The Emerald Isle, the Crimson skin

For today, I decided to go out of order for my friend list. Technically, this is both unrequested AND a request. I got a message yesterday with a 'what about me?' tone to it. So, hopefully, this will make her quit her bitching.

And will make her feel some... interesting things.

And will turn on everyone who reads it.

Irish Road Stop

 “What's the purpose of your visit?”

Rachel bites her lower lip at the question, the soft lilt of Ireland's beautiful musical accent caressing her ears as the custom officer asks. “Pleasure,” she says, trying to keep her smile smaller than it wants to be.

He stamps her passport and gives her a broken smile. “Enjoy your stay in Ireland, ma'am.”

Her breathing is back to normal by the time she gets to the baggage claim, just in time to see the roguish smile, the copper hair, and the hints of tattoos on his arms as he waits for her, holding a sign with her name on it.

“Did you have a nice flight, then?” he asks, taking her bag and gesturing towards the doorway.

Rachel smiles, then clears her throat, looking for a voice that doesn't seem to want to come.

He opens the door for her. “Watch your feet love,” he says before closing it. She takes a deep breath, settling in to her seat as she hears him put the bag in the trunk and come around to the other side. He gets in and sits to her right. His tongue sticks out a little bit as he turns the key in the ignition, and he whispers sweet nothings to the car until the engine catches and sputters to life. “There you go,” he says, “that's a good girl.” He pats the dashboard, then turns and smiles at Rachel. “No trouble at all,” he says.

He pushes the wire rim glasses up his nose, shifts the car noisily into gear, and soon the airport and the discomfort of travel is behind them.

“You didn't pack all that much,” he says, his voice rolling with the hills as they drive past them. “Were you not planning to stay all that long?”

“We'll have plenty of time,” she says. “Don't worry about that.”

He laughs. “I do love the sound the of that,” he says.

“What?”

“Your accent.”

She frowns at him. “I don't have an accent,” she says. “You do.”

He laughs. “Around here I have no such thing,” he says. He smirks at her. “Here, I sound like everyone else, I can tell you that. Now you, my lovely, you sound different. A nice American accent.” He adjusts his glasses again and turns back to watch the road. “It really is very sexy.”

Rachel shakes her head and gives a little chuckle, then adjusts herself in the chair and hopes that her face is not as red as her hair.

He laughs at her.

She glares at him.

He holds up his hands in surrender, wincing as if burned. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I did not mean to laugh at you. Sure enough, though, you have to know how cute you are when you blush.”

“I am not cute,” she says, forcing her voice steady and lower in pitch than the giggly tone his accent usually makes her use.

“Oh, my lovely lady Rachel, that's where you're wrong.” She fights the smile at the rolling music of his lilting voice. “You can deny it all you like, but I promise you darling: you are cute.”

She looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and scorches him with her glare. “Pull over,” she says.

Her voice turns his blood to ice, and he doesn't argue. They step out of the car. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing the curling strands of thorny vines tattooed up his forearms. He cracks his neck to either side, runs his hands through his copper hair, and pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Should I be putting my hands up then?” he asks.

Rachel puts her hands on her hips, legs spread a bit. She stands solid, as if she is somehow more real than the world around her. As if she would stand in the path of a tsunami, and the waves would go around her. “I,” she says, “am not cute.”

He smirks at her. It does not melt the ice in her eyes.

“Take off your shirt,” she says.

He rolls his sleeves back down and then pulls the shirt completely off. She traces her eyes along the thorny vines that trace his muscular arms, still starkly visible even through his arm hair. The vines curl over his shoulders, coming together and tying a celtic knot in the center of his chest. A flock of birds flies across his ribs on the right side. Just above the top of his pants, she can see a wing pushing up his hip.

He smiles at her, moving a little bit to show off his ink.

“Pants,” she says. “Pull them down to your ankles.”

He reaches for his belt, then clears his throat. “I'm, um. I'm not exactly wearing anything underneath,” he says.

She glares at him, her mouth a firm line that brooks no argument.

