Lo // 25 // UK @ijustcamebackhere - Tumblr Blog

Yes it’s a Robbie Williams reference don’t fucking question me

Surprise! It’s smut. Thank you to the iconic friend of mine who put this in my head by saying “I bet she’d ride me…”

Up all night

Claudia Pina x Reader

18+ MINORS DNI

CWs: alcohol consumption, a bit of brattiness, praise kink, fingering, oral AND strap! I guess it’s also technically a one night stand if u don’t want to read that🤷‍♀️

I don’t wanna be sleazy, baby just tease me, got no family planned

You are slightly sweaty, hands sticky, hair tied in a rough knot on top of your head. The bar is alive, buzzing around you with the kind of energy only a Friday night brings. It’s different from Saturday— you can almost taste the release of the workday in the air. Beyond the bar people bump together and mingle, some dancing a little although it is barely past midnight. Most are still meeting friends, gathered around the high tables, chattering and, more importantly, ordering round after round of drinks.

The shaker is slick and cold in your hands, and you hold it up to your ear to listen as it moves. You know people think you’re just doing it to be pretentious, but you really can hear the moment it’s done— the cadence of the liquid inside shifts as the ice melts. Back to the room, you lower it in one hand, popping it in half against your hip as your other hand reaches for a glass. You turn back to the bar, grab the strainer, meet the patron’s eyes as the pale, cloudy liquid strains into the glass. Then you hold out the card machine, give them a grateful smile. Rinse, and repeat.

The great thing about managing a shift like this is that nobody gets to argue with your music choices. Not that they likely would, but the distinctly urban slant of your music taste has been known to cause arguments back in the kitchen, where the head line cook Maria just wants to be singing along. Out here though is your domain, and your hips shift absentmindedly to the heavy drums as the words to the song get lost in the tangle of bar noise. You’re wiping a glass with a smudge on it, fully concentrated, when you feel the air shift in that way your body is so finely attuned to— someone at the bar, waiting to be served.

What you are not expecting, is the face that meets you there. Claudia Pina: Barcelona forward, notorious flirt, clearly high on the surge in reputation she’s seen in recent weeks. She is short, shorter than you expected, although the effect is tempered by the gravitas of the way she holds her body, the look on her face. One tanned arm rests on the sticky bar top, and you almost want to bat her away, hand her something to wipe it with. She’s wearing a shirt, open over a vest, and the latter clings to the muscles of her chest and torso like it was designed as a torture method, specifically for you. Her hair is slicked back so smoothly you wonder if it ever moves, and a tiny pair of silver hoops glint in her ears. She licks her lip slowly.

The problem is not any of the above. Of course, all of that could prove itself to be a problem, but it is not the one immediately at hand. The issue, rather more pressingly, is that you know who she is— and you also know she knows you know— before the words are even out of her mouth.

“This is my playlist.”

She says it simply, with a bemused tone that almost borders on accusation. She laughs to herself as you visibly fluster, wiping your hands on your apron.

“Sorry, did you want a drink?”

Claudia leans in closer, over the bar now, and speaks again. Her voice is steady, lower than you would’ve expected, but it carries a kind of teasing lilt that makes your stomach flip as if on command.

“I’ve been listening for twenty minutes. It’s not even on shuffle. This is my playlist.”

You turn to her, and she’s grinning. Your initial defensiveness drops down a couple of levels into something softer— she’s not mad, just winding you up.

“You made it public. And your Spotify is verified. Who the fuck verifies their Spotify?”

Her body leans back as if insulted, but that gleam never leaves her eyes.

“It was a business decision, after that song came out— I’m sure you saw?”

You know she’s really winding you up now, because there’s nothing you can do but nod.

“People searching for me. Manager decided it would be a good branding decision.” She makes air quotes with her fingers and rolls her eyes. It’s cute, actually, the way her cockiness and evidently protective cold exterior fade a little when she realises you’re not going to be weird about it.

“You here with friends?” You ask casually, scanning the floor to see if you recognise any more faces.

“The babies.” She replies, and sure enough there they are, over in a far corner, all draped around a booth. No Marta, no Irene, even Patri has decided to sit this one out. It’s just troublemakers. You nod.

“They’re all fucking wasted.” She continues with a huff.

