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At least the dress is nice. The fabric swishes softly above your knees, the same shade of blue as your date's ocean-deep eyes. You can picture Artem's contemplative gaze with terrifying accuracy — the gentle angle of his furrowed eyebrows, the soft glimmer of his pupils, the curve of his pretty lips in a flattened frown. Topped with his upright, perfected posture. He always looks so confident, so controlled, and when he speaks, it's as if the idea of a mistake is foreign to him. He's eloquent and verbose and intelligent . . . and incredibly handsome . . .
You mentally smack yourself as you adjust the strap of your dress. Of course, you're nowhere near surpassing Artem in anything, except maybe when it comes to how often you blush in your interactions. You know the only reason your partner has invited you as his date to tonight's formal dinner is for you to network and meet potential clients, to establish your name as a winning lawyer in Stellis' competitive court scene, but despite his reassurances of your ability, you always feel lacking when you're at his side.
Ugh. If you didn't have such a massive crush on Artem, maybe you'd feel a lot better about this whole thing.
You tug at your cheeks in the mirror, stretching the skin as you sigh. Could makeup even do this dress justice? Do you even deserve to wear this . . . this silky thing that so closely resembles that stifling stare Artem gives you? The color doesn't suit you, the more you think about it. As you assess your features, your eyebrows begin to crinkle, marking each rise and dip of your exposed skin as a new insecurity.
Doesn't Artem's eyes hurt when he stares at your clumsy form on trips, unable to ever keep up with his strides and plans? Doesn't he cringe inwardly when you drop a stack of files meant for him, probably littered with mistakes that you've made and missed in editing? Doesn't he -
Ding dong.
The doorbell downstairs chimes, breaking you from your train of thought. Fuck! What's the time, what's the time? You skitter to the front door, your bare feet thumping against the carpet, and peek through the eyehole.
Artem. Oh my god. How can one man look so fine?
You take your time eyeing the way his suit emphasizes and accentuates every part of him. Those broad shoulders, leading into that muscled torso, lean waist, strong hips . . . the way his pants curl around his thighs, hovering by his ankle at the perfect length. And his face. God, his face. His averted eyes, sky blue and startling, and smooth skin, not a trace of any blemish.
Fuck! You can't face him like this! FUUUC-
Ding dong.
"I'm not ready yet!" you screech, internally cursing yourself for responding. There's silence, then a cough, and then a low voice follows, "Do you need any help?"
Of course, his response is kind and thoughtful. Your ears heat up, "It's fine! I just . . . it might take a second." (Way longer than a second.) "Sorry."
He frowns, checking his watch, before glancing back up, "We have time. Should I wait here?"
Damn. You'd feel horrible making him wait outside, especially in such formal clothing, but to have him see you like this? A formless mess with this curtain draped over you? God, god, why are you even going to this event anyway? Can't Artem just use his charm to snatch more clients while you stay here and focus on your studies? You know you shouldn't think like that, but for some reason, that seems like the best option for your career right now. No one's eyes would burn from your looks if you didn't appear.
There's a clearing of the throat, and then a call of your name. You freeze against the door, words trapped in your mouth, and after a few seconds, Artem speaks again, "Can you open the door?"
"No," you whisper, gripping your skirt. Why do your fingers look like that? So weirdly bent and gross.
"Open it, please."
"I look so bad," you admit shakily. Your voice sounds thick and stuffed.
"Please."
And his voice lifts in a way that sounds so empathetic, so gentle, that you roll the doorknob and drag it open, hiding behind the door. You can hear the lawyer make a noise of confusion before peeking behind and spotting you, locking your gaze. He's so pretty . . . so extremely pretty.
He immediately breaks into an expression of shock and pushes the door closed as he steps aside, "You look beautiful. What's left, shoes?" He looks at the shoe rack in the hallway, honing onto a pair of worn, fuzzy boots that you haven't worn for years. You snort quietly at the atrocious choice, breaking down into light laughter before sinking back on the wall. Artem glances at you and drops the footwear before walking back to you. His hand pauses mid-air, but after a beat, moves to cradle your cheek in his palm. You feel his thumb sweep across your skin, wetness coating the bottom of your eyelid.
