the_gene_genie | OOM: Oakville, Texas, 1888. Dinner.

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OOM: Oakville, Texas, 1888. Dinner.

Even by 70s standards, this place is basic. But it looks brilliant to him, because it's real - proper, authentic Old West chairs, and tables; wooden floor and burning candles, and the smell of the desert right outside the door. It'll do him. Anything else just wouldn't be the same.

They're shown to a table and he makes sure to sit opposite her. All very proper. There doesn't seem to be too many other people here, which is good, because he hasn't yet worked out what counts as inappropriate for her, and it'd be all too easy for him to open his big trap and say the wrong thing. All too easy to mess this up, and get her into trouble.

As soon as a waiter comes near, he says, 'Whiskey. Double, no ice. Two of 'em.'

The food can wait until after.

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Which he does, offering her his arm as any respectable gentleman would, and without breaking stride either.

He doesn't say anything. There's nothing that really needs to be said, to his mind. They both know where they're going, and it's a nice night. Easy enough to just walk back quietly.

Anyway, there's less chance of him saying the wrong thing if he keeps his mouth shut. There's that too.

She takes his arm, perhaps allowing herself to walk a little closer to him than she would have when they were in public. There's nothing really that needs to be said, and not solely for fear of spoiling the moment. Just because it's ... comfortable.

They reach the hotel in short order and she resumes her respectable distance, letting him open the door for her. Still, no one is at the desk and so it's easy enough to quietly climb the stairs, check the hall to make sure they're alone, and then turn to face him.

"Your room?" she asks, voice quiet.

'Whichever you like.'

He was thinking hers so that, if she absolutely has to, she could kick him out before morning and maintain the illusion. But thinking about it logically, he supposes his room makes more sense - if there are obvious sounds of shagging from within, people might just assume he's got a hooker in there.

'D'you need to...I dunno. Do whatever it is women like t'do, first?'

He's quiet too, unlocking his door as he speaks. It had never occurred to him she'd come straight in. Women always seem to be going off to redo make-up, or...something, before. He never understands it.

She's actually not sure what he means by that. She looks up at him sidelong, smiling lopsidedly.

"I would've thought you'd like t'help with the takin' off of my clothes."

Quiet; so quiet it's barely audible.

'Oh, I do.'

And he's still quiet as well, but definitely no less emphatic for it. He stands aside and gestures her through the door.

'After you, then.'

And if the tightness of his tone betrays some of his anticipation, well, what of it?

Edited 2011-06-23 01:37 (UTC)

Her eyes smolder at him.

She steps around him, slow and languid, pulling her gaze from his. The nervous bundle in her stomach is only growing with each passing moment.

The walk back in the fresh air might have helped sober her some, but now she's beginning to feel her pulse drumming. All her layers of fine fabric are suddenly so very heavy.

He shuts the door carefully, and turns the key in the lock. It makes a resounding click, which sounds louder in the quiet of the room.

He can feel the nerves off her. It only adds to the tension, and not in a bad way as far as he's concerned. He still doesn't speak, just walks around the room, lighting the candles so they can see what they're doing, and pulling the curtains shut. So it's just them, with the world locked out and hopefully out of her mind.

That done, stubs his cigar out in the ashtray on the dresser, and turns to face her, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

'You want another drink?'

"No."

Her answer comes quickly, accompanied by a little shake of her head.

"No, I'd like t'be relatively sober for this."

She turns to one of the unlit oil lamps, carefully removes the glass globe, and uses a candle to light it. She adjusts the wick until the right amount of light is cast off, keeping her hands busy at doing something while her mind is racing.

"Y'have a nice room," she says, walking aimlessly around it. "I said that already, didn't I? Well, it is. Nice. Decent, at least. Comfortable, I should think, after a few nights spent on the ground."

It's entirely possible she's only rambling to fill the silence.

He snorts a laugh, and steps in front of her to stop her wandering. The expression on his face is amused, though there's an intent look in his eye that won't be leaving any time soon.

