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All things considered, Skwisgaar is pretty put-together at big events like this. He doesn’t get too horrifically wasted, or yell at the waiters, or do anything to attract unnecessary attention. Sure, the little things he doesn’t mind letting loose on, but when it matters, he’s generally pretty good at not causing a scene.
But that doesn’t mean he’s on good behavior.
No, what he does is far more secretive. You’re reminded of this as he places his hands on your hips from behind — long digits reaching far more than your own hands ever could — leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent gesture — knowing your luck, this moment would be commemorated as little more than a photo in Times Magazine, with some tagline about the happy couple embracing at their album release party.
But what the world doesn’t see is the way his half-hard cock presses against your lower back.
You let your eyes sweep across the room, searching for staring eyes as he tilts his head to press an insistent kiss on your jawline. Shutters sound like gunshots in the busy room, and you tense when you realize there is indeed a lens trained on the two of you. You watch them check the preview on the screen, and you watch their face for any reaction… and… nothing. No furrowed brows or double takes — no new taglines to be added to tomorrow’s newspaper as they, thankfully, move on to capture more of the party. You breathe a sigh of relief, relaxing, and Skwisgaar’s lips upturn against your skin.
“You ams looking very pretty tonights.”
You smile, and huff out a laugh. Always one for the flattery.
“You always say that.”
He’s been chasing you around the label party all night, each time with a new attempt to get into your pants — sweet words here, a graze across the shoulder there. You can’t say you mind, especially considering the events leading up to now, although now he seems to be growing more bold in spite of your reassurances for “later.” Part of you thinks he’s growing impatient, although another part of you thinks he’s enjoying this game you’re playing just a little too much. You switch your drink to your other hand so you can reach around and run your fingers through his hair — his hips buck into yours at the contact, noticeably reflexive with how his fingers flex over your clothes, but you cling to your composure.
“And I always means it,” he says.
He takes your hand in his own, rough callouses rubbing gentle circles into your wrist, and that, that’s, what almost gets you. Flashes of tangled limbs and white satin sheets flash through your mind, as familiar as the feeling of air in your lungs. His voice drops as he presses his lips to the back of your hand, still kept close to your ear.
“But I think you ams especially pretty in white.”
Bastard.
He places one last kiss to your jaw before leaning back up, pulling you back into him a bit more as he does so, his chest a firm wall beneath your back. "This ams boring,” he says, this time at normal volume, “we should leaves.” He punctuates his words with another tempting rock of his hips against yours, cock filling out further with each consecutive half-thrust.
“Later,” you murmur, although this time, its more for your sake than his. He hums low in his chest, continuing to drag his thumb across the exposed skin of your wrist — undeterred even as you drag him to the dance floor, even as you sit among the label staff; and even as you’re seated for dinner among all of the people that makes your shared lives possible. With how free he’s become around you — less of his cool facade, and more of the humorous man he really is — you had almost forgotten how damn well he can flirt… especially with his new repertoire of little tricks curated just for you. Your resolve begins to crumble bit by bit as the night goes on, and you find quickly yourself regretting this game that you, albeit inadvertently, started.
You’d known about the party for months. It was impossible to miss really, with how often Charles reminded the lot of you of the date and it’s importance — a simple message of “don’t fuck this up” coming through in all of his reminders. And maybe if the sun didn’t filter through your curtains just so, illuminating the features of your lover so heavenly, maybe you would have thought about that just a bit more before placing an insistent trail of kisses along his jawline to rouse him from his slumber.
He sighs as he wakes, elegant as ever, ocean-blue eyes peeling open to peer blearily at you. Too early for his tastes he squints for a moment, eyes softening as he takes in your own sleepy features, before throwing an arm around you and hiding his face in your neck.
“Good mornings,” he hums into your hair and, insatiable as ever, you feel him stiffen against your bare thigh — still unclothed from last night’s activities. You titter out a quiet laugh, running your hand through his tresses for a moment, end to end, before burying your hand deeper to scratch gently at his scalp, coaxing a quiet groan of contentment from his throat.
“Good morning to you too,” you tease, “sleep well?”
