☆- emii

Timothy's body falls back against the mattress. The movement is drawing one last, obscene creak from the bed frame before he goes motionless.

He has left you in no better state. You've crashed down right next to him, a dizzying lightness in the head, while every limb feels like lead now that's weighing you down on the spot. You know from experience, life will only slowly return to them – but there’s always a sense of accomplishment to this physical exhaustion. An ache too sweet not to relish in a little longer by just lying still for another moment or two.

Seconds easily stretch into minutes like that.

It's August. Only a ceiling fan is sluggishly battling the oppressive heat. Even the nightly breeze from the open window feels too warm on your skin, and the stifling air keeps your breath labored.

The whole room is captured by a rich smell of sandalwood and musk – buried beneath traces of tobacco.

Your nose nearly brushes his neck.

It's an intense choice, particularly for the summer; nothing that helps clearing your mind now. But that’s just Tim. 'Jazz' by Ives Saint Laurent and smoke are still clinging to his body in an intoxicating mixture. Like a tight embrace, his scent is always heavy on your lungs – though he’s only lying next to you, entangled within the mess of sweaty sheets and your limbs. The flush all over him remains just as palpable wrapped into darkness. Clearly, it doesn’t bother him all that pressingly. He indulges in this little afterglow and makes no attempt to move.

The city keeps you on the jump well enough. Even late at night, New York remains in an audible rush all the same. It's only within these walls that the ceaseless traffic noise tones down to a distant hum. Time is allowed to slow down for a while – earlier you undressed Timothy down to his Rolex and ever since he hasn’t paid attention to it.

When you're together, each minute is devoted to you alone. He never rushes a good thing, is what you’ve gathered. Tim's a sensual man, through and through. And though he never talks of it (too prideful or too embarrassed), he does enjoy spending some time together, even just for the sake of sharing space. Without saying a word, too, rare as that comes with him.

It has your mind drifting all sorts of places ...

How often does something need repetition to be considered routine?

21 days, claims some health magazine you were browsing at the dentist's office just yesterday. Five months up to a year, argues Vanity Fair, but no article was referring to sexual habits. This here –

There is a certain routine to these encounters with Timothy. His hands travel your skin on familiar pathways now. They know where to linger, and his fingers move in a skilled security. Each secret spot has been explored so thoroughly – any new discovery he lands comes as much as a pleasant surprise to yourself. And still, it’s nothing he takes for granted or has shown to grow tired of, so far.

He knows his way around your body, as well as any husband would, even – but that's not what this is, of course. You're not the one he’s coming home to and there's no such person in the life of Timothy Price. And sometimes you can’t help but wonder if you don't know far too much about him already, to keep entertaining this strange affair. Whatever he’s searching for in your arms, Tim doesn't even seem capable of naming it himself.

As for yourself ... Your feet haven't touched the ground, yet. And so it doesn't matter all that much, here in bed. Future or past. The moments that have wound up to this point; superficial dinner conversations, heated discussions, rumors, and the stolen glances. Everything that's been accumulating to the sort of sharp and perpetual desire that can only be soothed in a clash of teeth and lips with him.

He's not so feisty anymore, after a good orgasm.

Timothy doesn't even bother removing your arm that’s lazily thrown over his head. Your fingers remain tangled in his precious hair, unwilling to part. Stress and steroids haven't been too kind on his hairline. He should quit both, regardless – but the minoxidil is something you've selfishly talked him out of using. It suits him too well, this unusually sharp widows peak; like it was always meant to be.

What exactly does this man even use ... Dippity-do? Elmers Glue?

It doesn't feel soft against your fingers. The streaks are stiff, covered in the almost cement- like texture of strong, dried down gel. Despite it, his usually so carefully maintained slick- back threatens to fall apart – much like the rest of his composure did. It's an odd source of pride, but clearly you've worked Tim hard tonight. A satisfied chuckle escapes your throat, and this noise, however gentle it is, breaks the almost motionless silence between you.

He's turning around. The movement threatens to loosen your touch on him – though it allows Tim to meet your gaze, at least.

And if that sliver of moonlight doesn't render him even more handsome ...

