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The mouth under yours is unwittingly soft.
You feel your tongue tingle with the taste of your lip balm, and you tilt your head into something comfortable. The lips are chapped, sure, but when you wet them with your thickening saliva, it's an easy thing to forget. It leaves your lips slippery, too, your chin and upper lip, but it matters little. The mouth remains soft, falling open to let you press your tongue solidly against theirs, and of course, the feeling shoots through your body. A trill expands in you, and you let it out, feeling the puff of air and rumble of a laugh.
You can't get closer, but still, you shuffle your feet and let your hips fit together, and you hum, feeling capable hands tug you in. They run up your back before settling again at your waist, one dipping lower and cradling your hip, digging a thumb under the bone to make them tilt. Your hands stick to the shoulders you can't stop thinking about, covered in a blue shirt that seems to never leave.
Whatever.
Another drag of the tongue, another dig of the thumb, your head falling back when the knee between your legs inches further between you and you grind into a hip. "Oh, jeez," your cheek brushes against prickly stubble, and you snuffle when wet kisses creep down your neck to your collar.
"Jeez?"
A smile kicks the edge of your mouth. "Good jeez, yeah."
A soft suck of your skin, and you know a light mark will sit there, temporary, yes, but made by the person holding you on the border of too tight. "Good. I'd hate if it weren't," you can feel the lift of lips on your skin, and you giggle, knowing your pulse flutters quickly and visibly. A press of lips over it, and you pull back. "You okay?"
Meeting brown eyes, you search with dilated pupils, short of breath. "Mhm," you intone, letting your hand leave sturdy shoulders to fiddle with his ear, a near-perfect circle taken from it. "Are you okay?"
Robert lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his usual stern facade giving way to a younger, almost boyish charm that makes him look even prettier. “Yeah, yeah.” You smile along with him, your eyes lingering on his kiss-swollen lips as you quietly bite your own.
A few blinks, and you kiss his mouth gently, breath softly leaving you as you peck his lips again. He growls, a quiet thing that rings through you, and you exhale sharply when he stops the chase and presses your shoulders to the wall behind you, making you still. He pets down your back, and you slide your hand into his hair, and soon you're back to making out like randy teenagers, tongues twisting together with sharp nips of your teeth and heavy pets. His chest presses into yours, and you find yourself comforted by his steady breaths. Robert's hand rubs over your ass, and you jump a second before leaning into it, gasping at his first grope under the curve of it.
"Heey," he draws out the vowel, petting you, sucking your lip before pressing his nose against yours, "it's just me," he whispers, hand closing around your ass again.
"I know," you whisper, sighing brokenly when his hand gropes again. Trust that you know. But it's not 'just him', it being him is what makes it worse.
Not in a bad way, just in a 'holy shit' way.
You didn't think Robert would notice you. You noticed him pretty immediately, not just from him being the poor sod to dispatch the Z-Team, but from your work at the hospital. You wouldn't dare do a thing to a patient, but you have eyes. You look and see like any other person, and when the fallen angel that is Mecha Man comes under your attentive care, you are more than sure to keep him well. Healthy as possible in his coma, looking good, smelling good, healing.
He needed to be back out there.
So as you maneuvered him through his stretches, batted your eyes at your favorite male coworkers to get help for his baths, and kept the lonely man company, you, sorta, kinda started to like him.
Like him like him. . .
. . .You have abilities. They are unconventional, but you do have them. A real-life Sleeping Beauty, you are—or Prince Phillip? Er, Charming?—No matter the injury, it can be healed with a kiss. The only caveat is that you need to rest. A carpal tunnel, poor lip injections, you didn't mind pressing kisses to foreheads and cheeks.
For bigger things, there needed to be affection there. Big things like a coma. . .
And you like him.
Your shift lead was more than surprised when you asked to heal Mecha Man. He thought there might've been bed sores on 'your poor Mecha Man', but you strove for better things. You asked to kiss him, a gleam in your eyes.
Mecha Man woke up during your days off, when you were holed up in your apartment with your friend fussing over you, swapping out your banana bag as you sweated through another set of sheets, still fussing as you stumbled half-asleep to the bathroom.
