AutisticOtakuGirl

The rain outside was coming down in sheets, drumming against the fogged up glass of the tavern. Inside, the air smelled of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and wet wool. You were just trying to dry off, staring into a half empty glass, when the stool next to you scraped against the floor.

A man sat down, exhaling a long, heavy breath. He took off his thick rimmed glasses, wiped the condensation onto his coat sleeve, and hooked them back over his ears.

You blinked, looking at his profile. The sharp, hooked nose. The crisp white strands threading through the dark hair at his temples. The tailored suit jacket, now slightly damp.

Holy shit. You knew that face. You saw that face every single night at six o'clock on the wood paneled television set in your living room. He was the well known, Vincent Whittman. The voice that delivered the city's worst news with total, unshakable calm.

Vincent caught you staring, and god, did he look just incredibly tired.

"Don't tell me," he muttered, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My tie was crooked during the evening broadcast."

"No, your tie was fine," you said, your voice a little louder than you intended. "I watch you every night. Seriously, I love your show! You're the only one on the air who tells it straight."

The tired slump in his shoulders vanished instantly, he sat up a little straighter, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. A slow, gratified grin spread across his face, lighting up the lines around his eyes. He absolutely loved it.

"Is that so?" He turned his stool fully toward you, resting an elbow on the bar. "The only one, huh? Well, it’s a tough job keeping this city honest, but someone has to do it."

He flagged down the bartender with a flick of his wrist, signaling for two more of whatever you were drinking.

"Tell me more," he said, leaning in, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. "What else do you think of the broadcast?"

You spent the next hour feeding his ego, and he ate up every single word, laughing loudly and buying round after round to keep you talking.

"Keep them coming, Tony," Vincent called out, slapping a crisp twenty dollar bill onto the counter without looking.

He leaned closer, the scent of expensive cologne and rye whiskey hitting you. The more you praised his delivery on the recent election coverage, the more his chest puffed out. He loved the sound of his own name on your lips.

"You've got a sharp eye," he murmured, swirling the ice in his fresh glass. "Most folks just stare at the screen like cattle. But you? You actually listen, what a good girl."

You laughed, the alcohol already starting to warm your cheeks. Every time you finished a story or complimented his poise under pressure, he beamed, nodding along as if you were handing him a trophy. He started letting you into the inner circle, whispering gossipy, behind the scenes secrets about his studio rivals and the network executives who tried to tell him what to do.

"They think they run the place," he scoffed, throwing his head back to finish his drink. "But without this face, without this voice? They’ve got fucking nothing."

By the time the third round arrived, your words were turning soft around the edges, and his laughter was getting louder, echoing off the low ceiling of the bar.

Vincent slid his stool an inch closer to yours. The glasses on his nose had fogged up again from the warmth of the bar, and he pushed them up into his hair, revealing mismatched, heavy, lidded eyes. The white strands at his temples caught the dim light as he leaned his chin on his hand, looking at you with total focus.

"Alright, enough about the newsroom," he said, a lazy, lopsided smile on his face. "I've been talking about myself for an hour. Let's talk about you."

He gestured with his glass toward you, his eyes scanning your face.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing sitting all alone in a dive like this on a rainy night? Don't tell me you don't have a boyfriend waiting at home, wondering where you are."

You looked down at your drink, a little flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "No," you admitted, swirling the melting ice. "No boyfriend."

He let out a low, satisfied laugh, sitting back just a bit as if he’d just won a prize.

"No kidding?" he murmured, shaking his head. "Well, the fellas in this town must be losing their minds, then... or, well, just plain blind."

You leaned in a little closer, the warmth of the rye whiskey making you bold.

"And what about you?" you asked, tilting your head. "An important, handsome anchorman like you must have girls lining up outside the studio doors."

He just let out a low, rumbling hum, completely unbothered by the question. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he settled his hand onto the bar right next to yours.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, late night register. "There’s a difference between girls who want to see their names in the society papers, and a girl who actually catches my eye."

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and heavy with intent. He had absolutely zero shame, using that famous charisma like a weapon.

"Besides," he continued, sliding his hand just a fraction closer until his thumb lightly traced the back of your knuckles. "Those girls aren't sitting right next to me. And they certainly don't look like you do right now."

Your heart did a sudden, chaotic flip. He wasn't flirting! He was completely taking control of the room, fully aware of exactly what he was doing to you!

You held his gaze, refusing to look away or back down from the sudden heat in his voice. The alcohol was humming loudly in your veins now, melting away any lingering hesitation and replacing it with a sudden, sharp burst of confidence. Instead of pulling your hand away, you turned your palm up, letting your fingers casual slip between his, feeling the warm, slightly calloused texture of his skin.

"Is that right?" you murmured, leaning so close your shoulder brushed his damp suit jacket. "You talk a big game for a man who spends his life reading scripts that other people write for him. Tell me something real.. what happens when the cameras turn off and you’re alone in that big apartment of yours? Are you always this shameless?"

