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Andrea Wyatt, good Protestant girl though she is, has never been much for dating. In high school, sure, she went on her fair share, because the elaborate codes of adolescent mores did not allow that someone as smart, pretty, and well-born as she was would get away without the tedious business of a few fumblings in the back rows of movie houses and awkward, sloppy-mouthed kisses in the night afterwards. In college too, because her mother would call her every week without fail to check up on the progress of the quest for a husband which she had imposed on her daughter, and it was just easier to go along with it and feed her a few morsels of hope for guys named Rick and Greg and Alan. But when her graduation arrived and there was still no engagement ring, or any hint of a guy who might one day offer her one, Andy decided that enough was enough; told her mom to butt out (in calmer, WASP-ier terms than that); and went to bars to drink and laugh with her friends, as opposed to tracking down and pinning to a board, the promise of her future as defined by a man.
Her friends (some of her friends -- the ones who do not stick around) insist that she'll never get anywhere with that kind of outdated feminism meets defiant individualism, but Andy doesn't care.
And she goes right on not caring, until she meets him.
Ordinarily she wouldn't have said yes to the standard 'dinner, dessert, drinks' kind of a date. The tedium of the known quantity; the tacit expectation of good girl behaviour and corresponding gentlemanly manners; the dispiriting certainty that the sex she would have to wait three weeks for would be crappy anyway; the game of it all that is not worth playing without a decent opponent.
But he doesn't seem like a standard guy, indeed she already knows he is not, because she checked up on him by asking around the office in the three hours that passed between meeting him, getting propositioned by him, and the time scheduled for the date itself. Toby Ziegler is variously described as a genius, as a whackjob, as a writer of rare talent, as someone the speaker would cross the street to avoid, as a son of a bitch, as a flirt, as cute, and as someone about whom the speaker does not want to talk because of an emotionally scarring incident involving an incredibly heavy dictionary and the best piece of prose the speaker had ever written. Which, even if she hadn't been strangely charmed by his warm dark eyes and the texture of his voice that could probably talk its way into any woman's bed, was enough to pique Andy's interest.
He walked into her office, not to see her but to bend the ear of one of her staffers about something he did (the staffer in question is pretty reluctant to tell her exactly what it is, blushing like a teenage boy caught with his porn stash as he tries to explain what he did in terms that won't get his ass severely fired) of which Toby Ziegler did not approve. She wondered, before she saw him, exactly why he couldn't just pick up the phone and curse the kid out like anyone else would have. But then she saw him, walking through the corridors with his hands swinging loosely from his wrists and his head twitching a little, like he was having a conversation with an invisible someone with whom he was deeply pissed off. Andy smiled, and not because the sight was a particularly funny one (though it kinda is, as well) but because she had suddenly heard her father's voice in her head, describing one of his friends and that friend's occasional flights of shocking temper: walking around wearing a thunderstorm like a necktie. And this guy, this Toby Ziegler, with his head jerking around like someone's pulling on his tie every few seconds; this guy her father would have liked.
Possibly it's that which makes her say yes when he walks into her office, stuffs his hands in his pockets, tilts his head to one side as he looks at her, as he follows her eyes around with his like a puppy follows a little kid, and asks her -- without actually asking -- out on a date.
He doesn't ask. She gets the feeling that it isn't really his style. Since, clearly, it isn't hers either, that is another point in his favour. She thinks he'd probably be more comfortable seeing her from across the other side of a bar counter and sending her over a glass of whichever hard liquor it is he drinks, just to see whether she'd send it back or down it in one. She can't help smiling, though she hides it -- behind her hand, and behind the papers she shuffles on her desk. He tells her that he's heard of her, and that she has any number of idiotic opinions on important issues, but also -- and here his voice drops, almost imperceptibly and, through the noise of the office, makes her feel like she's being immersed in the sound, like holding her breath underneath the water of a warm bath -- that she has other, better, intriguing ('intriguing' is the word he uses and it makes her snort behind her hand) ideas that he'd like to talk about.
It is, without a doubt, the feeblest chat-up line she has ever received. But it doesn't seem to matter. His body, the little eddies of air around him as he stands in her doorway looking uncomfortable and shifting from foot to foot, unable to stay still for more than a minute, talk for him. And his points of stillness -- his eyes, the slant of his mouth, and the steadiness of his voice; its texture, and its quiet but unshakeable confidence -- are as intriguing to her as her policies apparently are to him. He isn't good-looking, but she could care less. His eyes fascinate her, and his voice buzzes low in her belly. She says, sure, where did you have in mind. I know a place, he says, smiling like he's just won something. How about I come by at 8? he says. Sure, Andy says, only nodding, not smiling anymore, 8. He nods, like a handshake to seal the bargain, and turns on his heel, and walks out.