“And it’s boring. They just want to talk about boys and TikTok.”

You can’t help but laugh at how derisive it is, like she’s not only a couple of years older than them.

“Well,” your heart leaps as you shift your tone towards suggestive. Her eyes snap back around to yours.

“As we already know you’re such a good DJ, why don’t you come back here and choose the music? Drinks on me tonight.”

She tilts her head in question, as if maybe you’re mocking her. But you nod earnestly, and pat an empty spot at the corner of the back bar counter, where just your hoodie and phone occupy the bench.

“Come, sit. I’ll make it worth your while.”

She raises an eyebrow at that, but slowly pushes up off the bench, and walks around to the end of the bar. You can’t help but watch the muscles in her triceps and shoulders flex as she hoists herself up to sit on the counter. Without a word you hand her a wipe, and she accepts it silently, wiping the sticky bar residue off her forearm.

“That’s kind of gross, you know,” she mumbles, tossing it towards a trash can. It goes straight in, of course. Show off.

“I know,” you agree, going back to your glass. Then a customer comes, and you have to turn your back on her for a moment. As you do, familiar rhythm of the shaker back in your hands, the music changes. It’s still very her— a heavy hip hop beat, drum machine, driving bass. But something about it is different— Spanish guitar, softer vocals that verge on sexy. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she was trying to switch up her own vibe. She smirks when you turn back, your hips swaying gently as you move behind the bar.

“So, bebita,” you tease, stepping closer until your hip brushes the outside of her knee.

“What does the Barça superestrella want to drink?”

“Nothing sweet,” she quips back immediately.

“Rum, preferably.”

You laugh to yourself. She should’ve been harder to predict, but your mind is already swirling with ideas. She watches steadily as you build into the shaker, bottle after bottle, measuring by eye. Then you kneel, her foot swinging above your shoulder, and reach into the back of a cupboard.

“This is mine,” you note as she eyes the bottle. Its contents is dark, thick, unlabelled.

“As in I made it. Not for customers. You trust me?”

She smiles, and it’s frankly devastating. Like she’s weighing you up, deciding whether she wants to lunge and grab you or just sit back and watch you exist.

“Let me try?”

You’re not really sure how she wants that to happen, and then you have an idea. You feel her eyes follow you as you go to the sink and wash your hands— you haven’t even answered her. And then, hands still a little damp, you press your index finger over the mouth of the tiny bottle and tip it until the syrup touches your skin. When you pull it away, a tiny circle of dark brown liquid sits on your fingertip.

“Here,” her eyes go wide as you approach, feeling the smile creep across your face.

“Taste.”

She sticks out her tongue, but doesn’t break eye contact as you press your finger to it. At first you think she’ll just lick it off, but her lips close and she sucks, swirling her tongue around the digit. Still, her eyes don’t leave yours. It sends a shudder through your body, an almost inaudible sound rumbling in your throat, but you’re sure she can feel the way you tense and your eyes flicker closed for a moment, breaking eye contact.

If you had any doubt about her intentions before, they’re crystal clear now.

“Mm,” she hums, letting your finger go with a pop.

“That’s good. What is it?”

You laugh. Is she really asking this now, while her saliva is still clinging to your skin, and your heart is thumping in your ears like a fucking freight train?

“It’s Cola, technically.” You answer, turning back to her drink for a moment of reprieve.

“Based on the original recipe. Just without the cocaine.”

That makes her chuckle. When you turn back, she’s smiling— properly, openly now, her cheeks slightly flushed and her head leaning back against the shelf. She licks her lip, again, as you pour liquid over ice and start to move the shaker.

Her eyes are trained on you as you focus in, hearing the cubes break apart and melt down against the metal. You are acutely aware, though, of her gaze— it shifts hungrily over your body, as if she’s never even seen a woman before, and something about the reckless, open honesty of it makes you want to scream and grab her all at once. But you choose to ignore her, instead straining the dark liquid into a rocks glass and handing it to her with a nod.

“Rum, not too sweet, and enough booze to knock you out,”

She laughs, tilting her head back as she sips. You weren’t lying, it is strong, and she winces slightly at the burn as it goes down.

“My god,” she mutters, suppressing a cough.

“Think I’ll just have one of those.”

