A/N: This story was inspired by a little outfit I saw one day doing research for another story. If anyone would like the visual that accompanies it, send me a PM. There is also an NC-17 version of this story. If you would like to read that one, just drop me a line with an e-mail address to send it to.

Luck of The Irish

It's 1:30 in the morning, and Harm arrives at his apartment weary. This day couldn't have gone worse. He was on his way back from Germany, and instead of arriving in Heathrow for his connection into Dulles, his plane got re-routed to Dublin due to weather. Naturally, it was St. Patrick's Day. The Captain had claimed, "It must be the Luck of the Irish."

Luck indeed! Bad luck! He really wishes that he had let Bud explain how to use the Skip, Slype, no... Skype app on his personal phone, so he could have at least seen Mac to wish her a Happy St. Patrick's Day. Thankfully, he remembered that since they travel overseas so often, their government issued phones contained an International texting package. Since he couldn't see her, he was forced to send just an international text from his government cell to let her know that he was delayed, and very sorry for ruining their planned date for the evening. It seemed so impersonal.

The jovial atmosphere throughout the entire airport in Dublin couldn't even put a smile on his face. He ventured to a bar near his gate, and ordered a stout that was thankfully already too dark to absorb the green food coloring that was evident in several of the drinks around the bar. Green beer – yuck! Apparently, several other folks shared in his thoughts as Guinness definitely seemed to be the beer of choice. More than one woman, at least he hoped they had all been women, had snuck a pinch on his six as they passed by. Ireland was definitely not the country to be in if you weren't wearing green on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, not even a hint of green was visible on his uniform from behind. In fact, the only green he had on was a speck of it on his Kuwait Liberation Medal service ribbon on the front of his uniform. He chuckles, imagining Mac sitting next to him teasing how she would be spared from the tradition since her uniform is Marine Green.

This was the day that he had made reservations at Obelisk six weeks ago for him and Mac to enjoy a highly recommended five-course Italian dinner in an intimate setting, followed by some good old-fashioned Celtic dancing at Nanny O'Brien's pub, where the Capital Celtic trio was playing for the night. After the festivities, he had hoped to return to a wonderful second helping of dessert at home afterwards. He had picked out a spectacular outfit for Mac that he hoped they would both thoroughly enjoy.

Another pinch on his right rear cheek, this one hard enough to bruise, shocks him out of his musings. He turns around, looking for the culprit, as a perky blond sits down beside him on the other side. She smiles, "Sorry Yank, but that rear end of yours is just too beautiful to not take a bite of it while I had the chance." She sidles up to him, "You look a little out of your element. Need somebody to help you pass the time while you are waiting for your plane?"

Harm swallows hard, and then replies, "Um, no thank you."

She persists, "I don't see ya wearing a wedding ring, honey. What happens in Ireland, stays in Ireland."

Harm, a little perturbed at this point, tersely responds, "It wasn't my intention to be in Ireland. Unfortunately, this is where my plane had to divert to. Even if I don't have a ring, my heart is already taken by someone special, very special indeed. Hopefully at some point in the near future, she will slip a wedding band on my finger."

The bartender takes pity on him, and walks over with a pin, and a bright green shamrock. "Here you go lad, you might want to pin this to the back of your trousers."

Harm swallows the other half of his beer, and stands up, "Much obliged miss, thank you."

As he reaches down to grab his briefcase, the bartender whistles. She smiles and says, "Perhaps I shouldn't have given you that. It is a fine specimen, indeed."

Harm laughs, shaking his head as he walks out of the bar. He decides that keeping his six in a chair against the wall at the gate would be a safer way to wait the next forty-five minutes until his plane is ready. As he leaves the head on his way to his gate, a large crowd has gathered to watch a traditional Irish stepdance exhibition. He scans the area for an open space along the wall, leans against it, and watches with admiration at the elaborate costumes, and synchronized choreography. He gets caught up in the music for several minutes before he realizes that it is time for his flight to begin boarding.

Several hours later, he opens his door, and sets his cover on the rack, and his travel bag on the floor, and notices that it seems a bit warmer in his apartment than he normally keeps it. He figures it must just be him feeling stuffy in his Service Dress Blues from his travels. Sometimes, he wishes that summer whites were the uniform of the day earlier in the year. Wool blend uniforms are not meant to be worn in Springtime D.C. weather, when the temperatures can sometimes rival the humidity of the tropics.

He turns the light on the lamp on the nightstand next to his bed, and notices the beauty lying on top of the covers. Mac is there, peacefully sleeping, her hair sprawled across his pillow, and she is wearing something that should be deemed illegal in every country known to man. She is an absolute vision. Immediately, the troubles of his travels and fatigue, fade away. He sits down on the bed next to her, and uses his index finger to push a few wayward strands behind her ear. He leans in, and gives her a soft kiss on the lips.

