This was supposed to be one-shot based on the trope "what would have happened if they had indeed 'consulted' in the bungalow". Well, supposed is the key word because it grew and grew and… yeah… grew. So here we are.

It's all written so I will try to update everyday.

The story isn't explicit but it does contain mature content meaning light smut. Be warned. Don't like, don't read.

English is not my mothertongue. I did my best. Be lenient please.

Consulting Saves Lives

Her lips are painted red and that's all Owen can focus on.

He knows the date is going to hell – or has gone to hell about half an hour ago, really; they will get to Satan's throne room soon at the rate they're going – and it's also terribly obvious they're not compatible but her lips are painted red and he can't take his eyes off the pout that's been hanging from her mouth ever since she saw his board shorts.

Tequila hasn't helped.

Mocking her itinerary hasn't been his best move either (even though it is ridiculous, who ever brings an itinerary on a date?).

Owen tries to salvage what he can, tries to be smooth because these red lips are a siren song calling to him and he can't stay away, but he knows it's a lost cause. He insists on walking her back to her car anyway because they might be on an island with dinosaurs but that didn't mean there aren't still creeps in the parking lots.

Walking her back to the car is the first clever thing he has done all evening, he decides. It doesn't win him any points with her, she rants all the short trip from the bar to the parking lot about how she's absolutely capable of handling herself – and the thing is he doesn't doubt for one second she can handle herself but he doesn't get an opportunity to actually tell her because she can't shut up for more than one second.

"Look." he says, as she stops next to the white car he has seen her using around the park. She's rummaging in her purse for the keys and he figures it's now or never. "I'm underdressed and a little drunk."

She looks up in surprise. "That's… actually big of you to admit it."

"You're overdressed and you're a control freak." he continues, despite all of his brain's best attempts at telling him to quit while he is ahead. The pout is back again and he can only stare at her lips. "You're also really hot."

"You're drunk." she scoffs.

"Not that much." he shrugs. "I'm going to kiss you now. Please, if you slap me, aim for the right side, Echo already tried to claw my left eye out today."

"I forbid you to…" she sputters but Owen doesn't give her an opportunity to finish that thought.

Owen Grady has a danger attraction problem. First the Navy, then the SEALs, then the secret missions that have left him broken in so many pieces – not all of them physical and not all of them replaceable – and then, after that, the animals he trained for a Navy program that failed spectacularly and InGen and their crazy idea about raptors… It's clear to him, it has been clear for a while now, that his next mad dangerous stunt would be Claire Dearing.

How could it be any different? She struts around the park all day long in those high heels of hers, she's always bossy and demanding, sometimes borderline rude. People call her The Ice Queen behind her back but Owen knows better. She isn't ice. She is fire. And he can't help but been drawn to it, just like he wasn't able to resist the pull of the raptor squad. Give him danger and he will plunge right ahead.

Her lips are hard against his, unforgiving, and he's about to step back and apologize – because he's not one of those jerks who think women he takes out on a date owe something to him – when they finally part for him and too quickly to figure out how it happened, her tongue is in his mouth and he's moaning. He loses control of the kiss right there – and, maybe, but he will only understand that later on, he loses control of the rest right there too.

He truly only intended the kiss as a peace offering, a way to obtain the right to ask her out again, perhaps not in board shorts and without an itinerary, but it doesn't work out that way.

That kiss takes them further down the rabbit hole than either of them has planned to go that night.

He can't stop kissing her, that's as simple as that. They're fighting for dominance and he is half tempted to give in, alpha or no alpha, simply because she's beautiful and strong and he doesn't mind taking orders when it comes from such a person. However, he confusedly senses she likes the challenge. She likes that someone stands their ground in front of her. She is used to getting what she wants, used to getting her way.

She is feared but not respected.

And Owen finds he desperately wants to give her that respect she craves.

He ends up pinning her to the car but only because she pulls him closer, her fingers tugging on the short hair at the base of his skull, her other hand fisting his shirt in a vicious grip. His own hands are roaming on her and he doesn't mind the cocktail dress so much anymore because it is so much easier to access her skin. He would be gentle with her given the choice, he would caress and kiss and cherish… But that's not what she wants. She's ferocious and fierce and wild and when she kisses him it feels like she's trying to devour him whole.