You grin, watching her face as she drinks again. You know just how moreish that burn can be.

“It’s good though?” You lean over to her, hand resting lightly on her knee. You pretend not to notice the way she tenses under your touch, whether out of surprise or panic you’re not quite sure.

“You’ve got quite a skill there,” she observes, eyes following your hands as you rearrange bottles, shake the little bucket of lime slices, check the levels on each of the syrups. It turns out she is quite happy to just watch you, to put songs in your Spotify queue and to drink cheap rum straight out of the bottle that you leave on the side. She makes comments, occasionally, but mostly she is quiet, just watching.

You are making a cocktail when you realise she is drunk.

“Good with your hands,” the comment is almost slurred, soft and mumbled on an exhale rather than with any conviction. She is watching you twist a strip of lemon peel and guide it over the rim of a cosmopolitan.

“You reckon?” You tease, and she chuckles in that heavy lidded, mouth half open way you only get when your brain has checked out. It’s not even late yet, maybe one or two in the morning, and you know your night is not going to end well unless you get that bottle out of her hands. You scan the bar behind you, checking for incoming customers, before you turn to her.

“Give that here.” Your hands close around the neck of the bottle, but her grip refuses to relent. You shouldn’t really be shocked by how strong she is.

“I’m enjoying it!” She protests with a pout, tugging it back towards her body. But you don’t let go, just allowing her to pull you in, until you are far closer than is publicly appropriate and your heart is in your mouth. You have to get it off her.

“Hey,” you say softly, raising a hand to her cheek.

“Come here.”

Her eyes flutter closed and her head tilts into your palm. It feels cruel, watching the way she relaxes into you, like she’s been waiting for this.

Her grip on the bottle slackens, her other hand reaching for your waist. So you steal your chance, snatching the bottle away, and let go of her with a gentle stroke of your thumb along her jaw.

“Hey!” She protests, lunging for the bottle, swaying slightly as you hold it out of her reach. You quietly thank god she is sitting down.

“No.” The word comes out firm, and it takes her aback a bit.

“Sober up. And then maybe if you’re with it by the time my shift ends, you’ll get what you want.” You hiss in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear. She gulps— you see it in her throat.

“Vale.” She concedes.

“Can I have some water, then?”

It’s amazing how quickly she switches up, now she knows you’re on the same page. She drinks a glass of water, and then hops down from the bar like she’s trying to prove a point, walking slowly and steadily to the bathroom without wobbling once. Impressive.

When she comes back, instead of coming straight over she heads back to her friends. You watch, vaguely amused, as she kisses a few cheeks and ruffles Clara’s hair. Then she turns on her heel, and goes out the door. For a moment your heart drops, wondering if she really has taken herself home, and then you see her head leaning against the wall just below the window.

She saunters back in looking rather pleased with herself, brighter and a little more with it. But the hunger still dances behind her eyes, like she has something to prove.

“Just water, please.” She leans over the bar as if she’s ordering from you. You roll your eyes.

“You wandered off. Thought maybe you’d had enough of the free drinks.”

She chuckles, leaning forward, and her fingers find the curve of the snake shaped ring on your thumb.

“Nope.” She pops the “p” as she speaks, eyes sparkling. It draws your gaze to her mouth, as she sucks her lip between her teeth.

“I’m not going anywhere. Now please can I have some water? A pretty girl said she’ll kiss me if I sober up.”

You roll your eyes but reach below the counter to get a glass. She shamelessly looks down your shirt, and when you stand up she doesn’t stop looking.

“Watch it.” You warn, but your smirk tells her you’re just messing.

“Keep looking like that and the pretty girl might take her offer back.”

She pouts, dragging her hand along the bar as she comes around the back again.

“I’ll be on my best behaviour, promise.” She leans over your shoulder and plucks your phone from your back pocket, a mischievous smirk on her face. You let her take it, settling back in her spot on the bench, and start to clean down the bar. As it ticks closer to three, then four, people spill out into the streets and soon enough there are just a few stragglers, the gentle clink of glasses in the dishwasher, and her.

The lights are still on, bright and glowing in the windows, but your attention is snagged when the music shifts and some of them flicker off. You turn on the spot, rag in hand, to see her leaning over to the panel of switches by the kitchen door, her grin glinting in the low light.

