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Friday Night Out

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{Friday #1}

It's Wren's second date with Dr Sexy, and she's in unbearable pain. From constantly restraining herself. He's just mannerly put a spoonful of cream mushroom soup in his mouth, and she had to sink her nails into her stocking covered thigh.

Wren's mobile beeps in her clutch, and one black mouth-watering eyebrow jumps up. Bugger, bugger, bugger! She was sure she's turned off the sound.

Wren squirms on her chair.

"How was your week?" Dr Panty Dropping Voice asks politely, and it takes Wren three slow breaths and six blinks to even perceive she's supposed to be answering. The honest reply would be 'I worked, drew, and valiantly fought off fantasies of licking whipped cream with fresh raspberries off your body.'

"Good." Wren sounds like a chicken meeting its demise in the hands of a butcher.

The thing is Wren could, of course, assume the two of them just aren't working out. They met; shagged, almost - well, she did; and then there was the whole aggro with her previously sampling both his nephews. And here they are, decorously munching on best Italian in town. And being quite. And conversing politely. Not exactly what Wren had in mind.

But that's the second date, and the first one went ace. They ate, walked, chatted; he kissed her near her door; she grabbed handfuls of his hair and snogged the hell out of him. He looked dazed; she felt smug. Basically, it was like a Gene Kelly film, but with more tongue.

And now they've been silent for eleven seconds - Wren counted - and she has nothing to say.

"And yours?" Croak, croak. Maybe Wren needs a throat examination. Any volunteers? "How was your week?"

"Quite good. Couple twisted ankles. My paper got accepted in a peer reviewed med journal." His tone is even. And bored. He sounds bored.

Maybe, they should just leave. And go to her place. Shut up, Wren's libido! But, yeah, maybe. They are clearly better off on her kitchen table, his trousers and pants around his ankles. Panting and moaning. Oh poop. She properly didn't need this image in her head.

Her imagination gleefully giggles and gallops away. He's wearing a nice suit, but she knows what beast is underneath. She can grab the tie, and pull him into her kitchen, and she always wanted to know if buttons on a man's shirt - his is white and crisp, just like her 'crisp white shirt kink' demands - actually fly if you jerk the sides hard enough. Interestingly, as good as he looks, and despite her usual preference for lean, clean, and metrosexual, she fancied him in a tee and track bottoms more. Sweaty after the jog, disheveled, and gritting his teeth, while his hips were thrusting into…

"Wren?" Dr Sexy interrupts Wren's fantasies. Oops. Let's hope she wasn't drooling. She focuses her eyes on his face.

He looks pissed off. Irritated and all 'I'm a fancy doctor.' Haughty. Cantankerous. Confident. Smug. Mouth-watering. What? Shut up!

"Would you like to ask for a bill?" he asks, eyes cold, and his - soft, warm, delicious, yum! - lips press in a firm line. Wren is gawking at him. "I can see you aren't enjoying it, and I'm sure we both have better things to do than to force ourselves into this date."

What. The. Sodding. Fuck?!

"You're forcing yourself into this date?" she asks.

He sighs, picks up the napkin from his lap, and slowly folds it. When it lies on the table, Wren's already lost her randy daze and is ready to stab him with a fork. Who in the name of Gallifrey does he think he is?

"Well, I assume, you'd prefer it casual, but I am not a one off type." Would you just look at him! He's like a Russian matryoshka doll! So full of himself! And this rightful indignation?! Is he saying he's 'not that kind of girl?!' "And since dating isn't your usual proceeding..."

Judging by him suddenly shutting his gob and wincing away from her, her murderous intentions clearly show in her narrowed eyes.

Wren has a lot to say to him. That he's exactly that kind of girl, because he shagged her on her kitchen table within half an hour of knowing her. And gave her the best crisis of her life, but that's beside the point. And that he has no right to judge. And Wren is any kind of girl! She can shag, or not shag; date, or not date; as long as it's open and honest; and who the frack does he think he is?! She knows she's already asked that, but really?!..

He was so understanding during that Wren Rocky Horror Show of dinner, when his two nephews - and Wren's two latest conquests - were there, and she knew everyone judged her!

