#*logan

Deeper. Flick your eyes up and watch how he’s covering his mouth, biting into a finger. Other hand buried in your hair. You reach up then, under his shirt. Palm flat over his chest, and you take him a little deeper. Again. Further. 

Hear the drag of your name. How it catches and dissolves, putty in your hands, as your nose bumps his skin and. Focus on breathing now. Swallow. Ricardo grunts, eases you back. “Shit, Logan…” 

Release the tip of his cock with a pop, drag your tongue down. Don’t give him a moment to breathe. Roll his nipple between your fingers. Calloused hands and flat tongue. The wink is his trademark, his style, but it’s appropriate, for when you lean back, just enough. Massage the curve of his knees with your thumbs.

“Alright there, liebling?”

Ricardo hasn’t quite let go of his finger, teeth leaving little half moons in the skin. Chest heaving, and he had half a moment, until he stops. Hand that goes over his face, rubbing at his eyes. Something of a laugh that comes out, just on the side of strangled, trying to make up lost ground. 

“You always were good with your mouth.”

It’s your turn to snort, light smack on his thigh, as you rest on your heels now. “Is that a ‘thank you’?” You wanted to stretch, just a little, and shift, extend your leg out, just enough. This wasn’t like seven years ago. 

Except, whatever he was going to say, gets lost in the, “Carino, you’re not done… are you?”

And it’s your turn to blink, slow, focused. “I was cramping, it’s—”

“Always cramping.” Ricardo laughs, then. A look that was only framed strangely with how his cock was still out, heavy, slick. Against his thigh.

“Some of us don’t have a medical team on speed dial.” Hands on the chair, pushing it back from the desk. Give yourself some more room. “Have to resort to good ol’ heat pads and ibuprofen.”

The short stunned pause almost offends you, before, “are you seriously—”

“I’m kidding!”

In one movement, that you had to give yourself credit for being a lot smoother than you thought it would be, you’re leaning up. Lips brushing his, pulling back just as he tilts in. Ricardo’s turn to pout, the slight slip dragging you in once more. You can’t help yourself, not when he sighs your name against the corner of your mouth. Always knew how to get to you.

Your laughter is caught up in the huff, strangled and a little bit of a giveaway. Even as you sink back down, pepper the kisses south, fingers seconds ahead. A hand that returns to resting against your head, teetering on the other side of encouraging, and you’re halfway to saying something, when the shrill tone of your phone goes off. 

Twice.

“Logan,” and he says it with some amount of, well, you can’t quite put a finger on what the actual tone was. 

Lean back on your heels again. Fish it out of your pocket, mindful of everything, pinching between thumb and forefinger. Dry cleaning later definitely. No caller ID and it was one of those days you weren’t sure who was a little more annoyed at your line of business. “What?”

Nice and flat and no nonsense. Ignoring the blithering of someone or other who wanted to make a cut into your territory and was pandering to—

Ricardo was levelling you with a look now. Unamused. Hand over the receiver. “How does it feel to be on the other side?”

Three blinks and the way his expression rolls around, tinged with understanding, has you cough into your hand and, “yes, I’m here. What do you want?”

You’re not paying attention. Not in the slightest. A few well timed grunts and maybe the odd, ‘yeah, okay’, if only because you’re too busy leaning into your hand. Idle finger dragging along the underside of his cock. Ricardo leans forward then, mouth in a hard line. Brush of hands. There’s a pause, where you look up at him then.

“Get off the fucking phone.” His hands are a little too fast, and Ricardo repeats the sentence twice, punctuating with a, “now.”

Shake your head, tempt fate. Ricardo finds purchase on the desk behind you, and you’re mouthing, signing, no, don’t you dare! Lowers himself down, weight on you. Even as you shuffle back, trying to hear the conversation that was supposed to be important and business and—

“Hang up.”

“I didn’t do this to you last time!” Words choppy, one handed, but you punctuate the slowly disappearing space between the two of you with a very pointed look. 

No, you had been quite polite and waited out the call last time. Was Ricardo simply more persuasive than you? A thought that almost gave you heart palpitations, no, of course not. Proactiveness that was definitely an attribute to being semi-retired, with how he all but plucks the phone from your hand, hangs up, tosses it aside.

“If that cracks, you’re buying me a new one.”

“I’ll buy you ten if you kiss me right now.”

Who would you be to argue that offer? Arms around his neck as he lowers the both of you down. In the uncomfortable space that occupied the underside of his desk, the world slipped just a little warmer, your breath and the way he grunts, nails that drag through his hair. “Remember that one time we did this in the Marshal’s office?” You laugh, because of course you do.

Ricardo’s chuckle is three points more affectionate, as he presses his lips to the curve of your jaw, runs down your skin. “Didn’t you call me ‘sir’?” 

“Mmm, I don’t remember that.”

Something that sounded vaguely like an ‘of course not’, but lost in the way his hands go to the line of your jeans, fingers hooking in. Across, to meet in the middle, finding the button and zipper. You raise your hips, reaching between to try to help. Hurry. When,

Your phone buzzes once more. Tilt your head back, and it’s lit up, alert, please. To be fair, they had been hung up on.

“Logan, come on, don’t—”

Twist underneath him, moving that half inch of convincing to reach for the phone. “Get your dick off my pants.” 

“It’s not on your pants.” And for emphasis, he raises his hips. Barely enough.

“Don’t put your back out, old man. Wouldn’t want to press your buzzer and have someone find you like this.” Was your hand wavering? You were so easy.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”