“With you? Always.” His vowels and consonants always seem to slur together a bit more in the early hours of the day, accent more prominent in the fog that comes with waking. It’s a charming thing, but you don’t have time to savor it when he’s being so damn distracting — running his hand down your side so lovingly, so tenderly, before easing you onto your back. Your hands fall to your sides at his fluid movements, and silken white sheets cradle you as he presses his soft, plush lips to your collarbone. Then, to the left clavicle. Then the right. And then lower, to your sternum; your stomach; the crest of your pelvic bone. He moves so slow, so sensual, that it’s almost — almost — embarrassing how easily he works you up. But then he’s rising back to your lips, knee slotting itself back to where his mouth almost was, and you rock yourself against him at the same time you wrap your fingers around his cock. He groans into your mouth as you twist your grip around his length, and with a morning voice so pretty, how could you not want to pull him undone?
You drag the blunt of your nails along the planes of his chest, reveling in the goosebumps that rise in your wake, and you drink up every little reaction greedily. Slow movements from each of you drag out the experience — his own shallow thrusts into your grip, your steady movements against the leg parting your thighs — its a slow rise to pleasure, as slow as your rise to wakefulness. He pulls his mouth from yours for a quick breath, lips kiss swollen, and you can’t help but run your thumb across them in admiration.
It’s then that he takes your free hand in his hold, guitar callouses rubbing undeniably fond circles into the underside of your wrist. Soft lips press equally soft kisses to each one of your extended fingers, humping into your loose grip with a steady rhythm all the while, before finally interlocking your digits with his own. Your conjoined hands press gently into the bedspread, and from this angle he looks positively divine — golden hair falling delicately to form a shimmering curtain around the two of you, plush lips parted in growing pleasure, long eyelashes fluttering… He’s always so beautiful, but like this, it’s enough to—
The shriek of your alarm startles you from your stupor, and shit, Charles is going to kill the two of you if you’re late. You drop your hand from his cock, scrambling for your phone as best you can in this position, thankfully turning off the shrill screaming. His face falls — his whole body following soon after, and collapsing his face into your neck for the second time this morning. He makes a noise of discontent into your shoulder, moving to wind his arms around you in protest. And yes, it’s cute, and maybe another day you would indulge him, but you have to go.
“Come ons,” he groans, “it ams too early for a stupids meetings.”
“Baby, it’s not a meeting, it’s release day,” you shake his shoulder lightly, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he places a kiss to the junction of where your shoulder meets your neck, and the offer is tempting, but then the memory of your alarm shrieking plays in your head, and Jesus, Charles will actually kill you two if you’re late. You tell him as such, and for his credit, he does roll on his side to let you free, albeit with a sigh. You scramble out of bed, darting towards the closet when you cast a look over your shoulder at him, mouth parted to urge him into getting ready… But the view of him spread across the white sheets has you pausing.
His eyes roam over your naked form as you stand — slow, intentional, like he’s mapping all of the places he wants to bite and hold, and you know that’s exactly what he’s doing when his lashes flutter, eyes darkening. Its almost enough to tempt you back into his arms, to risk the reprimand from the higher ups. Silently, with a raise of his brows, he extends his hand back to you. Expectant. Cocky. Confident. You bite the inside of your cheek, mulling over the consequences in your mind as you take a half step forward. And really, what’s—
Shit. Second alarm.
His face falls again as you turn and dart toward your wardrobe, this time with an unshakable determination. And while there’s truly nothing you’d want more than to spend the day in bed with him, you know damn-well that you can’t.
“Later,” you promise, rifling through your closet.
Although you know, this isn’t all entirely your fault, either. Because if he didn’t look so kissable in the plane taking you to the event, you wouldn’t have nibbled at his lip the way that you did. If he didn’t fill out that suit so nicely, you wouldn’t have drug your nails up his thigh in the moments before takeoff, wouldn’t have cupped his bulge as he hardened in his slacks. And maybe it’s his fault for getting worked up so easily — you know well enough that he has no problems testing your self-restraint, so really, what’s the harm in throwing it back at him a little bit? But he seems to care for none of this now in the present, as your previous promise of “later” leads you to the sprawling dinner table.
And God, you feel like you’re on fire. His hand rests on the inside of your thigh, petting gently, never too close, but just close enough to impart a heat that grows further and further up your face with every passing second. And any time he deems you too comfortable, he squeezes firmly, bringing you straight back to attention. You hate how composed he looks through it all too, casually sipping at his glass without even casting a glance towards your trembling form. Although you suspect he must be watching you in his peripherals, as his lips upturn coyly when you pout in his direction.
He’s getting off on watching you lose your composure.