He loved a challenge, and the fact that you weren't intimidated by his television persona only seemed to excite him. He gripped your hand a little tighter, his thumb firmly pressing into the center of your palm as he leaned down until his breath fanned against your ear, completely ignoring the bartender who was awkwardly wiping down the counter a few feet away.

"I don't play roles when I'm off the clock, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice dropping into a gravelly, intimate register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "When I see something I want, I don't see the point in wasting time with manners. And right now, looking at you, manners are the very last thing on my mind. But let's turn that back on you. You're asking a lot of heavy questions for a girl who claims she was just looking to get out of the rain. What is it you're really looking for tonight? Just a story to tell your friends tomorrow, or did you come in here hoping someone would finally give you trouble?"

You tilted your head up, your lips inches from his jawline, completely intoxicated by the smell of his cologne, the heavy alcohol, and the sheer audacity of his undivided attention. "Maybe I like trouble," you challenged softly, your eyes tracking the sharp, hooked slope of his nose down to the smirk resting on his lips. "Especially the kind that comes with a very.. very famous voice."

He hummed softly, a sound of pure satisfaction, and flagged down the bartender with his free hand without ever breaking eye contact with you. "Two more. Double them up this time, and don't bother with the water." He turned his full attention back to you, his eyes locking onto your mouth with a heavy focus that made the rest of the crowded, smoky bar completely vanish into the background.

The double shots arrived, the dark amber liquid sloshing against the rims of the heavy glasses as the bartender set them down with a dull thud. He didn't even hesitate, picking up his glass and downing the burning rye in one fluid swallow before setting it back down, his eyes never leaving yours. The heat from the alcohol was fully taking over now, loosening the last of his professional restraint and coloring his cheeks with a heavy, dangerous flush that made him look completely different from the sanitized man on the television screen.

"You know," he murmured, his voice dropping into a raspy, unhurried drawl that felt heavy with liquor, "an hour ago, I was sitting here thinking about how much I fucking hated this city tonight. But now? Now all I can think about is taking you back to my place, locking that heavy oak door behind us, and finding out if you taste as sweet as you look under these miserable lights." He leaned in closer, the scent of alcohol and expensive tobacco thick between you, his hand sliding up your arm to grip the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin right beneath your ear. "I want to hear that pretty voice of yours making noises that have absolutely nothing to do with the evening news. I want to see you completely breathless, ruined for any other man who thinks he can just walk up and talk to you."

Your head was spinning from the sheer speed of the alcohol hitting your system, your heart hammering against your ribs as his words sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight through you. You leaned heavily into his palm, your hand finding the lapel of his damp suit jacket and tugging him down until your lips almost brushed his jaw. "You think you can handle that?" you whispered back, your words slightly slurred but dripping with confidence. "You're used to reading from a script, Mr. Whittman. You think you know exactly how the night ends, but you don't know the first thing about what I like. If we go back to your apartment, I'm not just going to sit there and let you take whatever you want.."

"God, you have a beautiful, wicked mouth," he muttered, his gaze dropping to your lips with total, shameless fixation. "Keep talking like that, and we aren't even going to make it to the taxi. I'll drag you straight into the alleyway behind this place and show you exactly what happens to pretty girls who try to push me around." He smiled. "Let's drink the rest of this bottle, love. Let's get so numb we forget our own names, and then I'm going to take my time taking you apart piece by piece."

The rain was still pouring down in heavy, blinding sheets as the heavy wooden door of the bar swung open, spilling the two of you out onto the slick, shimmering pavement. The cold air hit you like a physical blow, but it did nothing to sober you up, if anything, the sudden shift made your head spin twice as fast, the lights of the city blurring into long, bleeding streaks of amber and crimson. You couldn't even walk straight, your heels catching on the uneven concrete as you stumbled heavily against his side, laughing breathlessly as his arm locked tightly around your waist to keep you upright. Before you could even clear the fog from your brain, he spun you around, pinning you back against the cold, wet metal of a parked car and crashing his mouth down onto yours with a messy, desperate hunger that tasted entirely of rye whiskey and raw heat.

Your hands flew to his jacket, your fingers tangling in the damp fabric as you kissed him back just as fiercely, completely oblivious to the world around you until a yellow checker cab screeched to a halt right at the curb, its horn blaring loudly to shatter the moment.

"Get in," he muttered against your lips, his breathing ragged and heavy as he pulled away just enough to wrench the cab door open, practically hoisting you inside before sliding in right behind you and slamming the door shut against the storm.

The interior of the taxi smelled of old leather and cheap air freshener, the rhythmic thuds of the windshield wipers doing nothing to slow down the frantic pace of the night. The moment the cab pulled away from the curb, any remaining filter you had was completely gone, replaced by a sudden, liquor fueled boldness that made you crawl straight onto his lap, your hands sliding shamelessly underneath his tailored suit jacket to feel the warmth of his chest through his crisp white shirt. You trailed your lips along his jawline, your fingers teasing the collar of his shirt, driving him absolutely wild as his hands gripped your hips with a bruising force.

