Fic: Road Trip

Author: Mae

Fandom: Angel the Series

Pairing: Lindsey McDonald/The Host-Lorne

Rating: Strong R

Status: Was originally posted to HostFic, and a couple of Lindsey lists..

Archive: If you like it, take it. I've already admitted I'm a slut.

Feedback: Would be lovely at azryal@mediaone.net

Series: Travelers

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy own. I am making no money.

Notes: No Mary Sue here...Mae's is a real bar in New Orleans(no, I had the nickname before I moved there), as is the house, Bon Temps Rouler, and Kyoto. It's all in the neighborhood I lived in from 96-98.

Warning: No spoilers.

Summary: This is longer, more intense, and well, dirty. My friend Jayne was bitching and moaning at me because I was "teasing" her with half-smut...so, I gave her smut. I gave her pornography!!

It’s a beautifully mild June night, with a surprisingly cool breeze coming in off of Lake Ponchartrain. Mae’s is still full of people at 3 am. The big old yellow building on the corner of Magazine and Napoleon smells of liquor, smoke, mold and decay. The back corner is so dark my midnight blue suit sort of blends. My eyes don’t, but the nicest thing about New Orleans is that they get so many different kinds of freaks, that anyone who notices probably thinks I’m in make up and contacts. It was my second choice for a home, after LA. I mean, where else does a six foot tall, green skinned, horned demon pass for a tour guide?

It was the smell that kept me from settling here; LA’s smog has nothing on the heavy beer-piss-puke-dead fish bouquet that The Big Easy has in the summer. Right now the soft breeze is blowing that perfume towards the west, thank God. I’ve wandered around outside all night, baseball hat and sunglasses in place even thought I really didn’t need them. I’ve been looking for the right place, the one he talked about in the

last of the letters he sent me. It would have been easier if he had given me a name, but I guess the cutie didn’t expect me to charter a Cessna to come all the way to see him.

He’s singing his last song, a cover of some ancient Jelly Roll Morton tune that he’s turned into a Cajun-y, country-fied showstopper. He’s smiling while he sings, which I don’t think I ever saw him do in LA…and

the lights are dimmed enough so that gas light and candle flames flicker over his skin like liquid gold. He’s heart stopping. His hair is getting long again, his skin returning to its natural Celtic paleness. Those eyes are just as blue and piercing as I remember, as the one photo I have of him shows me every time I look at it. God, I’ve missed him.

"Thank you everybody! Thank you! I’m Lindsey McDonald and I’ll be back next Friday and Saturday. Come out and have a beer with me," he says as he responds glowingly to the applause. I don’t think I ever saw him soak up appreciation like that, either. Well, in public, anyway. He steps down off of the stage and is immediately swarmed with women. All sorts, all colors, all sizes. He smiles sweetly, talks briefly to each one of them, then makes his way out, guitar and backpack in hand.

Well, that pretty much answers my first question. Was he dabbling in groupie-dom? Guess not. Still didn’t mean he won’t have someone waiting for him at home. I’d been by there earlier, the little pink house with

its converted quarters in the back. There hadn’t been a light on in number five, but it had been midnight then. I’d stopped in the bar across the street, appropriately named Les Bon Temps Rouler, wondering if it was the one, then traipsed over to the gated courtyard and gazed for a moment up at the tiny apartment he’d found.

I sneak out the door at the back of the bar, the one that opens onto Napoleon Avenue in the dark, and start to follow him. He walks slow, not paying much attention to his surroundings. I catch little humming sounds from him every few steps as we make our way up to Bordeaux, and see the lights surround him with his every movement. Brilliant flashes of red and gold tell their story, and give me the confidence to quicken my pace. Before he gets to the wrought iron gate I take off my hat and glasses and say, "Hello, counselor."

He stops, but doesn’t turn around right away. "I thought it was you. I felt it was you."

"The force is strong with this one," I quip, and he turns to me with a small smile. I hope it’s me making his eyes shine like that and not the annoyingly bright street light above us.

"I never got to see that movie," he confides, coming towards me with negligent ease.

I smile down at him when he gets close enough for me to know that, yes, I am the cause of that blazing hot gaze. "Well, we’ll have to take care of that before I go." He licks his lips, and smiles much wider.

"No, we won’t have the time."

