iLove In An Elevator

AN:Thanks to my Tara. Here it is, darlingest of darlings.

She had hips that made his breath stop. Her arms crossed over her ample breasts, and her lips pouted kissably. Spencer wanted to make her from clay. But no, that wasn't good enough. Not simple mud. She was a goddess, from marble. What was that one story, about the statue come to life?

Spencer stepped into the elevator, his heart pounding in his chest. He sidled to the back, ignoring the shaking of his hands. The girl glanced up at him, but didn't give that awkward but polite smile that said; “We don't know each other, but I'll be nice because that's what protocol demands.”

He tried to lean against the back of the elevator, suave and slick. Had to impress her with his coolness. But he miscalculated the distance he should place his heels and slipped. Blushing furiously, he caught himself with the palms of his hands against the wall of the elevator.

The girl chuckled and rolled her eyes. Spencer felt his face growing even hotter. How was that possible. He stood up straight, hands folded in front of him, staring down at them.

“So, is that the way you always break the ice, or are you just a total klutz?” her voice held no malice as she took a step towards him.

“Uhm, I just—I wanted—I'm not a klutz!” he stammered.

“And the way you're tripping over your tongue is so convincing.” she raised one of those perfectly arched eyebrows and made him choke on pure oxygen.

“I'm Spencer,” he offered her a hand.

The girl looked down at that hand. Spencer followed her gaze and instantly hated himself. His nails were cracked and jagged, clay and scraps of this and that caught underneath them. The wrinkles of his knuckles were filled with dirt of an unknown origin, and his palms were rough.

“I mean---,” he went to pull away the offending hand before he she caught it in both of hers, smooth and clean, gentle and warm.

“I'm not interested in your name.” she said in a low voice.

“You're not?” well, that was more disappointing. Here he had been ready to draw her a small doodle with his phone and apartment number. Maybe she'd come to his place for dinner. Of course, that would mean Carly would have to cook, which would mean having to explain to her, which would be ANOTHER mess...

“No,” oh right! Sexy girl was talking. Probably best to keep listening to her. “I'm not interested in your name. I'm interested in your mouth.”

“My mouth?” he repeated. “I thought you just said I keep tripping over my tongue.”

“Because it gets twisted.” she nodded. Her face came closer and closer to his. “Maybe you could show me. How it gets twisted.” her own tongue, viciously pink darted out to wet her red lips. Spencer's jaw dropped and he nodded.

“I could show you. Yeah. I could.” he reached out and cupped her porcelain cheeks with his rough hands and pressed a gentle, tentative kiss to her lips.

“Harder,” she whispered. Spencer glanced up at the numbers of the elevator. He slammed on the stop button, then leaned back against the wall again and pulled her tight against him.

“Harder,” he repeated. His fingers threated through her hair, feeling it snag on the rough patches of his skin. He pulled her head back and tasted her mouth again.

His forearms rested against her collarbone as his hands held her in perfect position. They seemed delicate under the heavy bones of his arms, and he wondered for half a second what it might be like to hear them snapping, to see the look of pain cross her face as they cracked and the nerves caught fire. She'd look beautiful in agony.

He might have to sculpt her like that.

In the meantime, his tongue was pressing against her lips. Not asking for permission to dip inside, but demanding entrance. Demanding the chance to know her taste, her feel, to burn it deep into his memory. And of course she relented.

Spencer twisted his tongue against hers. The organs twined together, their tastes mixing into something hazy and spicy, intoxicating and exotic. He didn't think he'd ever get enough. One hand let go of her hair to pull her leg up, the space between her thighs pressing tight against him.

How would she smell? How would she taste? What would that look like? The delicate skin of her most secret place, holding secrets yet to be told. Spencer longed to uncover every one of her secrets with his fingers and tongue. The thought of it made him groan against hers.

Their mouths broke apart as she moaned softly. The artist tilted her head and nipped at her neck, watching with fascination at the little red marks that appeared on the pale column. She'd looked beautiful snaked and satisfied, laying on his bed. He could sculpt her like that, too. If only he could have her to model for him however and whenever he chose.

It was both a frustrating and terrifying thought.

Spencer finally released a bit of flesh from those precious collarbones with a pop. He backed against the elevator wall again, staring at her with something between shock and lust. She just chuckled and combed her hair with her fingers, hitting the button to start the elevator again. They were silent through the jerky lift and glide to the floor where the doors opened. Her floor.

“Will I see you again?” he asked as she stepped out.

“You're watching me walk away, aren't you?” she smirked as she turned and walked coolly down the hall. He gazed at her form as the elevator doors slid shut.

“Pygmalion.” he murmured to himself. “That was that story.”