'You make this sound like you're waitin' for the gallows.'

His thumbs come free so he can put his hands on her waist.

'Stop babblin' like a demented housewife, an' relax.'

He leans down and kisses her. Presumably to help with the relaxation part, but mainly just because he likes doing it, and he can.

"No — "

It's nothing like waiting for the gallows. Nothing at all. She closes her eyes as he leans in to kiss her, her lips light like this is all just experimental. Her hands slide down his arms until they come to rest over his knuckles, having her almost akimbo, and she takes an involuntary step back.

"Y'know, most fellas would right now be complimentin' their ladies, quotin' song, or poetry; but I'm lucky t'have the overstuffed galoot who's only honest in his expressions all the time."

The quietness of her voice does nothing to mask the obvious sarcasm — or the affection in her voice. She takes another step back, blindly leading them along until her back hits the wall.

He follows her, expressionless until her back hits the wall, and then he rolls his eyes, as he steps into her space and keeps her there.

'You wouldn' know what t'do with all that romantic bollocks. Smile an' be charmed, and think I was a ponce or somethin'.'

Not that she'd ever have the opportunity, because he would never, ever do it.

'Mind you, most birds wouldn' be insulting a bloke at this point either. You're supposed t'be laughin' at my jokes, and preparin' yourself to be complimentary.'

It's all a load of bollocks. He doesn't have time for bullshit when it really matters. He can leave all that in the pub.

And when he kisses her again, he makes it pretty clear that this isn't just experimental. That he's not prepared to let her be detached, and drift her way through. He's pretty sure she'll thank him for that in the end.

"Y'make it sound like I've never been wooed before."

She has, with all the flowery dialog you can imagine. And she never once thought he was a 'ponce', but she doesn't have time to assure Gene of the same. For one, she knows not to expect it from him, and that's just fine. For another, he's kissing her again and in such a way that he won't have to listen to her speak again for a while, as she tries to put out the small fires going off throughout her body.

Her hands card through his hair, but she still pulls back. She finds that sliver of space between them to catch her breath, to catch his eyes, to notice that she can make out the color of his irises tonight in the warm candlelight.

She doesn't look a thing like any of Gene's painted ladies. She's shy, and gentle; leaving all of her boastfulness outside that locked door. Her fingers move over his body slowly, as though she's cautious of making a mistake. And the way she looks at him... That's different, too.

She doesn't close her eyes when she tips her chin back and kisses him, light and quick. She kisses him again, just as softly; and a third time, this one deeper than the rest, her eyes finally slipping shut.

He normally doesn't go in for the shy and gentle types - probably wouldn't have gone for her if she was like that all the time. But now, it just adds to her intrigue; how can someone so ballsy the rest of the time, turn so demure when you get her on her own? It suggests layers he'll probably never understand, but wouldn't mind getting lost in for a while.

She's kissing him back, meeting him halfway, and tension in him disappears that he didn't know was there to start off with. This would be so much more difficult if he went through it wondering whether she really wanted it at all, even in spite of last night. His hand moves up from her waist to cover one breast, and when he pulls back slightly, he looks amused once more.

'This looks like it's goin' t'be even more difficult t'get you out of than what you were wearin' yesterday.'

Still. He's up for the challenge.

Edited 2011-06-23 15:17 (UTC)

She moves to hold his wrist when his hand envelops her breast. It's pure instinct, a flutter of nerves she couldn't quite contain. Her lips twitch, and her breath shudders as it leaves her mouth. Just the bare framework of a laugh.

"You have no idea."

He'll need his virility just to get him through the many patient minutes it will take to unwrap her, and unpin her hair.

He feels he is equal to the task. Maybe. Might require a strong drink and a fag break to make it out the other side though.

'If this weren't the first time, I'd suggest we jus' leave it on. Seein' as it doesn' seem t'come with an instruction manual.'

