Work Text:
If you opened your eyes, he would stop. You didn’t know why he was doing it, but you knew for certain that if you opened your eyes, he would stop.
His fingers traced along your arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind them— the room was actually a bit muggy, so you knew it was just his touch giving you chills like that. You heard him let out a sigh from behind you, sinking a bit deeper into the mattress; he wasn’t quite pressed up to you but even through a layer of tangled sheets, you could feel all the warmth coming off of him.
That part was typical: the sweat, the panting breaths, the way everything seemed to stick to you afterwards, the way he seemed to radiate heat. He was so goddamn hot — not like that— well, yes, definitely like that, but… temperature, too. Cuddling him would’ve probably been miserable at a time like this, you were already hot under the covers and he would’ve made it worse…
Not that you would know. Cuddling wasn’t really part of… this. This random, undefined thing that had been going on for longer than you cared to remember. See, that was exactly why this arm-tickling thing was so confusing to you: he didn’t really touch you much, after. He never said a damn thing, for sure. He just grunted as he got off you, got the shower started— sometimes brought you a glass of water or asked if you were alright, but that was just common courtesy. Not intimacy, not even friendliness. This , this touch… it felt personal.
Even more so when those rough fingertips slipped over your shoulder, drew circles on the nape of your neck: you tried not to react much because you were still pretending to be asleep, but it was hard not to arch your back when he tickled that spot.
Then they were in your hair, lightly scratching along your scalp, petting stray locks from your face. When his thumb slid across your cheek— slowly, tenderly, if you didn’t know any better you’d say sweetly — you knew you couldn’t keep up this poker face. Pulling in your bottom lip between your teeth, you tried to act as if you were waking slowly: you stirred a bit and groaned in the back of your throat, turning onto your back slightly. He moved over a little to make room for you; you blinked your eyes open and found him looking down at you with a gentle smile.
The fuck’s he looking at me like that for?
“Hi,” you mumbled happily, shocked (but very pleasantly so) to feel that thumb still petting your cheek carefully. He smiled wider. You felt pretty confident that he would say ‘Hello’ back to you, not that you were trying to guess or predict what he would say next, it just… it seemed obvious.
Instead, he breathed out quickly through his nose, like a ghost of a laugh, eyes trailing across your face. You started to think he was gearing up to say something, you know, important. Serious, even. Your heart picked up. You weren’t expecting anything really outrageous, just maybe some kind of acknowledgement or admission about all of this or why it had started. Something about not wanting it to stop , maybe…
“You should go home.”
He still had that kind look in his eyes when he said it, too, in spite of the coldness of his statement. You’d never expected anything from him… and yet he still found little ways to let you down. “Mm,” you agreed with a quick nod. “Yeah, I just— mind if I have a shower first?”
“F’course not,” he nodded, falling back onto his side of the bed— well, both sides were his side, really. The side you weren’t on at the moment.
You searched for a second for your discarded underwear and dress on your way to the restroom, trying not to show so obviously the soreness in your… everywhere, basically. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, even if you were well past that by now.
You spared a glance at him before you shut the door: he was staring up at the ceiling, it seemed, just laying back and blankly looking ahead. You figured he wasn’t really looking at anything, just letting his gaze go blurry, trying to keep his mind empty. That was ultimately the main goal of all this, to get your minds off things. Everybody in this line of work finds their way to cope and as monumentally stupid as it was to fuck your boss, it was easier on the liver than liquor, much more legal than drugs (if not particularly ethical), and less damaging externally than some kind of self-harm.
But it wasn’t free of all external damage. Catching your reflection in the mirror, you frowned to see the bruises forming on your neck. Guess I’m wearing a turtleneck to work tomorrow, you thought, and instinctively wiped some of the smeared eyeliner off your temple even though it was pointless when you would get in the shower momentarily.
The hot water fell over you, washing away all manners of filth from your skin, soothing the feeling of being sweaty and overheated and even comforting that cold feeling inside your chest just a bit. You shut your eyes and leaned in to let it flow against your face; for a moment there, it really had felt different. The smallest shift in the atmosphere. Some kind of deviation from the rules . Yes that deviation had been just as unspoken as the rules themselves; you never discussed it. You’d never discussed it, he’d never said a single thing about it, but the rules were apparent.
Never at work— nothing at work, not even a shared glance. Never when Jasper’s home. Never talk about it. Never ask me anything. And no talking about work— not that you fucking wanted to, that was the point.
It was like two different relationships, two different lives. The version of you that worked with Carl and the version that came over on nights like these were absolutely not the same person. Certainly the Detective You wouldn’t let him boss you around like that… despite his actual position as your boss. Even though he acted like it drove him crazy, you had a theory that he appreciated your stubbornness because it forced him to consider a different perspective every once in a while. He needed that push back, he just didn’t enjoy it. A necessary evil, he’d called you once.
The version of you that you’d just been in his bed was… a lot more agreeable. But he seemed to appreciate that too, if he occasionally mocked it. So fucking obedient, his words from earlier in the night echoed in your head, his voice smooth and dark and indulgent like chocolate. So fucking desperate.
You shuddered a little under the hot flow of water. You could relish in the memories for now if you wanted, but you needed to start the process soon: the compartmentalizing. Once you walked out that front door and back home, you needed to have sorted all of that into the mental box of sex-Carl. And you needed to lock that box tight before you went in tomorrow and had to work with boss-Carl.
Funny thing was, even though you were two different people in these two different worlds, and even though you had to keep it all as separate as possible… he sort of acted the same the whole time. He was always rude and brash and impatient and controlling. It just looked a little different, to put it mildly.
~
Come over.
Nearly two weeks since that day he’d touched your hair, and you’d been buzzing for a chance to see him again, but the inconsistency was something you’d learned to adjust to. You knew that night that Jasper was coming back from his mum’s the next day, so the usual thing would be to basically forget about it until he texted again. But you’d never had such a hard time with it like you did this time— you’d never been quite so desperate to get that classically curt message.
For some reason, that made you decide that you wanted to ignore it.
You didn’t want to not see him— god, how you wanted to see him. Seeing his name pop up on your phone made your legs cross tightly, made your mind flood with a greatest hits of things he’d done to you, made your heart pound wondering what he’d do next.
But seeing him required texting him back and you were just feeling stubborn. You always stood up to boss-Carl, you didn’t jump at his every command, why shouldn’t sex-Carl get a taste of that? It wasn’t like you were going to drop him or even ignore him for very long, but one night couldn’t hurt. One singular instance of not getting his way.
You locked your phone and returned to the conversation around the restaurant table, even if it didn’t particularly interest you, and dropped your phone into your purse so you wouldn’t be tempted by it again.
Even if you were avoiding him for the night, the fact was that Carl was still a strong influence over everything you did that night. You stayed longer at dinner than you’d planned to, because every time you considered going home you worried you wouldn’t have the strength to resist adding a detour to your trip. You drank more, you laughed more, you talked more— trying to convince yourself that you had more going on in your personal life than a secret affair with your boss.
