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This is a terrible idea, Angua thought, as Sam Vimes ran his calloused hands up the outside of her thighs and slid them underneath her skirt.
It really was a terrible idea, and for multiple reasons. Item number one was the fact that he was her boss, of course, but other contenders for the top of the list included the fact that the ink was barely dry on his divorce papers (received today; she had seen them on his desk) and last - but certainly not least - the way he tasted distinctly of Bearhuggers.
The last two points were definitely linked, and having fallen off the wagon it appeared he had landed, rather heavily, on Angua.
That particular fact was making her feel especially guilty, but evidently not quite guilty enough to stop her running her fingers into his hair and grinding her hips against him. She could smell his desire, and it was going straight to her head, along with a couple of other, rather more distant body parts.
Is that your nightstick in your pocket, sir, or are you just happy to see me…? she thought, and bit back a slightly hysterical laugh that was probably more related to the combination of cocktails and nerves than anything actually funny about the situation.
So yes, it was a terrible idea, but it had also been a miserable, lonely six months since she and Carrot had officially ended things, and Angua hadn’t felt wanted - hadn’t felt desired - for an awfully long time before that. Dating as a werewolf with trust issues brought its own complications, not least of which was the fact that most of the men she might be willing to open up to seemed to be borderline terrified of her. The ones who weren't afraid were, by and large, people she wouldn't want to touch with a bargepole. But Vimes certainly wasn't scared of her. And alright, he might be a couple of drinks in, but frankly so was she, and when she’d thrown a few flirty-yet-plausibly-deniable remarks in his direction at the bar, his evident interest had been far more intoxicating than the night's cocktails.
In response to her movements now, Vimes made a small noise and pressed her more firmly against the wall, his face buried in her neck as he planted messy kisses along the side of her throat. They were in his sparsely furnished house, although they hadn’t yet made it any further than the hallway after the unsteady walk back from the bar. He had shown her in awkwardly, and then when he’d simply stood there staring at her like a rabbit in the lamplight she had realised she was going to have to take the initiative, and so she had stepped in and kissed him.
He certainly wasn’t unhandsome, she had mused, although his nose had clearly been broken more than once, and he was a good couple of inches shorter than her, which was taking a bit of getting used to. But he had a gruff kind of appeal that was definitely stirring something inside her right now. And he was a surprisingly good kisser, if she could ignore the mingling tastes of whisky and cigars and the scratch of stubble against her skin. It was jarringly different to kissing Carrot, who kept his face baby-smooth and always tasted slightly of mint and who kissed very soberly, and the contrast was exactly what she needed tonight.
The kiss had apparently stirred something in Vimes, too, because he’d pushed her roughly against the wall and then his hands had been on her, roaming her curves and grasping at her with increasing urgency.
She dragged her attention back to what he was doing. While she’d been pondering just how badly this was going to fuck everything up, his hands had reached her arse, and now he pulled her more firmly against the bulge-that-wasn’t-a-nightstick. She let out a huff of breath, and laid her head back against the wall, her eyes half-lidded.
“Sir,” she said. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Mmm. I know,” Vimes murmured against her neck. “D’you want me to stop…?”
She closed her eyes fully. “No. Just…getting it on the record.”
“Duly noted, Sergeant.”
Something about the tone sent a rush of heat between her legs, and she squirmed against him. Certainly the canine in her was fighting an urge to sit up and beg; would the commander of the watch be considered the leader of her pack, she wondered?
Probably.
Gods, that was embarrassing.
Vimes brought his head back up and kissed her again as his fingers dug firmly into her thighs, then he pulled back, stepped away and dropped down to his knees on the hard floor. Her dress was still rucked up around her hips, and now he was eye-level with her underwear where – if they’d bothered to light a lamp – she knew he would be able to see a damp patch forming on the light cotton.
Vimes looked up and caught her staring down at him. “Can I…?” he murmured, and there was an undertone of desire in his voice that made her breath catch; she wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking for, but it seemed she was so desperate to be touched that there was nothing he could do that she would object to.
“Please,” she said.
He grunted with evident satisfaction, then reached out a hand and slipped a finger under the edge of the cotton, pulling it delicately out of the way. She caught herself holding her breath as he licked his lips, and then he leaned in and nuzzled through the nest of soft curls between her legs until he could press the flat of his tongue to her clit.
She shivered, and let out a quiet moan. Beneath her, Vimes nudged in closer and encouraged her to spread her legs further, and then he was pushing his tongue between her lips and delving it into her core.
Tasting her.
“Oh–!” she gasped, and her hands went instinctively to his head and gripped his hair tightly; in response he made a noise low in his throat and moved his mouth back to tease the sensitive nub above, then brought his free hand up to push a finger inside her. She clenched around him, and, sensing her need for more, he slipped a second finger in alongside the first and started stroking them gently in and out. The roughness of their skin provided a delightful friction as he found the senstive spot inside her and pressed against it.
It really had been a while since she'd been touched by anyone except herself, and Angua quickly found herself on the edge. Her breath hitched, and when he covered her clit with his mouth and licked and sucked it eagerly she gasped and bucked her hips, using her grip on his hair to direct the pace and pressure exactly as she needed until she was throwing back her head and crying out.
“Oh gods…sir…"
Her legs lost their strength and her vision blurred, and Vimes held her firmly in place throughout, steadying her until the waves of pleasure had faded. Finally she released her grip on his hair and he stood, running his tongue over his lips and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. She pulled him in and kissed him deeply, tasting herself on his lips and feeling his cock press firmly into her hip as she came down from her high.
“That alright?” he asked when she’d pulled back to breathe, and she could see his eyes were dark with arousal.
“Yep. Full marks.” She leaned back and winced. “Could we do the next bit in bed, though? My legs have gone wobbly.”