She stirs, and whispers, "Harm, you're home?"

He replies, "I'm so sorry that I missed being able to take you out tonight. I really had a great night out planned for the two of us containing dinner, dancing, and dessert."

Mac smiles, "I understand, Harm. Sometimes duty gets in the way. It's just the luck of the draw."

Harm sighs, "Hmm, in this case it was the luck of the weather, or according to the pilot the luck of the Irish."

Mac smiles, running a hand over his five o'clock shadow. She whispers, "I'm sorry that we missed out on dinner too, but we can still have dessert."

Harm gets a wide grin, "I see that you opened my present." He had bought her a St. Patrick's day bra and panty set. The bra was white with half cups that would have barely been able to hold Mac's ample breasts, with shamrocks sitting just below her nipples. It had green satin straps, and a green satin bow strategically placed between the cups. The panties were a white g-string with green satin sides, and a pot of gold that sits directly over her mound.

She winks at him, and gives him a sultry smile, "Well, it did have my name on it."

As he glances at her attire, he chuckles, "However, I don't think this is quite the outfit that I bought."

Mac grins cheekily, "You don't like my substitution?"

Harm lets his finger rest gently on the bowtie, HIS green bowtie, for a moment before trailing his fingers down the valley between her very bare breasts. He whispers, "I didn't say that."

He leans his head over, and flicks his tongue against the rigid nipple of her left breast before suckling it into his mouth. As he travels over to give the same treatment to the right breast, he murmurs, "In fact, I think I like your version much better."

She runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying his sensual ministrations. She was sad that they didn't have their night out either, but having a night in with him is often much better.

While his mouth is feasting on her perfect globes, his hand starts softly caressing her stomach, and snaking down towards her panties. Soon, his mouth starts following the same trail. When he swirls his tongue around her navel, she gasps, "What do you think you are doing Flyboy?"

He lifts his head only long enough to smirk as he tells her, "I'm following the rainbow. I heard I would find something at the end of the pot of gold."

She chuckles, "What do you need a leprechaun for? I would think you are already aware that you are going to get lucky tonight."

Harm smiles, "I don't, but the leprechaun whispered in my ear that I would find something magically delicious at the end of it." Harm dips a finger, under the side of the panties, into her slick folds, and brings it out and places it in his mouth. He leers up at her, "The leprechaun didn't lie."

He pushes her panties to the side, and lightly touches the tip his tongue against her swollen nub, ready to feast on more of her sweet nectar.

It takes all the strength Mac has to stop him, but there is something she wants him to have before she is too wrapped up in him to remember. She gasps, "Harm, wait! I have a present for you too."

Harm groans, but stands up to loosen his tie, unbutton his white shirt, and lay both over a chair while Mac reaches over the side of the bed, giddily fumbling underneath it, and pulls out a box with her gift for Harm. He sits on the bed next to her, and opens an emerald wrapped box to find a black thong with green writing that states "Rub for Luck." Harm furrows his brow, and says, "But Mac, I'm not Irish, I'm Scottish. However, I really could have used this today. Maybe then I would have been home on time."

She swats him square in the chest and leans over to grab another box under the bed. She chuckles, "I know silly. That gift is for me to wear for you on another night." Once she has rolled back onto the bed, he holds them up to her hips noticing that the word 'Rub' is positioned directly over her clit. He smiles, "I think I will enjoy these."

She hands him the next gift, this one wrapped in more of a mint green, and a much bigger box. She says, "This one is for you to wear for me."

Harm unwraps the second gift, sincerely hoping she didn't buy him a man thong. He just couldn't see himself agreeing to wear that under any circumstance. He is pleasantly surprised to find a kilt. He gets a mischievous grin, and replies, "You do know that true Scottish men don't wear anything under these, right?"

Mac places the kilt at his waist, and inches her hand slowly up the inside of his thigh, under one of pleats that she created. She grins, "Ooh, easy access, I like it! However, your pants are currently in the way, so you must not be a real Scottish man after all."

Harm rolls over on top of her mostly naked body, resting his forearms on either side of her, leaving the kilt lying next to them. He looks deeply into her eyes and teases, "You can have any access you like, as long as I'm not in uniform."

Mac runs her hands across his well-toned six and pouts, "But you are in uniform right now. Does that mean I can't play?"

He leans down and whispers against her lips with a smile, "Hmm, maybe you should fix that little issue, and then we can get back to where we were before I had to stop and open presents."

THE END