You convinced your friends to go on an impromptu pub crawl with you, just to keep yourself busy. After all, what would you say if he asked where you’d been? You didn’t want to admit you’d been home in your PJs watching some kind of reality dating competition, ignoring him just to be cheeky. You wanted it to seem like you just had better, cooler things going on.
Oh, who were you kidding… he wasn’t going to ask where you’d been. You couldn’t think of a single time he’d asked you something like that, anything personal at all.
And to be fair, you did enjoy yourself. It was good to catch up with old friends, be out in the world instead of watching it through windows and screens. You never fancied yourself the clubbing type, but with enough booze and encouragement, you ended up dancing like an idiot with old schoolmates like every trashy girl you were more likely to quietly judge on a typical day.
One of them even remarked that you were acting different, goin’ wild , she’d called it. One of them wondered if this was the ‘real you’ that you’d been hiding away from them for some reason. But no— it was a show, not for their benefit but for your own. You wanted to make a fool of yourself; you wanted a reason for why you already felt like you’d been made a fool. And you didn’t want to think about the real reason, you didn’t want to open that box because you wouldn’t be able to close it. You didn’t even want to consider that you’d become, in any way… attached.
Every show must come to a close. Your heart sank a bit at that final curtain call; as people began to depart, making excuses about work in the morning or needing to rest, you found yourself pleading— playfully, at first— for someone to stay with you. But finally, you were left on your own on the curb outside the bar, anxiously tapping your foot as you waited for your Uber and used every drop of willpower in your body not to open that conversation.
Of course, alcohol lowers all kinds of inhibitions: you can’t just pick and choose which ones stay and which ones go. You pressed your lips together as you tapped his name in your message history.
Come over, his message lingered. 19:15.
You looked at the clock now: 2:41. Obviously— hopefully — he’d gone to sleep. But maybe he was up? Maybe the notification would wake him, or he’d get up for the toilet and notice it and text you back. Your shivering fingers hovered over the keyboard as you mentally crafted the perfect, oh-so-casual reply. Flippant, but not rude— you didn’t want to seem angry or anything. And you couldn’t give away the planned nature of your silence nor the desperation that led you to break it.
Sorry, late night. Still up? I could— you started to erase it already, shaking your head. Too much. Plus, late night was too generic. Sorry, I was out with my mates — no no, too specific. Just out . Maybe he’d imagine you were out with another man… that could be funny. Or dangerous.
Didn’t see this, I was out… still free?
Stupid question— what else would he be doing at two in the morning? But a more interesting, and disturbing, question popped up in your drunken mind: who else would he be doing?
Your stomach churned, and not because you couldn’t handle your drinks. Could he have sent that message to someone else when you ignored his offer? The thought made you want to shrivel up right on that pavement, take your spot next to the ill-fated earthworm that left its squiggly stain nearby.
You contemplated your reply again with a sigh, knowing it was far from perfect but afraid to be any wordier than that in case it seemed too… thoughtful. You scrolled up briefly through the message history and frowned:
4 weeks ago
Free tonight? 18:58
Yep, when should I come by? 19:00
8 or 9. Don’t knock. Just text when you’re at the door. Don’t want Martin to answer. 19:08
Got it. 19:09
Here. 20:07
3 weeks ago
Stop by later. 14:32
👍 14:53
(You’d been so proud of that one. Nice and emotionless.)
15 days ago
Can I come over? 19:44
Sorry, got J this week. 21:00
np 21:17
? 21:18
np means “No problem” 21:18
Ah, okay. 21:20
He goes back Friday, if you’re around then. 21:26
I’ll be around. 21:27
See you then. 21:27
12 days ago
Martin’s out for the night. Come see me. 18:36
Just left my place 19:02
Stay dry. 19:02
(It had been raining. It was a bit sentimental of him to mention that.)
Yesterday
Come over. 19:15
Draft: Didn’t see this, I was out… still free?
A car horn caught your attention, and the driver rolled his window down. “Getting in?” he prompted grumpily.
“Right, sorry— yeah,” you mumbled, quickly hitting the send button before hopping in the backseat and starting your journey home.
~
Since when were these elevator lights so fucking bright? You groaned as the doors opened, but you had no choice but to step inside. At least that musty old basement wouldn’t be so offensive to your aching head.
You took a swig from your bottle to try to feel like you had something to do to fight the hangover— and it wasn’t a water bottle, but an electrolyte drink you’d picked up from a corner market, so it really did stand a chance of helping you. But it was no instant cure-all, and you slumped a bit against the faux wood of the elevator wall as the doors began to automatically shut.
A hand stopping the doors startled you slightly; they hesitated a bit before reversing open again, and Detective Morck stepped in with you. He just nodded at you, you nodded back— a typical greeting between the two of you. No one who saw it could’ve known your heart had started to race just because of that.
The ambient bustle of the main office muffled down to nothing as the doors slid shut again. Then the whirr from the rickety elevator was the only sound, and yet you couldn’t hear it over the deafening silence between you two. Silence was not something you generally noticed with Carl… it never felt awkward. Why did it feel awkward? It was just you that felt awkward, right?
“You should’ve come over.”
For a moment, you couldn’t even process it as words— let alone words from him . Because there was no way he’d just said that to you… here.
Your widened eyes darted over to him, but he was still staring at the doors, even though they wouldn’t open very soon: you were still between the floors, this thing didn’t move too fast.
“Huh?” you blurted out before you could think of anything better to say.
“You should’ve come over,” he repeated, “last night.”
Still staring straight ahead; you couldn’t see his face, and you couldn’t imagine what expression he could possibly be wearing on it. “I figured you were asleep.”
“I was,” he confirmed, “but I would’ve let you in. You could’ve knocked and—”
“I didn’t want to bother you so late,” you offered.
“It’s not a bother,” he corrected.
Not a bother . Now there was a five-star review you wanted right on the poster.
All jokes aside, no matter how mild the conversation was, the fact that it was happening at work was making you a little dizzy.
“Then, uh… sorry,” you decided.
“Don’t apologize, just—” he stopped himself, sighing a little, dropping his head like he was frustrated. “You’re not going out again, I hope.”
“No, I— no, definitely not,” you chuckled a little.
“Come over tonight,” he insisted— pleaded, even? Did you sense a hint of desperation?
You tried to hold back a grin. Maybe mind games do pay off. “Alright.”
If that last silence had been deafening, this one was like a sonic boom. You had no idea what you wanted him to do or say, but you just wanted more. More of this unexpected glimpse of him, whatever it was supposed to mean.
But of course, he stayed wordless, motionless, still didn’t look directly at you. Just as you opened your mouth to say something— without any idea what that something would be, just anything to force him to respond— the elevator dinged and the doors opened to the shadowy basement headquarters of Department Q.