"Hey! Buddy! Lady! Break it off back there!" the taxi driver snapped suddenly, his irritated face glaring at you through the rearview mirror as he swerved around a corner. "I run a clean cab. Save that garbage for behind closed doors or get the hell out of my car!"

The interruption hit Vincent like a lightning bolt, snapping him out of his haze and replacing it with an instant, ugly surge of drunk arrogance. His face flushed a dark, angry red as he bolted upright, his grip tightening on your waist as he glared furiously at the back of the driver's head, entirely forgetting his smooth persona as his voice boomed through the cramped vehicle. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" he snarled, his words thick and heavily slurred but dripping with absolute malice. "You keep your fucking eyes on the road and drive the car! I pay your miserable salary, you pathetic little nobody! If I want to touch her, I'll touch her wherever and whenever I damn well please, and you won't say a single word about it!"

The driver opened his mouth to shout back, the tension in the cab instantly skyrocketing as the two men started screaming over each other, the car swerving slightly on the slick pavement. Your head was pounding from the noise, and seeing him get so viciously distracted was ruining the heat of the moment, so you reached up, wrapping both of your hands around his face and forcing it down until his angry, bloodshot eyes behind his crooked glasses were locked onto yours. "Hey, look at me," you whispered loudly, your voice heavy with alcohol but firm as you stroked his cheek, drawing his attention away from the shouting match. "Calm down. Forget about him. Stop wasting your breath on him and focus on me."

The touch of your hands against his skin acted like an instant narcotic, completely draining the fury from his expression and leaving him looking dazed, heavy lidded, and utterly captivated by you. A slow, lazy, lopsided smirk spread across his face, hands sliding back up your thighs as he leaned his forehead heavily against yours, the driver's angry muttering fading into background noise.

"You're right, baby," he murmured thickly, his warm, whiskey scented breath brushing your lips as his gaze locked onto your mouth with total, shameless adoration. "You're absolutely right. Fuck him. Fuck this whole miserable city. None of them matter anyway." He pulled you flush against his chest, his hands wandering boldly once again as he buried his face in your neck, completely lost in the fog of the liquor and the scent of your skin. "You're the only thing I'm looking at tonight."

The taxi screeched to a halt in front of a towering, art deco apartment building, the brass fixtures on the awning gleaming through the torrential rain. He threw a crumpled handful of bills at the front seat without counting them, threw the door open, and practically dragged you out into the downpour.

You were both laughing hysterically now, completely plastered, your knees buckling as you stumbled through the heavy glass doors of the lobby.

The grand foyer was dead silent, lined with polished marble and a plush green carpet that felt like walking on a cloud to your numb feet. The night doorman gave a sharp, startled look from behind his desk, but one glance at Vincent’s fierce, protective grip on your waist, and the sheer, dangerous look in his eyes, made the man look down at his paperwork instantly, pretending he saw absolutely nothing.

He hauled you straight toward the elevator at the back of the lobby. It was a classic setup, featuring a heavy, outer mahogany door and an inner metal accordion gate. Because it was the middle of the night, the manual operator was gone, leaving it on the automatic night service setting. He yanked the outer door open, shoved the metal gate aside, and pulled you into the wood paneled cab. The second the heavy doors clanked shut and the elevator groaned to life, the claustrophobic, private warmth of the small space blew away what was left of his control.

He didn't even wait for the machine to pass the second floor. With a low, ragged groan, he slammed his body against yours, pinning your back hard against the smooth wooden wall of the elevator. The impact rattled the glasses up into his hair, his locks falling wildly across his forehead.

He didn't care.

He crashed his mouth onto yours with a desperate, bruising hunger that made your head spin into complete orbit. His hands were completely frantic now, tearing at your coat, his heavy warmth completely overwhelming you as the elevator hummed and vibrated beneath your feet.

"I told you," he whimpered against your lips, his voice incredibly thick, raspy, and completely undone by the liquor. "I told you I wasn't going to wait."

He locked one hand around your waist to hold you up, his thigh wedging directly between yours to pin you flush against the wood. His free hand slid down, completely shameless, tearing past the hem of your damp dress. You gasped into his mouth as his large, warm hand traveled straight up your thigh, his fingers sliding deliberately beneath the silky edge of your panties, pushing them to the side as he sank a finger into your wet and sopping cunt.

The sheer sensation of his touch against your bare skin made your hips arch off the wall, your fingers digging furiously into the fabric of his suit jacket just to stay grounded as the elevator kept climbing, the mechanical clicks of the passing floors echoing softly over the sound of your heavy, tangled breathing.