Up the stairs, into the dark, tiny apartment just barely before he’s on me. His arms wrap around my neck and pull me down, and he leans me back against the closed door. We kiss for a long, long time, just pressing our bodies together and rediscovering each other’s taste. He lets go long enough to open my jacket, twine his arms about my waist and start moving backwards. The silk fabric makes a whoosh! when it hits the floor. I make a similar noise when he suddenly turns and pushes me down onto an old, mushy sofa. I sink into it while I watch him lean over to light a candle.

I want to say something, a teasing little one-liner or flirtatious come-on, but he pulls his plain white t-shirt over his head and slides his body down onto mine. As far as shutting me up goes, this is the sure fired approach. The flame dances in his eyes as he smiles down at me. "This is the quietest I have ever heard you."

Damn. I was hoping he hadn’t noticed. "Like you said, we don’t have the time." I take his head in my hands and dive into his heavenly mouth, swallowing his moans and melting back into the couch as he melts into

me. He nudges his knee up between my legs at the same time he starts to work on the buttons of my shirt. I don’t recall when exactly he got the last one open, but when his bare chest moved against mine, he got an

answering groan from me. Smooth, soft skin and hard little nipples pressing into my ribs get me making the same breathy sounds he’s been sharing.

I don’t know how long we make out like that, groping and squeezing in the dim light. I do know that after a while, he begins to thrust, riding his tightly clad erection up and down on my hip. He’s shaking a little, is covered with a layer of sweat, and I decide that it’s time to move on. With one strong move, I push him and sit up, setting him back on his knees. He’s off balance and catches himself with a hand on the arm of the sofa before he falls backwards. It doesn’t take me a second to open his jeans, and even less time to pull his cock out where I can get to it.

I’ve never heard such sexy noises in my life! He’s crooning, his hand resting on my neck while I go down on him in an deliberate, leisurely way. I know he’s watching, it’s one of his favorite things, so I go with the visual and pull away for a minute. I keep my lips on the tip of him, letting my tongue swirl and circle the spongy flesh there. He gasps and pushes back into my mouth, straightening and slipping his other hand into my hair. "Please don’t tease, not tonight," he begs, groaning when I swallow all of him. Sure thing, counselor, I answer in my head, and pick up the pace.

He lets go down my throat just a few minutes later, trembling and crying out from the suddenness of it. I release him and he bends to kiss me, lapping at my lips and cleaning them off. "Jesus, Lorne," he murmurs, one last shudder running through him when I trail my fingertips across his only half-softened erection.

I smile and help him take off my shirt. "You did say no teasing. Far be it from me to keep a man waiting." He laughs warmly and runs his hands down my back. His posture puts his neck right at my face and I begin to

lick and suck and bite the skin there. He holds my head gently with one hand, while the other slips down my chest to cover the bulge in my pants. "Can we move this to the bedroom?" I ask, looking forward to stretching out next to him.

He laughs and squeezes, making me moan and grip his waist. "If you want the floor. I use it for rehearsal and exercise," he says, his fingers doing wicked things through the fabric of my trousers.

Exercise? "Dare I hope for a work out bench?" I ask, pulling him back down onto my thighs. His hand is crushed between us, pressing into my erection with his weight. Visions of him bent over the black naugahyde pads fill my head and I push up into his palm.

His mouth is on my ear, his breath hot as he whispers, "Free weights and a jump rope. Sorry."

"Don’t be. We’ll find something to do with the jump rope later." I turn my head so that we can kiss again, and his laughter fills me up. So, I’ll settle for him bent over the arm of this little sofa. I’m adaptable. "Get out of those jeans. Although, you can leave the boots on, if you want to."

He’s standing, toeing off the black cowboy boots and kicking them away. "Not enough traction. Maybe later I’ll get out the hiking boots and see what I can climb," he retorts, hurriedly stripping the rest of his

clothes off. I love a man who can keep up with me, physically and verbally. I join him, nearly ripping my Versace’s off when I get a glimpse of his lovely, round ass.

He walks away, and I watch the muscles moving and sliding under his skin. He’s positively glowing, the new pale cast to his skin even more remarkable than the California canned-tan he had when he left. "Where

are you going?" I ask, naked and kneeling on the couch.