Rose and Hardy were already in; Akram had planned to be late today, he had to go do something at his daughters’ school if you remembered correctly. “Mornin’!” Rose offered to the both of you chipperly. Morck nodded at her, his hands stuffed firmly in his pockets.
“Hiya, Rose,” you offered back more warmly.
“Late night, eh?” Hardy questioned you as he gave you a look up and down.
“Huh?” you frowned, looking at your outfit as you wondered if you looked sloppy or something.
“Not your clothes, your eyes,” he noticed with a grin. “And the Cadence in your hand.”
He motioned to the bottle you held, which you tucked into your bag in annoyance. You hadn’t even looked at the name of it when you picked it out, just saw something about “natural electrolytes” and snatched it up without a second thought, but he recognized the label in an instant. Waste of those keen detective eyes when there were cases to be working on.
“Wee hangover?” he assumed.
“Somewhere past ‘wee’,” you decided, “but it’s getting better.”
“Didn’t think you were the party type.”
“M’not,” you agreed.
“So what’s the occasion?” he wondered. “Couldn’t be a date, could it?”
You rolled your eyes, but tried to subtly check if Carl was paying any attention. He didn’t seem to be, taking a seat at his desk and sorting through some papers. “Only date you need to worry about is the ninth of April, twenty-nineteen,” you responded smugly, “when your victim was stabbed.”
“You say ‘my victim’ like I’m the one who did it,” Hardy frowned, looking back down at his open file; but the topic had been successfully changed, and you were satisfied.
You draped your coat over the back of your chair and sat at your desk.
“Where are we at with the, uh, Chelsea Baird case?” Carl asked, looking up at the board as he leaned back in his chair a bit.
This was the Carl you were more familiar with. Aloof, direct, single-minded. In some ways, it was the one you were more comfortable with. Yet, you felt more anticipation than ever knowing you would see him again— in another way entirely— tonight.
~
You were fiddling with a button on your coat as you waited by the door; you didn’t realize you were doing it, or that you were rocking on your heels slightly, or that you were chewing the inside of your cheek. All of it stopped when you heard the latch slide on the other side of the door, but you tried not to look too, you know, eager as he opened it.
But god, he looked good. It was nice to let yourself acknowledge it. Every detail fought for your attention: graceful fingers holding the door frame, the way his sweater was just tight enough to tease the toned and sinewy form underneath, the scattered silver in his beard, his eyes already beginning to scan you…
“Come in,” he offered, stepping back to let you through. You began to slip off your coat, orienting yourself in the foyer and hanging it on a rack—
In a split-second, he’d grabbed you and turned you towards him. His lips crashed against you, but you were only caught off-guard for a moment before you reciprocated gladly. He didn’t always kiss you, but he always seemed to knock the wind out of you when he did.
Stumbling back through the apartment, his hands kept you close as they roughly slid up your back; he had to bend down a little to grope at your ass, getting a handful of your dress and starting to lift it up.
“Nnh, fuck,” you groaned without really meaning to, and he pressed you against some random wall with his weight; he was so fucking hard already, you didn’t even know it could be so fast—
He hooked his fingers into your tights, roughly pulling them down, forced to break the kiss to get low enough to get them to your knees. But instead of finishing the job and having you kick your shoes off so he could finish undressing you, he seemed distracted halfway through: when the stockings were halfway off, he instead knelt to the ground and flipped up your dress. For just a second he seemed to bare his teeth at the sight of your panties partially dislodged from sticking to your tights as they were removed, but he didn’t pull them down either. He simply dove forward and locked his mouth on you over them: you could feel his teeth , fucking Christ, not biting you particularly but grazing and taunting through the silky fabric. You whimpered at first, then shuddered as he passed them delicately over your clit.
“F-fuck ,” you choked out again, knees getting a little wobbly as his hands grasped at your hips, then greedily dug into your thighs.
He did it again, even more roughly, and you had to grab onto his hair just to have something to hold. It was such a sharp, overwhelming sensation, yet the way you tugged on the salt-and-pepper locks seemed to pull him closer, egg him on. You could feel him grin against you: he was happy to oblige, for once.
He properly pressed his tongue against you, lapping hard but slow through the material— which absorbed all the wetness but let you feel the warmth, the pressure, and thankfully didn’t stop you from hearing his low and satisfied groan. “Ah, god, please,” you begged quickly, dropping your head back against the wall. He was moving his tongue in a circle but it was painfully slow, and his exhale through his nose fanned out over your skin. “Please— oh! ”
It was his fucking teeth again, and you looked down to see him looking up at you and seeming way too proud of himself. This time it wasn’t a circle but a careful stripe against the panties that made you squirm— but you weren’t getting very far with that iron-clad grip on your hips.
Even one hand was enough to keep you still, with how strong he was. He knew that, which is why he dared to let one go and use it to— way too fucking slowly, I might add— hook a finger into the fabric and pull it aside delicately.
His mouth was so close, so fucking close, but he hesitated. He kept your gaze, smiling a little more, taking in the desperation in your expression… before just barely extending his tongue to flick at your swelling clit.
“Fuck!” you shouted, much louder than you really should’ve for how small the contact was— but he knew just how to break you down, how to expose your need and exploit it to his heart’s content. You heard him laugh a little against you, and the condescension only made you melt that much more. You’d forgotten your hands were in his hair until his tongue pushed inside you, then you were pulling it again, probably even harder than before. “God,” you groaned, “fucking— oh my god—”
A wide, hard lick over you made your legs wobble again; it was all intentional, of course. Throwing you on the bed might’ve been fun but it wouldn’t have allowed him to watch you struggle like this.
He held one of your thighs and used it to guide your leg, lifting it to rest over one of his shoulders. It was a small change of position yet it seemed to change everything: in a way you felt oddly powerful with him kneeling under you like this, shutting his eyes and breathing heavily as he lapped at you with more focus and direction. Your hips rocked up against his face, his beard roughly rubbing against your inner thighs; your back arched away from the wall, and your moans changed from high and whiny to a bit lower and more guttural. Even if something about it felt powerful for you, you were under no illusion that you had control in this moment. Whatever you felt, physically or mentally, in that moment was his choice, and he knew that. He liked giving you a sense of autonomy from time to time, because it gave you a chance to show how desperate you were for him— like when he would tell you to ride him and watch smugly as you rocked your hips faster and faster in search of your ecstasy. Or when he’d ask you how you wanted it, how you needed it, to force you into begging for it.
And this time it was a bit more subtle: out of context and an act like this could seem like he was submitting to you, servicing you, prioritizing your pleasure. But no, not quite. He could certainly be generous, and he never ended a night without making sure you’d been finished off (if not more than once, if not a half-dozen times if he was in the right mood), but your pleasure was a matter of his entertainment. His control.