The curtains are light-weight. The softest breeze is causing them to twist and dance; and it flatters his features, this frivolous play of city lights and shadows. Makes his blue eyes glint a mysterious grey instead, not unlike a silent film star on the big silver screen. A very scandalous one at that. Timothy's body is lying bare and the sheets have almost entirely slipped aside – quite the beautiful Hays Code violation he'd pose.

You make the mistake of speaking it out loud. And of course it makes him laugh; a noise too loud and released far too soon into the precious peace of this bedroom.

"No need to entice me now, honey."

He's leaning in and places a kiss on your temple, but the sarcastic rasp of his voice spoils any tenderness. Tim has a bad habit of using pet names only to be condescending – yet there was a hint of disbelief to his voice as well, it didn't escape you. Suddenly he seems awfully busy.

Mid-sentence he has started rustling through the bedside table drawer. Searching for a smoke, most likely, such as the Parliament package you're incidentally spotting on the floor. But you keep quiet about it, because it encourages Tim to continue rambling. And as nice as his lips look, wrapped around a long cigarette – inside here, it's stuffy as it is.

"I'm a man of great fortune. And some other, more hidden assets." His mouth forms a toothless smile in the casual complacency of a man who insists on having earned his place in this world fair and square. "Man about town, doing six figures ... No, don't lie honey, it wasn't my charms that initially attracted you." He waves it off with a broad gesture.

"And then, there's what keeps bringing you back, time and time again."

You can't help your eyes following the movement of Timothy's hand as it glides into his lap rather suggestively. And it's bothersome to admit – most people would wear this kind of outrageous cockiness with far less of an appeal than he does.

"Do you still believe I'm sleeping with you for dinner reservations at Dorsia? A poor exchange, if you're asking. Don't sell yourself short."

You're rolling your eyes - he spoils your palate with all that fine dining, but Dorsia has to be some money laundering machine - and you blink before he can catch these thoughts.

The bit about his cock you try ignoring purposefully. It’s hard to argue against the facts. Apparently Tim Price carries all the weight of the world not on his shoulders, but between his legs – and of course he's taken note of where your gaze has been wandering. The faint smile in his lips is sharpening to a grin.

He finally drops his search and leans back, pushing the vicious nicotine cravings aside for a little longer.

"Don't tell me my personality is pleasing you all that much. I wouldn't believe it."

It comes so insultingly nonchalant over his lips. Acting like he's figured you all out, and most importantly as if he doesn't mind his own conclusion. He can be infuriating –

Most times he is.

Then again isn't that the essence of every good challenge?

You rest your head on his chest, forcing Timothy flat down onto his back again. You do it to examine his face a little better. Or maybe for a more particular satisfaction – to feel him tensing up underneath you in surprise. To have his body hair tickling your cheek; or to hear his heartbeat quickening ever so sudden. It takes just the split of a second, and an arm wraps around you with no hesitation. Timothy’s body really speaks a far more honest message than his words ever do.

"What can I say ... The smug attitude and constant neurotic rambling are just doing it for me."

You're raking your fingers over his chest and through the dense little forest he has growing there. It elicits a noise from him not unlike a purr.

"Isn't that true for all of Wall Street," Tim murmurs, so close you feel his breath against your neck, and a pleasant shiver rolls down your spine.

He's not really asking for your opinion.

"Maybe," you answer anyway, just because you've learned to be stubborn with him. "But no one ever does it as well as you do."

Tim looks oddly content about what very much might have come across an insult. It's like taking any compliment would kill him, and he prefers being affirmed in his questionable self- image instead.

Your mouth is broadening to a short grin before you're pressing a kiss to his jaw. The gesture holds a certain affection you can't quite deny – you can feel the slight roughness of his skin against yours. He's due for his daily shave again.

"You sure like to talk sweet."

"Only with you."

"That so?," Timothy chuckles raucously. The amused little smirk that’s been dancing around the corner of his mouth takes on something more shark-like again. It's sending another wave of shivers over you, hotter this time – still lying in his arms and forced to face him so closely while his gaze is pervading as ever.