His hand squeezes lightly, while the other roams up her back, looking for...well, not a zip, clearly. Buttons, or fastenings, or laces of some sort. He didn't pay attention to the back of it while they were out, and now he's thinking he reallly should have.

"Charmin'."

Another quiet exhale, and a shake of her head. His roaming hand isn't going to have much luck along that course. Her wine-colored dress is actually two pieces.

"Here."

She parts her black lace trim, making sure he's watching; and exposes a short row of cloth-covered buttons that descend from her low collar to her waist. She tugs at his sleeve to pull both of his hands to her front, gently guiding them to that first top button where she assists him in getting them undone.

"Lemme help you."

He'll probably be able to feel her heart beating through the layers.

He can, and it still feels odd, that evidence of nerves. If he's ever met a girl so edgy about this, he can't remember them. He supposes some of them might have been like this when they were teenagers but..well. Kate isn't all that far off being a teenager herself, which is a sobering thought. But she obviously wants this, to judge by the way she's helping with her buttons, so he's not about to talk himself out of it now.

'In a hurry?'

He kisses her again, pushing the two sides of the dress apart once the buttons are undone, resisting the temptation to yank at the layers underneath. It's early yet, they've time to take it slow and anyway, the anticipation is doing lovely things to the tension starting to amass in the depths of his belly.

She doesn't have time to answer before he's kissing her again. It's just as well; it's easier to speak this way, even given the still lingering tension in her kiss, the reservedness that wasn't there the night before.

Her hands travel back up his forearms, seeking the friction to distract herself from his touch at her silk blouse. There's a short row of hooks at the back of her bustle skirt he'll be sure to find, carrying on along this path.

Kate pulls back suddenly. The walls and floorboards are creaking, accompanying the sound of footsteps down the hall. She angles her face slightly toward his door until the sounds pass.

She turns her head; he vaguely hears the footsteps but isn't worried about them, so takes the opportunity to press his lips to her neck. And he does find those hooks, but only after her shirt is open, and he touches them but doesn't open them yet. He wants her full attention before moving along.

'Gotta relax, luv. We're not makin' any noise. Nothing for anyone to hear.'

Yet.

"I am relaxed."

She's also lying through her teeth.

The fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end while he trails heat and moisture across her skin. Her hands slip under his jacket, palms flat against his chest. While the rest of her body is still, her fingertips trace the edge of his cravat.

Edited 2011-06-24 17:02 (UTC)

'You can get that thing off me for a start.'

He has a dislike for things around his neck. And this is no time for feeling overdressed.

His teeth catch lightly on her earlobe, though he's smiling as well.

'An' you're a liar. Your heart's beatin' fit t'burst.'

She pinches one end of the necktie and gives a quick tug, loosening the knot as his teeth latch onto her earlobe. She gasps softly, curling her free hand around the back of his neck.

"Fine. I'm a lil' tense."

She pulls in a few deep breaths, slipping one finger under the soft silk to loosen it bit by bit. Her nails very lightly scrape over his adam's apple.

'No need,' he murmurs, quiet in her ear.

'I'll look after you.'

He instinctively tips his head back a bit, both to help her and because he, unexpectedly, enjoys the feel of her nails there. And he does start on the hooks on her skirt now, popping them one by one; as soon as there's room, he slips a hand inside and squeezes her arse.

'Can' promise I'll help you be quiet...'

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she's a little surprised when an exhale morphs into a quiet moan. She takes a half-step closer to him, pressing her hips up against his.

"That's not what I'm nervous about."

She loosens the first few buttons of his shirt and presses her lips to the hollow of his throat. Only now is she aware of how quickly she's breathing, as she hears the air hissing across his skin.

"Not entirely."

He makes a small, appreciative noise at the feel of her mouth on his skin, and the press of their bodies.

'...then what?'

He takes care of the last few fastenings without drawing attention to what he's doing, and starts to ease the skirt down. It's made a little harder by the way she's pushing up against him, but he figures she'll get the message.

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