Didn’t bother you in the fucking slightest. Any shame or self-consciousness you might’ve had about being so responsive to him, he pried out of the way to get to the insatiable, thoughtless core of you that just needed to feel . He was the only thing you knew that could turn your brain off. And anybody who knew you, especially anybody else at work, would know how badly you needed that. But you were pretty damn sure they’d never guess in a hundred years that this was your way of doing it.
“A-ah, yes, yes ,” you panted, but he wasn’t sticking to any one thing for long: his tongue inside you one moment, his lips wrapped around your clit the next, his mouth exploring eagerly but never getting comfortable with one pattern. He didn’t want you getting too far down this road, it seemed— not that you expected any different. It was obvious from the beginning he had bigger plans for you. “P-please,” you croaked out again, “c’mon, I—”
“Tell me what you need,” he ordered, a little sing-songy impatience to his voice.
“Fuck me,” you begged quickly, “need you to fuck me, hard.”
He moved his head back a bit to expose his smile, but you knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.
As he stood up to face you, your eyes darted down from his to admire the slick shine on his lips, parted to let out his heavy breaths. “Please,” you whispered again.
“Earn it,” he replied flatly, his shoe already hooked behind your knee and knocking a leg out from under you; you fell to your knees, inevitably, before him as he finished opening his belt.
You helped him with the button and fly of his jeans at the same time, remembering how he’d felt pressed up against you earlier and knowing— or at least hoping— that tasting you had only worsened his condition. You smiled happily when he pushed the jeans and boxers down enough for you to wrap a hand around it: as pretty as the rest of him, that cock. Veiny and fat and heavy; the head looked even more swollen than you expected, turning a bit reddish-purple from, you assumed, anticipation. Even after so many nights together it could be intimidating, especially at eye-level like this, but you found yourself salivating regardless.
Unlike him, you had no interest in teasing. You spit onto it and spread it with your hand, just for a second to smooth the path for your lips— then you took as much as you could in one go, covering the rest with a tightening grip. “Yeah,” he encouraged, almost inaudible under his breath. He wasn’t especially talkative in bed but he could be… vocal. And it did all sorts of things to you, to hear him moan and pant and growl like that.
Desperate to hear another sound from him, you closed your eyes to get a better focus and moved even further, that throbbing head poking at the back of your throat.
“Mm,” he moaned again, a little louder, and a hand rested on your head encouragingly.
But still, you wanted to hear more. You wanted to glimpse just a sliver of the desperation he’d pulled out of you. Blinking up at him, trying to seem sort of sweet and innocent about it, you slid your tongue over him inside your mouth… then carefully extended your tongue to reach even further past your lips the tip of it stroking in a stripe from as low as you could reach all the way back to the spot just under the head—
“Ngh,” he grunted, nostrils flaring as he stared down at you, that hand on your hair suddenly tangling in and pulling on your hair. “Fuck. Devil’s tongue on you,” he praised roughly.
You had to hold back from smiling, it would’ve made this whole thing a bit trickier and it was already a bit of a feat to not gag on him.
You began to move your head back and forth, following your mouth with your hand, closing your eyes to focus more on the pattern of it. You didn’t go too fast yet, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to take it all. And you really wanted to take it all, you wanted to feel him down your throat, you wanted to hear that perfect way he whined when you pressed your nose against the patch of dark hair, you wanted to exchange something as vital as air for the way his cock would throb against your tongue—
You got your wish a little sooner than you expected: he shoved his hips forward, forcing it deeper roughly and suddenly, pushing you back until your head was against the wall and you were completely cornered and closed in by his body. His hand kept your head from actually hitting the wall, so you appreciated that comfort, but you couldn’t necessarily describe him thrusting into your throat as comfortable…
But you would describe it as incredibly fucking hot. Even as your eyes widened and your hands scrambled to grab onto his thighs, you felt more arousal pulse between your legs. “Ah, fuck,” he moaned roughly, his head falling back, another hand reaching down to wrap around your jaw to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
Totally helpless to him… not that it was so much of a change from every other time.
“Fuck,” he said again, even rougher than before, just before he pulled back to give you a chance to breathe.
You coughed a bit as you gasped for air, yet you couldn’t help but moan.
“Like when I fuck your face?” he noticed. You nodded instantly, looking up at him with your eyes a bit slack and glassy. “Fuckin’ whore,” he accused, observed, announced… whatever you want to call it, it was completely true.
“Yeah,” you agreed breathlessly as you nodded your head.
“Open wide for me,” he demanded— though his voice was a little softer, his head tilting to the side a bit as he watched you obey. He held his cock and rubbed the tip of it teasingly against your waiting tongue. “Good little whore…”
He shoved in again, groaning when you gagged but forcing himself past it regardless.
“A-ah, fuck,” he purred through a grin, he actually almost seemed to laugh a little as he did it, dropping his head down to watch your mouth take him in completely again and again. Your eyes watered but never broke from his stare: and there it was again, that look, like two weeks ago. Something a little softer and sweeter than you were used to. Where the fuck was that coming from, at a time like this? “Take it so well,” he praised with a sigh. “Wanna be good for me, yeah?”
You nodded, as much as you could with your head forced against the wall.
After giving you a few more thrusts, the last one shoving extra deep into you for about as long as you could take it, he pulled back with a sigh and quickly ordered: “up.”
You tried to stand quickly but your legs were a little weak, and you nearly lost your balance on the way up. He caught you, but perverted the moment of chivalry by spinning you to face away from him and pressing you up to the wall roughly. You gasped a little, not able to breathe very deeply with his weight against your back, but you didn’t mind— not with his breaths right against your ear.
“Gonna give you what you need,” he assured, “just promise me one thing.”
You nodded to say, anything , but he didn’t explain himself before he used his knee to shove your thighs apart and used one long stroke to fill you to the brim. You moaned, as desperate as ever, and dropped your head back onto his shoulder. He panted against the side of your face as he moved inside you, one hand keeping your legs positioned how he needed but another slipping up to wrap around your neck.
“ Never ,” he began with a low growl, “make me wait again.”
A new rule, and the first one to be stated so clearly. You nodded again, but the hand around your neck moved up to hold your face before turning it to the side— but your eyes were shut in response to the pleasure.
“Look at me,” he whispered, more tenderness to it than you would’ve imagined. You fluttered your eyes open, meeting his gaze, shocked to find not dominance there but desperation. You nodded again.
“Y-yes,” you agreed with a sigh, and he nodded back at you, eyes dropping down to your lips, that damn thumb stroking your cheek once again. In all that, his steady and deep movements inside you never faltered. “Yes,” you said again, but not in agreement to his words so much as encouragement of his actions.
