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“Well?” Tara asks.
“Well nothin’,” Pam replies, slamming the office door shut behind them. “The world’s fucked, I’m not exactly surprised.”
Unthinkingly, Tara moves to help Pam out of her corset and Pam in turn slips Tara’s jacket from her shoulders. (All of their clothes are pretty well ruined, but it’s not like they don’t have others, or for that matter like they want back in these after everything.)
“Comin’ for me was stupid,” Pam murmurs for at least the fourth time tonight as she lays the garments on the desk, because she’s not exactly sure what else to say.
“Your ass ain’t in jail,” Tara retorts for at least the fourth time tonight as she tugs her hair out of its ponytail. “In a building I’m pretty sure blew up, at that.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it when you’re stupid,” Pam coos, stepping close, and suddenly they’re kissing – it’s the first they’ve shared since the daring jailbreak, despite the way they’ve been making eyes at each other and touching one way or another since then. There’s a greater need and heat behind it now, too.
“I’m a fuckin’ idiot is what,” Tara says when they break apart, and she’s smiling in spite of herself. “Last time I checked, I resented the hell outta you. Last time I checked, you’d threatened me too many times to be in the running for bein' my lover.”
“That’s presumptuous,” Pam mutters, but she’s smiling too, teasing around the hem of Tara’s shirt.
“Coulda fooled me,” Tara replies, nodding to the other woman’s hands with a raised eyebrow. “It sorta seemed obvious at this point.”
“Just ‘cause we’re gonna make love doesn’t mean we’re lovers,” Pam says, all the while undressing her progeny. Normally, though, she’s less for talking and more for doing, so that she’s even said they’re gonna is something.
“No,” Tara agrees. “I made love with plenty of people who I wouldn’t have dreamed of callin’ my lover. But none of them stared at me like you’re doing right now.” She glances down at her feet – this is already at least five more kinds of intimacy than she’s been comfortable with in the past – and adds, “None of them did for me what you’ve done.”
Saved her from bleeding out on Sookie Stackhouse’s kitchen floor?
Saved her from burning herself to death?
Actually done something to help her deal with people who’ve given her shit?
Went to vampire jail to protect her from having to go herself?
It doesn’t really matter which of the things she’s referring to.
“Shucks,” Pam murmurs. “When’d you get all sappy?”
Tara shrugs, unfastening Pam’s top lightning-fast and throwing it to the floor. “’Round the time I realized that you’re about the only thing I got left, I guess,” she says. Her tone has gone firm and the look on her face is almost a dare. “That if it was just gonna be us in the wind, I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Good,” Pam declares. “I wouldn’ta said it if I didn’t mean it, either.”
“Now who’s sappy,” Tara mumbles. It’s not even a question. She shimmies out of her pants, Pam hurries to do the same, chuckling.
“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go with lovers?” Pam says, and her smile isn’t even sarcastic this time.
She lets Tara steer her toward the loveseat – it’s a little more comfortable than the desk or the floor, anyway – and position herself over her, smirking devilishly. She understands why her progeny needs to at least start out on top. It makes sense, enough sense that she’s not even going to say anything snarky about it. (She hasn’t not been on top in decades, but she’s not entirely surprised to find that being pinned down by Tara doesn’t feel claustrophobic like being pinned down by anyone else does.)
Especially not when Tara’s kissing trails down her body, brushing a thumb over her breast. Tara doesn’t do that thing of looking up every few seconds, all naïve and questioning, like some of Pam’s past fucks have – she’s glad, actually, that drives her nuts – but she seems to be figuring out pretty quickly what works, too. She’s got good instincts, not that they’re getting mentioned either.
But when Tara’s inched farther down still, she pauses, propping herself up on her elbows. “This wasn’t just a matter of time, was it?” she asks.
“I think we pretty much guaranteed this when we made out with an audience,” Pam smirks.
Tara rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean from earlier tonight,” she mutters. “I mean, I don’t just have the hots for you ‘cause you turned me? This wasn’t destined to happen eventually?”
What she’s really asking, and Pam can figure this out too, is do I wanna fuck you because I wanna fuck you, or because I have to wanna fuck you? Pam hasn’t been the most teachy of Makers, but she also hasn’t been neglectful by any means, so she’s patient enough when she sits up and says, “Our bond doesn’t exactly work against us, but this ain’t an imperative.”
“You and Eric used to fuck,” Tara says, almost accusingly though not jealously.
