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“Fuck!” Rebecca has started to make a habit of placing her teacup down on the desk the moment she can hear thundering steps pounding up the stairs outside her office, but she’s beginning to doubt this move isn’t enough. That perhaps she will need to add everything and anything to that list if it means she doesn't end up wearing whatever she is holding for the rest of the day simply based on the sad lettuce leaf adorning her blouse that fell off her fork the moment she jolted at the disturbance. She’s not quite sure why she expected to eat her salad in peace today when her cretin of a manager has insisted on dropping by most days for ‘lunch with a lady’. Today he’s not even dropping in, apparently deciding ‘chopping in’ was the better mode of entry if the sharp blow he’s just placed to her office door is anything to go by.
“Coach Lasso,” she greets, her heart racing, from the sudden entrance or the short shorts he seems to favour, she can’t tell. “Here for lunch?”
“And other things,” he smirks, placing a wrapped box down on her desk.“gotta say your corporate barbie look is something boss.”
“No Ted, you don’t got to say anything, it's have to no got to and you don't have to say whatever you're thinking. Especially when you tell me that every day.” Resting the fork on the side of her plate, she reaches across the desk for the little box decorated with rugby balls. It's a rather peculiar choice of wrapping considering they both work in football and football printed wrapping paper is certainly easier to come by in England. She assumes this is perhaps his attempt to throw it back to his roots since it is a little reminiscent of his kind of football or perhaps the man is just stupid enough to believe all English sports played with a ball are one and the same.
“It’s true, especially in that eggplant thing you’re wearin’ it's realllllllll nice. I mean I’m sure there’s another eggplant you want more than that whole get up you got on. Oooh is that why you wore it, is it a code for me?” She straightens in her chair, squirming a little at how his barely contained innuendos seem to be working. They always do, he’s as dumb as a bag of rocks and he's apparently all she fucking wants.
“Eat me?” She questions, frowning a little at the icing sign on the cupcake in the box. Perhaps this was the only one on offer at the bakery he visited, it could have been a kitsch little place with only insipid treats on display, she shrugs supposing she should be thankful it's not lathered in barbecue sauce or something equally as offensive. The wording is still a very odd choice for something a person gives to their boss who they fuck on a semi-regular basis. (He has tried to describe them as friends with benefits or mates who mate but she shot both ideas down, there’s nothing particularly friendly about what they do)
“Boss, it’s my 6 and a half week a-versary kicking butts and crushin’ nuts here in Richmond, awoooo!”
Dear god, why did he fucking howl like a dog. “Is that something to be celebrated in Kansas?”
“It’s 10 Times longer than how long I spent winnin’ at Tottenham.”
It’s a lot longer than that, but the man struggles to string a coherent sentence together. Rebecca shouldn’t be surprised he also can’t do maths.
“Why eat me though?” She questions, frowning at the dessert.
“That little British girl with the cat and the weird friends who like tea?" He explains, struggling to remember what she assumes to be the plot of Alice in Wonderland. "She had cookies with this on em they made her big, I just thought you’re one giant lady I love to eat. It’s poetry.”
In some universe, perhaps this is a sweeter gesture, not in this universe though. The cupcake is as sweet as it gets. A confectionary coded with cunnilingus.
A cake is still a cake though and frankly her lunch was a little shit before now since whichever chef twat she pays a stupid wage to forgot to leave out the fucking raisins from her salad. It's a simple instruction really so perhaps this cupcake will be the only solace in a rather shit lunch hour, or at least the start of her lunch improving by a long shot. Raising the sweet treat to her lips, Rebecca closes her eyes, breathing in the rich chocolate ganache, trying not to think of how Ted is already licking his lips, adjusting his visor at the sight of her eating a fucking cupcake.
“Fuck, Ted,” she stops herself at the last minute, crumbs falling from the wrapper to litter her desk. “Is this vegan?”
“Is it vegan? There’s no meat in it, I can put meat in it if that’s your thing,” It's amazing, that he has to follow the players' nutrition plans as their coach and he doesn't quite seem to grasp what veganism is beyond the basic instruction that no meat is allowed. What she finds more worrying is more about her own sanity, that her stupidly hot gaffer apparently wants to put his dick in her cupcake so she eats it and that still isn’t turning her off of him. She needs help.
“No Ted, vegan? Are there eggs, milk, or butter in this?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t bake it boss.”
“Ah,” she frowns, weighing up if she can break her veganism just this once to appease the moron before her. He does look particularly delicious today in the red polo that seems to hug his biceps just right and the ridiculously indecent shorts he loves to run around in, maybe she can eat the cupcake and then blow a little more than the whistle around his neck.