"You like me best among all those big shots? I'm flattered, believe me. But to be a winner, it takes a loser, too ..."

You do contemplate acting clueless, to tease him good – but a heartbeat too much is passing already and you’re no master of this particular game.

Of course you know what he means. Or more so who he’s alluding to; Markus Halberstram isn't the one following Price at every turn now. Wherever Timothy moves, his second shadow won’t stay long behind. Patrick Bateman, Vice President and nepotism hire ...

A taller guy, with fuller hair yet, and just the right amount of youthful softness to his masculine features, to be mistaken for an actor rather than another suit in the shackles of Wall Street. Though you can sense, there’s something no less twisted to this kind of beauty.

Timothy takes your brief silence as confession. "Oh, I fucking knew – you're banging him too!"

There's something almost triumphantly to his tone. He seems to notice, too, and making the unnecessary effort to lower his voice, Tim murmurs to your ear: "Be tender with Bateman, will you? Don't bruise his pride too badly, I still need him in competitive spirits."

His arm shifts lower, squeezing your waist.

"For our joint game of squash next Friday, that is."

A glimmer of dangerous excitement is in those eyes, and you can feel your face growing warmer. How slim are the chances Tim is actually thinking about squash?

"I will neither confirm nor deny such accusations," you say dismissively. And this is to his great amusement – the crinkles around his eyes are telling.

It's the businessman in him handling the pillow talk now, acting so smooth and complacently about his little observations. Maybe Patrick has become part of the unspoken deal, but he’s Timothy's work husband if anything.

Still, sometimes you can't help but wonder ...

"Every other man around here wants something casual on the side and yet they all turn sour and jealous so quickly. Not you, though."

From the corner of your eye you can see Tim's smile faltering and his head falling back onto the pillow. Once more he's merging with the cold shadows of the room.

"I'm not complaining," you add, only a little too hastily for your own liking. "Just surprised, that is."

"Oh, I bet you'd enjoy it." A dry chuckle escapes his throat, though it's no indication he's taking offense. "But honey – I'm no boy anymore. Why spoil it with jealousy? Don't think I have much to feel insecure about, anyways."

His voice drops lower. "Isn't that right?"

He's holding your waist firmly. Pulls you just a little tighter yet, and it's hard to disagree with him when your entire body is pressed against his so flushly, not a sheet of paper could find space in between.

Tim is so near, you can feel the throbbing of his heartbeat and every other little movement. Your own hips are twitching. Savoring the friction. He's not hard yet, but stirring with an undeniable interest – and it doesn’t take you by surprise, this renewed heat building up between him and you; not truly.

But still –

"You're a real perv, Tim –"

Sudden breathlessness lines your voice with hoarse desire. A rather needy sound threatens to spill from the back of your throat, but you're quick to stifle it against his chest – a searing kiss right above his heartbeat.

"You’re getting off on that? The thought of someone else fucking me ... your best friend no less."

"I think about you always, anyplace. Every position and scenario I could have you ..."

His lips hover above your forehead, just almost touching. A mockery of innocent tenderness. Your legs clench around his body on their own; it makes his cock jump a little. And the bastard has the audacity to laugh – utterly unashamed, it always drives you up the wall, and then right back into his arms.

"Calm, honey," he murmurs. "You've only just heard half of it. The office, that's my favorite setting. Sparks the imagination quite a bit ... Patrick always owes me a favor or two, and he loves peeking through the blinds, y'know."

The open-mouthed kiss you plant on the hollow of his neck is a hasty one. Beneath your fingers, you can feel his chest rise to a shaky breath – it's Timothy's sweet spot and just the right one to practice revenge on him. So very inviting for your mouth to keep lingering and leave its traces; this spot barely beneath his collar, was he dressed for the office.

"You think I'm so eager for all kinds of Yuppie dick –" Your teeth tease the skin; it’s no proper bite but it’s causing him goosebumps. "Don't I already have one that fucks for two?"

He moves his head ever so slightly to allow more room for your dedications and a rough, lustful noise escapes his throat.

