This is for my dear friend Julie, one of the top contributors to TeamSkittleward. Hope you like it, sweetie.

Thanks to my wonderful beta Nina, aka WriteOnTime, who knows that the term 'well-hung' should be hyphenated because it is a single descriptor.


Technical Difficulties: A 'Lemon-Drop'

One Shot for JJulieBee,

top contributor to #TeamSkittleward,
winners of the SupportStacie auction.

I don't own Twilight, I just really love good causes.

I read over my emails from the last few hours and can practically feel my blood boiling. I bust my ass at work—often here for up to 75 hours a week. Stress is something I know and understand really well. But when people I work with pull this bullshit, I just want to scream.

It's bad enough that I can't get a single damned thing done for work because I can't access the files I need, but to have to deal with some complete douche-bag to get my problems fixed is the icing on the freaking cake.

I look at my laptop screen and grind my teeth swearing under my breath that I loathe the tech support team at my company.

Sent via internal mail

To: JJulieBee
From: ECullen
Re: Access Problems

You wouldn't have these access problems had you configured everything properly before you left to work remotely. The IT support team gives step-by-step instructions on how to do this. I can fix it, but it was completely avoidable on your part.

EC

-----

I simply cannot believe the nerve of this ass. Here I am, stranded in east Bumble Butt on business and I can't get any work done on the laptop I brought with me. Instead of getting help from tech support, I just get a lot of condescending BS from this Edward jackass. I don't know him, never met him face-to-face—but our company is worldwide and employs tons of people. This is the second time he's been the one to help me with a technical issue and he was pretty brusque the first time. Now he's just being full-on rude.

-----

To: ECullen
From: JJulieBee
Re: Access Problems

Mr. Cullen:

For the last time—I did configure my remote access settings before I left for business travel. I do not understand why I can't get it to work now.

-----

To: JJulieBee
From: ECullen
Re: Access Problems

I assure you, with relative certainty, that an error on your part is what's causing your current difficulties. This particular network problem is the number one recurring user-related issue IT has to fix every day. More trouble tickets are submitted for this than anything else—and it has nothing to do with the network's configuration or maintenance. It's 100% caused by user failure and it takes up the time we could be spending on other system issues.

EC

-----

To: ECullen
From: JJulieBee
Re: Access Problems

Mr. Cullen:

I fail to see how one could possibly be so pressed for time when they have the luxury of sending non-constructive email to co-workers who need help in order to be productive and get their projects completed. Either tell me how to fix this or I will contact your supervisor and ask for his or her assistance—after informing them of your inability to do so.

-----

To: JJulieBee
From: ECullen
Re: Access Problems

Enclosed are step-by-step instructions on how to reconfigure your VPN connection. My cell number is 555-0620 should you need further assistance.

-----

I smile to myself, finding it pretty damned satisfying to give this jerk some what-for. The nerve of that asswipe. At least I got him to actually help me. This is only a temporary fix until I get back to the office, but it will have to do.

A few days later, I'm back home and back to my usual routine of work, eat, sleep, and work. I have a deadline looming and need to be in the office all weekend, which is never fun but when you work at a place like this—a corporate 'machine'— this is just the way it goes.

It's Sunday evening and the place is deserted. There isn't a soul around my floor except me and a random cleaning person who came by to empty my trash can. I pick at the snacks I brought with me from home, none of them really satisfying since all I really want to do is go home, eat a real meal and kick back for a few hours before going to bed.

Just as I'm about to hit a good stopping point, my computer freezes. I mean, it's completely and utterly tits-up. I can't even get it to restart.

"What the fuck?" I mutter to myself, kicking the CPU on the floor beside me.

Now would be a good time to get in touch with tech support. But I need access to a computer to do that. I would just go home and get this all worked out in the morning, but if I lost a good bit of what I was doing, I'm going to have to figured how far behind that will make me.

"Wait, don't I have that asswipe's number?" I ask myself as I scroll through the contacts on my phone.

Jackpot!

There it is. I look at my phone's display.