The elevator car shuddered slightly as it continued its slow, mechanical ascent, the heavy hum of the cables vibrating right through the soles of your shoes. He was completely blind to everything but you now, the liquor driving away every ounce of his primetime television dignity. With a rough, impatient curse muttered right against your neck, his hands shifted frantically. He let go of your waist just long enough to clumsily undo the fastening of his trousers, pushing them down just enough, while his other hand hooked into the fabric of your dress and hitched it up past your hips, forcing you to turn around. You arched into him, your hands gripping his broad shoulders for dear life as he stepped in closer, his heavy weight pressing you flat against the wood as he prepared to lift you completely.

Ding!

The sharp, crystal clear chime of the elevator echoed through the small wooden cab like a gunshot.

Before either of you could even process the sound through the thick fog of whiskey, the heavy outer mahogany doors slid back with a smooth click, followed by the metallic clatter of the inner accordion gate retracting automatically. The cool air of the high rise hallway rushed into the warm, breathless car.

Standing right there on the brightly lit parquet floor of the eighth story was an elderly, incredibly posh couple dressed in formal evening wear, the husband in a crisp tuxedo and the wife draped in a lavish mink stole and expensive pearls. They had clearly just returned from a gala, expecting a quiet ride down to the lobby.

Because of how he had spun you around in his frantic rush, you were pinned face first against the back wall of the elevator, your hands braced against the wood. The famous, dignified evening news anchorman was flushed a dark, sweaty red, his expensive glasses pushed up wildly into his hair, his trousers riding low on his hips, and his hands buried high under the bunched up fabric of your dress as he grinded heavily against your backside.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The old woman's jaw dropped so fast her pearl necklace rattled against her collarbone, her eyes swelling to the size of saucers as she gripped her husband's arm. The old man froze entirely, his sophisticated expression twisting into a mask of pure, aristocratic horror as he stared directly at the unmistakable face of the city's most trusted public figure caught in the most scandalous, shameless position imaginable.

For a second, Vincent didn't even move, his drunk brain struggling to register why the wall in front of him had suddenly disappeared into a bright hallway. He slowly blinked his heavy, bloodshot eyes, turning his head over his shoulder to look at them, a loose, lopsided, completely plastered smirk stretching across his face as his hands stayed firmly right where they shouldn't be.

He slowly turned his head over his shoulder, his bloodshot eyes blinking heavily as he tried to focus on the two stunned aristocrats standing in the hallway. Instead of pulling away or showing even a flicker of shame, a loose, arrogant grin spread across his face, his fingers tightening stubbornly against your hips as he gave a lazy, drunken shrug.

"What are you two staring at?" he slurred, his deep television voice echoing loudly down the quiet hallway, completely lacking its usual broadcast clarity. "Take the stairs if you don't like the programming. I pay rent here, and right now, the elevator is occupied."

The old man’s face went from pale shock to a furious, bright purple, his cane rattling against the floor as he gasped for air. "You—you disgraceful degenerate! You are on television!"

"And I'm a human being off the clock, you ancient fossil!" Vincent barked back, his temper flaring instantly just like it had with the taxi driver. And he actually had the audacity to lean back into you, his hips shifting as he tried to resume exactly what he had started right in front of them.

"Ignore 'em, baby. They'll be dead in a week anyway! Let's just finish this..."

"Oh, absolutely not," you gasped, the sheer absurdity of the situation finally cutting through the heavy fog of the whiskey.

You turned around as you planted your hands firmly against his chest, using every ounce of your strength to push his heavy, muscular frame back until his shoulders hit the opposite wall of the elevator. You reached down with one hand, frantically pulling the hem of your dress back down over your thighs, while your other hand grabbed his face to stop him from lunging back toward you.

"Stop! Stop it right now!" you hissed, your cheeks burning with a mix of intoxication and secondhand embarrassment as you looked at the old couple, who looked like they were about to have twin heart attacks. "I am not doing this in front of an audience that needs a pair of bifocals just to see what's happening. Get your pants up!... Put your dick in oh my god don't..— don't zip them up yet!"

Vincent blinked down at you, looking completely dazed and deeply offended that you were halting the action, his lower lip pouting slightly like a scolded child. "But baby..." he muttered thickly, his hair completely disheveled as he weakly reached for your waist again, completely blind to the fact that the old woman was currently clutching her chest and whispering for her husband to call the police.

You didn't wait for him to complain any further. Ignoring the old man's furious sputtering and the old woman’s dramatic gasps, you grabbed the knot of his silk tie and yanked it forward like a leash.

He stumbled out of the elevator cab with a heavy, uncoordinated groan, his trousers still dangerously loose around his hips as his long legs tangled over each other. You practically dragged him across the plush hallway carpet, his heavy shoulder scraping against the wallpapered wall as he let out a loose, drunken sob, completely shocked by how forcefully you were handling him. Behind you, the elevator doors finally clanked shut with a heavy metallic slide, cutting off the horrified glares of the elderly couple and leaving the two of you alone in the dim corridor.

"Key," you hissed, bracing your shoulder under his arm to keep his entire weight from collapsing onto the floor. "Where is the fucking key?"