"Damn right – now that's what I'm talking about," Tim gasps. And finally there's this heat to his tone; the one you've been missing before. "Look at you, so eager to mark me up. How can a man not feel confident in himself? Never seen Bateman sporting one of your sweet souvenirs – "

The first, sharp contact with your teeth sends a delightful tremor through his whole body.

It's always the most beautiful moment; each time you allow him to forget about all his trouble, and when he shuts up in favor of producing much sweeter sounds. Timothy tastes salty. A bit bitter as well, and he's more sensitive than he lets on; he grows restless fast and his blood vessels break easily. Beneath layers of skin and the artificial tan, they start blooming in red –

You tear away far too soon, with this filthy pop of your lips and only to admire your work. But in response a pointed groan rumbles through his chest, already begging you to return.

Finding his expression, Tim is looking at you with dark eyes. The pupils are impossibly dilated and only a narrow rim of blue surrounds them, shimmering wetly like a gemstone. It's a silent message, but just as clear. And he’s quick to strain his neck and reach for your face. The nose nearly pokes your eye, before his lips are finally crashing against yours – rough and seeking contact in harsh eagerness. It remains a mere blur, chased away by the softer sensation of his tongue and traces of mint. A sharp hiss turns breathless moaning; maybe you, or maybe it’s him in a joint effort –

Tim breaks apart and fights for breath.

He curses softly against your lips. Then kisses you again – just as fiercely and the renewed eagerness has you weak. It's filthy work, the way you allow his tongue to take over; allow him to fuck your mouth while every other part of him is forced on the spot underneath you. You've got his strong body pinned to the mattress with your own, and he could turn you around; could force a different position if he truly wanted to. But Timothy remains pliant where he is.

You're panting against his lips, still connected by a wet trail of spit, and for a moment your heart feels like it might burst right through the ripcage.

"Ride me, will you?," he asks hoarsely. And his breath is tickling your ear, while his swelling cock is pressed up against your stomach like the most desperate example of self-control.

You can’t help but reach out and tentatively brush against his length. A longing sound escapes him.

"Wasn't assuming you're up so quickly for another round ..."

You're eliciting a laugh from Tim, though it’s a short one and just as breathless from all this kissing.

"You didn't? Then you don't know me at all honey. Now stretch that lovely body of yours and fetch us a condom. I’ll show you exactly how ready."

His hands trail down your waist, and they don't leave you without offering an affectionate squeeze first.

Tim never suggests going raw. You might call it responsible if he wasn’t so esoteric with his reasoning – though clearly this isn't the moment to dwell on it. There’s a shelf above the bed and without even moving from your seat on his lap, you reach over for the box.

As much as anticipation has been building up by now – you still can’t help but make a little show of it first. Shifting around and grinding your ass down on him with intent that couldn’t be more obvious.

His cock is only teasing you, not offering true relief, and yet the movement of your hips quickly settles into a slow rhythm. The friction feeds your hunger for more; it's good, in a torturously, maddening way and a different kind of heat washes over you. One that comes from the inside and burns at your core. He's not where you actually need him, but so close – it makes this game a dangerous one.

You can tell it doesn't leave him cold, either.

Tim's chest stutters in a sharp intake of breath, and he rests one hand on your hips just a little too low. The other squeezes your thigh – you've found out right from the beginning, Tim loves your ass and the legs that carry it. Still, the way he’s pulling you up and on your knees now so swiftly, catches you off guard. It has to be the only way he can help himself now, rather than burying his cock straight inside you – a sharp moan slips from your lips.

While his hands start roaming your cheeks in avid motions, his hot breath hits your skin right below the navel. You can't see his face anymore. There's only the wicked sound of his soft laughter, and then the sensation of his lips as he leans in and starts kissing your abdomen. Tim keeps holding you up with the strength of his arms. It's obvious, he enjoys the way your body winds in his grasp far too much, to skip his sweet torture. His mouth is on a hot pursuit down south, but he’s so agonicingly tender about it, with those little pecks left and right ...

It makes your stomach flutter like a virgin and leaves you shaking. And you knew where this was going to end – but again, surprise claims your body much faster; with this sharp and concentrated pleasure, when finally, his face disappears between your legs.