“Nobody else is coming in now.” She says it plainly, like it’s a fact— which it is. But it also feels like a statement of intent.

“No,” you agree, running the cloth along the counter, but never pulling your eyes away. The music is soft now, acoustic, the kind of gentle that settles on your skin like sinking into warm water. She seems to feel it too, leaning her head against the wall, eyes tracking you as you move.

“What time do you finish?”

You laugh, although her eagerness is hardly taking you by surprise any more.

“Twenty minutes. I can probably start closing up now— if everyone’s gone, I can maybe close early,”

“That’s ages,” she whines, but you just roll your eyes.

“I’m sure you’re used to getting exactly what you want,” you start, almost daring her to contradict you.

“But I’m not missing out on half an hour's pay just because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

Claudia huffs, but resigns herself to waiting.

Your car is the last one outside. The streets are quiet, and the first grey strains of dawn are already threatening when you lock the front door behind you and pull the shutter down. She stands, dead still with her back against the wall, eyes trained on your face as you listen for the click of the padlock.

“Okay.” You straighten up, and her eyes sparkle when they meet yours.

“How are you feeling?”

She laughs, almost cynically, and pushes herself up away from the wall.

“I’m fine. I was sober hours ago. I’ve just been… waiting.”

“You coming then?” You open the passenger side door and walk around the car without asking again. She doesn’t respond either, just slips into the seat without a word, leaning back against the headrest and closing her eyes.

“Tell me it’s not far,” her voice is soft, strained, and she bites her lip when you settle a hand on her thigh. Your thumb moves slowly over the seam of her jeans, just teasing, but anyone would think you’d shoved your hand down them by the cracked, needy sound it draws from her.

“It’s not far.” You promise, eyes on the road, trying to ignore the thrum of your pulse against the inside of your skull as the warmth of her skin permeates through clothes to meet your palm. She shifts, pressing her legs together, trapping your fingertips between them. She stays like that, clamped up and trembling just slightly, until you pull your hand away and reach for the handbrake. Claudia’s eyes jolt open and she sits up, her breathing laboured.

“We’re here.” It comes out like a suggestion, rather than a fact, but she nods. You can feel her, warmth and shifting energy right behind you, the whole way up from the car park and across the foyer. You reach for the lift call and at that exact moment Claudia presses her mouth to the back of your neck. It’s hot, sticky, and she smells like rum and tobacco scented cologne.

“Cariño,” she breathes, nose still resting on your spine.

“It’s so slow.”

You turn, reaching for her hand as you watch the numbers slide down. She seems surprised, lacing her fingers through yours, and she confidently brushes her thumb over your knuckle and pulls you closer with a smirk. The steel door slides open and before you can turn to her, Claudia is backing you into the car, your hips hitting the handrail as her lips find your neck. She chuckles to herself, pleased at having caught you off guard. Although you feel your heart thrumming under her mouth, heat trickling down your spine, it only takes a couple of seconds for your brain to snap back into place and your hand to tangle underneath her ponytail.

“Do you honestly think.” You growl, yanking her head back and pivoting until her back is pressed against the wall,

“That you’re going to be in charge here? Even for one second?”

Her eyes go wide.

“I… yeah? I mean no. No.”

She is frozen, chest heaving with each breath, and those wide blue eyes gaze up at you expectantly. Like she’s waiting to see if she got it right.

“Correct answer. Well done.”

Your tone is perhaps a little harsh, and her head thumps back against the lift as you let go of her hair. You don’t look again as the lift doors slide open, and she follows you silently to the apartment. When you push the door open and step aside to let her in, she’s pouting— actually pouting— like she’s about to have a tantrum.

“Claudia?” It’s the first time you’ve said her name out loud.

“Yes?”

“Come here.”

She hesitates for a moment, the tiny crease of a frown still lingering between her eyebrows. Your hands find her waist easily, brushing under the hem of her vest to find bare skin. She lets out a shuddering breath as your mouth finds hers, relaxing just a little. The kiss is strange, somehow both soft and desperate, like she’s holding so much back and doesn’t want to give it away. She whimpers when your tongue brushes her lower lip, but she won’t let you in any further.

Fine, new approach.