"Lube," he answers simply, disappearing into what I can only assume is the bathroom. He slams a door shut in there, then comes right back out. "You’re not getting that thing up in me without it."

Oh, yes. We’d used half a bottle of cinnamon flavored Wet that first time. It had never come out of my sheets. I kept them anyway. They still smelled of cinnamon. As he hurries back to me, smiling a truly evil

smile, I tell him, "I could, but that’s an entirely different game."

He hands me the little tube and kisses me at the same time. "Really? Maybe you should teach me the rules."

I drop the gunk next to me. "There aren’t any rules. Just bend over."

He stares down at me for a long time, then turns his back and gets on his knees in front of me. Ahh…imagination has nothing on the real thing. The line of his back, the curves of his cheeks, the soft golden hairs on his thighs; I could never dream up an ass like that. He’s bent over that sofa arm, raised and ready for me to do what I will. I place my palms on those firm globes, spread him with my thumbs, and lean down to kiss that tiny, tender pucker.

He jumps, his breath leaving him in a rush as he says my name. "Lorne!" I hear him whisper, but then he can’t talk for moaning. I curve my fingers around his hips to hold him steady and push my tongue inside.

Without any teasing or preamble, I dive right in and start to fuck him, as hard as I can, with the muscle in my mouth. Okay, so maybe it is lubrication, but it’s not artificial. It’s also so much more fun. I get the feeling from his reaction that this is his first rimming, but it won’t be his last. It’s lovely; the taste, the smell, the breathless way he’s saying my name over and over, trembling and tensing under my hands.

"Please! Please Lorne!" he cries, finally, and the desperation in his voice starts me leaking all over the cheap green velour of the cushions. I gather up some of it, use it to slick myself up, then cover him and hurriedly push in.

I don’t give him anytime to accustom himself to my girth, just keep pressing forward into his heat and tightness until I can groan against his hair. He screams, but doesn’t ask me to stop. He’s wriggling against

me, in no way acting as if he wants respite. I have a steady in-out rhythm going, and he’s just letting me slam into him, groaning with each thrust. It’s been too long for him, I think, to care about gentleness and caution. He’s about to get it, though, because no matter how crazy he makes me, I want him to know.

Wrapping my arms around his chest, I slowly sit back and pull him up so that he’s in my lap again. I can kiss his neck and his hair; and I can reach his cock easily. The position pushes me into his prostate, and he

groans long and loud from the constant pressure. When I wrap my fingers around him and start to pump him slow, he cries my name again in a pleading voice. "Shhh," I say in his ear, resisting when he covers my

hand with his to try to speed me up.

He shakes his head and says, "No. I can’t. I can’t wait."

"Yes, you can," I tell him, and tighten my grip at the base of his erection. He gasps and arches his back, but after a moment, relaxes into my hold. "That’s better."

With great care, I use the arm around his waist to lift him up just an inch or two and bring him down again. I continue this action, whispering in his ear and against his neck. "I’ve missed you, oh, I’ve missed you so much." He rubs his head into my shoulder and neck, his voice lost to sounds of delight.

He’s whimpering, strung along an edge of pleasure now that has him quivering and useless against my chest. His hands are gripping my flanks, leaving bruises, I am sure of it. I want to keep teasing him along - stroking his cock with a lazy flick of the wrist while gently rocking him against my lap - but that rhythmic motion quickly becomes too little for me. My fingers curl tighter around his erection, long nails digging into his flesh just a little, and I begin to let my fist slide up and down, squeezing the base all the way up to the head. The low sounds he makes are lovely - there's nothing quite like hearing a beautiful boy moan at your touch - but it's the eager way his ass pumps, pressing against my lap and then squeezing away in impatient frustration, that make me relent at last. Still gripping his cock, I hold Lindsey firmly in place with my left hand, beginning to fuck him with a strong, steady determination. Maybe a minute passes - two at the most - before he cries out, coming in a rush. Hot semen pours over my hand, but I hardly feel it. As he climaxes, his muscles clamp down on me with agonizing, exquisite pressure, so painful and so perfect that I let out only a little stutter of breath before I come, too.

He’s huffing, reaching up to grip my neck. He pulls me down to him, twisting to reach my mouth with his. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, but it’s the words after it that give me that happy glowy feeling. "How long are you staying?"