You missed Mecha Man making a full recovery, and when you returned to the hospital, they let you go. “Too many days off,” as if you hadn’t just saved the life of LA’s finest!
Ugh, whatever.
When The Blonde Blazer swooped in mid ‘just-lost-your-job’ club run with your girls, you sobered up and took the opportunity presented. She needed you, and you like to be needed. She bought you and your girls the next few rounds, participated in the now ‘got-a-new-job’ activities, dropping you off at home with a kind smile and uniform shirt.
You caught his press conference a month later while in your office at SDN, seeing the man you cared for in the dais being torn apart after you spent so much time keeping him functioning.
Brown eyes shone under the harsh light, and while you've never seen his eyes—at least not full of life—through the screen of your TV, you could tell that they were shaded and tired. Poor thing, your poor Mecha Man. You couldn't imagine how he felt, and you absolutely cheered when he took it personally and showed the world what not giving a fuck looked like. Your patient looked a touch worried, but when you kissed them, they ended up cheering with you.
Never did you expect to see him strolling through SDN's halls, what felt like the next day. Nope, never could have planned for it. You hid behind a pillar because of it, embarrassed by your Crocs and messy hair.
And again, never did you think he would notice you.
Those eyes you saw but didn't know looked at you, and when they did, you quickly felt all too seen. He didn't remember you, of course, he wouldn't, but. . .
But, this night, when you let the drinks get to you and let your eyes linger on him instead of their normal stuttered, careful, observant-yet-dismissive wander, you felt flayed open. He knows you've been looking; you can tell by the set of his shoulders that he recognizes you as the steady gaze that he's felt on the back of his neck, and that alone gets you.
Then there's the way he holds himself. You know that in all reality, he's not that old, just—older. A touch wiser, knows a bit more, and—yeah, that gets to you. How his eyes hold, and the skin around them pinches, the way his mouth lines up and pulls to the side, his eyes—his eyes look into you, like he wants to understand before he has to engage. He wants no funny business, just straightforwardness.
You can't guarantee that.
"You keep lookin' at me, is something wrong?" He asks you, finally, head tilted with a beer in hand. And you—tipsy and dizzy and so so in like—freeze.
You can't explain months of torment to him, so you don't! You pull him away and kiss him behind a plant instead. And you keep kissing him, stumbling around the other to find somewhere to continue—whatever this is.
You hum softly as he subverts the expectations of his slender build, picking you up and setting you on the large conference table. He kisses you again, his mass pushing you to brace your hands behind you while pawing at your sides before pulling away a second. "I'm gonna lock the door and pull the blinds, 'kay?" You pant, stunned and needy, a breath catching in your throat as you suck back a whine. He gets your attention with a thumb over your lip, dipping in to press your teeth. "Okay?" He shakes your head with his grip to wake you up, and you join the moment with a breathy affirmation. "Good," and like that, he does as he said, efficiently.
You're further from the party here, the bass vibrating the glass doors into a gentle tinkle. Robert's shoulders look nice from here, sloped and wide, tapering to a waist you want to wrap your legs around. You scooch around, heart in your throat, hiking your skirt higher and unbuttoning your shirt before he comes back.
"I didn't leave you like that?" He teases, and, no. . . no, he didn't. In your stupor, you blink at him, shivering as his hands brush over your knees lightly. You titter, tipsy, fingers re-buttoning your shirt as he laughs, kissing your cheek before tugging you closer to the edge. You gasp, looking into amused eyes, like he hadn't just pulled you off center. "You don't have to do that, sweet girl, but thank you." His lips kiss your neck, and you let his fingers replace yours, undoing the button, and another, then another.
Breaths laced with moans softly leave you when the backs of his fingers touch the pushed-up curve of your breasts, and he rumbles into your skin, flipping his hands to hover over your chest. You arch your back into them, and Robert kisses your mouth, the man humming when your hands reach up to press his hands where they hover.
"You can touch, Robert, don't have to ask," you mumble between kisses, feeling the strength of his hands and roll of veins under your fingers as he kneads your tits.