He blinked lazily at the dark mahogany door of apartment 8B, a lopsided smile spreading across his face as he reached into his jacket pocket. Instead of a key, he pulled out a gold cigarette case, offering it to you with an incredibly slow, dim-witted nod. "You're spectacular, you know that? Firefire—furious. I love it when you're furious."

"The door key, you idiot," you muttered, groaning under his weight as you reached into his pockets yourself, your hands frantically searching until your fingers wrapped around a cold brass ring.

You jammed the key into the lock, twisted it until the latch clicked open, and practically threw your bodies inside. The apartment door slammed shut behind you, locking out the rest of the world and plunging the two of you into the quiet, shadowy luxury of his apartment.

Vincent didn’t care that his knees were shaking or that his glasses were currently sliding down the bridge of his crooked nose. He didn't even care that his trousers were unbuckled. With a low whine that rattled deep in his chest, he caught you by the waist, lifted you completely off your feet, and pinned you hard against the nearest wall of the dark foyer. A framed painting rattled against the plaster above your head, but neither of you noticed.

"You think you're in charge, sweetheart?" he muttered thickly, his voice raspy, laced with liquor as his breath brushed hot against your lips. "You think you can just pull me around by my tie and call the shots?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his mouth down onto yours, his lips tasting sharply of desperation. His large, warm hands grabbed the fabric of your dress, bunching it up in his fists and tearing it upward past your hips. You gasped into his mouth, your thighs wrapping tightly around his waist to hold yourself up as your fingers dug into his thick hair, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single inch of air left between your bodies.

Vincent stumbled forward, carrying your weight out of the foyer and into the shadowy expanse of his living room. He didn't even make it to the bedroom. His knees buckled under the weight of the alcohol, and you both tumbled wildly onto the thick, expensive Persian rug in the center of the room. You laughed breathlessly against his neck as you fell, the room spinning violently, but the second he rolled over and pinned you beneath him, the laughter stopped.

His suit jacket was half off his shoulders, his tie completely askew, and his mismatched eyes burned with a reckless hunger behind his lenses. He reached down, ripping his trousers and underwear the rest of the way down his thighs, his touch frantic and rough as his hand found the wet skin of your bare thigh again.

"I've been thinking about this since the second you sat down next to me," he growled, his thumbs digging into your hips as he positioned himself between your legs. "And I'm not waiting another second."

He lunged forward, driving into you with a heavy, unbridled force that made you arch your back off the floor, a loud gasp tearing from your throat as your hands clawed at his shoulders. The world dissolved into a complete, dizzying blur of hot skin, the heavy scent of his cologne, and the rhythmic, desperate friction of your bodies moving together on the floor.

Vincent was completely unhinged now, losing all of his famous, controlled broadcast dignity as he buried his face in your neck, letting out ragged, breathy groans with every heavy thrust, completely consuming you in the dark.

The sheer intensity of it was completely overwhelming, the pleasure hitting you so hard that you couldn't control the loud, uninhibited cries tearing from your throat. Your voice echoed sharply off the high apartment ceiling, completely shattering the quiet luxury of the dark living room.

Vincent let out a low, ragged curse against your ear, the sound of your loud reactions driving him completely over the edge. "You're so.. mngh— loud, babe. Fuck..! Keep it down a little." Wanting to muffle the noise before the neighbors called the building manager, he shifted his weight, pressing his large, warm hand firmly over your mouth.

His palms smelled of alcohol and expensive leather, his fingers anchoring tightly against your jawline to hold your head still as he kept driving his thick cock into you with a relentless, heavy rhythm.

The sudden, suffocating heat of his hand over your mouth didn't slow you down, if anything, the restriction only poured gasoline on the fire. A fierce jolt of adrenaline shot straight down your spine, your eyes widening in the shadows as you bit down slightly on the meat of his palm, your hips arching violently off the rug to meet every rough, heavy thrust.

Vincent moaned loudly at the sudden bite, his chest heaving as he leaned down until his forehead pressed against yours, his crooked glasses clicking against your brow. He kept his hand clamped tight, turning your loud screams into muffled, breathless whimpers that vibrated right against his skin.

"Yeah, that's it," he growled thickly, his voice a raspy, intoxicated whisper right against your face as his movements grew faster and completely unhinged. "Take it. You wanted trouble, sweetheart, and you're getting exactly what you asked for. Go ahead, take it, such a good girl... yeahhh..— hnggh!! You're so fucking hot. Gonna make me cum so fucking hard already! Nobody is coming to save you tonight."

Your fingers clawed furiously into the fabric of his shirt, leaving deep creases in the linen as the room tilted and spun into a complete, dizzying vortex of friction and heat. He was completely undone, losing every single ounce of his professional dignity as he spent his remaining strength pinned against you, his dirty talk turning into a string of breathless, gravelly praise until the final, heavy waves of your orgasm hit you both like a physical shock wave.