I guess I’d been afraid that he might want me gone after he got a little action. The question holds so much hope, so much affection, that I just squeeze him closer to me for a minute until my emotional response is back under control. "Tomorrow at midnight. Have to get back or the Cessna turns back into a yam."

He chuckles and covers my arms with his. "You came here in a Cessna? You ARE brave."

"Hey, I made sure all the rubber bands were replaced before we took off. Plus, it’s ‘enhanced’, so to speak. There will be no crashing. I don’t do Patsy Cline," I answer.

"Good," he says, quietly, and starts to squirm out of my grasp.

What did he mean by that? "Hey! I could do Patsy, she’s in my range. She’s just a bit too down for me. I try to make people feel better, not suicidal," I protest. I don’t want him to go too far away, so I hold onto his hands and keep him from leaving my space.

He pauses, leans down to kiss me very deeply, and, when he’s done, says against my mouth. "I meant the crashing, you shit." Then he pulls his hands from mine and goes to the bathroom.

"Oh." I can’t think of anything else smart to say, so I just let the smile take up all my mouth work.

Turns out, he just wanted to get a cloth to clean us up with. We nap for a while after he’s done, curled up spoon style as tight as we can get. Cramped, but very nice. I wake up to his mouth moving down my chest a few hours later and we have another long, drawn-out, exhaustive round of sex that leaves even me speechless. Another nap, but this time we wake up starving. He has a small snack of…well… me, and, as he wipes away the bit he couldn’t manage to swallow, he asks "Do you like sushi?"

We spend an hour eating the coldest, freshest salmon and yellowtail I’ve ever had. He also introduces me to barbequed yellowtail rolls, a divine concoction that must be shared with the rest of the world, or at least, my favorite sushi chef in LA. We feed each other, lick and suck soy and sticky rice off of fingers and lips, and get drunk on sake in the middle of a bright happy Sunday. He has no tv to distract us, no phone to interrupt us. It’s a small bit of heaven in this apartment, air conditioned and heavily curtained to stay dark inside. His friend from Kyoto, the sushi bar, drops by for a moment, but only to wink and pass over a dozen raw oysters. "On the house," she said, and left without another word.

The day flies by, full of sex and food and wine and laughter and more sex. As the sun begins to set, I tell him he needs a phone. "What if something should happen?" I say, running my fingers up the inside of his arm.

"What do you mean, something? Is ‘something’ wrong out there?" he replies, getting worried.

I pull him close, hugging him to my chest. "No, no more than usual." I hope he understands that. It’s always going to be sketchy, doing what I do. "But if something should, I would want you to know. I would need you to know." He sighs and just holds on, not answering. "Not to mention, I still get boys and girls in from your former employers. What if I pick up something about you one night? What if I need to…tell you, or warn you…"

Lindsey plants one on me, kisses me hard and long and deep. "Please, let’s not talk about it," he whispers when he stops. "I’ll get a phone. This week."

I didn’t mean to upset him, but I can see the furrow to his brow and the shadows in his eyes. Instead of saying I’m sorry, I pull him down on top of me, and try to show him why this means so much to me.

Just before ten, we get in the shower together. He sings to me there.

Just before eleven, we’re standing outside waiting on my pilot to come retrieve me so we can leave. We’ve kissed and kissed and hugged and kissed again, now we are silent and still. He watches me with mixed emotions; he is obviously glad I came, but also visibly saddened by my departure. His beautiful eyes are shining a little more than usual, and he glances skyward when he sees the car turn the corner. Horn honks

twice, and my friend waves at me. I can see the mountain of beads around his neck trough the windshield.

Lindsey and I look at each other. He’s trying to smile, but his heart’s not in it. "This wasn’t so hard, last time," he whispers, his voice thick.

"No, it wasn’t," I reply. I lean over and touch my lips to his forehead and that’s what makes the tears spill. Two, shiny damp tracks fall down his cheeks and before he can wipe at them with his hand, I kiss them away. No one’s ever cried for me, ever. Not even my mother. How did I get so lucky here?

I want to hold him again, but it would make it worse for both of us. So I back away, looking at him, watching him. He starts to speak, to say something, but can’t. "Wait, Lindsey. Wait and say it next time."

Next time.

I like the sound of that.

END