"But I do," he replies, his hand reaching up to your face. It’s warm as his thumb presses under your chin, gently tilting your head so your eyes meet his. "I do, sweetheart." His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you swallow. In the dim light, his eyes seem warmer, yet they clearly tell you—urging you—to hear him.
You get why Team Z molded like putty under his guidance, he is so—
Your mind won’t think on it beyond the heat of the moment, but you know it will come back in a daydream. The solid weight of his hands over your shirt and bra, warmth seeping through, the dry sweep of his thumb across the soft skin of your chest—these will slip into your daydreams and sneak up on you at night.
A gentle squeeze pulls your attention back, and you meet his gaze once more, licking your lips as you realize your eyes had closed. "You don’t have to ask me, sweetheart, I don’t mind."
Your mouth kicks up. "But I do," you repeat, hands hovering over his shirt. Robert smirks, leaning in like he has a secret.
"Got myself there, huh?" You nod, snorting softly. "Yeah, alright, I'm okay with you touching me—anywhere, unless I say—"
"Same," you tilt your head to press a kiss on his thumb. "Better?"
"Much—now, can I have another kiss?" He can, and you lean forward, feeling the heat from it rise into your ears. His chest is warm under your hands, in contrast to his hands, well, his fingertips, chilly on your skin, waking you to his touches and making you zing. The buttons of his shirt are like yours: easily undone, and you duck your head a little when his chest stutters around a breath. You're affecting him. . .
You know the scars on him. You once took care of the new ones from his crash landing, monitored them, logged the old ones, and washed over them all. They're nothing new. A glance up tells you Robert doesn't really mind that you stare, so you go back to it, brushing your thumb on the outside of one healing under your eyes.
He looks down too, huffing before cradling your cheek. "This your plan? Kissin' me until I'm all new again?"
You shake your head, mouth turned down before your intoxicated brain catches up. "Yeah, don't you wanna be smooth as a baby?" His eyes crinkle, and he curls over you, kissing the smile from your mouth. You forgot, oops.
"I'm good on that one. I think they make me. . . charming," he winks, and your toes point while he unbuttons more of your shirt. A shiver from the chill of the air has him laying warm hands on your sides. His chest hair tickles under your hand, and you let your nails scratch over his dark nipples, kissing the center of his chest. You have to think about it so as to not let yourself heal him. You don't want him smooth either. "Careful," he says, eyelids low with a flush creeping up his neck. He casts a low glance to where your fingers lie, seeing the long, red lines your nails draw.
"I am being careful," you tease, letting a hand fall to over his waistband as your thumb flicks his nipple. He's slim now, but you remember where he once had muscle filling out his skin. He exists as this now, but you remember, and know he'll fill out as time goes on. "But don't worry, I can kiss it better."
"Don't. Leave it if you do," your ears ring, and you whine when his fingers catch on the front clasp of your bra, bending the little thing and opening it. The air stiffens your already hard nipples, and Robert takes advantage, biting his lip as he gathers a tit into his palm, letting the point poke through his hand.
You whisper his name, and he says yours around his thumb, asking if you'll pull your panties off for him. It's hell making your hands leave him, but you do, keeping his gaze as he pinches and rolls your nipple, wiping that wet thumb over the other. Heat pours through you, and you bite your lip to keep quiet, peeling the messy things from your body.
You feel the bass from the party beyond the doors as you're pushed to lie back on the table, looking at the man resting above you. Panties tugged down, Robert's hands stroke down your stomach to thigh to knee to calf to ankle, drawing back all the while, propping your feet on the table, leaving him framed by your legs. He slips a foot through one side of the things, letting them dangle from your ankle. It's ridiculously hot, how he does it without breaking eye contact, hotter when he pushes your skirt further up and secures a grip on you.
Then, his eyes flit down, and your head fills with noise. He doesn't need to look like that, especially not look at you there like that—jeez, what is his issue?
"Messy," he chides, and your thighs twitch, feeling the sticky, wet mess you've become, having him so close, touching you, saying things. "Cute," he finishes, bending over you, notching his head under the fabric of your skirt, and—
You sigh when his mouth touches your swelling lips, stiffen up because of the sensitivity, before letting it make you putty. He's kissing you, it's—it's a lot in a weird way. You don't think anyone's ever done that before, but it's Robert. You think you'll let murder slide if it's him. He kisses and sucks at your clit, and after your first moan, he lets go.
