Fic: Harley Davidson

[lanalucy]

She’s busily removing the honey and cinnamon sugar from her fingers, mind skating pleasantly through other skin-gliding-on-skin activities that emphatically do not involve either of the two male friends sitting at the table with her, when she hears from her left, “Can you really rebuild a carburetor?”

There’s a brief microsecond where that voice impinges on the visuals before she pulls herself back to reality and, lacking anything witty to say, simply replies, “Yes.  Of course.  I’ve done it before.”

Conversation picks up between the two men, something about the relative merits of various types of guns and ammo sizes on killing zombies, and finding water on Mercury, and her mind drifts back to more entertaining territory.  Thinking back on that brief daydream, it’s painful to think it’s become fifteen years of not having anyone touch her in that way rather than the four or five she had originally envisioned, and funny in a not-even-amusing way that circumstances conspired to keep her celibate for so frakking long.

Mentally shaking it off, she’s wandering through long, slow, erotic kisses (gods, she misses kissing!) when that same voice is there again, talking about going outside for a smoke, this time accompanied by the touch of fingers on the nape of her neck, skin directly on skin.  She’s thankful for years of experience with a poker face and that this guy does not yet know her well enough to get what he’s just done to her with a completely unromantic request to let him out of the booth for a smoke.  She sits back down and sort of mentally puts things back together before asking Mick, “So, you ready to go?”

Getting out of the car at the house is odd, because it’s her car and she’s used to being the driver, and in her peripheral vision, she sees Jake back at his car, momentarily wondering where he’s going with her key, when he comes back and hands her his phone.  “Maybe you can give me your phone number, because I think we really have to talk about that carburetor thing.”  Later she thinks that was almost smooth and flirts briefly with the idea that maybe she wants him to have meant it ‘that’ way.