Now she feels like crying, and she'd rather fight Balrog on a narrow bridge of Khazad-Dum than show him this.

She folds her napkin equally slowly, puts it aside, and gets up. He jumps on his feet like a well trained dog. Damn his manners!

Wren picks up her clutch, and starts going away, without a single word, head up, shoulders squared. He doesn't seem to even shift behind her - and she's almost at the door, when the ginger snaps.

OK, maybe it's hormones. Maybe it's because he just seemed so amazing. But for the first time in her 27 years Wren decides that cold and reserved and set on her principles suddenly isn't her thing, and 'preserving her dignity' and 'don't have to justify anything' rules can suck it.

She twirls on her heels and marches back through the restaurant, where Dr Sexy is still impersonating Han Solo in carbonite behind their table.

"You have no right to judge!" She's pointing a finger at him, and the whole restaurant looks at them. Good. If she's making a scene for the first time in her life, she might as well make it worth it. "It's not about you giving me a chance! It's not about you granting me a date after I showed what you think is immoral behaviour! It's two people going out to see if they like each other, and whether they want something out of it! I hate this social dance, and I did go through this for you!I dressed up and came to this posh place because I knew you needed this! I didn't!" She takes another deep breath in, and there might be smoke coming off her salon coiffured head. "I already knew everything I needed about you! We shagged, it was great! And now all I wanted is to continue shagging, and then snuggle and chat, and see if we have anything in common. Instead we sat here, and you wanted me to be a lady! Well, fuck it, none of that! We shagged, and I had the best orgasm in my life, and that's a big deal in my books! And I liked your sense of humour, and we clicked last time, I just wanted to shag and talk about Doctor Who today! If you needed this..." She gestures around her. "Then you're not the man for me!"

And with this Wren leaves, feeling every bit the goddess she is.

***

Except when she starts sniffling and quietly whining in the cab. Stupid Dr Sexy! Stupid societal norms! Stupid lacy thongs rubbing her arse in all the wrong spots, and the heels that are killing her, and the mascara eating at her eyeballs!

To distract herslef she checks her phone, and sees a text from her friend Thea.

"Speed pulling. Tonight. 9 pm. Hilton on Wellington. I sighed you up."

By 'pulling' Thea means 'dating,' of course. Thea doesn't date. Well, maybe Wren doesn't either! What did he just say? 'Not her usual proceeding?' Well, let's see what other proceedings there are there!

***

Wren has never been to a speed dating meeting; and she has half a mind to flee, when she's met by a very fit and elegant receptionist with a beaming smile.

"Welcome to Wellington Hilton! How can I help you?"

Wren gulps and the words 'I'm here for speed dating' get stuck in her throat. Besides other things, she isn't sure what people wear to these… sessions, but she's probably way overdressed. She properly made an effort for Dr Sexy, damn him, and his perfect shoulder hip ratio, and his appetising buttocks! Her dark red silk mini hugs her hips like a casing on a wiener - no puns intended; OK, maybe some puns intended. The low dropping neckline didn't allow any bra, and the sandals are strappy, going up to mid calf.

"Wrennie! Over here! The sweets buffet is this way!" Thea's cheerful voice rings through the lobby, and Wren imagines shaking off her Jimmy Choo's and sprinting towards the revolving doors and outside, like a bunny faced with a leaf blower.

Feeling her cheeks flame like crepe pans, Wren gives the receptionist a wide plastic smile and slowly walks towards her friend. Thea is her usual glorious self: the body that can make Luke Evans question his sexuality, luscious brown locks scattered on her shoulders, tight black sequen top, and the skirt that can be mistaken for a belt. Maybe, Wren is OK in her dress.

"C'mon, love! Let's browse the menu!" Thea loops her arm through Wren's, and the ginger gets pulled into the world of men, questions - varying from odd to awkward - and, damn Wren's luck... two familiar faces.

"Wren!" Killian from the gym - and the nephew of the man she's just insulted in the best Italian restaurant in the city - plops in the chair in front of her and gives her a radiant smile. "Long time no see!"

Wren gulps, shifts, and sees his brother give her a sad puppy look from the next table.

Sod Wren's life.

To be continued...