He's good with his mouth, you know this already from how he kisses you, but from the way he's spread you with his tongue and licked you clean, you know it. Your fingers tangle in auburn hair, pulling the roots and a spine tickling moan from his lips. Robert's tongue dips into you before drawing up, making messy passes of its tip over your budding clit.
The wet muscle rolls up, and you feel the ends of his teeth press into you a second as he sucks your clit. Under his mouth, your legs fall open further, heels scratching the surface of the table as you wiggle further into his mouth. Big hands come from cradling your hips, and you watch as they also worm under your skirt, hearing a wet sound that makes you cast your eyes back to the ceiling. Then those hands move, tracing over your stomach to your tits, spit-wet fingers plucking your nipples in tandem. You feel yourself getting slicker and wetter, knowing how close you've become from his mouth.
Robert's jaw tickles along your thighs, scratching the soft skin to sensitivity as he sucks your clit wetly. It's not a hard thing, cumming. When you do, he lets his tongue lave over you, careful but sure, cleaning you while leaving your head spinning. "Robert," you moan his name quietly, gasping at his hum as he pushes his tongue into you. “Feels good,” your voice warbles.
He doesn't finish until you stop twitching around his tongue pressed into you, licking you slowly between swallows, and the few times he spits on your clit and sucks it back up loudly. Each gets a reedy moan from you, your heels pressing into his sides as you shake from his attention.
You're drawn back up to sitting, stomach swooping as you taste yourself on Robert's tongue. He mutters to you, something about you being sweet, something about wanting to make you cum again like that, something about needing to be in you. It’s a lot, he says a lot, his mouth slick, his tongue loose and—
You agree. To it all.
You think. . ?
You're made to stand on wobbly legs, holding his shoulders tight with your chests pressed together, and you relish it for a second. His eyes are locked to yours, lit with lust and swallowed by the same. And you think while your fingers press into bruises you missed. You want to tell him who you are, that you like him, that you really want to see more of him.
"Let me suck you off?" Your lips are sticking to the skin of his neck, and you lick away the sweat dotted there.
Wait. . . What the fuck?
He chuckles, palming your hips and inching your skirt further up. "Some other time—," other time? "—now, I wanna—" There's a crash and commotion out the window, and you both look that way, hearing arguing and jeering. And you both listen a bit closer, piecing together the arguments that drift down the halls, loudly.
"So, this is Sonar's—"
"Get freaky playlist? I'm afraid we heard that right."
You listen a second more before it registers. "Dear God, it's—" you burst out laughing, covering your face with a hand as you shake your head. Robert smiles into your cheek, shifting you as you giggle wildly.
"What? Tell me."
"Nothing it's—it's the fucking CBat song, I can't believe he would—no, no he would," Robert's brows knit together, his cute smile sticking on his face so sweetly you have to give and let die. "I'll show you later."
"Later?" Yeah, is this that kind of thing, right? Will you be normal after this? Like, friendly? You didn't even think about that after his earlier comment. It was probably reciprocation, and that's—"I'm gonna remind you then. I don't wanna be left out." It's not. . . Thank God.
"Yeah, for sure, just—tell me, but please don't match the rhythm to this song when you're fucking me, okay? I'll know."
"Never, sweet thing. I don't need a song to fuck you." Your chest nearly caves in—right, Robert is past shit like that—grown. He's got his own ways to make your back arch and toes curl. He wouldn't. "You okay turnin' around for me?" Oh. . .
"Is that how you want me?" You whisper, reminded of his bare chest against yours. The hair lining his stomach tickles yours, and you become aware of the press of his dick against your hip. You think if you turned away from him, you would miss him, his pretty expressions, his mouth—
But it's better than nothing.
You slip around him, bending at the waist, spreading your hands in front of you to lay across the table and—
"Whoa, sweetheart, what are ya doin’?”