WickedFuknLozah…555-0620

I press 'dial' and it rings twice before someone picks up.

"This is Edward," I hear a very grumpy deep voice say.

"Hi, this is Julie in Org Development. My computer is completely locked. I can't even get it to start up."

"You need this fixed right now?" he asks, sounding so irritated.

Dude, throw me a fucking bone already.

"No, I need it fixed next week. I figured I'd call you on a Sunday around suppertime just for the fun of it," I reply sarcastically.

"Fine. Be there in a few minutes," he says before he hangs up without even saying 'goodbye.'

I sit and stare into space for a couple of minutes, trying to calm myself so I don't really lose my temper around this butt-munch. I always try to maintain a professional attitude at work, no matter how annoying or unpleasant a co-worker can be. I'm mature enough to realize that giving attitude back to someone only makes me look bad and ultimately, hurts my reputation in the eyes of others.

"Hey," someone says tersely, my back to him.

I swivel my chair around and I'm…confused. I just stare at him for a second. Well, maybe more than just a second.

Standing right inside the doorway to my office is this guy who can't be a day over twenty-two or twenty-three. He's dressed ridiculously. Granted, it is a weekend but I wouldn't even leave my house looking like this. He's wearing a beat up black tee with the Batman logo on it, with an ever more beat up and frayed red and black plaid flannel over it. He's only got on button on his flannel done up, and it's in the wrong hole, making his shirt all crooked. His jeans are a mess—torn, faded, stained everywhere. There's a black wool beanie pulled tightly over his head, but I can see some reddish-brown hair poking out from under it. The whole look is completed by black framed glasses with lens so thick, he must be legally blind.

The crazy thing is, he's actually kind of good looking. OK, a lot good looking. Under all the clothes that haven't seen a washer or a needle and thread in a long time, is an extremely cute face and a long, slightly muscular build. Points for good looks. Deductions for presentation.

"Who are you?" is what just pops out of my mouth. You'd think by now I would have a filter that works a little better than that, but apparently I don't.

"I'm Edward. You just called me, remember?" he sighs before shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

"You're Edward?"

"Um, yeah," he replies with a raised eyebrow.

"The guy from IT—that Edward?"

"No, the Edward who decided to just randomly walk into your office. Are you feeling okay?" he asks with a snort.

"Sorry, I was just…you don't look like you sound. Do you ever do that? Try to picture someone before you've actually met them?" I blurt.

"No," he replies simply, his face completely blank.

"OK then," I say awkwardly while blushing, my eyes darting to the floor.

"Mind if I drive?" he asks, motioning to my chair. I shake my head 'no' and stand up, trying to ease out of his way. Before I can do this gracefully, he just stomps right over and nearly knocks me down. His gait is crooked and heavy-footed.

Jeez, I've seen some IT geeks in my day, but this kid needs to win some kind of dork prize.

"Oh, wow, you're in a rush," I say with a laugh when he launches himself into my chair.

"Always in a rush," he says tersely.

"Lots of broken computers, huh?" I ask. He just nods but doesn't answer.

I watch him as he does some odd hocus pocus to my computer where he's able to start it up in safe mode and then reconfigure things that are only accessible to people with admin privileges.

"Do you know what's wrong with it?" I ask.

"Don't know, don't care."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't have time to figure it out. Wiping everything clean is the fastest way to fix it."

"'Wiping everything clean'? I had work I was doing!"

"Did you back it up on the network's server?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"Then you're fine."

"But you should've asked me first! What if I hadn't?"

"Would've said 'sucks to be you.'"

"You know, you have a pretty lousy attitude," I say, glaring at side of his head while he continues to type away, not looking at me even once through this entire conversation.

That stops him typing.

"Why, because I don't consider your problem to be my top priority?"

"No, because you're rude, impersonal, and condescending. I could keep going—should I?"

He just stares at me, first in shock, then I notice his nostrils start to flare. His green eyes, a little obscured by the insane glasses, still manage to glare laser beams at me. I see his jaw bulge in and out on one side, and a very…I dunno…sexy?…vein protrudes from his forehead.