It's lucky the parking lot is deserted.

He's sure they could get arrested for that kind of public display – the Park Operation Manager and the raptors behaviorist, it would be frowned upon.

Her dress is bundled almost all the way to her waist, his fingers are exploring, pressing, learning… She hisses and whimpers and bites at his neck and it is perfect, just perfect…

"Let me take you home." she purrs in his ear.

He wants to say it's supposed to be his line, that it has always been his line before with all the other women he has known, but all he can do is nod because there is no way he's making a mess of this again.

He spends the whole ride hoping she won't second guess, lightly stroking her inner thigh, teasing and smirking every time she glances at him. It amuses him to see her squirm in her seat – and, yeah, maybe it's not the cleverest thing to do while they're driving in a jungle but it's dangerous and Owen can't resist dangerous.

"Two can play that game." she remarks at some point, a little out of breath, before dropping one of her hands in his lap.

"Cheater." he accuses, letting his head fall back as she gropes him through his pants.

She laughs and he loves the sound so much he promises himself that he will find a way to make her laugh again at the earliest opportunity. Not just now though. Now all he really wants…

He doesn't know how she knows where his bungalow is. Perhaps she knows where every employee on the island lives. She's enough of a control freak for that, he thinks. The second the car is parked, they're out and at each other's again.

By the time they make it to the bedroom, they're naked, out of breath and more than ready. She shoves him and he flops on his back on the mattress, too eager to protest the rough treatment or comment on it. Once she straddles him, he is past commenting anyway. He wants to roll them over, to take charge, his instinct demands it, but when he places his hands on her hips, intending to do just that, he glimpses the flash of insecurity in her eyes underneath the lust and he leaves her be, lets her be the alpha since she needs it so much…

He can understand needing to be in control, he has been there.

It doesn't cost him much to give his away. She is not a threat and he can overpower her if he truly wants to. She's aware of that too, and trust isn't a given, it has to be earned so he submits in hope she would learn to trust him.

Sex is fantastic, as he has known it would be since the first time he has laid eyes on her.

Maybe he wears board shorts and drinks tequila and maybe she is on a diet and makes itineraries and maybe that doesn't make for a successful date, but, boy, does it make for a successful tango.

She collapses on his chest, sweaty and limp for all the right reasons, and he can't help but chuckle, petting her hair that doesn't look so straight anymore.

"I'm glad you didn't slap me." he mumbles, already giving up the helpless battle against sleep.

He's been in the Navy too long not to wake up when she slips from his bed but he figures she's just going to the bathroom or the kitchen.

It's not until the next morning, when the sun spilling from the window wakes him up properly that he realizes she hasn't spent the night at all.

He's late to work, the girls are acting up and Barry gives him shit all day about the date he doesn't want to talk about.

He checks his phone every fifteen minutes like an enamored schoolgirl.

When two days pass without news, he tries not to feel used. After all, he probably has done the same thing countless times with a certain number of women. One night stands. Nothing wrong with that. He tries not to feel used.

He fails.

o0°0o

Two weeks go by without any word from Claire Dearing. He wishes he could forget that night, add to the numerous one night stands he had over the years, shove her with the faceless crowd of easy women… The truth is : he can't. Two weeks after that night, he is still haunted by her heavy perfume, the taste of her lips, and the feel of her smooth skin under his fingertips.

It angers him that he can't move on when she clearly doesn't care at all.

Barry has stopped making jokes somewhere around the fourth day when he understood the matter isn't as simple as a bruised ego. It goes deeper than that and it frightens Owen to no end. She crept under his skin.

He's on the catwalk when he hears the car, watching the four raptors playing in the paddock with his arms crossed and chiding them when they snaps at each other instead of help each other. The game is supposed to be about pack work or team work or whatever one calls tossing footballs doomed to be eviscerated at raptors. He doesn't bother walking down the stairs, knowing whatever it is Barry will deal with it.

"Okay, girls." he calls out. Echo, Charlie and Delta look up at him but Blue stubbornly ignores him. She's been acting up all week. Teenage rebellion, he and Barry call it. "Last one."