You stop, looking at the cheesy art hanging on the back of the room with wide eyes.
"I'm—turning around—to—for you—you asked—" you peek over your shoulder, looking at pinched brows and a pursed mouth.
"Not like that," he lifts you and spins you back to him, and you feel chill leave you from your skin on his again. Brown eyes search yours for hints of what you're thinking. "Unless you want it like that—"
"Not really. Not like that, at least," you stutter. "But you wanted me like that—"
"This time, yeah—" this time. . . "But I want you however you want me, baby," he says, kissing your lips softly, pulling back a breath later, "even if that's not at all." Well, that wouldn't work, so—
"I want you," you say, voice still hushed as the song plays loudly, "I want you," you slip around his arms, humming when they cradle you from behind, wrapped around your torso snugly. "This is okay, this time."
Kisses are traced over the newly exposed parts of your throat, up and down, fluttering and light. "This time," he whispers between kisses, and you think the weight of it falls on him like you. He repeats it, letting a hand unwind from you to press your skirt up higher, and you gasp, hearing the tinkle of his slacks zipper and the pop of a button. “Y’show me how you want it next time, alright?”
Oh, fuck, you think you just came again.
Your hands come up to grasp the forearm wrapped around you, pushing as you try to bend at the waist again. "Stop—trying to get away from me," Robert mutters, a chuckle lining the soft cadence of his words, low and gravely in your ear. He pulls you close to his body, hand wrapping around your hip and pressing you as close as possible. "You scared of me or somethin'?"
"No," you shake your head, exhaling slowly as his stubble cheek rubs against yours. "'M not scared."
"Then stay here," he says, grinding into the fat of your ass from behind, groaning from the feeling as your heart picks up speed. "I want you close, okay, this close. Just like this."
"'Kay," you whisper, leaning into the man behind you, letting him keep you there as your mind drifts on clouds.
"I, fuck—" he says, cutting off as his tip rubs over the curve of your ass, leaving a wet trail that cools on your skin. "I-I don't have a condom, we can jus—"
"Don't care," your head shakes, hands gripping him like a lifeline. "I don't care, Robert, fuck me."
"Fuck, okay," he shifts you to your toes a second, dragging the head of his dick through your wet folds. "Okay, if—if you're sure," your thighs squeeze as he slips between them, shutting tightly, giving him half of what he needs: the heat, the wetness, the softness. He wouldn't be satisfied, you wouldn't, something he realizes after the third drag of his hips. "Open up, sweet girl." Your breath builds in your chest, sitting there until it's pressed out by the slip of him inside.
You gasp, hand shooting up to cover the following moan as your eyes flutter, rolling in your head. Robert's hand reaches up to knead your tit, the other keeping you still from jerking away. "Nuh-uh, stay still, baby, stay here," you whine behind your hand, feeling your knees shake from the stretch. The man behind you curses, head dropping to your shoulder. "You're fuckin' wet."
And he's fucking thick.
Well, he might not be, but with none of the fingers you've seen flit over that stupid keyboard dipping into you, you think there was little chance of you making it through this without being sore the next morning.
God, he's still pressing into you, still, still. You squeal a little behind your hands, shifting on your toes as Robert guides your heels to the ground. When they touch finally, it means he's in you, pressing deep and then past that, stretching you hotly around him. Not yet, though.
You don't think you can think.
"Oh my God, Robbie."
Yeah, you can't.
You're horrified that the nickname leaves your lips, but soon comes his chuckle, breathy and bright-sounding. "No, not—not Robbie, baby," you feel one of your heels tap the ground, and thinking of it, you feel yourself clench and flutter around the heat pressing in you. He groans, gripping you, bordering on too tight.
"Robbie," you press out, and you feel the nod behind you. "I think you're in my fuckin' lungs."
"Actually, sure, Robbie's fine," he chokes out, teeth scratching along your neck. "Little more, sweetheart, little more." You yowl, and he hushes you softly, rocking his hips into fucking what is in you out before pressing smoothly back in. "You can take it, hm? You can take it right, sweet thing." Another rock, another rush of him filling you and leaving you before repeating it again and again. "A little more."