"I don't have to help you. I'm not even supposed to be working. I came by to pick some stuff up, and sure as shit, ten people flag me down for help. I was supposed to be gone six hours ago," he fumes, glowering at the computer screen in front of him.

"You know what? I don't care. It's not my fault your job is demanding and stressful. Guess what—so's mine. I'm here working on a Sunday too."

"Forget it, there's no reasoning with unreasonable people," he mutters.

"Well, the feeling is mutual, big guy!" I exclaim, crossing my arms. "Just fix the damned thing."

He types for a while, banging the keyboard and shaking his head intermittently. I look at his profile—for lack of anything better to do, really. He's too unpleasant to talk to, and I can't really do anything productive while he's sitting at my desk. I have to say, for such a tremendous jackass, he's quite handsome. He's got that classic strong jaw, straight pointy nose and really nice, full lips that are pursed in frustration. His beard looks several days old but it suits him. I watch his hands as he types—he's got pretty hands for a guy—with long, elegant fingers that move gracefully.

After a few minutes and lots of profanity from him, he takes off his beanie and chucks it without looking where he's throwing it. It hits me square in the face.

"Eeew!" I shriek, before tossing his hat back at his own jerky head.

"Hey, what was that for?" he asks me, rubbing his unruly mop of hair that I can now see without the hat covering it.

"You threw it at my head, Einstein."

"I did?" he says, looking perplexed.

"Yes, you did. How else did it end up in my hand?"

"Oh. I was concentrating. I meant to just toss it to the floor. Sorry," he says, looking up at me with a sheepish expression. It's the first time he's looked like anything except annoyed or angry. It's almost disarming because when he doesn't look completely cheesed off, he's…adorable.

I'm not listening to you, stupid libido. You've gotten me in enough trouble. Shut up!

"That's OK. It just grossed me out a little," I reply, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

"Why, do you have some kind of hat phobia?" he teases sarcastically.

"No, I have a 'that thing looks like it could walk itself into the washing machine' phobia," I snark back at him.

"I'd have more time to do laundry if…"

"You didn't have to work all the time. I get it. I got it the first fifteen times you griped about it," I say with a smirk. His expression goes from irritated to slightly embarrassed.

"Am I that annoying?" he asks, blushing.

"Yeah," I say plainly.

"Thanks for not sugarcoating it."

"You're welcome."

Then, for the first time in the nearly thirty minutes he's been in my office, he actually looks right at me—not like when I pissed him off, but like he's really looking at another person and taking in their features. It's a little unnerving because he has this intense stare like he's trying to see inside you or something.

"Stop staring at me, you're freaking me out."

"I wasn't staring, I was just looking at you."

"Whatever you say, Captain Creepy."

"That's not a real captain's name. Or even a superhero," he says, his tone completely serious.

"Dude, your geek is showing," I say with a chuckle.

"I'm work in IT. How could I not be a geek?"

"You could work on your sense of humor and your people skills."

"Hey, I have a sense of humor. And my people skills are fine."

"Fine as in 'they suck'?"

"No, fine like I can't help it if people are dumb."

"Well, you certainly don't mince words either, do you?"

"Not really."

"Hmm. Interesting."

"What?"

"Something really odd just occurred to me."

"Okay. Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Not if you're going to be a jerk about it."

"Fine. Will you tell me, please?"

"Look at you! Being all polite and using nice words. I feel like I should give you a biscuit or a chew toy."

"Alright, I deserved that. But you can stop now. Weren't you going to tell me something?"

"Yes—you said I didn't sugarcoat things. Then I said you don't mince words. Captain Creepy, I hope you're ready for this. I think we…have something in common."

"Holy shit. I think you're right, Princess Petulant," he says with a grin.

"Did you just give me a flowery name for 'bitch'?"

"Yes," he says, his eyes flitting around the room nervously.

"Why?"

"Because if I called you a 'bitch' outright, I was afraid you'd kill me," he confesses with a laugh.