Around seven she heads back to her apartment, wondering why she's bothering. The pant suit she's wearing is hardly unflattering (or not on someone with legs like hers) and her hair's fine and it's not like she's desperate to impress him -- by saying yes at all, by spending longer than usual on deciding on the precise tint of her lipstick, by being aware of and trying to suppress the quiver of anticipation in her belly as she heads back to the office with twenty minutes to spare -- because a) she isn't and b) she's pretty certain she already impresses him very nicely thank you very much based on the way he could not stop staring at her legs (crossed expertly) when he was loitering in her doorway.
8PM comes, and ten minutes later, so does Toby. Wearing the same outfit (naturally; he's not much of a clothes horse, even for a guy) bar the black overcoat that makes his shoulders look two inches broader on each side. She gets up from behind her desk, switches off the lamp on it, walks over to him and picks a piece of entirely imaginary lint off his left shoulder, then strokes the place.
"Congresswoman," he says.
"Mister Ziegler."
"Shall we go?"
"We shall."
And they do.
The restaurant is small, noisy because of its smallness and the quantity of people inside it. It's Italian, which suits her, and licensed to sell alcohol, which suits him. There is a view, a good one, but neither of them look at it, because they've both seen it before. It's for the tourists (of whom she thinks there may be a record amount tonight); they are both practically natives now. And anyway, they're both far too busy staring at each other.
He orders the kind of pasta that requires immaculate cutlery skills -- linguine, with a wet tomato and chilli sauce. And though he doesn't posses them what he has instead is one of the most subtly dirty mouths she has ever seen. He sucks up the pasta into his mouth and licks the sauce from his lips with his eyes immovably on hers. Before the pasta, for a starter, he had baby asparagus in butter. He ate them carefully, one by one, with the butter glistening on his fingertips and then licked off once he was done. She badly wants to ask him whether he knows he has an oral fixation, but figures it's the kind of remark that needs a few glasses of wine behind it.
For dessert it's figs. And now Andy is actually laughing, having done the math on his choices. Asparagus, chilli, figs, quite apart from foods that draw attention to his mouth, as if to encourage her to wonder what else he might be able to -- or find pleasure -- in doing with it. She laughs and drinks red wine, and waits for the next round.
*
His car is a battered old Dodge that makes Andy smirk. "Nice car, Mister Ziegler."
He turns to her as they walk towards it. The air is cold and she is high from the wine and from his proximity to her, from the way his jacket sleeves brush against her bare arm. He blinks at her, slowly. "I'm happy to let you walk home, Congresswoman. I won't even walk with you if you prefer."
"No," she says, "I'm curious. I'm making bets with myself about how many blocks it'll last before it blows a gasket. Or whatever."
He smirks back, though she almost misses it. "Okay. Well, then your chariot awaits."
"Stop it, Toby, that line never works."
"Just get in the damn car," he says, opening the door with one hand and gesturing towards her with the other.
She gets in. It's cold in there, but the smell -- the smell of him -- is good. She breathes it in, trying not to look obvious; it would be a hard one to explain, she figures. She sits back in her seat and stretches her arms out in front of her. The subtle tensions of the dinner, though pleasant, are making her muscles ache. She breathes out, and then in again, and then turns to look at him. Instead of starting the car he sits behind the wheel with his hands braced on the dash, fingertips poking at the dials, suspiciously, as if they might be lying to him, even though they aren't even moving yet.
"Toby? Are you having a zen moment?"
"No," he says, slowly. "I'm just thinking about something."
"What's that?"
He turns to face her. In the shadows, street lights the only thing throwing any illumination on his face, he is made up all of darknesses. His lower lip pouts a little -- a red smudge in the middle of his black beard, his eyes, the slick shimmer of his hair. He smiles, as slow as his words.
"You," he says.
Andy smiles back. It isn't even as if this is a battle she is sure she can win -- after all if it were, she thinks, there wouldn't be any point in playing. But he invites the challenges. He makes the game fun.
"You want to be more specific there, Mister Ziegler?"
"I was wondering about not waiting until we picked an apartment to drive back to."
"Really."
"Indeed. I was thinking about maybe just fucking you right here."
"In your Dodge Dart," Andy says, smirking now.
"It's American, it moves forward when I step on the gas, I'm easy to please."
"Now why don't I quite believe that?"
"I'm a simple enough guy, Andrea."
"My data on the subject thus far suggests that that conclusion is erroneous, Toby."
"Well, you've been asking the wrong questions."
"Or the wrong people."
"Exactly. A cloudless night, a good restaurant, and a beautiful woman, and I'm a happy guy."
"Oh, you were doing really well until just then."
"You don't like a compliment?"
"You may want to tone down the salaciousness and borderline sexism, is all I'm saying."
"Oh, I've barely even started."
"I figured that might be the case."