You nod, "I think I can, yeah, yeah," tears stinging your eyes as you wobble on your toes one last time before settling on your heels. You don't have a chance to bask in it before your ears ring sharply. He feels so good in you, pressing against a thousand soft, sensitive things stiffly. His hand on your hip reaches for your free one, guiding it behind you, wrapping your fingers around what's left of him.
He questions you again, "You got it?" Voice deep and shaking the thoughts in your head. Three fingers, you have three fingers wrapped around him, shaking, as a vein your thumb rests over pulses with life. He's velvety under your hand, thick like you thought, hair trimmed under your palm. His fingers dance over yours, still guiding himself in, pressure against your body pushing. "A little more," a finger leaves, your wrist trapped between your bodies as he inches closer.
"Yeah," tears spring to your eyes, and you nod, letting another finger drop as he steps a touch closer, feel your ankles wobble, so close to having your heels touch the ground. "A little more," you squeeze out, breath caught as he only gets closer, taking your hand in his and placing it under his back on your hip. "Oh, jeez."
Your ass presses to his pelvis, and you feel the heat of his chest against your back, feel the winded puffs of air he takes on your neck and the shifts of his body like he can't find balance. "Fuck, baby," he whispers hotly, winding back to see your heels on the floor, "fuck, you feel it?"
You nearly shake your brain loose nodding.
“You’re just fine, huh?” You nod again. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweet thing.”
The first full thrust deadens in the fluff in your head, making your teeth clack before you let your head hang loosely. Robert's hips clap into you with enough force to send you forward, caught by his arm that holds you close. Then another, deeper, nudging against your walls, and another, quicker, shallower. He doesn't keep a consistent pace, not one that could thrill him. He ends up fucking you more for each individual reaction it gets from you than for himself.
And that is a green flag.
Your mouth opens around nothing, and with your body being manipulated into taking what it's given, all you can do is breathe and hope no one finds you.
Splitting on his cock, you hear Robert hum approval from your internal orgasm, seizing under the skin of your belly and making you shake into him. "There it is," he was waiting for that? You feel your fingers tighten, digging into the skin of his forearm, the one crossed over your body and tweaking your nipple. "You've got it, baby." Baby, he's called you that a few times in his deep, husky tone, and each time, you eat it up like manna.
You'd be doomed hearing that voice giving you instructions.
"Hold my hand." It's done, pulled from your mouth before you can even think.
Doomed.
Your fingers lace with his, crossing over your belly as he finally keeps a steady tempo, half his breaths leaving on moans and airy grunts. And this, of course, affects you. You haven't seen past the blurry vision from your tears, your lowered lashes, or the fact that your eyes can barely stay in one spot without rolling in your skull.
Robert is dangerous, fucking you like this, like he knows how you need it and can take it. You can by the grace of the stars above, barely. Robert catches you with a sigh when you teeter too far forward, replacing your hand with his on your breast to tuck his fingers under your skirt and—"Robbie," you draw out, folding over and shaking as he presses circles over your clit. "Robbie, Robbie, Robbie," you chant, dumbly, as said man nips your neck, as your knees press together in attempts to keep you upright.
"There you go, baby, you're so wet, huh?" You nod, panting, "You playing with yourself?" You shrug, not knowing but four things: up, down, pleasure, and Robert. Robert, who gives you pleasure. Is that three? "You can," he sounds winded, thrusts quick and forceful, "Do like I did: wet your fingers,” you do, trembling with the pads of your finger on your tongue, swiping before popping them out. “Now pinch. Go on, I'll know when you do," you swipe over your stiff bud, pinching your nipple, gasping, shuffling on your feet and clenching. "That's good, huh? Oh, I know, keep goin'," he whispers, hissing when you flutter violently around him. Kisses land on your jaw, and he keeps muttering filthy things that change your brain chemistry.
Yes, you're this wet for him only, yes, he's the only man you can even think of thinking about, yes—oh.
"R-Robbie?" you say, voice wobbling as badly as your knees, and he hums, licking the shell of your ear. "I never thought you would notice that I—"
He laughs, cutting you off, "It's hard not to notice a pretty thing like you, but go on—"
"—liked you. . . Pretty?" Your heart thunders in your chest. Pretty?