"Oh my God, another attempt at being polite? Although that one was really lousy. I mean seriously, it failed miserably."

"I wasn't really trying that time, Princess."

"You're still a jerk, you know."

"Yeah, you're still a pain. I fixed your computer though. See," he says, gesturing me to lean over and look at the screen. I bend toward him as he sits in my chair. He smells like cigarettes and something sweet but I can't place it for a second, then I realize…Oreo cookies?

I just start laughing because I can't help it. The idea of this guy, despite being really quite good-looking, sitting there fuming at the world while eating Oreo cookies really strikes me as absurd to the point of being comical.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"Oh, nothing. Something just popped into my head. I'm also pretty tired. I can't even think straight anymore," I explain, hoping my excuses are believable.

"Well, that explains why you made your machine all FUBAR," he says with another one of those smirks that, although very sexy, I am tempted to bitch slap. He gets up and runs his hand through his hair with a sigh.

"For the last time, Creepy, it was not my fault when this stuff happens. I don't know why, it just does," I huff.

"That's like saying you don't know why it's raining—that the sky is just dripping on you," he replies, standing over me with his head tilted. He tries to walk toward the door, but I block his path.

"Do you have to act like you know everything?" I ask rhetorically, the annoyance clear in my voice.

"I do when you say things that don't make sense," he says, furrowing his brow and looking down at me. He's studying my face again, like he's trying to read me. Then he keeps walking and I have to back up in order for him to move forward.

"You're the one who doesn't make sense," I say defensively, growing uncomfortable due to his staring.

"Oh yeah, how's that?" he demands, as we inch toward the closed door to my office.

"One minute you're a pain, then you're sweet, and then you're a pain again," I accuse as we continue this weird ballroom dance-style walk across the room.

"I'm not here to be your friend. Make your own friends, Princess," he smirks. My back finally hits the door and he's hovering over me, his eyes locked with mine.

"God, you're an ass," I hiss.

"You're impatient and bossy."

"You're rude and arrogant."

"Can't you just admit you're wrong?"

"Can't you just admit maybe it's no one's fault?"

"That's not logical."

"That's life, my friend."

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks through clenched teeth. He has both his hands flat against the door on either side of my head.

"I would if you gave me a reason," I snap back at him, feeling totally cheesed off.

"Like what?"

"Oh, I dunno," I begin with heavy sarcasm, "maybe by saying something nice?" I ask. He looks thoughtful for a second, like he's deliberating on what I just said. His expression softens slightly.

"Okay. You have really pretty brown eyes—they look happy, even though you're mad," he says in a low voice. This compliment floors me. It seems to have come out of nowhere. But at the same time, he looks entirely sincere.

"Thanks," I say, my mouth hanging open slightly.

"And a nice laugh. It sounds light, like music," he admits with a shrug. Hearing these things, it's almost too much.

"Creepy…"

"Sorry, I really was trying to be nice," he says awkwardly, adjusting his glasses.

"No, you don't understand. That was…really nice. Like over-the-top 'nice.'"

"I meant it," he says, a small smile forming on one side of his mouth.

"Thanks."

We're still standing inches apart, our breathing ragged from arguing. We're not scowling at each other or even fighting anymore, but neither of us makes an effort to move.

"Your shirt," I say, out of the blue.

"My shirt?"

"It's buttoned crooked," I explain. I gently unfasten it and try to line it up with the correct button-hole, but Edward gently catches my hands with his. My eyes glance back up to his face.

"Sorry, I really was trying to be nice," I offer, mimicking his own explanation.

"That was nice…really nice," he mimics back.

"Okay. I guess we can both stop talking now," I whisper, licking my lips unconsciously.

"I guess so," he replies softly, his head lowering toward mine.

"Kiss me, Creepy."

"Whatever you say, Princess."