"You did, huh?"
"I did."
He smiles at her, though it is a lazy, stoned-looking smile almost -- she wonders, with an interior smile of her own, if figs have some kind of previously unrecorded narcotic effect. Probably he's just high on her, she thinks, smirking.
"Something funny?" he says.
"Something. Nothing I feel like sharing right now."
He nods, slowly. "Okay."
"Aren't you going to ask what I think of your proposal, Toby?"
He shrugs, like words are superfluous.
"Aren't you going to kiss me, Toby?"
His smile broadens, still slow, still seeming a little too considered, like this was an outcome he was just waiting for all along. This irritates her a little, because it feels like losing a match point, and his shit-eating smile makes her feel the same way. But his eyes are warm as well as glistening, and his mouth, his jutting lower lip, looks generous, and conspiratorial, as well as being almost wantonly red.
He sits there, one hand still on the steering wheel and his body turned uncomfortably towards hers, as she goes to him. A brush of the lips first, to test warmth and softness, and the lack of softness. His lips are slightly chapped and his beard, close-clipped, begins almost at once to sting against her skin. But she only notices these things distantly, with the analytical part of her brain. She tells that part to shut the fuck up. She lets her fingers pull in his collar and slip inside its circle, to press against the intense warmth of his neck. He wears a chain, she discovers, which tangles with her fingers in a curious way -- the contrast between the intricate links of metal, warmed by his skin, and the skin itself, its softness, is fascinating to her. She wants to put her mouth there. She wants to suck his skin up into her mouth. She kisses the soft parts of his throat, under his chin, instead. He tastes good, of nothing in particular except the inexplicable things that men taste of, but it is good.
She can taste the figs on his tongue, in his mouth. And maybe it really is true, the aphrodisiac effect of certain foods -- all the ripe vine tomatoes they ate tonight, the hint of chilli, the asparagus (she smirks at the memory of the asparagus), the way he broke open the figs between his thumbs, tender flesh spilling over his fingers, and the flicker of his tongue as he bit into first one half, then the other. He kisses her wryly, humour holding back the tidal wave of lust she can feel in his chest; he doesn't want to give in that easily -- it would be like letting her win.
Still he scrabbles at the buttons of her blouse. She forgives him his inelegance because it's flattering, and she doesn't mind silent compliments. When his fingers slip between her legs and his thumb presses right in the sweet spot, right on the money, she gasps, and then wishes she hadn't, because now he looks triumphant. His hands are insinuating when he pushes her skirt further and further up her thighs. The car is warm and his hands are warm and she is getting lost here, losing her edge. Everything starting to get fuzzy while he strokes the backs of his fingers up and up the insides of her thighs. He is coming as close as she suspects he ever does to a grin, the self-satisfaction all in his eyes as he takes hold of her legs, warm fingers around her calves, and lifts them up around his shoulders. He kisses the white, under-sunned length of her thighs, sucking the skin up between his lips, his beard making her shudder. The weight, the sheer physicality of his head between her legs makes her want to moan (she bites her lip), adds to the wetness soaking her underwear (she squirms; he holds her still). She wants to grasp that weight, be caught up in its gravity. She wants him, oh fuck she wants him.
Her kisses over her panties first and the bristles of his beard and mustache prickle through the fabric, letting her know that she is more sensitised than she thought: she's gotten head from bearded guys before, and usually it just dulls everything, just makes it sloppy and off-target, as if they needed any help with not being able to find her clitoris; a problem she noted with at least two Pre-Med students. Toby Ziegler doesn't seem to be in need of a anatomy lesson. He points his tongue against the spot, right there, flicks and spins a little, like a cartoon villain, twirling his mustache. Andy laughs, throwing her head back and very nearly smashing it on the passenger side window. He looks up for a second, not phased, his face still incubating that grin she knows now will be a revelation, that laugh which will be volcanic. Then he goes back to work.
His fingers pull her panties aside before he removes them completely and though it ought to be like something out of a crappy porno, the need it seems to express works for her: she pushes her hips gently up to him, she rubs herself against his chin, his nose, his cheekbone. She realises she is moaning gently, just expulsions of air, no words, definitely no names, and although it ought to mean she is losing -- letting him know he's doing that well this early? -- she doesn't care. The jerks of her hips demand results from him; the moans just set the bar higher. He keeps on smiling his not-smile, and carries on.
Once her underwear is an unseen ball on the floor of his car, he is gentle. At first. He takes slow swipes at her, then feather-light passes -- his tongue just brushing over her clitoris, over her folds, blowing over the arousal he made, making her shiver. And then he is belligerent, sucking up whole mouthfuls of flesh, taking them between his teeth, pulling her apart with his fingers and sucking hard on her clit. She pushes at his head, mussing his hair, hitting him slap on the cheekbone. It leaves a red mark, which pleases her. It suits him, she thinks, brings up the flush in his cheeks and the shine in his eyes. Toby winces from the slap, and he calms a little -- all a game, Andy, don't fucking give up so easy -- but he doesn't stop.