When did you end up crying?
"What is it?" Artem frowns, his cheeks ruddy. You close your eyes and let your head hang in his hand, "I shouldn't be going to this thing with you. Just look at me."
Artem leans back, his eyes trailing from your hair down to your toes and back up again. You avoid his stare and look to the side instead. Eventually, he sets his lips in a tight line, concluding, "I don't understand."
Stupid. Where did all of his intuition go? Do you have to spell it out for him?
"I mean, we're not matched at all," you cry, gesturing to yourself, "You always say that I'm the best partner you can have, but I'm so slow and stupid. I can't go to court without double-checking everything with you first because I know I'll miss something. I always do! And the documents I deliver to you — ugh — are always out of order or mixed in with my notes, which are never good, I know they aren't. And whenever we go to a client, you're always so calm and collected and god, I can't do anything! Always too emotional. Too one-sided. I can't even do the bare minimum and look pretty for events like this. Every time you stare at me, I know it's because I'm so fucking ug-"
"Stop."
Artem's voice feels like a slap, stinging and cold. You stifle a sob, a weird gurgle bubbling out instead, and force yourself to look at your date.
His face is twisted in pain, literal pain. Teeth biting his lip anxiously, eyes glossy with despair and shock. He looks like someone kicked a puppy in front of his eyes, and his mouth opens to speak but remains silent. Seconds pass, and it's only when you avert your eyes again that you hear him whisper, "You're everything to me."
You stay quiet. He continues, voice unsteady and nervous.
"You . . . you're proficient at data collection and analysis in every case we tackle. The conclusions you come up with are well-supported and sensible. I've never . . . you've never slowed me down. If anything, having you and your brilliant mind helps to solve these cases even quicker."
Artem moves his spare hand to your other cheek, warmth spreading across your face.
"And there's a reason we have an online database of documents as well. I only ask for the printed versions to see what notes you've made. Seeing your clever annotations . . . helps me get my thoughts in order and form my own."
"Every client we see always feels more comfortable speaking to you. You're empathetic and responsive, able to ask the hard questions in a way that doesn't scare people away. Don't you see the way everyone you interact with gravitates towards you?"
Artem's hair brushes your forehead as he comes closer, his eyes flitting back and forth between yours, "And I don't mean to stare at you all the time. You're just distractingly beautiful. Disarmingly so."
You let his nose graze yours as he gets even quieter, "When we travel together, you should see yourself. Radiant and blinding. Your expressions are contagious, your words are hypnotizing . . . "
Artem's breath mingles with yours before he tilts down, slotting his lips with yours. You're surprised for a moment, but as you feel his soft kisses melding into your skin, you relax into the movement. His lips coax yours open, allowing your tongue to gently prod at his and swirl. Soft pushes and pulls, warmth accompanying each tug of your lips, each swipe of your tongues. His hands move from your cheeks down to your waist, skimming your sides lightly. Goosebumps follow each touch he lays on you, eliciting sighs that roll into his mouth as you kiss him over and over and over . . .
"Artem . . . ," you whisper, anchoring onto his shoulders for stability, "Artem, the dinner . . . "
He grumbles against your mouth, separating just enough to say, "No, not until you're ready." Then he's on you again, his hands gently reaching to the back of your dress to undo the ribbon, legs parting yours and pinning you against the wall. Each movement feels like a question, a wish to go further, and you kiss him with hesitant confirmation. Can you desire him like this? Is it okay to?
He tugs at your lips as the ribbon falls flat in his fingers, leaning back ever so slightly, "You taste so good. Addicting."
You don't even have time to process the words before he's sliding down your jaw with his lips, his open mouth sucking and kissing along the column of your throat and down to your chest. His hands push down the straps of your dress, which begins to fall elegantly until it catches on your hips, exposing your torso. You can see Artem's eyes dilating and hazing over as he stares at your breasts, perked and so, so perfectly curved, and his voice comes out rough, "Do you usually wear a bra?"