Our lips meet, softly at first, but we both become rather impatient rather quickly. I let out a moan when his teeth graze my lip and he growls at me in response. He's still got my hands, and using just one of his, presses them against the door, over my head. His other hand cups the side of my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. I ease his glasses off and toss them onto my desk. I break away from him just long enough to get a nice look at those green eyes and smile into them. He smiles back and pulls my face to his again.

We kiss frantically now; our tongues touching, our lips nibbling. I can't help but whimper at my hands being unable to touch him, so I hook my leg around him, using my calf (of all things) to feel up his ass. When he lets go of my hands to grab hold of my thigh, I groan happily and run my fingers through his hair, alternating between stroking it and pulling it. My other hand instinctively grabs his tee-shit, clutching it in my fist to pull him closer to me.

His hands are all over me, running up and down the sides of my torso, caressing my neck, cupping my face. It all feels so incredible. The intensity of it all is simply unreal. The crazy attraction we feel—sparked mostly by animosity—is impossible not to give in to fully and completely.

"Shit, you're a good kisser," I say, my breathing labored from all the necking. He just sighs in reply because he's too busy attacking my neck with bites and licks. "Oh Jesus, that feels amazing," I moan, my eyes rolling up in my head.

I realize that we've both started grinding our hips together, like our bodies are on some sort of weird auto-pilot. My knees are growing weak from how worked up I am, and when I feel the really hard bulge in his jeans gyrate between my legs, I think I might faint. Instead, my hand slides down his abdomen right toward that hard spot below his navel.

Shit, I know a thing or two about guys and I definitely know a well-hung specimen when I grope one. God help me that thing is biiiig.

He groans when he feels my hand rub feverishly against him, but for some reason, he stops kissing me and touching me. Instead he just closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing down.

"Are you OK?" I ask, worried that maybe I did something wrong.

"Oh, I'm better than OK. I'm fucking awesome," he says with a smirk, his eyes still closed.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask, still stroking him with my hand.

"Shit, no, don't," he answers quickly. "That feels unbelievable."

"Just doing this?"

"Yeah. It's been a while," he admits sheepishly. "Sorry, I had to stop…slow down," he confesses nervously.

A-ha. Not such a genius and a know-it-all about everything. It's kind of cute, actually.

"That's OK. I've been going through a pretty bad dry spell myself," I admit. "How about I um…provide a quick fix for you?" I say with a sly grin.

Thankful that the blinds to my office windows are all closed, I kneel and smile up at him.

"You don't have to…" he says, his face turning pink.

"How about if I want to?" I ask, kissing his bulge through the fabric of his jeans. He closes his eyes again and relaxes slightly. I'm surprised at how innocent and sweet he looks right now, in spite of himself. I unfasten his button fly and softly touch him through his boxer briefs. When he whimpers for me, I take him out completely, moving my hand up and down him slowly and gently.

"Oh holy fuck," he mutters.

I watch the little drop of pre-cum that beads up at the head of his cock and my mouth starts to water immediately. His skin is smooth, the light veins only forming little bumps and lines. He gasps and tenses up when he feels my tongue lightly press against him. He tastes sweet, like honeysuckle. I can smell the clean scent of soap on him as well. Gingerly, I take him in my mouth in slow, short movements so that he doesn't get too worked up. It still doesn't take very long for him to get close.

"Shit, that's intense. Please don't stop, please," he pleads. "Don't stop, it's so good," he moans. Sure enough, he's done not long after I started. "Gonna cum," he chokes, right before he spills into my mouth and down my throat. I swallow it, because that's what big girls do. I can hear his shallow breathing as I readjust his boxers and jeans, but he pulls me up before I get the chance to button his pants.

"That was the hottest fucking thing ever, Princess," he says before pretty much attacking me. He kisses my mouth hungrily, moaning into it. His hands go up my shirt and I moan back when his hands massage my breasts, his fingers playing with my nipples.

From there, we let our raw need take over. Our hands explore everywhere, inside our shirts, our pants—rubbing, stroking, caressing.

"Your skin, it's so soft," he whispers as his hand meanders down into my capris. He groans when his fingers touch me between my legs. "Fuck, your panties are soaked."