“Yeah, used to,” Pam agrees, shrugging. “We’d fucked before he turned me, and we fucked for a while after that. But things change.” For any number of reasons, really; but much as she likes Tara, much as she’s willing to open up to her about any number of things, she’s not really ready to try to explain her and Eric (besides, this isn’t exactly the time for it). “’Sides, it doesn’t have to happen. Jessica’s never banged her Maker.”
“That’s ‘cause Bill Compton was hardly bangable even before he got resurrected an’ shit,” Tara counters.
Pam beams proudly (she's so thankful her progeny can be as caustic as she is), but her expression turns serious again a moment later. “My point is, whatever you’re feelin’, whatever I’m feelin’, it’s all real,” she says. She’s not sure it’s gonna go over, but she pulls Tara up to kiss her, softer and more tenderly this time, whispering against her skin, “See? I meant that.”
Tara lowers her gaze, trying not to smile too much. “Yeah, okay,” she says, like she’s not entirely convinced even though they both know she is.
“Now, you wanna get back to what you started?” Pam asks archly, because she can’t go this long without saying something at least a little flip.
“I might,” Tara sasses, but she’s already moving to press her lips to Pam’s inner thighs. One of her hands lingers on Pam’s hip, urging her to lie back down in no uncertain terms, and Pam obliges fast as she can.
It’s been a while – longer than one might think – since she was the one getting fucked, not doing the fucking (she’d never describe it as a trust thing, but that’s what it is; well, that and the fact that she doesn’t actually like most of her not-lovers enough to allow it) and she’s not nervous, Pamela Swynford de Beaufort doesn’t get nervous and especially not about sex, but she’s surprised by how much fluttery anticipation she’s feeling.
By the time Tara’s mouth is on her, though, she’s reconciled herself to falling into sensation. It doesn’t surprise her that Tara’s good at this, and between that and the way she can feel Tara’s arousal, she’s losing her will to keep cool as long as possible.
It starts with a soft, murmuring moan, unlike any sound Tara’s ever heard her make before; as such, Tara takes it as encouragement, tracing up Pam’s slit with the flat of her tongue and running her hand over Pam’s hip and thigh slowly.
“Yeah, that’s nice,” Pam says before she’s had a chance to realize it, and she idly reaches one of her own hands to her breast, brushing over the sensitive flesh.
Tara murmurs some wordless surprise – was that praise? It’s practically unheard of – and focuses her efforts yet more, digging fingers into Pam’s thighs and lapping at her clit.
“Uh-huh,” Pam pants, lifting her hips insistently. “Like that.”
Her voice is so smooth and low, it’d turn Tara on by itself, not that she needs any help getting turned on just now. Without even noticing it, she presses harder against Pam’s thighs, dragging her nails down the soft skin, and suddenly, well.
“Shit,” she mutters, pulling back to stare at the blood she’s drawn with a horrified expression. “Shit, Pam, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”
“Tara,” Pam says, reaching to tangle fingers through Tara’s hair and urge her head back down. “Don’t freak out. It’ll heal quick, remember? ‘Sides…”
She doesn’t have to finish that, they both get it. Without a moment’s more hesitation, then, Tara turns her attention back to her Maker, licking and sucking and stroking at her until she about shrieks, “Fuck, Tara,” over and over, those two words repeating in every possible permutation as she rides out her orgasm.
It looks for a second like Tara’s going to do the thing of getting shy once they’ve finished banging, and that’s another one of Pam’s pet peeves, so she lifts Tara up so they’re laying with bodies flush against each other, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, and she kisses her own taste off of Tara’s mouth. There’s really no way to be shy after that.
“Not bad,” she whispers, looking at Tara from under heavy lids.
“You always give such fancy compliments?” Tara asks – it can’t even be called a retort, given how soft her voice goes.
“I don’t usually give compliments at all,” Pam points out. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tara declares.
Pam drapes an arm over Tara’s body, laughing one of those velvety femme fatale laughs she has. “Good,” she says. Tara can’t help but notice the nonsense shapes being traced on her skin, but she doesn’t show it. “You just tell me when you’re ready for your turn.”
It’s such an unromantic way of putting it – certainly not the most unromantic, but not exactly the stuff of poetry – that it just makes Tara smile. “I’mma give you a minute to finish comin’ down,” she says.
“Oh, please,” Pam exclaims, and it’s almost inevitable that she rolls Tara on her back and leans over her. She’s watching Tara’s expression carefully, but she can’t help but snark. “Just wait an’ see if you still wanna be teasing about recovery from getting off when I’m done with you.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” Tara observes.
“Promise it’s the fun kind,” Pam smirks. “Where everyone playin’ wins.”