He tosses them the last football, laughing when Echo jumps and snatches the ball from right above Delta's nose. He shouldn't laugh, he's trying to train them, but he loves them so much he can't find it in him to chide her this time around. Echo is a little shit and that's why he loves her.

When he turns around to get back on the ground and see about organizing dinner for the raptors, he comes face to face with none other than Claire Dearing, business suit, high heels, impeccable hair and all.

He almost asks her what she wants but it would make him sound too much like a wronged woman in one of those soap operas he absolutely does not watch when he has too much free time.

"Hi." he says instead.

For a split second, she looks relieved. "Hi."

And the inevitable awkward silence falls.

"How have you been?" he asks and almost immediately slaps himself because how cliché?

"Oh, good." she answers. "You?"

"Good." he shrugs.

"Good." she repeats.

Awkward.

On so many levels.

She peeks past his shoulder and into the paddocks. "They've grown, I haven't seen them since they were lizards."

"Babies." he corrects automatically, glancing at the girls. The ball lies forgotten at Echo's feet. The four of them are looking up, staring at Claire with unblinking eyes. Weird. "Did you need something?"

Her confidence falters briefly. She's good at hiding it. He's equally good at reading people.

"One of our investors is being particularly difficult." she offers, clearing her throat. "I was hoping you could come with me and explains your program."

"It's almost dinner time for the girls." he points out.

"Barry said he would take care of that." she counters.

Of course, she would have thought of that.

He follows her to her car. The silence is less awkward but not comfortable either. Night is slowly falling when the she pulls away from the raptors paddock but that doesn't seem to trouble her. She drives as if she knows the roads by heart – and she probably does, even a bump wouldn't dare show up on one of the park's back road without Claire Dearing's seal of approval. She's that scary.

When she turns left instead of right at the crossroad, he knows they're not going to the main park. He's surprised but only just. "There's no investor, is there?"

"There was one." she hums. "Very tiresome. With wandering hands too. It was a stressful day."

"So this is a booty call." he snorts.

"Are you complaining?" she retorts.

Any other time, he would have complained and come clean with his resenting of her sneaking out in the middle of the night like a thief, but he detects the slightest bit of insecurity in her voice, the same insecurity that has flashed into her eyes the night of their date and he holds his tongue.

It's no use trying to wrestle the control away from her, she's very much like one of his raptors, brutal force won't get any result. She's scared, he thinks, scared of losing her precious power, scared of not being in charge, scared of leaning on anyone… For the first time, he wonders if the date hasn't been a disaster on purpose. An excuse for her to say she tried and failed but the important thing is she tried. She's intimidating and most men need to be the dominant ones, he wonders just how many times a relationship blew up in her face because she was too demanding, too independent.

Like all wild animals, she needs to be tamed – not to be caged and rendered mild, not to become a circus attraction, wild animals should always been respected and allowed as much freedom as possible, but tamed enough she would trust him to let him in. He has worked with lions, panthers and tigers, he has been exhausting his ass off working with raptors, and yet he senses she will be the hardest challenge of them all.

"Pull over." he orders.

He can give her control but that doesn't mean she can take it from him. There needs to be a balance in there.

She glances at him uncertainly and stares at the road again, her mouth set in a hard line.

"I apologize, Mr Grady, I presumed too much." She cleared her throat. "I will take you back to…"

"My name's Owen. Pull over, Claire." he repeats.

She glances at him again but, slowly, she stops the car on the side of the road. It's dark by now and those roads are mostly deserted anyway. He steps out and walks around the hood to her side. She doesn't flinch when he opens the door but her breathing is quick and when she looks up at him, it's with equal part anticipation and confusion. The confusion disappears when he kneels next to the car, she switches in the seat so her legs are on either side of him.

"I should have asked if you wanted this, me, first. I'm sorry." she whispers.

Progress, he muses.

"I want you." he snorts. Is that even a question? "What do you want?" He drops a kiss on the inside of her knee, letting his mouth trails up her thigh until he reaches the hem of the black pencil skirt. "What do you want, Claire?"