"Baby, you're the prettiest thing in this building," he says, still circling your bud as your ears ring and your head and heart float somewhere outside of you. "And I'm real sure about that."
"Yeah?"
"Abso—fucking—lutely, pretty girl," Robert takes the chance and turns your head more towards him with the one left free, replacing it quickly when you sway. Your mouth is soft under the insistence of his, giving and falling open and silently sweet. Blue birds and stars must fly around your head when he pulls away. Robert's eyelashes flutter against yours, his warm brown eyes capturing you, and you know you were so right with your little crush hanging on for so long now.
Robert pecks your slack mouth, and you kiss back with a soft, wet sound. "And I like you, too, pretty baby." You keen his name, cumming on his fingers as he grinds his hips in and out of you. Your mouth falls open, and he laps over your tongue, and it takes all of you to keep breathing.
You feel the swoop in your belly continue, overwhelming your senses as you bite your bottom lip, smiling, and grind your hips into his hand and against his pelvis. "Fuck, sweet girl, you're—fuck."
Yeah. . . yeah! You are 'fuck'!
Robert lets you down gently, going with you with gasps of his own. His arm is a band around your chest and holding your wrist that still rolls from circling your nipple, and lies across your back, cums, twitching thickly in you and moaning from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips clap into you, loud as he grunts and then whines, overwhelmed by the sticky hotness of you.
Robert's hands shake; you only notice it after he whistles while coming down, thoroughly overstimulated, much like you. You're very wet, having made a bigger mess than intended when Robert was touching your lungs and making your insides putty. You whine sharply at the first leak of Robert's cum from you, him the second time because your body tries to keep it in, clenching on his half-hard dick.
"God, baby, wait, wait, wait," he whispers, petting your tummy with a wet hand as it spasms. "Breathe, okay?"
You do, sipping air as Robert leaves your body, his dick still more than full. That's so—
"Lemme take you home, yeah?" he says, kissing the back of your neck as he rights your selves. It's a good idea, a great one considering you're close to the front of the building and can avoid most of the commotion to leave. Plus, there's only so much you can do to not look like the walking HR violations you currently are.
But you. . .
"You gonna stay?" you ask softly, voice breaking at the end as you swallow dryly and look at him over your shoulder. "Over?"
"If you'd have me," he says, pulling you up and setting you to rest against the table on your butt gingerly. You can see him better here, just now tucking the part of him that made you see stars like a fucking cartoon character into his briefs, before he kneels to help you with your panties.
You shake your head when he tries to pull them up, and he nods, kissing your knee, before standing up and tucking them into his pocket with ease. Eyes narrowing, you roll your lips together, shivering a bit as he adjusts you and re-clasps your bra to begin your buttons.
"Yeah, I'd have you," you whisper, touching his happy trail as passively as you can muster. You can feel yourself settle into the hum of alcohol sitting in your blood again; it's comforting, makes things easier.
Robert smiles, pulled high at one corner of his mouth with tenderness written over his face—in his eyes. "It's settled, then," he finishes your last button with a flick, doing one in the middle of his shirt for himself before dragging you out. His hand sticks around your waist, drifting to your bottom more than once, waiting for the cab.
Robert tips the driver for privacy, and you didn't know you let it slip that you wanted his fingers in you, but you don't complain when he dips his fingers into you as an apology. "I'm sorry, pretty girl, it won't happen again. Gonna take care of you good before I fuck you, 'kay? Each and every time." And you sit, taking it, whining as silently as you can while he keeps your leg over his lap. You cum halfway to your apartment with his hand covering your mouth, drooling as he slips another finger in.
"You forgive me, baby?" He asks, caging you into your front door, pressed against your back again, rutting into you and—if this is Robert tipsy with lower inhibitions, you can't imagine him being purposeful. Your heart thunders, thinking of how he'd handle you with a clear head.
"If I do. . . what's in it for me?"
You're not sure when you’ll talk more about it, but it'll be soon. . . You think. . .
Look—you'd be hard-pressed getting off of this handsome face, too!