The heavy, ragged gasps of the climax had barely settled before the heat between you flared right back up, the alcohol refusing to let either of you slow down. He rolled his heavy weight off you just long enough to wrench his damp, wrinkled shirt completely over his head, discarding it onto the floor, leaving his bare chest gleaming in the shadows of the living room. He did the same thing with you, completely undressing you as he stared at your breasts as if they were another set of eyes.

Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on you again, his grip tight and unyielding as he pulled your hips back against him. He wasn't done, and the sheer audacity of his stamina, ueled entirely by the numbing haze of the alcohol, had your heart hammering wildly against your ribs all over again. He turned you over onto your hands and knees right there on the thick rug, his fingers digging deep into your waist, pinning you down with a heavy force that left no room for hesitation.

"You thought that was it?" he growled thickly against the back of your neck, his voice deeper and more gravelly than before. "We’re staying up all night, doll. I’m going to make sure you remember every single second of this when you wake up tomorrow."

He drove back into you from behind with a sudden, bruising depth that had a loud, sharp gasp tearing from your throat. The friction of the rug against your knees and the heavy, relentless rhythm of his hips moving against yours sent a massive jolt of pleasure straight through your system. You arched your back, your fingers clawing desperately into the tight fibers of the carpet to keep your balance as he set a punishing, frantic pace that completely consumed the quiet apartment.

"S—slow down you.. pervert!"

The hours dissolved into a total, dizzying blur of motion, sweat, and the heavy scent of cologne and liquor.

Every time your voice got too loud, his large hand was right there to muffle the sound, his talking turning into an endless stream of praise and demands that kept you completely undone. You lost track of how many times you came, how many positions you shifted into, or how long the storm outside kept drumming against the glass.

He kept going until your muscles were completely trembling and his own strength was entirely spent, pushing the encounter to the absolute brink of exhaustion before the darkness finally, completely claimed you both.

Vincent didn’t give you a second to rest on the living room floor. He grabbed you by the thighs, hauled you up against his chest, and carried you straight into the bedroom, tossing you onto the mattress. Before you could even blink, he was sliding down your body, his large hands gripping your hips with a bruising force to pull you right to the edge of the bed.

He parted your legs, draping your thighs over his broad shoulders, and buried his face directly between your legs.

"You're such a messy girl.. look at this, shit, I'm drooling already.. be a good girl for me, and stay still." The first wet, heavy stroke of his tongue had your back arching off the sheets, a loud, sharp gasp ripping from your throat. He didn't slow down for a second, using his tongue and fingers to wreck you completely, holding your hips down so you couldn't twist away from the intensity.

But just as he was right in the middle of it, breathing hard against your skin, when his movements suddenly slowed down. His head got heavier and heavier against your thigh until, with one final, long exhale, he stopped completely.

You waited a second, your heart still pounding, expecting him to keep going. But the only response you got was a soft, deep snore vibrating right against your leg. The massive amount of whiskey had finally caught up to his brain, turning his lights completely out right then and there.

"Unbelievable," you muttered, looking down at the back of his head. The famous, untouchable voice of the evening news was fast asleep between your legs.

You braced your hands under his arms and hauled his heavy, muscular frame up the mattress. Vincent groaned softly but didn't wake up, his long limbs completely limp as you dragged him up until his head hit the pillow right next to yours. Removing his glasses as he instinctively rolled onto his side, flinging a heavy arm over your waist to pull you tight against his bare chest, burying his face into your hair.

You didn't even have the energy to fix the covers. You just closed your eyes, the room finally stopping its violent spin as you fell into a deep, heavy sleep tangled up in his sheets.

The morning sun cut through the heavy velvet drapes like a knife, blinding and hot, painting long golden bars across the expensive hardwood floor of the bedroom.

You woke up with a pulse pounding in your temples that felt like a localized earthquake. Every muscle in your body was stiff, your mouth felt like sand, and your hair was a wild, tangled mess against the silk pillowcase.

You didn't move an inch, completely aware of the heavy, dead weight of his arm still locked securely around your waist, anchoring you to his chest.

Instead of slipping away, you carefully rolled over onto your side, holding your breath against the sudden spike of nausea.

You wanted to see this.

You wanted to see the exact moment the city's most polished, untouchable public figure had to face the music.

He was still completely dead to the world, snoring softly. Without his glasses, his face looked surprisingly vulnerable, though the sharp, hooked slope of his nose still gave him a severe profile. The white strands of hair at his temples were stuck to his forehead with dried sweat, and his jaw was covered in a rough, dark shadow of morning stubble.

Slowly, his eyelids fluttered. He let out a low, pathetic whine that sounded more like a wounded animal than a primetime broadcaster, his hand moving automatically to press against his temple as the hangover slammed into his brain.

He blinked against the bright light, his eyes bloodshot and completely unfocused. He fumbled blindly on the nightstand until his fingers wrapped around his thick rimmed glasses, sliding them onto his face with a hand that was visibly shaking. He took a deep, shaky breath, turned his head slowly on the pillow, and locked his eyes onto you.

