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This is the third time she’s knocked her hat off of Betsy’s head tonight.
This one doesn’t come with a murmur of “get my fucking hat off yer head”. This one isn’t even about the fucking hat, this one’s about the wonderful feeling of a fresh buzzcut under her fingertips, bristlesharp against the meat of her palm and like any good soldier Betsy knows her signals, takes it as encouragement and latches onto Cass with her lips. She sucks hard, tip of her tongue rolling over sensitive flesh and Cass arches languidly as the hat hits the floor.
The last time had been about the fucking hat. Betsy had taken it from Cass’ head, sat up on her knees and put it on, knuckles on her hips and she’d just had that shit-eating grin, the one that got Cass out of her jeans in the first place, cocking the hat with her thumb and putting on a ridiculous accent, like something from an old cowboy holo. Cass snarled, took it back, but she had to admit, it went well with that farmer’s tan.
The first time had been in the bar, and she hadn’t even had a chance to stop it. Betsy talked loud, laughed loud but she still moved like a sniper, and Cass hadn’t even known she’d sidled up until her hat was plucked straight off her head.
She whirled around with as much grace as she could muster, made a grab for it but Betsy dodged her easily, falling back on one heel and plopping the hat on her head. “Whaddya think?” she had said, adjusting it and striking a regal pose that suited her proud features. “S’it me?”
“This ain’t funny,” Cass said, “give it back.”
She reached again, but Betsy caught her wrist, steadied her as she nearly tumbled out of her stool. Cass eased her grip on those broad shoulders as the soldier sat her upright, and before she could catch it a First Recon beret was being tugged over her dismal hat hair. “Mm,” Betsy had said, leaning back and putting on a critical eye, before shaking her head. “Nah, scarlet ain’t your color, Freckles.”
Cass had yanked the beret off her head and tossed it back at Betsy, who was laughing, that great full-body laugh that she got after a couple of drinks, when she was free of that note of tension she usually kept right behind her eyes, in the way she held her jaw.
Now Cass was pushing her fingertips under the brim of the hat, wanted to drag blunt nails over that scalp and a respectable cowgirl never lets her hat hit the floor but she’s a little beyond noticing that right now. Warmth purrs through all of her limbs and rushes in her belly, warmth from a shared bottle and soft lips, soft licks, long arms roped with muscle wrapped around her thighs and tightening, pulling her closer.
Betsy’s pulling away and Cass is ready to swat at her, but when she looks down and takes in the sniper’s face she swears she’s never seen her look that young. “Hellfire, Freckles,” Betsy grins up at her breathlessly. “I take it back about scarlet not bein’ your color.”