"This dress was padded," you whisper, embarrassed. As Artem's head dips to taste the valley between your skin, you sigh and wrap your arms around his neck, holding him in place. You'd jump in front of highway traffic before letting him see how nervous you are, how flushed your face is. Artem shivers as his lips graze the side of your breast before skidding over to your nipple, holding it gently between his teeth and sucking. You moan, biting your lip to mute the sound instantly, but it's too late. He's already teasing and tasting, his other hand groping your breast and massaging it. He tweaks his fingers just right, repeating the motions that make you shudder and writhe. You can feel pleasure building up in your core, heightening when Artem's hand slinks down and presses below your navel.
Suck. "So pretty." Kiss, suck. "So, so pretty." Touch, slide, suck. "And so sweet." His compliments make your panties slick with desire and your head cloudy with . . . well, if you could think straight, you'd probably know what's going on up there. But instead, you're hyperfocused on what's going on down there, where Artem's slender fingers are pushing your dress down just enough to latch off your waist and fall to your ankles, leaving you only in your underwear. The fabric is soaked through, a dark stain revealing your obvious want, and you feel your date's head move away from your breasts to explore the damp mark.
His forefinger traces above your slit, pushing in slightly and noting the smooth slide of the cloth against your core, "You're so wet."
"I am," you reply.
He strokes his finger back up to the hem of your underwear before sliding in, going down until his thumb brushes against your clit. You shiver and Artem meets your gaze, his eyebrows lifted as his voice gets low, "I love your reactions."
Clench. Artem feels the tightening below his fingers, prompting him to move lower near your entrance. He swirls around the edge teasingly, your breath getting weaker and higher, and speaks again, "I . . . bet you taste good down there, too. Really sweet."
You flutter around his fingers, and Artem hums pleasantly. He's always been rather quiet in all areas of his life, but if his words are what makes you feel good, he'll gladly oblige. He keeps his cerulean eyes on you as he kneels, moving his hands to your thighs and settling there. You feel so empty, so impossibly on edge with the removal of his fingers, but god, the way he's staring at you, completely entranced by your face and your body and oh!
His nose is rubbing against your clothed slit as he spread your legs, forcing you to lean against the door, and shit, why does it feel so good? You tremble, your moans quiet, "Ah . . . please . . ."
"I don't deserve this," he admits, his lips pressing at your thigh, "You're too good for me. Too good to me." He finally slips down your panties, his eyes following the thin cloth down your knees before switching to your pussy, drenched and aching. He immediately moves forward, his tongue tasting your outer lips before moving deeper and entering you.
Good fuck. You convulse with pleasure as Artem licks in and out of you, slowly and quickly and softly and roughly and it's impossible to describe how perfect he is. Each movement has you pushing against his face desperately, and when he moves upward to your clit, you can't help your lewd whines. Artem sighs as he inserts his fingers fully in you, "You're perfect. Absolutely perfect. I need more."
You keen with pleasure as your pussy tightens, coating Artem's lips and chin with your essence. He hums again and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. You're so used to his mouth being placid and emotionless, a stark contrast from the desperate way he's eating you now, speaking sweet nothings into your heat.
But it's when he gives you a particularly long suck, moving his tongue around your clit as his fingers curl in, and whispers, "I've fantasized about this," that you come apart. You whip your head back and cry out, your pussy pulsing as your impending orgasm approaches. You can see the spots around your vision darken as ecstasy flows through your limbs.
"Artem, stop . . . it's too good," you thrash, gripping his brown hair roughly as you buckle against his mouth. He says something softly, muffled into your folds, but it doesn't matter. Nothing he can do now can stop your high from crashing upon you recklessly, completely, and utterly. You moan over and over, his name rolling out of your mouth like a prayer, and he continues to please you, moving his tongue in practiced motions. He gasps as he laps up your arousal, your sensitive skin throbbing with your peak.
And as he parts from your pussy, his face and hair mussed from your pleasure, he pulls you down by your hips to sit on his lap. You sigh at the fabric of his cotton pants against your bare pussy before immediately trying to move, "Your suit! It'll get ruined!"
"My beautiful partner," he whispers in admiration, a long finger trailing down your cheek to your breast, and kisses you again. Looks like he's not going anywhere anytime soon.