Title: "The Great Port Chuckian Smoke-Out"
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: 'R' for language and sexual situations, Coleman/Sam
Disclaimer: Nope, I really don't own them.
Summary: Plot? What plot? Banter, booze, and warm bodies. Some habits are
just hard to break.
He flicks the Zippo with one hand and the flame leaps up, catching on
the tip of her cigarette. "Thanks," she murmurs, absently, as he slides
back across the bar and pockets the Deadhead lighter.
"Nasty habit, Baby Doll," he warns, companionably, as he sets up her
next shot of tequila. "Makes you taste like an ash tray."
"How would you know? Is that how you clean 'em? Licking 'em out?" she
counters huskily, drawing smoke and blowing it at him.
He doesn't cough, doesn't flinch, simply stares at her with something
like humor pulling at his lips. And within seconds, he's leaning back over the bar, the edges of his wild hair brushing against her face as he whispers low and close to her ear. "Doll, if I were licking anything out, you'd know." His teeth close around her earlobe, give it a gentle tug. "Trust me."
"You're disgusting," she says, pulling back as the cigarette teeters,
dangerously between her thumb and forefinger, like her self-control.
"Naw." He grins, moving the brimming shot glass in front of her. "I'm minty fresh."
"No...just fresh, I think." She gives him a withering glare, tapping out ash on the floor without any regard for the glass tray by her elbow. She shows even less regard for her drink, knocking it back and not caring that drops spill down her chin, her throat, and down the low vee of her crop top.
He follows the path of the liquor with his eyes, rubbing,
speculatively, at his jaw with his knuckles. He opens his mouth to make some lewd comment but the shot glass slamming down and her crisp, "Don't even think about it!" cuts it off.
"Can't help but think about it...it's right there," he points out, affronted. "I'm only human."
She doesn't disagree, doesn't tug up her blouse, and, for just a moment, her dark eyes are startlingly sad...but the moment of vulnerability doesn't last and her best defense, the cig, is soon clamped back between her sneering lips. "Fuck off, Coleman," she mutters, gesturing for another shot.
She still hasn't forgiven him for making nice with her on Junior's orders...and he can't say he blames her. He does, however, want to get in her pants. Hey...like he said, he's human. And she's absolutely gorgeous. Even if she does have a dozen annoying habits...like casing the joint when she first walks in, drinking his top shelf tequila like it's water, cussing like a sailor, and robbing his regulars blind during games of pool.
And she has lousy taste in men, too.
Yeah, he's aware of just how lucky he is...to be cruising yet another
chick who has had the likes of Mr. Hotshot Jasper Jacks.
"Doll, you keep on talking to me like this and I'll think you want me," he chides, reaching, again, for the Patron and measuring out a double with the automatic pourer.
"I am *not* a 'Doll'," she snaps, irritably.
"Ain't you? All tiny and perfect and letting the big boy dress you up? Jax's sweet little baby doll?"
The remark has its desired result and Sam is up, off her stool, vaulting over the bar... all 5 foot two inches of her vibrating with anger. The shot he set up for her gets knocked over, crashes to the floor, spilling tequila down the woodgrain and onto his shoes, but he can't even be annoyed... not when she's got her little fist curled into his shirt and she's up in his face.
"Shut. Up," she hisses. "I pay you for information and for drinks... not for your powers of observation."
"Yeah?" He slips one hand into her thick, near-black hair, cradling her head and his other hand slides against the tight curve of her ass, trapping her between him and the bar. "Well, I ain't been paid," he reminds.
He has to duck down to kiss her, pull her tight against him, where he's hard and chafing against his jeans. He drags his tongue across her lower lip, tastes the ashes, and dives into the liquored warmth of her mouth. Occupational hazard ... he's used to it...he's grown to crave it.
She beats at him, but her small fists do no damage...and even as she
smacks him in the chest, she's kissing him...all teeth and swear words.
"Asshole...filthy...disgusting...pig..." she gasps out, slipping her arms around his neck.
Whistles ring out from around the bar and he stops his casual
investigation up her shirt to flip the bird before he sweeps her up in his arms and stalks towards the office. He doesn't even need to watch where he's going... to take his lips from hers...he can walk the distance blind... but with her help, he navigates the door, nudging it shut again with one hip.
"You got your drinks...now it's time for the info," he drawls as she slides down his body.
"What...what do you have to tell me?" she wonders, working the buttons
at his waistband, the zipper of his jeans.
"Smoking's bad for you. So's chasing rich pretty boys." He chuckles
against her throat. "And a little recreational sex beats all."