Your eyes fell shut again but you felt his face nestle into the crook of your neck, his teeth and tongue recklessly tasting and biting all over your delicate skin. He fucked you a little faster, he used his hand to turn your hips just right— it didn’t let him go quite as deep, but it hit that spot in you so much harder. “That’s it,” he cooed as you began to shiver, dropping your head forward back onto the wall with a groan. “You’re close already. Let me feel it.”
A hand tangled into your hair and pulled it until you moaned louder.
“Let me feel you come,” he demanded more urgently, that sweetness fading away along with a bit more intensity coming through in his thrusts. “Fucking come .”
“Fuck!” you whined, but you weren’t quite there yet— it was so close, and you wanted to give him what he wanted but you just needed a little more…
There was enough space between you and the wall to slip your hand between, and press a finger against your swollen clit; you winced, because it was still sore from the beautiful abuse of his mouth, but it was more than worth it. You moaned louder, nearly ready to fall off the edge when he grunted through his teeth and grabbed your arm to yank it out of the way.
You hissed in discomfort, but he pressed his chest to your back again as he put his own hand between you and the wall to replace yours. His fingers on you, though, were not so delicate. You whimpered loudly and he groaned against your ear while he drew fast circles against you.
“It’s mine,” he panted. It was barely louder than a whisper but that did nothing to undermine the intensity of it. “When you come,” he continued, fucking you harder, panting heavily from the exertion of it, “that’s mine. Fuckin’ hear me?”
“Yes!” you shouted, all but screamed , as his touch pushed you way past the point you’d been working towards— kicked you into some kind of fast lane to a level of pleasure you felt totally unprepared to face. But you knew it wasn’t about what you could handle. His entertainment. His control. His.
“Say it.”
“Yours, it’s yours,” you rushed out, shaking involuntarily as you began to pulse and flex inside. You whined loudly, you jerked your hips with no particular direction or goal, but he didn’t ease up on you. “Fuck, Carl, I’m yours!”
It felt like the real sensation began when he actually took his fingers off that poor beat-up clit: your whole body seemed to tense up and then relax, ragdolling into his embrace which was fortunately tight enough to keep you upright.
“Oh my god,” you panted, feeling a wave of heat and wetness where he was fucking into you fast and hard. “Oh my god, oh my god—”
“Wanna come inside you,” he groaned. It wasn’t quite a polite request, there was no can I? in there. But it wasn’t a true demand: not an I’m going to . Obviously you felt confident that if you told him not to, he wouldn’t.
But he’d never even mentioned it before. He’d always pulled out, without asking or having any kind of discussion about it. He’d usually tell you he was going to come— he might even have some specific ideas about where he’d be doing so if it was anywhere particularly interesting— but there wasn’t any questions or suggestions involved. The very first time this had happened he’d said something about not having a condom but you’d just said something about it not being a problem and… honestly the rest of it was a pretty wordless encounter. That whole night was pretty strange in general.
So you’d never thought to let him know he could come inside you, if he wanted to. You figured he wasn’t stupid enough to rely on pulling out as the only way to prevent knocking you up, he must’ve known you were on the pill or at least assumed it. Whether it was preference or one more small act of protection, he’d always pulled out and you’d never thought to question that. You’d never necessarily wanted him to stay inside.
Until right then, when he said that. Then you’d wanted it more than anything.
“Please,” you heard yourself beg breathlessly. “Fuck, please—”
And you would’ve begged him for it a lot sooner if you’d known the way he would sound as he did it… a long, low, rough moan that seemed to vibrate something inside your ear and tickle the nape of your neck with just its sound. Sure, he always made some kind of sound when he came, but this was definitely different. Something unrestrained about it, like he’d been holding something back all this time that he was finally freeing.
The base of him flexed against your stretched opening a few times. Both of you breathed heavily together, and you started to sink into something familiar: that hot flush that overcame your bodies, the pleasure calming down enough to let you acknowledge the stickiness and sweatiness and… slickness of everything.
In some ways it was a dirty sort of feeling, but there wasn’t any guilt in it for you. Maybe later if you let yourself think about it again, but not now. Now, your mind was beautifully blank and your body felt sort of floaty and light— maybe it wasn’t light for him, having to hold you up, but that was how it felt to you. You smiled slightly even though it spent what little energy you had left.
“S’gonna make a mess when I move,” he warned with a soft laugh.
“I don’t mind,” you assured, but you did wince slightly when he pulled his hips back and slipped out of you. The sting was sharp but brief, and as it subsided you felt his come start to leak out of you, hot and thick as it ran down your leg.
The sensation itself was, frankly, a bit gross, so why did it turn you on so much?
Hearing the effect it had on him was certainly helping. He seemed to purr in the back of his throat, and you couldn't see him too well from the corner of your heavy eyes, but you could tell he was looking down at the way he'd made a mess of you. “Proud of yourself?” you asked with a little smirk, though you didn’t like how your voice came out kind of rough and wobbly.
Instead of answering, he started to pull you back and guide you to walk with him.
Even if it was a short way to the bedroom, it was a tricky journey with your weak legs stumbling over the half-on tights, plus him pulling your dress up over your head and tossing it aside, but it ended well enough: you bent over the bed, his hand roughly holding your head down, his cock sliding teasingly against your soaked and sticky opening.
“Didn't think I was done with you already did you?” he asked with a smug grin.
Done with you, maybe not, but… that massive load in you had certainly given you the impression that he was generally done. But he was still hard and still had a mischievous look in his eyes while he unbuttoned and quickly peeled off his shirt; and, apparently, he wasn't nearly as tired as you were.
His cock slipping back inside you proved just how worn out you really were, even with the extra slickness from what remained of his come inside: you hissed in a breath through your teeth as the sore sting made your back arch.
You reached back hastily and instinctively, grabbing onto his hip and trying to keep it from moving too far forward. Only a second later, though, his hand dug into your wrist and pinned it beside your head, freeing him to thrust as deeply as he wanted.
“Oh no no,” he tutted as you whined pathetically. “Gonna take it all.”
Your eyes rolled back when his hips were pressed against your ass, but you heard a low moan escape your lips too.
“See?” he smiled. “Knew you could.”
He let go of your wrist and took hold of your shoulder instead, basically pulling you back onto him and ensuring that the tip of his cock hit the deepest part of you every time. That feeling was hard to describe: the first time he had gone that deep in you, it had hurt just a bit too much and you had to push him back and ask for a break. He’d been really nice about it, offering a softly-spoken apology and guiding you in the best way to position yourself beneath him so it wouldn't go quite as deep, and the rest of the night went on without a hitch. But over time, your body seemed to grow accustomed to him and learn to take more and more stimulation to these previously untouched corners of your insides.
And by now, you not only tolerated the feeling but craved it. The first time he realized you were truly acclimated to it, he had taunted you non-stop about how nothing had ever been so deep in you before, nobody had ever made you come like that before. And it was true… actually, he couldn't imagine how many things he'd made you feel that you'd never felt before— in and out of the bedroom.
“Tell me where my cock is,” he demanded.