A smack echoes through the room – this cheeky slap on your ass has you nearly crushing his head. But a deep moan vibrates against your skin in answer, half choked out of Timothy’s throat. Your hips are about to lose control either way. You could probably come like that; and you know he wouldn’t mind either to take whatever you offer.

There's no need to guide him now. He’s trailing the wet streak of your arousal with his mouth and goes down on you like a starving man; as if it was his first time tonight getting a taste of you. A curse spills over your lips – half a plea to keep him going, while the other half fights to save this impending orgasm for just a bit later.

The need to have him inside outwins.

Winding your fingers through his black hair, Tim seems to understand; he’s pulling away. You try and fail to force your quivering body still – what a guy, to make you this weak in the legs.

You throw the condom into his lap, and not another second goes wasted.

You're quick to get your hands on him; in quite the shaky gesture you stroke his face - looking so debauched with a prideful gleam - then the other hand finds his aching cock. In an instant, Tim rewards it with a lustful sigh. The head is flushed an angry pink and already exposed. It betrays the state of his arousal all too well; you know it won't take much anymore to get him up to his full size. You catch the way the muscles around his stomach are tensing, in an effort of holding back.

But then again, seeing him so desperate pokes the sadist in you ...

You're dropping down, cheek hitting his thigh and Tim is nearly choking on his moan.

It's catching him by surprise as much as yourself – hot breath meets his sensitive skin and then your lips are wrapped around him in the blink of a second.

He's heavy on your tongue. Rock hard and eager to fuck, be that your mouth or your hole, so you don't even try to swallow him whole. But raw desire drives you a little closer anyways, towards the base of his cock and the dense curls of hair –

The smell of him makes your head just as dizzy as the action. Only a few shaky thrusts of his hips have your eyes teary and Tim leaking in anticipation.

"Fuck. That's good –" The shoves you back with a broken noise, not without dragging his drooling cock right across your face, and he pats your cheek with a wet little slap. "God, just get on my lap and fuck me already," Tim groans, although the authority behind it sounds more than a little shaken.

His hands glide through his hair in the hopeless attempt of fixing it. But seeing your own expression broadens his mouth to a sly grin.

He rips the foil open, and with practiced ease, Tim is rolling the rubber down his cock. "So beautiful ... so fucking sweet to me, what's gotten you all riled up –"

You crash your lips against his own and steal the last word off his tongue.

It's the only answer you can offer, and he takes it gladly; lies all that pent-up lust into the kiss while you pin his back against the mattress again. Lifting your hips, you straddle him properly, and with a filthy noise you let go of his mouth –

Finally, it's the sensation you've been waiting for. Tim's cock is pressed up readily against your entrance – and he’s not long above average, but so fat in girth it still tears at you.

"You're a fucking brute, Tim –"

A slight ache is the price for your own impatience, but you relish in it all the same. "And you're a hot-shot, darling. Now breathe and take it eas–"

You cut Tim off by sinking down on him in one, brave motion. A stifled moan is spilling from his lips, mingling with your own – heat consumes you so intensely for a few seconds, you feel like a waxdoll in his arms, lit on fire.

And it doesn't take too long for your muscles to relax. The last round has left you pleasantly prepared after all; to quickly start rocking your hips and the last kiss has you in eager pursuit now. Tim is gliding half out, then back inside of you with little resistance. His hands cling to you as if trying to anchor himself rather than offering stability. Your nerves are ablaze. There’s no patience left to tease him; you start chasing your rhythm and he can only react. And oh does he happily oblige – though it's almost too much for either of you.

Tim's hips are harshly snapping upwards to meet your own thrusts. The noise of skin on skin echoes through the room obscenely – your pace speeds up, and your movements sharpen. Each of them are hitting this sweet spot inside you with ease now, and it's clear this won’t last very long. But it doesn’t need to, anymore. Your whole body feels so tensely strung up; ready to let go and so close to blow off.

Underneath you, Timothy's breath goes ragged in heavy effort. He's pounding into you like a mad man and you clench around him in a vice grip.