Thoughts grow fuzzy the longer he teases, long digits never quite landing where you need them to be — but with so many watchful eyes, you can’t quite tell whether or not it’s a blessing or a curse. You’re just thankful that nobody’s asking you for extra details about the album, tonight — you’re not sure if you can even form a coherent thought at this point, nevermind formulate a truthful response. You lean against your lover a bit, canting your head up for a kiss, and graciously, he does meet you in the middle for one — quick and chaste, but it gives you enough time to mumble out a half-hearted “mean” against his lips. He grins at the same time your lips quirk downwards.
“Later,” he says mockingly, throwing your words from earlier at you, and takes another sip from his glass. More for show at this point, really, the damnable bastard. You huff, but accept your fate nonetheless — it’s not like you can go home any time soon considering Charles’ insistence on your full attendance. And, well, getting Skwisgaar to keep his hands to himself on any night is nothing short of a Herculean task, nevermind one where he’s already worked up. You lean a bit further into him, trying to will away the heat in your cheeks.
What you don’t expect is for him to take your wrist in his grip, and place your hand over his bulge. He presses your digits insistently against him, dragging the tips of your fingers up to trace along his length, from the head the rests on his right thigh, and back up to the base. He spreads his legs a bit further beneath the table cloth, giving you a bit more access, and even that little movement is enough to spark vivid memories that leave you more affected than you’d like to admit. You swallow thickly, feeling the heat pool further between your legs — his words, his touch, his own unabashed arousal all mixing together in your thoughts — and you’re just about ready to say fuck it to this whole event. You’ve done everything the label has asked of you, so do they really have a reason to keep you?
He knows he has you when you drag your hand across him of your own accord, stroking him beneath his slacks. He drops your hand then, and against your better judgement, you keep up your movements. Each inch your fingertips caress beneath the table cloth is an inch you ache to have buried in you, and Jesus Christ, you’ve never wanted to leave an event more.
His lips meet the top of your head for a moment — another sweet couples photo for Times, you think to yourself — evidently pleased at the fact that finally, you were chasing him.
“How abouts we finds a place a bit more… private?” He murmurs against your hair, for your ears only, “Been wantings to fuck you stupid since we woke up this mornings.” You feel him grin, victorious, when you nod shallowly, and he continues on with your confirmation. “Bathroom at the ends of the hall. Right sides. Five minutes.” And with that he’s rising from his seat, pushing his chair out and turning off to stride down the corridor.
And maybe you’re a bit too obvious in the way you let your eyes trail up his long legs as he moves away from you, but you’re glad to have taken the second look, because the short few minutes spent apart from him is tortuous. You squeeze your thighs together eagerly, swallowing at the barest bit of friction it provides to your clit, and when the time feels right, finally rise to your feet to follow after him. It’s easy enough to slip away unnoticed, with how little you’ve been chatting with your not-quite-peers tonight, and you only feel your excitement grow as you turn the corner — right, you remember — and dip into the bathroom.
You hardly have time to take in your surroundings as a pair of large hands come to cradle your face, bringing your lips to his own. This kiss lacks all of the restraint of the ones before — sensual precision replaced with desperate wanting as his tongue presses insistently at your lips and into your mouth. Hot and heavy, the breath is all but stolen from your lungs as you meet again and again, and yet you can’t seem to get enough. Kissing you this deep, he nearly has to fold himself to meet your mouth, and the image has you whining wantonly, dizzy on him. His blazer falls to the floor just after in an uncharacteristic display of impatience, but his hands aren’t off of you for long. The click of the lock is hardly heard over the thrum of your heart in your ears as he spins you gently away from the door and walks you backwards, not once breaking away from your passionate embrace.
It’s only when your backside brushes against the edge of the counter that he parts, and you quickly realize why he chose this bathroom in particular. Donned in hues of white and gold, this bathroom is full length, with a large, curving mirror towering over the countertop that he, evidently, wants little more than to bend you over. Curious hands roam up your sides, and flat against your ribcage like this, it’s startling how much room they take up.
“Ams such a tease,” he breathes, following the shape of your curves with his long fingers, and squeezing your hips firmly. It’s enough to draw a gasp from your lips, and you don’t have time to defend yourself against the accusations because soon after his hands are tugging insistently at your own slacks, fingers pressing against your dripping core through the fabric beneath them. You buck up into his touch involuntarily, stretched thin with want and lust, and God, you can’t believe he’s this damn good at taking you apart.