“S-so fucking deep in me,” you slurred. “I-in my cunt.”
“Mhm,” he agreed proudly.
You were a little relieved that he couldn’t see your face, because you weren’t sure you were proud of your eyes rolling back and your mouth hanging open. He kept his movements relatively slow yet full of force, his fingertips tightening their grip on your shoulder sometimes in a way that was oddly— and you assumed unintentionally— reassuring.
It was an intense sensation from the start, but it just kept building and building; sometimes you found yourself gripping the bedspread beneath you even though it wasn’t going to do anything to keep you stable. But even as your own pleasure was growing, you focused more on the subtle signs of his; the way he hummed and moaned his approval more often, more of his weight pressing into you and hanging over you as he lost the energy to stay entirely upright, a slight change to the pattern of his thrusts that seemed to coincide with a growing exhaustion from all this… action.
Carl always carried a tiredness on him— it was obvious at work, even if he claimed to have gotten plenty of sleep the night before or to not be busy with anything else, he still emanated that weary aura with slightly sunken shoulders and shadowy eyes. Even though his stamina in times like this was generally impressive, he still seemed the same: he could go hard, and for a good amount of time, but it was increasingly clear throughout the night that it took almost all of his effort.
Weird as it might seem, you found it pretty sexy. He certainly sounded sexy, grunting and panting as his hips slammed into yours.
“Oh god,” you groaned, burying your face into the bed under you.
You weren’t sure if he stopped because he noticed that you were getting closer to another orgasm and wanted to leave you hanging for longer, or if he just needed a change of pace and position, but he slowed down to a stop at that moment regardless of why.
You caught your breath for a second and looked back over your shoulder— not in an expecting kind of way, not wondering if there was any specific reason he was slowing down… just to get a look of him with his hair hanging down over his face and a light sheen of sweat covering his skin.
“Fuck,” he groaned harshly, pulling out of you quickly and smacking your rear in that way that was meant to encourage you to get up. “On the bed,” he instructed. “Hands and knees.”
Your legs were wobbly as you used them to awkwardly climb up on the bed, with him finally fully removing his trousers before following close behind you. Bent over the side of the bed versus bent over on the bed felt like a lateral move, but you were in no position (literally) to question his demands. It certainly seemed worth the trouble when his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you back— you couldn’t deny that you loved a bit of manhandling from him. He could be quite rough when he got into the wrong mood (or the right one, depending on your perspective) but most of the time, like now, he was physical without being so aggressive as to actually inflict pain. You appreciated that: maybe he couldn’t be truly gentle, but he at least showed restraint.
In other words, he was holding back. He was stronger than he let on. Presumably that was why you liked it so much… because it felt like he was teasing you with a hint of how much more he could do.
He knew all too well how to make you come like this: after kicking your knees apart and guiding himself back inside you, he roughly shoved your shoulders down (apparently he’d told you to hold yourself up with your hands just to overpower you and hold your head down after all). The harsh angle of your back forced his cock to spear right into—
“Fuck!” you squeaked, hiding your face in a pillow to try to suppress the scream you knew was next if he kept doing that.
He growled a little and grabbed the pillow, yanking it out of your grip and tossing it across the room. “No no,” he scolded between rough breaths as he battered that delicate spot again, and again, and again…
“I-I can’t—” you tried to warn him with a loud whine. “Please—”
“Nobody’s here,” he cooed, “let me hear you.”
Sure, nobody else was in the apartment— obviously, with what had happened in the fucking entryway— but still… “You’ve neighbors,” you pointed out, having to move your hips forward away from him so you could hold it together long enough to respond to him.
He held your hips tighter and pulled them back with a sneer, knocking the wind out of you for just a split second. “Let them hear you too, then.”
Even if you didn’t really want to, you had no choice but to do what he said when he started to fuck you roughly this way. A hand between your shoulder blades kept your head down, even when your body instinctively fought to push back up just for a moment’s reprieve from the onslaught of intense sensation; and another hand on your hips kept them upright even when your whole body would’ve buckled and collapsed.
It was an embarrassingly short amount of time before you managed to put together another word, but you were too far gone to grasp the passage of time— or to feel embarrassed.
“Coming!” you yelped. “Fuck, I—!”
“Mhm,” he hummed encouragingly, his lip caught between his teeth and his heavy breaths coming through his nose.
Your whole body shook, your toes curled, and chills made the hairs on your body stand up even though you were not cold (a bit flushed and sweaty, actually). Your noises began to morph into sobs, a tear even ran down your cheek purely because of overstimulation.
Almost the exact moment it became too overwhelming, the scales between pain and pleasure tipping a little too far in the wrong direction, he slowed down and gently lowered you to lay on your side. He followed you, never breaking the connection between you, and ended up sort of behind you and sort of on top of you. When he moved now, it wasn't an assault on the senses but a measured and slow kind of pleasure.
You relaxed with a deep sigh, humming as his sensual pace rocked you up and down just a bit.
It wasn't just talk before, about knowing what you could take: he seemed to sense your limits, especially now that this had been going on for a while. He always pushed you, but never too far.
For a moment you wondered how he understood you so well. The obvious answer would be that he’d known you for nearly two years and you’d been doing this for over six months. But you weren’t actually keeping track of any of that— it felt like you’d been working for him for forever, yet this arrangement still felt new somehow.
Even if you were exhausted from a series of increasingly intense orgasms— not to even mention how tired he must’ve been from inducing them— you still found the energy to reach back and take hold of him: his neck, his hair, wherever you could grab to keep him close. It seemed to encourage him, and his lips began to leave a trail along your shoulder and neck; his tongue tracing the shell of your ear made you shiver and purr with satisfaction.
He sped up carefully but consistently, the friction growing as you moaned louder— he did too, not loud but definitely noticeable behind your ear, which only turned you on more and made your back arch deeper.
His hand on your hip began to grip tighter, then moved to knead at your ass eagerly. He groaned more desperately, and his thrusts increased in intensity to match. “Please,” you whimpered, not any particular request in mind— just a general expression of how thoroughly he’d deconstructed you, over and over, and an acknowledgement that he was going to do it again.
He groaned softly and nodded; with his face buried into your neck, you could feel his beard rubbing your shoulder. Suddenly his teeth sank into your pulse and you whimpered, reaching back to push on his forehead. “No marks,” you choked out.
“Hm?” he asked, stopping his assault on your neck for a moment but keeping the pace of his thrusts.
“No marks,” you insisted again, “last time you did that I had to wear a turtleneck two days in a row.”
“I know,” he purred, and you could feel his smile against your skin. “It wasn't cold enough for it and you were a bit sweaty all day. I thought it was funny.”
And suddenly he was talking about work. You couldn't believe it— first what he'd said in the elevator, now acknowledging that you work together at a time like this. Not only that, but saying that he noticed you, that he watched you, that he actually thought about his impact on you.