"I – Jesus, honey –" He forces the words out between unintelligible mumbling and a moan. His forehead comes crashing down against yours, while his body strains with its last ounce of strength.

"Yes. Fuck, yes. Forgive me, I'm gonna – soon, just don't stop squeezing me now!"

Any sort of proper rhythm escapes him. Tim is rutting into you and only the last bit of your own control is left, but you use it up well. The friction of him inside has been building up to a sharp, ceaseless urge for surrender that makes your whole body shake as you take him again and again –

So deep inside of you.

Tim's hand moves between your legs. His fingers find you and they stroke you just right; the pleasure is sharp and concentrated, and almost unbearably intense.

"Tim – oh, fuck! Timothy, it's –"

"Yeah, say my name, baby. Say it – wanna hear it when you –"

A guttural moan rips free of him, high and airy, and a hot wave comes crashing down over you the very same moment. His cock spasms inside, but he doesn’t stop moving, yet. Can't seem to stop. You see white – there’s only sensation for a moment; the pleasure, rolling over you in countless, heavy waves and the tightness of his embrace. You're wrapped into his scent and body, and nothing else matters.

The sound of your raging heartbeats mingling as one seems merely distant noise.

Much later, he finally gets his cigarette.

Tim leans by the window and he's taking a deep drag before slowly releasing the surge of smoke into the nightly air.

The sky is not black anymore but painted in a deep cobalt blue. The heat has cooled down, after all.

You're on one of his upholstered chairs, wrapped into his bathrobe, and the skin still damp from a long shower. Goosebumps cover your bare legs while Tim is content with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

There's not much to say. The early morning hours leave him in a melancholic state. It's the prospect of returning to this wretched job, you suspect, but you don't feel like bringing up a touchy subject.

Tim's mouth is busy anyway; with the cigarette in between his lips, and two fingers of Whiskey he poured himself.

There's something hypnotic to the way he's moving his wrist. The sight of the amber-colored liquid gently swaying back and forth – it might have very well lured you into a quick sleep. Only the dull thud of glass against wood shifts your attention back to the man himself.

"You don't have to leave so early just because I need to."

His voice sounds raspy, even more so than usually.

Another languid drag and he throws a vague hand gesture as if adding to his point that way – Tim then seems to take note of your confusion and through his parted lips the smoke escapes him again.

"Work. I know you still got a couple more hours. You should spend them on proper sleep, not on the backseat of a dirty cab."

"And waltz directly into work in clothes that smell like you and sex with you? And are probably missing a few buttons ..."

In response to your cheeky smile, Tim only shakes his head and he turns around to face the night one more. You might call it sheepish – this expression you've just caught on his face the split of a second. But he's not wrong, you’re exhausted and maybe it begins playing tricks on your mind.

"There's a whole set of your clothes abandoned in this closet." He nods towards the right direction.

'Closet' has always felt like an understatement, though. More like a different room attached to this one, that can hold his entire, very generously equipped wardrobe. And apparently one or two forgotten shirts of your own.

"Your choice." Timothy shrugs. One last, lingering drag, then he stubs out the butt in an ashtray and his eyes fixate you again, in a way you can't entirely read.

You never stay alone at his apartment because he never offered, before. But the bed is fresh. No obvious traces remind of the shared night, anymore, except the way he tries caring for you, now ...

"Aren't you afraid I'll try robbing you?"

The rent of this place must surpass your entire monthly income. And he knows behind what desk you work, just not where you actually live. It never came up. But his lips are only twitching to a pleased little smile.

Two casual steps, almost silent on the carpet, and he suddenly stands behind you.

"Why would you bother robbing me," Tim murmurs and presses his lips against your neck, right below the ear. The touch is as gentle as it's brief - a surge of warmth that meets the coolness of your skin - but nevertheless it leaves you a little dizzy.

"I already offer everything you could want from me."

Everything but certainty.

The thought is a fleeting one you don't voice – instead you steal a sip from his glass, as if to prove your own point. And you wash down whatever traiterous words linger on your tongue. It's a fine brand, but burns down your throat all the same as some bottom-shelf.