“Actings like you don’t wants this as much as me,” he scoffs, “you wants me to takes care of you? Huh?” He circles tightly around your clit through the fabric, as though to punctuate his sentence, and it’s enough to have you nodding your head rapidly in want. But that’s not enough.
“Ams you sure? Sure you don’t want to wait for laters?”
You whine high in your throat, pressing your hips against his hand insistently. “Skwisgaar, please— please, I want you.”
“Say it.” His pupils are blown wide, watching your expression eagerly, lips upturned at your wanting.
“Please fuck me? Please?”
And that, that finally seems to be enough for him — because just as the words leave your mouth he’s spinning you around to bend you over the sink, marble ice cold against your too-hot body. You hear the jingling of his belt as he shucks his slacks, and you wag your ass in temptation, netting you a firm hand to grope at you, and then come down with a soft crack against the tender flesh. He then slips the last of your bottoms off, nudging your feet apart with his own. Your pussy welcomes his fingers eagerly as they stretch you out — you were ready hours ago, embarrassed as you are to admit it — and with the newfound stimulation, you feel like a fucking live wire beneath him.
“‘Skwis—”
He hushes you, withdrawing his hand with a lewd slick. You flush at the noise — an undeniable fact of your wanting — but all thoughts die when the head of his cock runs through your folds, smearing your slickness before sliding slowly into you. You sigh in unison as he bottoms out — and suddenly all too aware of the party just down the hall you bite your tongue just as he grips your hips for a bit of leverage to find a rhythm.
Focused on keeping your voice low, the only noise for a bit is the sound of your shared panting, hips meeting with the soft jingle of his loosened belt. But it’s hard to hold your composure for long, with how his cock drags so expertly against your walls— sensitive, with the hours of wanting leading up to now.
He tangles his hand in your hair, pulling your eyes up to the mirror in front of you. There, you see the two of you — moving in tandem, a perfect song and dance, chasing your shared high. From this position you can’t see the way he enters you, taking you apart with each calculated thrust — but you can see the effects of it everywhere else. You’re a mess — all tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips — and he’s not much better for wear. His hair bounces with every thrust, pressing deeper and deeper each time; lips bitten raw from his cycle of biting and panting; muscles tense and lean, with the veins in his hands popping in the cold light of the bathroom. His undershirt clings to his chest, slick with sweat, tie long loosened for that extra bit of breathing room. He’s a vision — all disheveled, and undeniably gorgeous — and with a view like this, you could watch him pull you apart all day long.
Again and again his hips meet yours, growing more desperate with every passing second, and he slaps his hand across your mouth when your cries become too loud, too risky. Each thrust gets more shallow, more forceful, and you have to slap a hand of your own against the mirror to keep from sliding too far up the countertop. Soon enough he’s folding himself over you, hardly pulling out more than an inch before slamming back into you again, and again, and again—
“So fucking goods for me,” he praises low in your ear, “always takes me so well. Been waiting for this all night, haven’ts you?” A kiss just below your ear finishes his statement, but a hand on your clit starts a new one.
“So needy, getting fucked in publics like this, where anyone could just walk in and see. But you’re all mine, amnst you?”
You moan against the hand silencing you as he draws rapid, tight circles, nodding fervently. You hardly catch the praise that follows your needy submission, the coos of “that’s right,” as you’re cumming hard enough to send your head swimming. Your walls tighten around him, and it’s not much longer until he’s lurching forward with a stifled groan of his own — cock kicking as he fills you.
The room falls into silence again, save for the sound of your panting. After a few minutes of shared breathing he runs his hand reverently up your spine, then over your ribcage, before massaging your shoulders gently. A kiss to the base of your neck, and then he’s leaning back, pulling his softening cock from your folds and drawing a hiss from both of your lips. You can feel the way he drips from you as you catch your breath against the cold marble countertop, willing your heart into a slower rhythm. He gives one last affectionate squeeze to your hips before tucking his softening cock back into his pants... and then pulls your undergarments back up, for you. You feel the remnants of him leak onto the fabric as you stand, and you’re just about to scold him, to go grab some poor sod’s hand towel to wipe yourself down with, but he grabs your wrists before you can even think of moving.
Callouses. Little circles. A kiss. Your same song and dance that you always do. You pause.
“Amnst done with you yet,” he promises, “Want you like this.”
Turns your wrist, placing a kiss to the back of your hand. Then your shoulder. And then your collarbone. You swallow, and he smiles against your jugular as he moves up just a fraction more. His breath is hot against your neck, as he murmurs:
“Later.”