“It’s fine boss,” he’s behind her side of the desk in a flash, fingers poised to pluck the cake from her fingers. “I’ll give it to Beard so no harm no fowl, get it cos you can’t hurt the chickens.”
Six and half weeks and the man still hasn’t understood he doesn’t need to translate jokes from American to English, the accent is different but the linguistics are the fucking same. She doesn’t laugh at them because they simply aren’t funny, not because she doesn’t understand them. “No, it’s mine. It’s fine.”
“Ma’am I can take the cake.” He’s leaning so close now the visor is nudging her shoulder and it’s stupidly fucking hot. Maybe next time he fucks her from behind over his desk downstairs she'll ask him to keep it on, feel it drag along her skin as he tries to maneuver nipping and biting at her skin with the cap getting in the way. She's sure it will annoy him to no end, get him fucking her harder into the desk to truly test its strength.
“No.” She argues, biting a large chunk from the treat, smearing her lips with icing as the decadent chocolate fills her mouth. “Fuck me,” she moans. Vegan baking is sublime, she's had enough sweet treats to know this, it has just been too long since she gave into the pull of sugar and sin in her diet.
“I wanna, eat me eat you.”
“This is too good to be vegan.” She whines, swiping her finger through the icing and sucking it clean. The way his eyes dart to the digit, she grins, taking her time to really suck all the decadent fudgy icing off, keeping eye contact to drive him just a little crazier than he's been so far.
“You’re too bad to be a vegan,” he grunts, turning the visor around to kiss a path down her neck, fingers fumbling a little at the tiny buttons adorning the front of her blouse. “Can’t believe you gave up saving the chickens for this but not my KFC or barbecue.”
“No,” she sighs, swallowing at how good the simple touches feel, it’s good he’s finally learning how to use his mouth properly. Better here than where it would be wasted on the pitch.
“I-“ her breath hitches when he nips a sensitive spot. “Sent you and your KFC downstairs at lunch last week b-because you said I was like it.”
“You are.” He reasons, pulling back. “Y’all are finger-“
She cuts in. “Don’t you dare finish that thought again Coach Lasso or KFC won’t be the only cock that's cut out of my diet.”
“Owweeee no,” he shakes a little, patting the obvious bulge in his short shorts sympathetically. “I would not want that.”
“No you wouldn’t,” she hums, picking up the cake once more. He can wait as punishment for even thinking that heinous thing again.
“Nope a dope,” he’s standing patiently to the side, adjusting his shorts a little as she swirls her tongue through the remnants of the icing. He’s just so easy to play with, a little Ken doll with a few colourful phrases he comes out with when you pull his string just so, only this Ken doesn't come with an off button and his string is something that's not so easily explained. She can’t play with it every day.
It’s silent for a beat, both of them too enthralled in how she’s playing with her food. The cupcake will be gone soon and she'll happily move onto the next course, her salad abandoned for something far more preferable. “Gotta say I could not do what you do.”
“Run a football club?” She asks around a mouthful, frowning at his sudden humility.
“Nah bein’ a vegan, I know all about the game. Touchdowns, penalties, it’s a doozy!” He’s wandered round to the other side of her desk, pulling out the chair in some odd sense of respect. Not once has he done this before, so she’s a little surprised by the move now. Usually, he prefers sprawling across her sofa like fucking Jeff Goldblum with and without underpants to give her quite the eyeful.
“Being a vegan isn’t hard, I’m sure there’s vegan barbecue you could have, probably a jackfruit substitute I'm sure would taste incredible lathered in Arthur Bryant's.”
"Anything tastes good lathered in Arthur Bryant's, even you boss." He grins, bracing his hands on the table.“Jackfruit ain't real food though, a fruit named after some man? Sounds fake to me. I ain’t worried about barbecue though boss.”
“Oh really?” She swallows, eyes following the taut lines of his muscles, the way his fingers are perched against her desk waiting to touch her. His next movement she thinks is supposed to be smooth, a quick fell swoop that's instead executed by sending his chair crashing to the floor and his visor being knocked off with it. For a moment she almost considers asking if he's okay before she remembers the desk could literally knock some more sense into him. And that certainly wouldn't be a bad thing.
“Nah,” it’s the last thing she hears before he ducks under her desk, a final reassurance he hasn't gotten a concussion from the hardwood in an effort to treat his own hard wood. “I ain’t givin’ up pussy for no chicken.”