He doesn't miss her sharp intake of breath when he presses his lips against her skin again. But he doesn't go higher either, he waits.

"I… Make me forget?" she requests. "That man really was a creep. I hate this kind of investors. Just because I'm a woman…" She falls silent but he hears her soft frustrated sigh all the same.

"I can hold your purse and your phone while you punch him." he suggests absent-mindedly, already focused on the task she has entrusted him with. Making her forget. He bets he can be good at that. First step is to get the skirt out of the way.

"Most men would offer to punch him for me." she comments, lifting her hips helpfully when he pushes the fabric of her skirt higher on her legs. Black lace panties meet him and he licks his lips, suddenly starving for her.

"You don't need me to do your punching." he replies. "You can handle yourself. And if something goes wrong, I will be two steps behind you anyway."

He's about to kiss that black lace when she frames his face with her hands and he's suddenly pulled up. Lips crash on his, almost violent in their eagerness, and he figures that's a good thing, it means he said the right thing – not that it is about saying the right thing, he means it, he knows she's more than capable of defending herself. She's Claire Dearing and Claire Dearing doesn't need a knight in shining armor – but maybe, he hopes, she needs a raptors trainer.

He slows the kiss down but doesn't try to take the upper hand, it's all on her terms here. She takes the hint though and the kiss becomes less hurried, less about trying to convey that she's the boss. He knows she's the boss. For now, it has to be like that. With time, he can probably teach her the benefits of equality in a relationship, why it is better as a partnership, why it doesn't have to be a dictatorship one way or the other. Why him recognizing and respecting her power doesn't mean she has to negate his. Baby steps.

The ground is hard under his knees and there's a stone digging in his shin but he doesn't complain. He kisses her as long as she lets him and when she comes up for air, he goes back to pressing his mouth against her inner thigh before she can second-guess what just happened.

It's been a while since he has cared enough for a woman to pleasure her that way but it's all instinct and he's good at listening his instinct. He learns to interpret her sighs and whimpers. She's holding back, he senses, biting her bottom lip to remain quiet, swallowing back the moans that he can hear building in her throat. He wants to make her lose her precious countenance. His hand creeps up to cup a breast, frustrated by the clothes and the bra in the way. She's tugging at his hair, crushing his head with her thighs, forcing him closer, always so much closer…

When she comes, she comes with a soft little cry that seems to escape her.

He's smug when he presses a last kiss there, knowing she's still sensitive and his stubble will leave a burn. He's smug mostly because for one tiny second, her control slipped. She eventually stops trying to crush his head with her legs, she actually looks a little self conscious about that. His legs are stiff when he gets up and he's so hard it's almost painful.

Her eyes dart from his crotch to the back seat, calculating. The back seat of the car would be cramped and uncomfortable, so would be the front seat, and he's not enough of an idiot to suggest doing that on the hood – not that what they have just been doing is more clever but they are on a dinosaur inhabited island with numerous employees who sometimes do drive on those roads.

It doesn't escape his notice that she doesn't offer to reciprocate the favor.

"Can you take me back?" he asks.

She hesitates, her eyes still on the bulge in his pants. "I could take you to your bungalow if you want to… Well, it's hardly fair, you didn't get to…"

"I'll take a rain check on that." he smirks "I want to check on the girls and I need my bike anyway."

She nods and soon enough they're driving again. Owen leans his head against the window and tries to think about something else but the redhead next to him.

Impossible task if there ever was one.

"It went better than our first date." he snorts, as the raptors paddock comes into view. "Maybe next time we will manage not to argue, although that would be boring, no? I like arguing with you…"

He flashes her a grin but she's frowning, any trace of the earliest bliss washed away from her features leaving only a new odd tension.

"This wasn't a date. We're not dating." she says.

"Yeah, we are." he counters.

"No, we are not, Mr Grady." she hisses.

"Whatever you say, Miss Dearing." he mocks.

There's no one around. He pecks her lips before getting out of the car. He doesn't look back on his way to the paddock. Barry gives him a complete glance over when he sees him and rolls his eyes.

"Not a word." Owen warns.

"I hope it doesn't mean two weeks of sulking again." Barry retorts anyway.