When She Was Bad
Dawn isn't sure when she started thinking about Connor like, well, like that; what she does know is that she can't seem to stop, and God knows she's tried, because please, it's not like she actually wants to want him or anything.
That's just... yech. But she can't help it. Even in the middle of a freaking argument, she feels it. Fights it, yeah, but like that ever does anything other than make her feel really... conflicted.
It'd be easier, she thinks sometimes, if she loved him or something -- vomit-worthy a thought as that is -- because at least then she'd understand why. You'd think once, just once, life would cut her a break -- if not on the mystical stuff, then at least in the day-to-day, ordinary male-female side of things. But nooooo. It's just one big suck-fest, all day, every day, especially when she has to see him and talk to -- well, okay, fight with -- him and know that she can't do anything about all those things she doesn't want to want.
But... she casts a furtive look towards her bedroom door, finds it closed and lets out a breath in a nervous giggle that sounds awfully loud in the room she's using as her own, and she hopes no-one comes to investigate the sound, because her door doesn't have a lock, and no matter how many times she asks, how whiny she makes her voice, Angel won't budge on the issue. Security and safety and no, it's not about trust at all -- Angel makes her want to stick her finger down her throat sometimes, and the only reason she doesn't is because he makes her sister happy and somehow, that balances everything out.
Almost everything, anyway.
After one more quick glance at the still-closed door, she sits down on the bed and lays back, starts off by running a finger down her throat and imagining the light touch is Connor's, thrilling her far more than she'd like. His hand trails down a little further and rests on her breast, squeezes a little and it feels soft and full, a perfect fit in his cupped palm. The nipple hardens, pressing up against her -- his -- hand and insisting on more pressure, so he squeezes a little harder and slides his hand down so that his wrist rubs against the lower curve of her breast and his fingers are in the perfect position to touch and grip the stiff little nipple, twist lightly until she moans and her hips arch slightly off the bed. And she knows that she can't help it, now, she has to, has to move her hand lower, has to touch herself a little more intimately, and so she slips her hand over her legs to her inner thighs, not even bothering to be slow, to try to arouse herself further with languid touches. She needs it now. She raises her short-ish skirt and pushes her panties to the side, glides a finger between her folds and opening herself up to the fantasy again. Connor's finger teases her by moving up to tap at her clit, before running down to--
A knock at the door and she jolts guiltily, yanking his -- no, her -- hand out from between her legs, righting her panties and skirt and hoping she doesn't look as disreputable, as horny, as she feels.
Wiping her hand on the coverlet, she gets up and makes her way to the door. Her legs feel shaky, and her whole body aches with unfulfilled desire, but she opens the door and tries for an amiable smile anyway.
She lets it drop when she sees Connor standing in the hallway, leaning against the far wall -- he's really good at leaning, and it makes him look predatory and... oh, she's so not going to go there. Not now, not while she's... like this.
"What?" she snarls, rather impressively, she thinks.
He sneers at her in that annoying way of his, then pushes away from the wall and takes a few steps forward. "I thought you wanted to train this afternoon."
"I do. I will. I am- I-" she stutters, furious with herself, but she can't help it. He's closer now and she can almost smell the forest-y scent of his skin, and with the memory of what she'd been doing before he knocked on the door, well, she can't help being flustered.
"You?" he prompts, and she can tell he's enjoying this. She wants to hit him, badly, but she'd probably break her hand on his face, hard-headed as he is.
"I need to take a shower," she says in a flash of inspiration, because she really, really does have to be alone for a while. And after that, she guesses she'd need to shower, too.
"What's the point? You'll have to shower after we train, anyway." And, brow furrowed, he takes yet another step forward. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow on her face, her hand, her-
Oh, crap. He would have inherited vamp senses from Angel and Darla, and she would wait until this particular moment to remember that fact.
"You-" he says, and swallows, gaze moving up from her thighs to her breasts and lingering there.
Ordinarily she'd be amused (she hopes), but right now, that slow appraisal is doing wicked things to her and she needs to get away from him before she does something monumentally stupid, like kissing him.
Oh, this is so many ways of not good. Still, she can't stop herself from glancing down to check if he's- And she gulps, because he really, really is, and she presses her thighs together to keep from groaning out loud.
"Gotta go," she chokes out, and slams the door, leans against it briefly to stop her knees from buckling.
"I'll, uh, be waiting for you downstairs," he says, and though his voice is slightly muffled through the wood, she could swear he sounds choked, too.
She gathers up her toiletries and cautiously opens the door again, makes her way down the hall to the bathroom. Before the closes the bathroom door behind her -- this one, thankfully, does have a lock -- she hears the dull thwack of steel against wood, and knows Connor has begun training without her. The image of him, half-naked and sweaty and wielding a big, strong sword pops into her mind and she bites her lip to keep the whimper in, and though she closes her eyes, she can still see him, and it's somehow worse, more... sensual.
God. She locks the door and prepares for the longest shower of her life.