"Yeah, I would've thrown you out of my office by now if you didn't have that effect on me, Creepy," I say with a laugh.

"C'mere, Princess," he growls, kissing me deeply and holding my face with both hands. He swivels me around and pushes me into my desk. He fumbles impatiently with my capris, trying to get them open. I manage to ease them down enough to let his hand touch my bare skin and I bite my lip when I feel his long fingers gently stroke between my legs.

"Now, need you now," I tell him, my skin flush, as if it was on fire. I pull at his jeans, desperate to touch him again. By the feel of it, he needed me now too.

"Fuck," he mutters, grabbing my hips and turning my back toward him. I lean my weight forward, my palms flat against the top of my desk. I hear him cursing, fumbling with his wallet, then tearing a foil packet open. I grind against him the entire time, desperate to feel him inside me.

He leans himself above me, kissing my neck hungrily while pushing into me using his hand to guide himself. He grabs onto my hip and thrusts into me quickly, and I gasp at the overwhelming feeling it gives me. My whole body tingles and my heart beats like a jackhammer.

"Does it feel good?" he asks, his voice strained. He's all the way inside me but stock still.

"Yes, more. Please, more. Jesus, stop torturing me," I beg, hoping he'll take pity on my desperation and start moving.

"You're fucking hot…sexy…pretty…" he murmurs. His nimble hand snakes around my waist, petting and rubbing right above where he's stroking in and out of me. He softly kisses and bites my earlobe, grunting every time he fills me completely.

"Edward," I whisper. "You feel so good…so right…I'm gonna…oh fuck!" I exclaim, as everything inside me explodes and spasms over and over. He doesn't stop bucking his hips, pushing and thrusting into me the entire time I'm climaxing. I feel myself erupt a good three or four times before my body starts to calm slowly.

"Beautiful…" he hums softly, his voice thick with the strain to control himself.

"Please cum inside me," I whisper, wanting him to feel good too. He growls loudly into my ear in approval. With one last hard thrust, he crisscrosses his arms underneath me and curls his hands around the top of my shoulders, holding me still. Biting my neck and grunting repeatedly, his body freezes completely before he cums with a long groan.

We take a minute to compose ourselves—right our clothes and catch our breaths. Unexpectedly, he pulls me into a giant bear hug, nearly squeezing the life out of me.

"OK, Creepy, don't be too nice now. You'll really start freaking me out."

"Thank you, Princess. That was the hottest thing. Ever."

"Um. Wow. That's quite the compliment."

"I meant it."

"I know you did. I don't normally have quickies in my office. In case you were wondering," I add, a little embarrassed now that it's after the fact.

"Any chance you'll make another exception for me?"

"Hmm. Let me think on that," I tease.

"Gee, don't go so easy on my ego."

"Oh, buck up. You have a lot to learn, you know."

"Yeah, like what?"

"First, you should know that…I'm, you know…a little…"

"What?"

"You know, older…enough to be…" I start, but he interrupts me.

"My really hot, sexy, lady friend who can screw my brains out?" he asks rhetorically, smirking at me. I feel less like bitch-slapping now.

"That's the one," I say with a smile. "But there's more you need to learn."

"Lay it on me, Princess."

"OK," I say, grabbing my purse. "First, the art of multi-tasking, to save that precious time you complain you never have."

"Go on," he says, opening the door for me and ushering me out with his hand on the small of my back.

"We're going to do your laundry, because…do I really need to say why?" I ask, looking him up and down.

"That's not multi-tasking," he says, looking perplexed.

"It is when we're both naked and you're doing me on the washer," I say plainly, adjusting his crookedly-buttoned shirt. His eyes go wide and I can actually hear him swallow.

"Where's your car parked, Princess? I have a ton of laundry."

The End


In case anyone interested, I put together a polyvore set for these two. Go to www(dot)polyvore(dot)com(slash)technical_difficulties(slash)set? to see it.

Frenemies one-shot is in the works and coming soon. Thanks for reading. ::mwah::