#robert laing

Robert orders cabernet as he hands over the tall wine menu to the server. He marches away diligently. You sling your purse by the strap over the back of the chair and face him, finally settling in. 

“Long days?” He asks in that dulcet tone. It’s a perfect counterbalance to your wound nerves. Hopefully that wine will be too. 

“How did you know I prefer red?” You ask. 

“Fifty-fifty chance I got it right,” he tilts his head. “That’s a lovely colour on you.” 

You look down at the bluish gray. The same shade you might find on a pigeon’s wing. Not very bold but more than neutral. 

“You’ve got your deal, Mr. Laing. No need for flattery.” You arch a brow at him. 

“It’s Robert, and it’s only honest. I’ve never been one for empty lies.” 

“Mm,” you hum. 

The server returns and presents the bottle. Laing gives a nod of approval. You wait patiently as the wine is poured. The server leaves you with some time to review the other menu. 

Laing takes his glass and raises it. “Cheers.” 

“Salut,” you clink and slowly hover the rim before your lips. You drink and he does too. His eyes remind you of the dress. That bluish grey, almost icy. 

“Well, I’ve sent you the link for your digital signature, so why exactly am I here? If you are to the point, Mr... Robert?” You challenge as you place your glass on the table. 

His cheek dimples. He takes a cloth napkin and dabs his lips. His gaze doesn’t falter. 

“I’ll be honest then. I was planning on dinner, only wine.” 

“That’s great,” you grin. “I’m not very hungry.” 

You push the toe of your heel against his ankle. His lips slant. You lift your glass again. 

“I also can’t stand the whole prologue. I’m much more a fan of the main show,” you intone. 

🍸

You push back into Robert. Your eyes roll back as he sinks to his limit. You grip the warped sheets, twisted from your pleasure. His long fingers frame your hips as you slide down his length and rear once more into his pelvis. The slap of your flesh is loud, the impact rippling through you. 

You bite your lip and hum. You lean your head back and he releases your left him. He reaches and clutches your hair in his fist. You arch your spine as he pulls you up, lifting you to your fingertips. He squeezes your hip and holds you still, pumping into you without restraint. 

Your voice drones from you, unfurling into the lamplit din. The city passes outside the high rise window. You put your hand over his and clasp onto his fingers. 

“Harder,” you command. 

He obliges. You growl and slide your hand up to his rist. You lift yourself up, pushing back against him as he ruts. You rest your head on his shoulder as he hooks his arm around you, his other hand cupping your chest. 

You dip your fingers between your folds, rubbing your clit. He tuts and slips his hand down, flicking yours away. He takes over, thrusting into you deeper and deeper. You moan and focus on that thrumming pulse. Almost there, almost there. 

You cum with a quiver in your thighs. You brace his leg, feeling the taut muscle, and whine out your release. He follows not long after, his sweat trickling from his hair onto your shoulder.  

He pants weakly as he stills and keeps you against him. He loops his arm around you and keeps you in his lap. He rests his head on your shoulder. 

“Didn’t see that in the fine print,” he snickers. 

“Mm, you are a writer,” you muse and lean forward. You slide off of him and he groans. 

“I’ve a way with words... among other things.” 

“Four stars,” you remark as you sit at the foot of the mattress. 

“What happened to the fifth?” He challenges as he climbs off the bed. He takes a tissue from the box on the night table and rolls the condom up his dick. He catches it in the tissue. 

“Always leave room for improvement,” you chuckle. 

“Fair, I suppose,” he walks away, the light of the bathroom flicking on and illuminating his shadow on the floor. 

You stand and stretch out your legs. It’s been a while, you have to admit. You find your dress crumpled on the floor. Before you can grab your bra from atop the pillows, a buzz stops you. 

Your phone, on the low coffee table where you shared more wine. You go to it, hugging the dress to your chest, and bend to scoop up your cell. You are disappointed but not surprised to see your boss’ name. It’s not yet nine o’clock. That’s early for him. 

You put the phone back. You collect your panties and bra, then tuck your stockings into your purse. You go the bathroom as Robert comes out, a robe around him. 

“You don’t have to run out,” he taps your ass. 

“I should go home. Get some sleep.” 

“You can sleep here,” he offers. 

“But I won’t,” you counter.” 

He laughs. You’re right. You close the door behind you. You clean yourself up then pull on your panties. You hook your bra and slip back into your dress. You tidy your hair and wipe off what’s left of your makeup. 

You go back out. The phone buzzes anon. Robert stands by the window, watching the city. 

“You’re done with me?” He asks. 

“You know what this was.” 

“Fun,” he turns and leans on the wall beside the window. 

“Yes, very much.” 

“Well, the next time I’m in town...” 

“You really want to come back?” 

“I’ll write another book,” he says. 

“Alright,” you shrug and grab your purse and phone. 

As you head for the door, he clucks. You stop and look back as you step into your shoes. 

“Going home or going to change his nappy?” Robert challenges. 

“I’m off the clock,” you assure him and shove the cell into your purse. “Have a good night, Mr. Laing.” 

“I’ll do my best without you,” he slithers. 

You scoff and leave. You walk down the hall in silence. Your heels tap dully on the shining floor. You stop before the elevator as your bag shakes. 

You sigh and reach inside. You rip out the phone and answer it. “Mr. Drysdale, I’m busy.” 

“Oh yeah?” Ransom slurs, “bussssssy? At a hotel?” 

“Excuse me,” the hairs on your neck stand and the elevator doors open. 

“I saw youuuu. You went with him. After the wine....” 

You cringe as the elevator descends. He followed you. You didn’t even notice. 

“And I had wine too,” he hiccups. 

“Of course you did.” 

“But I didn’t do what you did,” he giggles. 

You snarl and hang up. You march out and through the lobby. You stop and turn at the entrance to the restaurant. You look inside. There he is, at the bar, about to fall off the stool. 

You spin and take a step. You stop. Goddamn it.