For a long, agonizingly quiet five seconds, he just stared. You could practically see the rusty gears in his drunk brain grinding as the fragmented memories of the night before started falling into place, the bar, the bragging, the taxi driver, the horrified couple in the elevator, the living room rug.

His gaze slowly traveled down the bed. He realized he was completely naked, his chest hair matted, and his expensive tailored trousers were definitely not in his bedroom, completely ruining any shred of dignity he had left.

His face went through a spectacular sequence of colors, from a pasty gray, to a sudden flush of bright red, right back to a pale, horrified white. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to find that confident voice, but it came out as a weak, gravelly squeak.

"Good morning," he croaked, his eyes darting frantically around the room as if looking for an emergency exit. "I... assume you have a name?"

You held his gaze, a slow, entirely smirk spreading across your face despite the throbbing ache in your head. Seeing the great, unflappable man completely reduced to a sweating, panicked mess on his own silk sheets was worth every bit of the hangover.

"I do have a name," you said, your voice a little raspy from the smoke and the screaming from the night before. You reached out, deliberately tapping the tip of his hooked nose with your finger. "It's [ Reader ]. But given everything we went through last night, I figured you would have remembered it, Mr. Whittman."

He winced slightly at the sound of his own name, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck as he shifted uncomfortably against the pillows, acutely aware of his and yours nakedness.

"Right. Of course," he muttered, trying to smooth down his wild, hair with his fingers, though it didn't do much to help his appearance. He let out a dry, self deprecating laugh that sounded incredibly rough. "Please tell me my memory is playing tricks on me.. Did I... did I actually threaten to throw a taxicab driver out of his own moving vehicle last night?"

"Oh, that was just the warm up," you laughed, propping your chin up on your hand to get a better look at his misery. "Wait until you remember what you told that lovely elderly couple on the eighth floor while you had me pinned against the elevator wall."

He froze entirely, his hand stopping mid air. His bloodshot eyes went wide behind his thick lenses as the memory hit him like a physical blow. He let out a low, agonized groan and pulled the pillow completely over his face, his voice muffled against the fabric.

"Jesus fucking Christ, " his voice rumbled from beneath the pillow. "They're on the building's board of directors. I am going to be evicted by noon."

Before you could even pull the pillow off his face to keep teasing him, the heavy quiet of the apartment was shattered.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

A series of sharp, furious knocks rattled the mahogany front door at the end of the hall. The sound echoed down the corridor and straight into the bedroom, hitting your hangover like a physical blow.

He bolted upright under the sheets, his face instantly draining of whatever color it had left. He threw the pillow aside, his breathing turning shallow as his eyes darted to the bedroom door.

"Mr. Whittman!" a loud, booming voice shouted from the hallway, muffled only slightly by the thick wood of the front door. It was unmistakable, the building manager. "Mr. Whittman, I know you’re in there! Open this door immediately! We have a severe situation regarding your conduct in the public spaces last night!"

Vincent looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He scrambled to find another pair of trousers, his hands shaking so violently he could barely get the zipper to catch.

"The board," he whispered frantically, his deep voice cracking into a panicked hiss as he looked over at you. "They actually called him. They’re going to ruin me.. this is the end. This is how my career is going to end. Fuck my life. Fuck my luck. Fuck everything. Matter of fact! Fuck you too!"

He finally managed to buckle his pants, before he threw on a wrinkled shirt that was lying near the closet. He took a deep breath, trying to pull his shoulders back to find a shred of that famous, unbothered evening news composure, but his bloodshot eyes and wild hair completely gave him away.

"Stay here," he muttered, pointing a trembling finger at you. "Don't make a sound. If the press gets hold of this, I'm finished."

He turned and strode out of the bedroom, his bare feet padding heavily against the floorboards as he headed toward the firing line in the foyer.

Staying under the covers was far too boring. You waited until his bare feet padded all the way down the corridor, and the moment you heard the heavy front door creak open, you slipped out of the silk sheets. Your clothes were in the living room, so you had to improvise, quickly you just wrapped yourself in a robe that sat near the bed.

Your head throbbed with every step, but you ignored the ache, creeping down the hallway in your bare feet until you were pressed flat against the wall just around the corner from the foyer. You peeked around the molding, getting a perfect view of the back of his wrinkled shirt.

"Good morning, sir," Vincent rumbled. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, trying to look casual, though his hand was gripping the brass knob so tight his knuckles were white. "A bit early for a house call, isn't it? I was just preparing some copy for the evening broadcast—"

"Save it, Vincent," He snapped. The building manager was a short, stout man wearing a crisp tweed suit, and he looked entirely unimpressed. He was holding a small leather notepad, tapping a pencil against it with an aggressive, rhythmic click. "I received a phone call at three o'clock this morning from Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. They were hysterical, Vincent. Absolutely hysterical."