You let her breathe, lips travelling down her neck, and then slide your hands down to the back of her thighs. She gasps, arms twining around your neck as her feet leave the ground, as if she cannot help it.

“Stop scowling.” You laugh, feeling a flush rise up your chest as her legs grip tightly at your waist. You push her back now, against the doorframe, teeth snagging at the skin of her neck and earlobe. Although she wriggles and tosses her head from side to side initially, you feel her legs tighten and her hips roll when you suck on the pressure point beside her jaw.

“Hmmmm, thought so. That’s better, isn’t it? Giving in?”

Claudia huffs, but her face is scarlet and her lower lip is swelling where she’s sucked it into her mouth so hard. You laugh, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her lips, and lift her away from the door.

When her back hits the mattress, it’s like the illusion falls away. Her eyes go dark, gaze flickering with yearning as she reaches up to pull you down. You go with a smile, kissing her hungrily as your hands tug her shirt away, knee dropping between hers until your hip touches her stomach and she bucks up against it.

“God, look at you. This is what you really wanted, isn’t it? To be pinned down.” As you speak her arms come up above her head, and she whines.

“Take it off. Please.”

Leaning on one elbow, you tug the offending article roughly off her, and allow your now free hand to hold hers down. She squirms when your mouth finds her chest, arching up, and she swears almost inaudibly as your teeth graze her nipple.

“You put up such a fight. Acting like you’re the one in charge. But I bet you’re soaked right now, just being under me. Hmm? If I touch you, are you gonna be wet? Should I see?” You taunt her just a little, watching as her cheeks turn red and her mouth parts softly with need.

“Yes. So wet. Please, I need—“

“I know.”

Instead of touching her you step back, looking at her sprawled amongst the pillows in only her jeans. You tug your work shirt off, slacks down, abandoning them in a heap on the carpet. Her hands, now free, go to the button of her jeans themselves, but you tut gently.

“Let me. You just lay there and look pretty.”

She blushes, and you tuck that one away in the back of your mind. Still, she shifts her hips to help, eyes fluttering closed as you ease the denim down past her knees. They fall apart naturally, even with her underwear still on, the jersey of her boxers clinging to her body. You can’t help the approving hum that escapes you when they come away too, leaving her bare, and you see, glistening on the fabric, just how badly she wants this. How long she’s been waiting.

“Jesus Christ.” That makes her sit up a little, looking down at you.

“All this, for me?”

She nods, small and restrained, teeth worrying at her lip again.

“So perfect.” You crawl up the bed beside her, leaning close, and she tilts her chin up.

“Please.”

“Please what?” Your noses bump, and you smile.

“Just… kiss me?”

So you kiss her, slow, deep, revelling in the way she opens up, relaxes back.

Her breathing is already shallow, and the whine starts as a breathy gasp until it is properly audible, rising and dying in her throat. Your hand rests on her hip, barely touching, but with each whine against your mouth she shifts, trying to move it.

“Just kiss you? You sure you just want me to kiss you?”

“Please.”

“What is it? Ask for it, bebé.”

“Touch me. Please. Please touch me.”

You kiss her once more, sweetly.

“Well done. Good girl.” She exhales hard, and then gasps with a shudder as your fingertips dance over her slit. Her knees are already splayed, lips glistening with fluid that smears across your fingers as you drag them up over her. She lets out a low, shaky moan.

“There she is. Relax for me. Yes, that’s it.”

Her head drops back, throat exposed as your fingers find her clit. You’re gentle at first, barely a whisper of a touch, and she seems suspended in some other space where you can barely reach her. As you tease, your mouth finds her throat again, tongue dragging sweat from the skin beneath her jaw. She keens, affected, and you slowly, slowly begin to wind her up. You go slow, because it’s fun— she accepts it because she doesn’t know what else to do. She starts to shake before you’ve even ventured inside her, her entire body trembling as she gasps and whimpers, her head turned now to hide her face in the pillow.

“Look at me.” You say it softly, but she reads it as an instruction. Her head turns, eyes locking with yours as helplessness rolls across her face.

“I’m—“ there isn’t even another word in her, or if there is she can’t find it.

“I know.” Your voice is drowned out as you press into her, curling a single finger forwards against the soft twitch of muscle. She makes a strangled, desperate noise, and for the first time she grabs you, fingernails digging into your shoulder.