He snorted. “Gladly. My knees are bloody killing me.”
She grinned, and they maneuvered themselves slightly unsteadily through to Vimes’ small bedroom. There were a few uncoordinated minutes of fumbling while she slipped out of her clothes and laid back on the bed, her head spinning gently as Vimes shed his armour and unlaced his breeches. Angua tried not to draw any unfavourable comparisons to Carrot as he shoved them down and off, revealing himself without any apparent shyness. A moment later he was on top of her, pushing himself inside her without any further hesitation and letting out a faint grunt as he sunk himself to the hilt. She sighed with satisfaction at the sensation of being filled and wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, wanting to feel the weight of him pressed against her. After a minute he found a rough rhythm and she ran her hands across his skin, conscious of the wiry muscles working as he moved; there was a smattering of hairs on his back and he smelled of leather and sweat and damp night air, and for a while she simply relished the feeling of being in the arms of someone who wanted her.
However briefly...
It wasn’t too long before his breathing became ragged and his thrusts grew harder; she felt heat spark in her belly again at his excitement, but it wasn’t going to be enough for her to finish a second time, she knew, and so she merely enjoyed the sensation and dug her nails into his back as a kind of general encouragement. Vimes turned his head and buried his face in her hair, his lips brushing her ear, but instead of something erotic, perhaps, or romantic, he muttered, “Oh, shit...” and she blinked in surprise.
A second later understanding dawned as he pulled out and used his hand to stroke himself quickly; he cried out as he spilled onto the mattress, and Angua realised with embarrassment that in their slightly drunken haste neither of them had really thought to take any precautions.
He collapsed down on top of her with a low groan and they laid there, not speaking, until post-coital reality started to intrude in a way they couldn’t ignore any longer. Vimes rolled over to lay beside her, and she slightly self-consciously tugged up a blanket to cover herself as she stared at the ceiling, feeling a vague sense of dread creep over her as it occurred to her that she had actually just screwed her boss.
The knowledge was having a distinctly sobering effect. The silence stretched bewteen them, while outside the rain that had been a mere shower on the walk home had grown heavier, and now it battered against the window whilst thunder rolled in the distance.
It was Vimes who finally broke the tension.
“Gods,” he said, dryly. “This was a terrible idea.”
She snorted. “Yep.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “It was, er, very nice. I mean, from my perspective, at least.”
She turned head to face him, and gave him a weak smile. “It was fine. I mean, good, really...? But yes, definitely a bad idea all round, I think. Sorry.”
"No, I'm bloody sorry." Vimes grunted. “This isn't your fault. I haven’t made a single good decision all damned evening, frankly.”
The guilt came crashing back, all of a sudden because he wasn't just her boss, he was a friend, too. And when he had fallen back into a dark hole, what had she done?
Taken advantage of it.
What kind of friend did that?
She winced. “If it makes you feel any better, I think if anything it was a mutually bad decision. And anyway, you’re going through a lot.”
“So are you. So’s everyone. That doesn’t excuse it.” He frowned, and she could see his eyes were a little glassy, still. He waved a hand at her vaguely. “I shouldn’t have hit the drink, and I really shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”
“Sir…” She caught herself, and took a deep breath. “Sam. You didn’t drag me anywhere. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but we both know I could have broken you in half if you'd really tried to push your luck." He snorted, and she hesitated before continuing quietly. “I think both of us just…needed someone, tonight. Besides, I’m pretty sure I instigated it. It was...nice. To be wanted again, I mean."
He sighed, and in the faint light coming through the open curtains she could see how tired he looked, and she was suddenly aware of just how much of his hair was streaked with grey.
“I’m your CO, Angua," he said wearily. "I should have put a stop to it. There's rules about this.” He considered that sentence for a second, then added, "Good rules, I mean. Not the bloody stupid ones. These ones are in place for a reason."
She tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn as the exhaustion of the day caught up with her in a rush. “Alright, fine. But look, could we maybe save the self-flagellation for another time? Because unless you're about to sack me, I’m on duty in the morning and I don’t reckon my boss will buy my excuses if I’m late.” She raised an eyebrow at him.
Vimes snorted quietly.“Yeah, alright.” He paused, and outside the thunder rumbled loudly. They turned to the window and watched the rain sleet against the glass for a moment; Angua shivered, and tugged up the blanket a little further.
Vimes noticed. “Do you, er, want to stay, maybe?” he asked. “It’s bloody horrible out there. I can take the floor.”
She turned back and watched him for a minute, because she thought perhaps there had been the faintest tinge of hope in his tone, and she debated whether that was something she wanted to encourage. But the bed was warm and so was he, and it might be nice not to go home alone to an empty house tonight.
It was another bad idea, probably, but to hell with it; she could add it to the list and worry about it tomorrow. And really, she mused, the man had already had several parts of his anatomy inside her – how much worse could the fallout get?
“Alright. But you don’t need to take the floor; I think we’re past the point of trying to maintain any sense of decorum. And I need to borrow something to sleep in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vimes said wryly. He pulled on his underwear beneath the covers and then crossed to a chest of drawers, where he dug out a nightshirt and tossed it to her. Then he disappeared out of the room while she got changed, and when he returned she had rolled into his spot and was snoring lightly.
Vimes pulled on a pair of pyjamas and lay down cautiously beside her, grimacing as he remembered the wet patch and attempting to angle himself around it. Eventually he fell into an alcohol-dulled sleep, only to be woken again a few hours later by a hand slipping underneath his shirt and winding around his waist.
And so they made another terrible-but-mutually-satisfying decision, and in the morning Vimes served up coffee and eggs before they awkwardly went their separate ways, with a cautious but amicable agreement to never, ever, ever speak of it again.