"The Higgins?" He let out a dry, forced laugh, running a hand through his wild hair. "Oh, come now. You know how the elderly exaggerate. A minor misunderstanding in the elevator car, nothing more—"

"A minor misunderstanding?" He lowered his voice, stepping closer into the foyer, his eyes narrowing. "They claim you were heavily intoxicated, shouting profanities, and engaged in a disgusting display of public indecency with a young woman. Mrs. Higgins had to take her heart drops! They are demanding your immediate eviction on the grounds of moral turpitude!"

Vincent didn't flinch, but you could see the muscles in his jaw clenching tightly. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height, his persona completely locking into place as he tried to bully his way out of the corner.

"That is an outrageous slander," he boomed, his voice echoing off the foyer walls. "I was assisting a colleague who had taken ill due to the torrential downpour. If the Higgins' fragile sensibilities mistook a gentleman helping a lady for something untoward, that is their malfunction, not mine. I suggest you remember who brings prestige to this address, sir, before you throw around words like 'eviction.' "

From your hiding spot around the corner, you had to bite your own hand to keep from laughing out loud. The sheer, shameless confidence of his lie was spectacular, especially since his pants were still wrinkled and his hair looked like a bird's nest.

The manager stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. He looked down at his leather notepad, then back up at the anchorman’s towering, rigid frame. The sheer authority in Vincent’s voice, the exact voice that millions of citizens trusted every single night, seemed to do the trick, slowly chipping away at the manager's resolve.

"An ill colleague," the manager repeated slowly, his tone shifting from furious to deeply skeptical. He tapped his pencil against the pad one last time before pocketing it. "Well... if that is indeed the case, Vincent, it was a highly irregular way to handle the situation. The Higgins are convinced they saw something altogether different."

"The Higgins are looking for drama where there is none," he countered smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the slight tremble in his fingers. "I assure you, my only concern was getting a sick woman out of the storm. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a broadcast to prepare for."

The manager let out a long, defeated sigh. He knew Vincent was a high paying tenant who brought a lot of status to the building. "Fine. I will speak to the board and try to smooth this over. But keep your 'colleagues' out of the public spaces from now on, Mr. Whittman. Good day."

The heavy front door finally clicked shut, the deadbolt sliding into place with a loud, echoey snap.

The second the manager was gone, all of Vincent's grand, authoritative posture completely collapsed. He let out a massive, ragged breath, his shoulders slumping heavily as he leaned his forehead right against the cool mahogany wood of the door.

"Fucking hell," he muttered to himself, his voice dropping back into a completely exhausted, hungover rasp.

You slowly stepped out from around the corner, leaning against the hallway wall with your arms crossed, a massive, teasing smirk on your face. "An ill colleague?" you echoed, tilting your head. "Wow. You really are a professional liar, aren't you?"

He slowly turned around, his eyes widening slightly when he realized you had heard the whole thing. A faint, completely embarrassed crimson flush crept up his neck, but he still tried to offer you a weak, lopsided smirk.

"It's called public relations, dollface," he croaked, rubbing his temples as the adrenaline faded and the headache came roaring back. "And right now, this 'ill colleague' owes me a massive favor for saving us from the street."

You walked back into the foyer, leaning down to scoop up your heels from the floor before turning to look at him. The morning light was fully flooding the apartment now, exposing the absolute disaster of the living room behind him, discarded clothes, an askew rug, and a complete lack of that primetime dignity he usually carried.

"Well," you said, a playful, lazy smirk on your lips as you looked around "This one night stand was definitely fun, Mr. Whittman. But I guess I should get going before your next 'ill colleague' shows up for a meeting."

You turned toward the living room in order to get fully dressed, expecting him to just let you walk away with a smooth, professional goodbye.

Instead, a large, warm hand clamped firmly over yours.

You blinked, looking up at him. Vincent had stepped in close, his heavy chest rising and falling beneath his wrinkled shirt. He didn't have his usual cocky broadcast smirk anymore. His thick rimmed glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, and his mismatched eyes were looking down at you with a sudden, intense focus that had absolutely nothing to do with a casual hookup.

"Who said this was only going to be a one time thing?" he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head up to match his gaze. "Vincent, we met in a dive bar, got blackout drunk, and almost got you evicted by a couple of senior citizens. I think we had our fun."

"I don't care about the elevator, and I don't care about the manager," he cut in, his grip tightening on your hand, pulling you just an inch closer until you could smell the faint scent of his cologne beneath the morning chaos. For the first time since you met him, he looked completely unscripted, his famous composure entirely melted away by something raw and real.

He shook his head, a silver strand of hair falling across his forehead.

"I've lived in this city for forty years, doll, and I’ve never met anyone who could make me forget who I am the way you do. I'm not letting you just walk out that door and turn into a story I tell myself at the bar."

He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours, his eyes locked onto your mouth that left no room for doubt. The arrogant Vincent was completely gone, he was entirely hooked, and he had no intention of letting you go.