Suddenly his movements became rougher. Your legs quivered each time he slammed into you. “Show them this time,” he demanded. “If I leave something on you, it means I wanna see it.”
The suggestion that you should let others at work see a love bite on your neck was bad enough. But one left by your boss? Your face was burning hot just trying to picture that scene. What excuse could you come up with for that? You'd probably stutter through any answer to the rest of the team's curious questions, and Carl probably wouldn't bat an eye through the whole thing.
Suddenly the box where you kept it all separate and hidden was wide open: now you were imagining him watching you at work, his face giving away nothing but his mind flooded with memories of these nights. His eyes trying to pierce through your sweater to see the impressions of his teeth and fingers. The train of thought was dangerous, but immediately addictive. “Gonna come,” you admitted with a pathetic whimper.
“So easy,” he laughed condescendingly. “Go on then. Come while I leave my mark on you.”
His teeth latched at your pulse again, even harder than before, and the noise you made was quite whiny and pathetic— at least it wouldn’t disturb the nearby apartments like the last one…
No, it was a little desperate but much more relaxed, much more soothing than everything you’d been through before. You didn’t mind that at all— if every orgasm was the kind that shattered you like that, for one thing you’d probably only be able to handle meeting Carl once or twice a month. And for another, you wouldn’t get to enjoy these lovely ones, the ones that crash over you like a wave and then drift away with a breath.
You relaxed beneath him, and his hips slowed to a stop. A few more heavy breaths danced on your shoulder before he leaned away and off of you; you winced a little when he pulled out, but mostly you got to go limp and bask in the afterglow. These were the few moments in your life you got to be totally thoughtless, unburdened.
As you heard him sigh behind you, paired with a slight creaking of the bed below, you glanced over your shoulder and caught a glimpse of him laying back against a couple of pillows that kept him slightly upright. He looked satisfied with himself, but despite having every reason to be totally brain dead after all you’d been through in the last hour, you had enough awareness to notice what was missing from this equation.
“You didn’t finish,” you noticed.
“I think you remember perfectly well that I did,” he recalled, glancing over at you.
“I mean just now.”
“Oh, I wasn’t really planning to,” he admitted with a laugh that came out alongside a sigh. “Getting you there a few more times is more than enough for me.”
“But c’mon, it’s not fair, three-to-one—” you began to protest.
“It’s not a contest,” he insisted.
But it sort of felt like one— and it felt like you were losing . Something you’d never enjoyed. He must’ve been able to sense already that you weren’t satisfied with his answer.
“Too fucking stubborn,” he groaned in annoyance. Something he constantly complained about at work; and the forbidden overlap of your working and sexual lives once again just made you more eager.
“At least let me try,” you offered, slipping down the bed and licking your lips in anticipation. “Least I can do to thank you for all you do for me, hm?”
“I mean, I’ll never say no to that,” he relented, relaxing deeper into the pillows beneath him with a small smirk, “but don’t take it personally if I can’t—”
You gave his balls a slow, wide lick, and he shut up quick.
“Fuck,” he whispered as you did it again, then used the tip of your tongue to draw little swirls around one, then the other, then back again… “What’re you doing all that for?” he asked gruffly.
“Too fucking impatient,” you mumbled.
Your tongue’s next target was the space between them, the seam that led all the way up to the base of his cock which, by the way, was flexing with a renewed rigor. What a stupid question he’d asked, why you were doing this, when the impact on him was so obvious. You heard him hiss in a breath through his teeth, but you fought the urge to look up at him: sure, you were curious about his reaction, but you didn’t want him to know that. You didn’t want to look for his approval, at least not just yet.
You licked him there again, going a little further up to really make him think you might give his dick some attention, only to move back down and wrap your lips around one of his balls and carefully suck one into your mouth, petting it with your tongue— and his head fell back against the headboard with a painful-sounding thud. Only then did you dare to look at him, when he wouldn’t be looking back, and had to stop yourself from smiling at the sight of his mouth open for a gasp and his throat bobbing. He would’ve been able to feel you smiling, after all, and the sooner he noticed that you were driving him crazy on purpose, the sooner he’d try to get back on top again… whether figuratively or literally.
You closed your eyes and focused on the task at hand (or mouth, that is). They tasted like sweat, but it didn’t bother you much; it was a little sexy, actually, for the dirtiness of it. Taking the other one in, you were a bit braver by sucking just a bit harder— these were delicate things after all, but you wanted to make sure you were doing more than just tickling him. You wanted to really work him up, you wanted to make him come again.
Even though you were still getting pretty positive feedback from what you were doing— you could see his chest rising and falling quickly in your peripheral vision— you decided to give him a bit more to work with. Slowly, much too slowly, you licked in one thin line with the very tip of your tongue up his shaft.
“Ah, fuck,” he panted, and you wrapped your lips around the tip to suckle at it gently. “Fuck!”
You only bobbed your head slightly, it was mainly about swirling your tongue about and finding just the right amount of pressure to use; a drop of saliva ran from your lips down to the base of him, and you could feel him tense up beneath you.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “You— fuck. You’re being cheeky with me, aren’t you?”
Oh, his little British-isms were so silly, especially at a time like this, but they were certainly entertaining. Your only response to his accusation was to take him deeper— as deep as you could go, which did make you gag but usually that only encouraged him.
“God,” he choked, his hand finding a place at the back of your head, though it didn’t push you down. It just tried to convince you to stay where you were, to let him feel the warmth of your mouth a bit longer. You obeyed, for a few moments, wondering if it was worth calling him out for the back-to-back God and Jesus blasphemies— he’d only one third of the trinity left.
But no, you were barely getting away with this amount of disobedience as it was. Best not to poke the bear.
You did, mercifully, start a proper pace at that point, guiding your mouth up and down, letting your tongue press and stroke more urgently inside your mouth from time to time. He hummed out his approval, the hand on your head carefully stroking your hair, but it thankfully didn’t stop you from breaking away to lave his balls eagerly again. It wasn’t actually a conscious choice to become more eager, more ravenous, each time you came back to them— you just loved the way he gasped and groaned and grabbed your hair whenever you did it.
As great as that was, it was nothing compared to how he react when you took him down your throat at the same time that your palm carefully cradled and massaged those balls you’d been teasing for so long. “Oh fuck, please—” he whimpered, seemingly before he could stop himself. You were pretty sure in all this time he’d never asked you for anything, never said ‘please’ — maybe while being sarcastic, definitely never like this. He’d never begged. You liked the sound of it. “Don’t— sh-shit — don’t stop…”
His voice, all rough and breathy like that, not much louder than a whisper, was completely addictive. You could listen to him beg forever… unfortunately for him.