“Yes,” she breathes, but it’s shaky, like she’s slipping.

“God yes.” Then she’s louder, pleading through gritted teeth. As a second finger joins your first, her eyes close, and you watch her eyelids flutter. Her hips roll, grinding up against your palm.

“Good girl. You’re doing so, so well. You gonna come for me, princesa? Make a pretty mess all over my fingers?”

She wails, and for a moment you wonder if she was waiting for permission. Regardless, she comes, hard. Your arm stings where her nails dig in, and all you can do is still your hand and let her writhe until she collapses, breathless.

“You okay?”

She nods, still flat on her back, but she watches you intently as you suck your fingers clean.

“You’re delicious, my god.“ you can’t help but groan a little at the taste of her.

When your eyes open, she is wiggling— up onto her hands and knees, one palm reaching for your chest to push you back.

“Oh, okay princesa. Gonna show me you’re talented as well as beautiful?” She flushes, smiling, but any bashfulness drops away quickly when her mouth meets the inside of your knee. She kisses her way up your thighs slowly, paying close attention to every inch of skin. She is so soft, mouth gentle and almost hesitant, but undoubtedly thorough. Her face is surprised when her nose meets the crease of your groin and finds it wet, like she wasn’t expecting it. She looks up, pausing for a second, and you run a reassuring hand over her cheek.

“Fucking you turns me on, so much. You’ve made a mess of me, bebé. Gonna clean it up?”

Without another word, she licks a broad, flat stripe over your cunt. Her tongue is hot, harsh, and a groan vibrates from her mouth through your body. She doesn’t pull back for breath, doesn’t speak, just reaches for your hand and guides it into her hair as she settles over your clit. And she is talented, but more than that she’s listening— to your breathing, the twitch of your body, the things she does that light you up. You are not quiet, letting her hear how good it feels, whispering praise through heaving breaths.

“Yes, that’s it. Fuck, that mouth is so perfect. You make me feel so good bebé. So— fucking good…” she steals the rest of the sentence away by dipping her tongue inside your body.

It’s unholy— precise and warm and exactly where you need her, lapping eagerly at your wetness. Your hand tightens in her hair and your hips lift, pulling her closer. Like this she is pressed against every single nerve, nose nudging your clit, the flex of her jaw against your pelvis sending deep pressure into your body. The tingle at the bottom of your stomach swirls, rising, and she urges it on.

“That’s it. Fuck, don’t stop. Just like that, I’m gonna—“

And then, with a growl, she shakes her head a little. Her tongue presses deeper, curling, and her nose presses hard against your clit. It sends you tumbling into a violent free fall, your fingers tangled in her hair as your hips roll. She laughs, stilling her mouth, holding her tongue inside you as the muscles clench around it.

“Fucking hell.” You eventually sigh, and she pulls back with a grin. You can barely catch your breath, but she is insatiable, trailing sticky lips up over your abdomen, pausing to suck a bruise beneath your left breast.

“You’re unbelievable.” You cannot hide the incredulousness in your voice, and it makes her smile. She crawls slowly up your body, letting her weight drop down on top of you, and she hums contentedly as your arms wind around her shoulders and you scratch the back of her head. You kiss her lazily, filthily, licking your own taste from the inside of her mouth. It pulls a needy, whining moan from her, and her body shifts to the side a little, knees dropping around your thigh. It makes you smirk, and you whisper into her mouth,

“Does my good girl want another one?”

She nods, and you both gasp as she shifts backward and her slick coats your thigh. As she sits up, arching her back, you let your hands go to her hips. The touch sets something off in her— she swears, grinding down, and her mouth drops open wide. She’s seeking, squirming, shifting her body and searching for pressure. But the frustration in her face is evident, a pout settling on her mouth, and she huffs out a frustrated whine.

“Hmm, can’t do it by yourself bebita? Want some help?”

She doesn’t stop moving, but her voice is strained as she speaks.

“Yes, please, I… I need you inside me, please,”

You think for a moment that she’s crying. Her lip wobbles and she flops down onto the bed, so you place a reassuring hand on her stomach as you reach into the bedside drawer. She watches, breath held, as you step into the harness, shifting the strap into place and laying back against the pillows. She lets you take her hand, opening her palm, and doesn’t flinch as you squeeze lube into it.