So he shrugs and pulls his pants down, showing her the rest of the feathered serpent that snakes its way down from the top of his hip all the way down the outside of his thigh until finally curling just above his knee.

She glances at his erection, looks at the tattoo, and fights to keep her face blank. She knew she wasn't blushing anymore; the warmth wasn't in her face. She crosses her arms over her chest, pretending that the way they push up her breasts is unintentional. The twitch in his erection makes it clear that the movement did not go unnoticed. “Turn around,” she says. “Put your hands on the hood of the car.”

“Assume the position then?” he says, turning around and leaning against the car. “I have to say, normally when this happens, I'm wearing more clothing.” He looks back at her and gives her a quick wink. “Not every time, mind you. But usually.”

“Hush,” she says.

“I'm also usually a fair bit more pissed,” he says. “Not exactly in a legal state of mind, if you understand what I'm saying.”

Rachel steps forward and grabs his hair, fighting down the urge to smash him into the hood of the car. “I said hush.”

He nods.

“Not a word,” she says. She runs her hand down his muscular back, tracing along the fractal branches and roots of the tree down his spine. She curls her fingers, scratching a little bit as she got past the roots and over the base of his tailbone.

He starts to make a soft growl in the back of his throat, and his back starts to curve in pleasure.

Then Rachel pulls her hand back and swipes it against his ass. He jumps at the smack. The second hit she cups her fingers a little, making a much louder and more satisfying sound with the spank. He yelps at the third strike, when Rachel keeps her hand as tense as possible, spreading the impact around as wide a space as possible.

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” she says. She rakes her nails down the ass cheek she's been hitting, smiling at the sharp intake of breath. “Better,” she says.

Then she goes back to hitting, concentrating the impacts on the same cheek, over and over again. She does a few rapid hits, meant more to sting than anything else. She does some hits that clip the skin, some that impact so hard it might feel like she was punching him rather than spanking.

Again and again she hits him, smiling as the skin gets warmer and warmer, as the pale skin turns to crimson.

She stops hitting and begins gently rubbing the burning skin, knowing that he is so sensitive that even the lightest touch hurts. She pinches the skin, making him jump again, then scratches down his ass, knowing that it must feel like she dug deep bloody furrows into his skin.

He whimpers as she gives him a friendly pat against the bright red skin. “Still think I'm cute?” she asks.

He shakes his head, almost desperately.

“Good,” she says. “You can stand up now.”

He stands up, putting a hand against his ass, as though to check and make sure it isn't as badly damaged as it feels. When he turns to look at her, the roguish smirk is back on his face. “I'll never say you're cute again, if that's what you want,” he says. He looks down at his ankles. “Can I pull my pants back on then?”

Rachel shakes her head, her icy frown replaced with a taunting smirk. “No, we're not done yet.” She unhooks her own belt and starts pulling it out of the loops in her skirt.

He sighs, eyes on the thin strip of leather. “Going after the other cheek, are you?”

She shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. She steps forward, only inches away from him. “Put your hands behind your back.”

She yanks the belt tight around his wrists, wraps it a few times and then tucks the remainder between his wrists, tying them into a knot. “Now we're going to fuck,” she says. “Then we can go.”

He smiles as she pulls her panties down and steps out of them. She pushes him against the hood of the car.

“Why only one cheek then?” he asks, wincing as she pushes his ass against the hood.

She straddles him, biting back a moan as she slides herself around him. She smiles at how easily he fits. He moans, his eyes almost rolling back into his head.

She puts her hands in his hair and pulls until he looks at her again.

“Wh-what was I saying?” he asks as she begins to move her hips.

“You were asking why I only hit you on one cheek.” She says, biting her lip and already starting to breathe heavily.

He grunts a bit and tries to nod. “Right,” he says. “That. Why was that again?”

She shrugs. “Harder to ignore when it's just one side,” she says.

He moans as she leans in and puts her teeth lightly against his nipple. She gives it a quick bite and clenches herself around him.

“Besides,” she says, moving her teeth to the other side. “Now I have something to do later.”