, because she didn't try to keep it quiet. She rocked forward the slightest bit, wanting to keep that distance between them, but yearning for that touch. But that distance was power, and she wanted to see how long he'd let her keep it. She wanted to see what it would take him to make him snatch it away. She watched his gaze follow the slip of the dress, and that wanting expression on his face was like the best victory. "I don't want you to look at anyone else like that," she admitted, giving away more than she intended to. "Not ever." And that eager kiss, she took as much as she could from it, mouth hard against his, tongue demanding, and then he was growling, and she was backing further away still. His weight on the barstool made it tilt toward him a little, but that didn't concern her; he wouldn't let her fall. She wanted to hold out, to not tell him what he wanted to hear, but she wasn't strong enough for that. She could keep him away, even when he strained toward her, but she couldn't deny the demand in his voice. "I'm yours. You can't have me right now," she challenged, the other strap sliding down to her shoulder, more skin and pink becoming bared to the dark-flash club. "But I'm yours," she promised, and she met his gaze when she said it, so he wouldn't doubt it, not ever.
“No,” he said without hesitation, readjusting his weight on the barstool when she leaned back. It was a careful sort of balance, intended to ensure that he didn’t tip them both over, but he doubted either of them would be here for much longer if he had his way. “There’s no one else.” He eyed the bartender warily, one hand pressed possessively against the small of her back, an unspoken claim, even if he couldn’t seem to coax her forward and get rid of the distance between them. “Is there anyone else you like?” There was more than a hint of jealousy in the question, and he watched as she downed her shot with a bright, greedy gaze that took in every last detail. He couldn’t help a quick, pleased little grin when his thumb elicited a moan, and the way she rocked forward only encouraged him to keep going, the light brush against fabric increasing in pressure and becoming more deliberate. The way she responded to him was intoxicating, and he wanted more. “You’re the only one I’d look at like that,” he promised, and while he was aware of the barstool tilting when he strained forward, he didn’t pay it much attention. When she told him that she was his, it was exactly what he’d wanted to hear, and he met her gaze with no shortage of heat despite the challenge of not being able to have her. “Yes, I can,” he said, challenging right back in return, even as he was distracted by the newly bared skin. The hand at her back became an arm around her waist, and he used it to pull her towards him, all rough demand and want.
She tipped back the second drink, when he didn't reach for it; she knew it would push her over the edge from tipsy to drunk, but she didn't care. She hadn't been really drunk in months, and she knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her. Her faith in him was absolute, and she trusted him to make sure that the balance of weight on the chair was safe too, even with all that tension and anger still tightening his shoulders. That hint of jealousy in his voice made her blood sing. It was better than the rich whiskey burn at the back of her throat, and she was all pleased smile as she shook her head, no, there wasn't anyone else she liked. The increased pressure of his thumb against flimsy fabric made her forget everything but that touch, but that press of fingers through almost-nothing. Her nipples hardened, and she leaned forward from the waist up, just enough to brush her breasts against his chest, against the black fabric that covered him. She almost told him that she liked that challenge in his voice, that certainty and strength, but she didn't have a chance to. His arm was sliding around her waist and tugging her forward then, and her knees let go of his hips and invited him closer. It was a wanton thing, the way she stretched against him, all bare back and his body supporting her weight. She wanted what she wanted, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, fingers going tangle-tight in her hair. It was a fight for control, really, and she thrilled at the prospect of him not letting her claim it. But she still tried. She rocked against him, intentionally pressing along the length of him as her feet slid to the floor. Her fingers in his hair tried to make him tilt his head back, tried to force him to bare his throat for her mouth. The fabric of her dress was down around her hips now, and only the press of her body against his maintained even the pretense of decency; she didn't care about that either.
He could have stopped her from taking the second drink if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. With him there, nothing would happen to her, and he hardly needed the alcohol for himself; he was barely buzzed, but anger took away more of his inhibitions than anything served at the bar could have. No one else would touch her, he’d make sure of that, and even those who dared look at her were toeing a dangerous line. He was satisfied when she shook her head, even though he shouldn’t have needed her to tell him that there was no one else by this point. It was still nice to be reminded of, though, and he bit down hard on the inside of his mouth when she leaned forward, brushing against him, the barrier of his shirt between them frustrating him into a near frenzy. He wanted it off, but they were still very much in public, where people could see, even if they were in enough of a corner that they didn’t draw too much attention. But he didn’t want to share her in any way, not even a little, which made the desire to keep her all to himself somewhere no one else could see burn even stronger. His hand slid along her thigh and up once she stretched against him, so that both hands pressed against her back, keeping her close, and a groan slipped out at the way she felt against him combined with the tightness of her fingers in his hair. “Wren,” he breathed, heavy and hoarse, his breath catching painfully in his throat when she rocked against him. He fought her fingers, despite part of him wanting to capitulate, fought to keep from tilting his head back strained forward to take what he wanted, to find her skin with his mouth. “I want you,” he told her, a blatant claim in the words, and he pulled her with him as he moved, dragging her away from the barstool, with no clear direction in mind save for somewhere more private, where the obstacle of clothing would no longer be needed.
"I love it when you say my name," she told him, loving the heavy, hoarse sound of his voice. She tugged harder when he fought her grip in his hair, and she laughed a husky, pleased laugh when he kissed her skin instead. The admission that he wanted her chased through her, something thrilling, and she wondered if she would ever tire of it; she hoped not. More than anything, she hoped not.
She let him pull her at first, going without giving him any trouble. Her fingers slid from his hair, dragging a path along his shoulders and down, and then they changed course entirely. She reached for the cast-aside straps of her dress, and she slipped them back into place slowly, watching his face while she did it. It required space, just a little, and she stepped back, not breaking his grip. She still moved forward, forward, forward, lulling and, when someone jostled his shoulder, she tugged free. "You have to catch me first." She gave him a look that was tipsy mischief, a hint of an uneven sway on those heels, and then she turned and ran for the entrance door, stopping only long enough to tug the heels off as she went.
Despite being much closer to the door than they had been, the press of people still made following a challenge, and she made it out to the dry, Vegas air before he did. She considered hiding, and considered making it hard for him to follow. But she didn't want that. Okay, she might want him frenzied, but she didn't want him to lose her altogether. She dropped one shoe as she rounded the building, and then she dropped another as she ducked into the alleyway behind it. The music from the club still pounded, still carried through the walls, but it was muted and dulled. It was dark, too, only the cast of the red lights that illuminated the building making it that far back. She reached beneath the hem of her dress, and she slid off the flimsy white fabric his fingers had been pressing against earlier; she dropped that as well.
A few seconds later, another alley over, and there was stone at her back, and the cement beneath her bare feet was dirty, but she didn't care. She listened, her heart beating fast in her chest, and anticipation and whiskey making her cheeks red. She worried her lip and, when she heard approaching footsteps, she let the dress slip off altogether.