“Go on.”

Your lip catches between your teeth as she shifts onto her knees, hand stroking steadily over the silicone. Then she looks up, hand suspended in midair, and you smile.

“Well done, that’s perfect. Now let me get that,” you take her wrist, gently, and wipe her hand clean with a tissue. Her breath stutters when you let go, lacing your fingers through hers instead and pulling her up to sit over your hips. She glances down as you reach between her legs, guiding the head to rest against her body. When you squeeze her hand, a gentle reassurance, she starts to move, just a little.

“That’s it. Wanna see you let go, cariño. Let me fuck you properly,”

She is a little unsteady at first, and she grips you tightly as her body drops shakily down to meet you. You pull her down, chest to chest, hands smoothing the skin of her back as you lift your hips gently beneath her. She shudders, taking a deep breath, but you feel her relax a little when you say

“Atta girl. Taking me so well. You feel so good, bebé.”

You fuck her slow. She’s already over sensitive, trembling, whining softly into your neck with each thrust. You speak gently into her ear, whispered reassurance, and it keeps her steady and yielding. You can almost feel her building back up, the way the muscles in her legs tense, and her hips start to respond to your movements.

It still takes you by surprise, though, when she braces her hands against your shoulders and sits back. The angle of the strap shifts inside her and she groans, rolling her body down against you, and you allow your eyes to travel up over her. It’s like her body has taken over the battle with her mind, inhibitions dropping away in a second. Her stomach, arms, neck all tense and flex as she moves, pure muscle and sinew, and the sweat that trickles down her chest makes your mouth water.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy. You look so good on top of me. Does it feel good, bebé?”

She nods hard, shuddering, and groans.

“So good. So fucking good.”

You let your hands find her again, anchoring her waist as her movements start to falter. Her sounds get louder, and she leans into your touch as you guide her against the strap.

“Oh my god.” Her voice drops away almost entirely, a shaky, gasping breath snagging in her throat, and her eyes lock onto yours as she comes. It’s like you’re holding her mentally as well as physically, like for a split second she’s terrified to let you see it, and then it breaks in waves across her face and wracks through her body over and over. You smile softly, still holding her, humming encouragingly as she chases. Eventually she goes weak, pitching forward until her forehead rests on your collarbone.

“Shh you’re alright, princesa,” you smooth the flyaways back from her face and kiss the top of her head softly. She doesn’t object when you roll her gently onto her side, arms bracing around her back, and say,

“G’na pull out now, okay? Breathe for me bebé.”

She takes a deep, slow breath as you ease out, whining a little at the loss. You wriggle the harness out from under your hips, and she crawls back into your arms without question. It feels good, the weight of her on top of you, skin sweat—stuck together like extricating her would be criminal.

“What’s the time?”

You reach for your phone on the bedside, the screen flashing up blue. You’re acutely aware that the room is light, lighter than it would be at an idea bedtime.

“It’s 6:30. Jesus.”

She groans, smacking her hand to her forehead.

“I have a meeting at 10. Fuck.”

“It’s okay.” You hum, stroking her hair smooth, pulling her back into you.

“Sleep a little. There’s time. I’ll drive you there.”

She lifts her head from your chest and looks up.

“You will?”

“Course. I brought you here, didn’t I? It’s only fair.”

She nestles into your chest, and lets out a sigh you didn’t realise she’d been holding.

“This was… nice,” Claudia remarks, her hand lingering on the car door as she climbs out.

“It was. Maybe we should do it again,”

She hums, nodding.

“Do bartenders even go for drinks? Or maybe dinner?”

You laugh.

“I do drink, yes. But dinner would be nice, actually. And maybe if you swing by the bar again, I’ll promote you to Head DJ.”

Claudia laughs and goes to close the door, and then hesitates again, leaning in.

“Can I kiss you?”

You scoff, the question seeming slightly ridiculous given the way you’d spent the last few hours.

“Of course you can. C’mere.” She ducks back into the car, leaning over the console. The kiss she presses to your lips is sweet, and it lingers a moment longer than you would have thought. She smiles as she pulls back and allows the door to close.

“Bye.”

“See you later.”

And you would.