"Can't argue with the last one." She stares at him in that way that makes him think he ought to check his wallet...but his hands are full of woman, so he can't. And she is, in fact, the perfect armful. Sharp angles and soft curves in all the right places. Light enough to support for a little wall-banging and deep enough to drown his sorrows in.
"Can't argue...or won't?" he teases, trailing his lips down to the swell of her cleavage. The only thing about her that's out of proportion...too big for her...besides her smart mouth. But he's not complaining...and not distracted ...he's got a promise to keep.
The concrete floor is hard on his knees and he makes a mental note to
order carpet even though it's a bitch to clean. In hope of future encounters. He's big on hope. Her bared belly is flat and firm and when he splays his hands across her, steadying her, her skin is deliciously warm to the touch...to the taste.
"Am I paying for this, too?" she asks, breathless, head falling back
against the door.
"Uh-uh, Baby Doll...you get this for free," he assures, easily undoing the fastenings of her impossibly low-riding pants. He hooks his thumbs around the strings of her thong, pulling it down over her thighs and down to her ankles.
He's impressed. She's the same golden tan all over...hasn't lost it yet
for winter... and he pauses a moment to wonder exactly where she's been
tanning nude and whether or not there are holes cut into the walls of the booths. Not that it's necessary to go all Peeping Tom since he's getting the full
Brazilian waxed monty right here and now.
"Coleman..." she urges, impatiently.
"Easy there, Darlin'...I told you you'd *know*, didn't I?" he reminds.
And, moments later, she does.
"Oh...oh my *God*."
He can't help grinning as she curls her fingers into his hair, panting and forgetting all about ash trays and how he might clean them. Maybe even
forgetting about a certain boy millionaire for a while.
He has his uses, his talents. It's a savvy woman who takes him up on them.
Before they inevitably walk out of his life.
Of course, if he has his way, Miss Sam won't be able to walk for a week...and her shaking knees are proof of that. Her hips jerking against him, too. Working two fingers counterpoint to his tongue, he finds that elusive spot that never fails to bring a woman down...and when she comes for him, she comes fast and hard and silent...the only sound is her ragged breathing as it turns into a sated sigh.
If he'd known earlier that this was the way to shut her up, he would've
nailed her weeks ago.
He catches her when she collapses against him, moving up so they both
have the wall for support. She kicks off her black pants, her underwear,
and winds her legs around his waist, kissing him openmouthed and heavy on
the tongue. She still tastes like tequila and smoke...and he knows he tastes like her. Something she doesn't seem to mind... and he wonders if it gets her off. If all sorts of things get her off and Jax didn't bother with the pre-show Down Under and went straight for the main event.
The pretty boy probably doesn't know a damn thing about pleasing a woman and that's why he can't keep 'em. That's why they come slumming to the likes of their friendly neighborhood bartender.
Skye used to claw his back like a wildcat when he had her... so, so surprised that he wanted to do the things he did. That he liked listening to the noises she made. He still remembers them...
"Hey, you paying attention here, Coleman?"
Sam's nails are blunt, clipped close and practical, and they barely
scrape him as she eases him out of his boxers. She must play at sex the same way she cheats at cards because she's ripping open a foil package and he has no fucking clue where she was hiding it.
"I am right here, Miz Baby Doll McCall," he lies, hoarsely.
"I'm. Not. A. Damn. Doll."
Each word is punctuated by a few inches of her slick warmth engulfing
him...until she's got him to the hilt and he's not lying because he's right here and it's perfect and he wants to move in and stay for the season. He thrusts into her slowly, forcefully, slamming her repeatedly against the wall, burying himself deep every time. Her eyes are closed now and she breathes, harsh, in his ear. "Yes...yes...*harder*..."
"Come on...come with me now, Sam..."
He's never finished before a woman in his life and he's not about to
start now. He speeds up, burying his hands in her hair, and they knock
back their shots at the same time. Red-gold bourbon. Pale blond scotch. Drinking to drown their sorrows and fucking to to give them CPR.
Maybe they're just a little drunk as they slump, spent, against the wall.
Maybe just a little stupid.
"Nasty habit," he murmurs, ruefully, into her mouth.
"I'll kick it," she whispers, gently, touching his face with the backs of her fingers. "I''ll quit. Cold turkey after today."
She's painfully kind as she pulls away, rearranges her clothes. He knows she'll leave money on the bar on her way out and call him tomorrow.
"Me, too," he lies, watching her go.
The flame leaps up, catching.
Hell, nobody likes a quitter anyway.
November 20, 2003.