You popped your lips off of him and looked up with a smile, admiring his look of surprise and… unfulfillment, you could say. You lowered your head to start licking all over teasingly again, but his face shifted quickly to a sneer as he sat up to grab you and pull you on top of him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled in frustration as used his legs to guide yours apart, moving your hips above him and quickly pulling you down onto his cock. You moaned from the shock of it, but he seemed to ignore you as he fucked up into you quickly. “Don’t get to work me up as long as you like, try to test me like that.”
You whined as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly to keep you still as he thrust off the bed faster than he had all night. It was aggressive, sure, and you were still a bit sore from everything, but you were also plenty wet from how much fun you’d been having with him.
“Don’t get to act like a fucking slag,” he continued through his teeth, “and not get fucked like one.”
“O-oh god,” you whimpered as your head fell onto his shoulder.
“I’ll come in you again,” he warned, right beside your ear.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Fuck, please—”
“You want more? One wasn’t enough?” he taunted.
“Please,” you could only repeat; of course he wouldn’t be the one begging for long… but it was great while it lasted.
“Fuck,” he moaned lowly, his rapid thrusts starting to falter slightly— and he pulled you down onto him as hard and deep as possible, dropping his head back against the headboard once again. That sound was gorgeous, but this time you got to peek up at his face: eyes shut tight, mouth slack, a slight flush across his skin. It was actually infuriating how beautiful he looked, his whole expression overflowing with pleasure… it seemed to soften everything about him, someone who was always rough and sharp around the edges.
You tried not to feel too special for seeing this. But it did make you feel warm inside in a way you couldn’t blame exclusively on the come coating your inner walls once again.
He went limp under you, though his arms stayed limply wrapped around your back. He panted hard and fast, seeming to really struggle to catch his breath— probably your weight on top of him wasn’t helping, so you made a move to get off. Instantly, his hands shot down to your hips and kept them still. “No, stay,” he said softly and quickly; and he just meant that moment, but it was still something you never expected to hear him say. Especially not with that pleading tone to his voice— but of course you did it, stilling atop him once again and just silently watching him return to a semi-normal breathing rate.
You waited for him to open his eyes, but the longer you waited, the more you worried. It was a long moment of stillness and silence; maybe it wasn’t awkward for him, but for you, it felt like an eternity. His breathing was slow and heavy and he hadn’t moved an inch…
“Carl?” you whispered, a hint of concern to your voice.
“Mm?” he hummed, sounding a bit annoyed, quirking a brow but still not opening his eyes.
“Sorry, I thought you fell asleep,” you admitted with a quiet laugh.
“I didn’t fall asleep,” he groaned disappointedly. “Fuck, that soon after? How old do you think I am?”
You scoffed a little, dropping your head back onto his shoulder. “I mean, I feel like you earned it, after all that.”
“Mm,” was his only response, not clearly an affirmative or negative reply, and then you were back to the long silence that he seemed to enjoy more than you.
You resisted the urge to break it for a while, but you had to say something at some point. “Can I get up now?” you asked.
“Yeah, hold on,” he answered somewhat oxymoronically as he blinked his eyes open; he rolled both of you over onto your sides, which was nice because it didn’t force you to lift yourself with your legs which were still pretty weak from before. As he pulled his hips back, you felt that flood of heat again, and you cringed as you felt it run down your thighs.
“Oh, your blanket,” you sighed.
“It’s fine,” he shook his head, “do you want me to get you a towel or—?”
“If I can just have a shower—” you began.
“Sure, yeah,” he mumbled. You sat yourself up on the bed, trying to avoid the wet patch beneath you as you scooted off to plant your feet on the floor. Your main goal was to stay upright and make it look easy, but you had to give yourself a second to stabilize before starting to walk.
You’d made it to the bathroom door without tripping or… dripping anything, when the sound of him clearing his throat stopped you.
“Hey, erm,” he began suddenly, making you turn around to look back at him. “Forget it.”
“What?” you wondered.
“No, it’s— just take your shower,” he shook his head. “Sorry.”
Of course you wanted to press more, but you really needed the shower. Besides, Carl couldn’t be made to talk— he couldn’t be made to do much of anything. And he called you stubborn. “Alright,” you agreed quietly before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you.
~
After what had happened with the hangover incident and Hardy’s astute observations, you were hoping to avoid his eyes as you walked into the office. You were relieved when you saw him busy watching something on his computer— whether it was crucial evidence for the case he was working on or a football game, you couldn’t say and didn’t care to know— and barely noticing you.
You were so focused on him that you hadn’t thought to worry about Rose. “Oi, what’s that!” she announced excitedly when she caught a glimpse of your neck.
“What? I, ah—” you stammered weakly, raising a hand to cover the skin.
“You’ve got a love bite!” she exclaimed.
“God, Rose, you’re as subtle as ever,” you groaned as you plopped down in your chair.
“What’s going on?” Akram wondered, his brows pushed together.
“It means she’s been winchin’ somebody,” Rose explained proudly, “at least .”
“My my, what’s gotten into you,” Hardy scolded playfully; it must not have been a football game he was watching, or he wouldn’t have looked away for something this trivial.
“Mind telling us where you were last night?” Rose asked with her fingers woven together and a stern look on her face— exactly the way she would talk to a suspect or witness, you noticed.
Carl loudly dropped a file down onto his desk to turn everyone’s attention towards him. “Here’s an idea: what if, instead of interrogating each other about our personal lives, we actually worked on our case?” he suggested with a frustrated sigh.
“Really? You aren’t curious at all?” Hardy pressed him.
“No, it’s nobody’s business,” Carl insisted— and his answer revealed nothing; it was the tone of Hardy’s question that gave you pause. You aren’t curious at all? he’d asked in a way that seemed… knowing. Like he expected Carl to be particularly curious; like he was accusing Carl of being most curious of all about the marks on your neck.
And Hardy knew him better than anyone.
Your wide eyes darted over to Carl, surely betraying the shock you felt as you tried to understand what Hardy was implying, but he was looking down at the work in front of him with his typical frustrated determination.
Everyone got back to work, but Rose waited a second to lean towards you and whisper: “S’alright, you can tell me later,” she offered with a wink. She wasn’t trying to harass you— she must have thought you’d really want to tell her. It was a reasonable assumption, ‘cause that’s normal, isn’t it? Gossipping, bragging even, about the person you’ve been seeing. Rose had told you about dates she’d been on before, it wasn’t like the topic was totally forbidden. Maybe she assumed you were just feeling too awkward to discuss it at work, or with all these men around.
If you could be completely sure that she would never tell another soul, and that Carl wouldn’t find out you told her, would you want to tell Rose the truth? You’d never considered it before. Of course, you couldn’t be sure that she would keep it a secret… not because she was untrustworthy in some way, but you were pretty sure she’d be compelled to tell HR about a workplace relationship or something or other. But even still, you knew this was all best kept secret. You knew the right thing to do was to keep everything… separate.
So why had he told you to let them see the marks? And, perhaps more importantly, why did you actually do it?