Felicity is not at all surprised when she realizes that Oliver’s somewhere-far-away-from-here is actually somewhere-to-be-determined-later-if-Felicity-says-yes. In most things, Oliver is a planner. And by most things, she means in Arrow-related-stuff, because in his personal life Oliver is a mess of ill-conceived notions and ideas that never quite manage to see the light of day.
So, she isn’t really expecting him to have a destination in mind when they finally – after an extremely long night of very little sleep – stumble into the Porsche, more tired than one had any right to be after spending the past twenty or so hours in bed.
But she would appreciated a general idea. She isn’t asking for much, really, just a boyfriend that doesn’t look at her exactly two seconds after turning on the car and asks, in a low and slightly raspy voice which does absolutely nothing to her insides. “Where to?”
Okay, and maybe she’d also like a boyfriend that doesn’t look at her like she’s the sun and the moon and all its stars combined, because, really, how is she expected to have any actual coherent thoughts if he’s looking at her like that? She really can’t be blamed for the things that come out of her mouth.
“Well, I was thinking somewhere with a beach. I love the beach. I mean, I love the idea of the beach, because it’s not like I’ve ever had a chance to be in many beaches. We didn’t really have money for road-trips when I was little, and yes, I did go once or twice when I was at MIT, but I was that girl …you know, glasses, always studying late? You can’t even imagine.” She pauses, then, before Oliver can get a word in, she answers herself. “Fine, you probably can imagine. But that’s not the point. The point is …sand…beach…you without your shirt on…sounds like …”
She blushes crimson at the choked noise that escapes Oliver’s throat, and she looks his way only to find that he’s smiling so brightly that her stomach does a somersault.
“Felicity…” he says, and he’s reaching for her hand without taking his eyes off the road – and other than head for a beach, she’s given him no indication of where they should be driving to, but he seems to have decided on a place, because his driving doesn’t seem mindless. Not that anything Oliver does ever seem mindless, he’s got a way of …he’s got a way of making her babble even in her head, she chuckles as he raises his hand to press a lingering kiss against her palm. “How you can still blush after last night I’ll never know …” he finishes when he’s finally got her attention, and, of course, she blushes even hotter at that, because, it’s one to think about having Oliver and then making inappropriate comments about the thing she could never have, and it’s another completely different thing to have Oliver over and over again and then letting the innuendo escape her mouth.
For one, her comments now come with mental images – no, video – of the actual getting Oliver part, callused hands against sensitive skin, lips that taste faintly of honeysuckle and mint, the overwhelming sense of peace that comes with being in his arms. And, also, there’s that fact that even though she’s gone years without any of those things, now that she’s actually tried them, tried him - she’s not exactly sure how she’s supposed to go more than a couple of hours without her fix.
This quite possibly makes her a nymphomaniac, maybe even a crazy person, because most her actual memories are so recent that she can’t possibly be wanting more. Not like, right this instant. Except, of course, just as she says that she takes one look at her tiny hand enclosed in Oliver’s, and yup, there it is, that simmering heat.
It’s like she just can’t get enough of him.
Not that she’s going to say this out-loud, it’s bad enough that she’s let herself think of it and will now be forced to suffer for God knows how long till they actually get to where it is that Oliver is driving towards. But she still has to give him an answer, at least, she thinks she does, so she opens her mouth and just says the first thing that pops into her head.
Always, always a bad idea.
She really doesn’t mean it as a come-hither. She doesn’t. It just comes out that way. “There are still one or two things we didn’t get to try, Mr. Queen.”
Felicity 1, Oliver 0, she thinks, when there’s no response other than the tightening of his hand on hers. She’s still mentally congratulating herself on getting one over Oliver when the road they’re on suddenly curves into woods –when did they even make it out of the city – and next thing she knows the rumbling of the car has quieted down and Oliver’s hands are reaching for her seatbelt and tugging her towards him in one fluid movement.
“Wow,” she says, when she lands on top of him, and she meant Wow, good move, not Wow, anything else, but she is quick to reevaluate when she feels the growing evidence of Oliver’s desire against the thin cotton of her shorts.
“Tell me, Felicity, what exactly is there on this list of yours?” he purrs, actually purrs, and her brain is short-circuiting as her hands cling to his neck. “Go one by one. I’m going to try to get through all of them before the night is over.”
And, okay, she melts a little. Fine, a lot.