He doesn't speak, or make any comment. He barely even sighs. She is grateful for this, since in her experience that kind of thing can devolve, with a greater or lesser level of finesse, into an extended monologue on the greatness of the guy's penis. Even though they haven't quite got there yet, she doesn't think he's that guy. His quietude seems to her an integral part of the way lust works on him; his words -- his genius, his way of relating to the world, and his way of holding it at a distance -- become silent. His body has swallowed them.
She comes the first time from the exquisitely measured applications of pressure and release he is using on her clitoris. His tongue is gentle, his lips are not; he blows warm air over her, then sucks her up into his mouth. His beard hurts when he rubs his chin and lips and cheeks over her while she is coming, but she pulls his head closer anyway.
He looks up at her from where his head is resting, on the inside of her thigh. He is really smiling now. His beard glistens in places with her come. His lips are almost shockingly red. She moves a foot down to his crotch, rubbing her toes over his belt, then lower. He is hard, of course, but he is barely sweating. Bastard is barely sweating.
"Glad I ordered the figs?" he asks, quietly.
"I don't believe in aphrodisiacs," she says, grinning. "They're an excuse for the inevitable."
"Really?" he says, in that voice that buzzes in her belly.
"Have you seen some of the other things that are meant to be aphrodisiacs?"
"Enlighten me."
"Do you want to talk oysters or tiger penis?"
"I'm guessing one is harder to get on the menu than the other."
She laughs. "Your restaurant experiences are clearly less refined than some." He starts to say something but she holds up her hands. "Don't tell me: you're a simple guy. You seem really keen to promote this image, Toby. It makes me doubt the initial assertion, I have to tell you."
"And you seem to know a lot about aphrodisiacs. Which makes me doubt your opinion on them. I think you're happy about the figs."
"You think so, huh?"
He wipes his mouth. It is an almost effete gesture, his wrist loose and his fingers curved, but his eyes undermine it. She watches the glistening stuff pull off his beard and onto the back of his hand.
"I do."
"Asparagus is supposed to be an aphrodisiac also."
"I know that," he says.
"So why don't you show me what you've got there, simple guy?"
She pulls his tie loose and unbuttons his shirt without pulling it loose from his pants. She finds she wants to bury her face in the smell of his chest, its warmth, the dark hair there and the way it thins and curves over his belly. It is hard not to touch him; it is only getting harder. She kisses his skin, sucks on his nipples and gives the left a brief, hard, bite. She hears him trying not to curse with a grin breaking out at the side of the kisses. His hips buck into her hands. It is good to be winning. It is good to hear him begin to pant.
She unbuckles his belt and unzippers his pants and gets as far as pulling his cock out of his boxers and opening her mouth before he pulls away. His eyes meet hers and he tilts his head, just a degree or two to the side. He briefly looks boyish, even with the beard and his bare, pale skull. His left hand strays back to her thigh, he strokes the pale skin with the pad of his thumb. His eyes come back up to meet hers. She smiles, more gently than she would ever admit, and nods. He scrambles around for his jacket and inside his jacket for his wallet and finds within that the expected condom. His fingers tremble a little tearing open the packet. She rests her hands on his forearms, getting the warmth of his skin through his thin shirtsleeves, staring at the curves and planes of his body, waiting. He palms his cock -- one stroke, two -- and then rolls the condom on. And then he falls to her.
She gasps when he enters her; she is tender after the first time; he is big and slightly frantic. He kisses her wildly while he gets hold of a rhythm and the abandonment of it frightens her for a moment: what the hell are we doing now? where is this going? But he slowly calms, laying kisses on her lips, her cheek, her chin, her throat, her shoulders, her collarbones, while he fucks her, slowly, like savouring something good to eat, like those damn figs.
She grins and throws her head back again and takes in a deep breath and lets it out just to feel the press of their bellies together. He touches his lips to the hollows of her neck, then his tongue. She wraps her arms around his neck, then presses her fingers into the muscles of his back. Everything blurs, in the most satisfying way. She loses everything but their rhythm, starts to plateau almost without noticing, and then, like being jolted awake, starts to come as he hits a sweet spot again and again. She holds on to his shoulders, nails biting into him, then her fingers pulling in his curls.
He comes as her orgasm is melting away into scattered throbs. He grunts, then presses his face into her throat. She feels him shudder, holding her hands on his hips, then stroking his back, over and over. She kisses his cheek, his sideburn. She is gratified by the sweat trickling down his brow, and by the limpness of his limbs. She smiles, and strokes his hair.
She could maybe call that a draw.