Seriously, I'm telling you again, this is absolutely M-rated, no-justification-whatsoever smut. You've been warned.


The door crashing back wakes me up, and I sit bolt upright, the chunky shape of the .223 pistol already in my hand and rising, my eyes finding the illuminated red dot of the front sight even as the world swims into focus. There's someone in my room, moving at me fast. I'm rising to my knees, desperately trying to draw a bead on the moving figure, off balance and drunk with sleep, heart pounding in my ears and knotted sheets tangled around my legs and it's only some unnameable instinct that makes me flick the safety on and raise the muzzle just before the soft warm weight hits me, and the smell of whiskey and roses, and I'm on my back as the checkered walnut grip of the pistol bounces from my fingertips and I hear it thunk onto the floor. She's got a handful of my hair in her left hand, and I can feel the individual rivets in her jeans as her hips press desperately into mine, and then I feel the scratching of woven rattan on my forehead and she whispers…

"stupid fucking hat…"

…as she pulls back for a moment and whips it off into a corner. I hear something back there fall to the ground and shatter, but I can smell whiskey on her breath again, and then I can taste it, warm and tingling as she brings her face to mine again and drives her tongue into my mouth. Time stops, and I can feel each strand of her hair on my face, the hard metallic weight of her diamond-shaped pendant bumping against my throat and sliding down toward my collarbone.

Her lips move again, and her tongue wraps around mine like she's trying to knot them together. A moment later, she's sitting upright, straddling my hips and writhing as she tries to pull the shirt over her head without touching the buttons. In the dim glow from the door, I can see her breasts spring free, and just the faintest hint of pink from the aureolae as my hands seem to rise of their own accord to cup them. My fingers sink into the warm, yielding flesh, the glorious compact weight of them, and I squeeze, maybe a bit too hard, but she's got her shirt all the way off now and she doesn't care. In the warm yellow light from the room outside I can see her perfect face above the long graceful arch of her neck as it comes free of the shirt, her pink lips parted, her long, straight nose and Grecian profile in shadowed relief, a lock of auburn hair flying free and caressing her cheek as she turns towards me and her blue eyes open, staring straight into mine, intense almost to madness before she smiles that heart-stopping lopsided smile of hers and comes back down at me like a dropping cougar. Time stands still again as we kiss, and I can feel the trigger calluses on the fingers of her strong right hand as it cups my face, and I'm almost out of air, but she's still got a chunk of my hair in her left hand and she won't let go, until she does, and I'm gasping for breath with spots dancing in front of my eyes as I feel the tips of her breasts skim down my stomach and tease at the top of my thighs, and then she takes me into her mouth and the heat and the tingle of the whiskey and the smooth gliding swirl of her tongue is incredible, and before I can even think to control it I come, and as I do she forces her face down onto me, taking me down her throat until I feel the full circle of her lips touching the skin at the base of my shaft and I writhe, suspended in lighting, every nerve ablaze, my back arched almost to breaking, my vision white and then she swallows and the blaze of white light engulfs me whole...

...and I come back to myself in time to see her wipe her lips and grin, eyes dancing as she leans forward and kisses the erection that one titanic orgasm hasn't diminished, and she says:

"Hold that thought, sweetie."

And then she's up on the bed, dancing and hopping from one leg to the other as she pulls off her boots and her jeans while I lie gasping for air and watching the clean lines of her hips, the slight mound between her legs silhouetted against the light from the door as she drops to her knees in front of me, leans down, runs her tongue from the base to the tip of my shaft, and then climbs me like a cat up a tree, nails biting into my bare chest, tickling points of pain until she mounts me and I sink into the warm wet depths of her and feel her insides cradle me, engulfing and wrapping me in the warm sweetness of her. Then she's moving rhythmically against me, her back arched, each nipple a point at the end of the smooth arc of her breasts thrusting skyward with each muscular wriggle, her face exquisite in ecstasy, eyes closed, face pale and smooth and beautiful as greek marble, mouth open as she moans. She gasps, and I can see the tension seize her as her face twists into exquisite, perfect agony and her fingers fumble desperately at mine and then twine and grip so hard I can feel a shooting pain through my knuckles. She leans back, mouth open, eyes scrunched closed, and I piston my hips up and down as fast as I can and I can see her trembling, shaking, back arched like a bow, and then her eyes pop open and she screams, soundlessly, shudders running up and down her body, and I wrench one hand free to grab her ponytail and pull her head down so I can look into her eyes and see her see me as the climax takes her, and as it does she clamps down on me, waves of contractions squeezing me inside her and it's too much to stand, and we merge, eye to eye, minds blown wide open to one another for one perfect second before she drops boneless onto me with one quiet whimper, her cheek pressed against mine and our shared sweat running down our bodies as our heartbeats thunder together and we drift down into the sweet loving embrace of the darkness.


In the morning she's a mess, of course, hung over and grumpy, hair sticking up all around her head like a frizzy red halo as she staggers, bowlegged, to the bathroom. I watch her go, the early morning sunlight playing along the curve of her buttocks and turning that glorious hair to molten fire until the door shuts, and I drift back off to sleep until the warm lanky weight of her slides back under the sheets and she rolls into my arms, warm, and wriggling, and stinking of whiskey. The gently muscled curve of her back presses against me as I tuck my face against her neck and inhale the sweet smell of her, and there's nothing and nobody else in New Vegas this morning but me, and this bed, and the sunlight streaming in through the window, and the feel, and the smell, and the taste of my sweet Rose of Sharon Cassidy on my tongue.