#thots !

You should have known. 

You should have known this planet would be nothing but a bad omen when you had to emergency land on it. When you lost contact, your ship deciding to stop working properly. When the only way of getting out a signal was to rig the system built within the interface of the hunk of metal. Ultimately destroying any chance of getting out of here on it but allowing you to get out a weakened signal, you hoped your home planet would come and swiftly send someone to you before this planet showed just why it was inhabitable by those who walked on two legs and didn’t prefer the taste of game. 

You should have known that Mills would be the worst person to crash land with.

Should have known he’d only raise your blood pressure and have a permanent scowl curve your brows until it gave you a headache. 

And you really should have known that he’d be this big. 

His stature alone suggesting that was more to him than broad deltoids beneath those clothes. More than just deadpan looks and side eyes of scolds and warnings behind those iris’s. Behind the moments and trips the two of you have taken together over the years. 

You should have known that his cock would stretch you like this. Making your insides burn when he thrusts inside of you. Your walls accommodating something that’s bringing you pleasure at the same time it has you mewling in pain—something big and hot and heady that’s making your fingers dig into the dirt. 

Your back arched at an angle that has your body scraping forward against the ground every time Mills snaps his hips against your ass. His cock going deeper and deeper—the tip hitting that spot inside of you that makes your body want to run from him, want to escape the pleasure and the sting of him going past what your bodies used to—his nails digging into your hips. Moonshaped marks embossed in your skin as he holds your ass in place. As he refuses to let you squirm away from him.

Because you wanted this, didn’t you?

“You’ve been begging for it.” He says with a heavy breath. A groan mixed somewhere in there, you’re sure of it but can’t decipher it fully with how you sound. How the back of your hand is covered in your own drool and bite marks from trying to muffle the moans and whines coming from your mouth. 

There’s a rock under your knee that has left an imprint into your bone, has cut the skin with how your body is moving. If you focus on it hard enough, you may even feel a trickle of blood. Or the indents of stone and caked on dirt on your elbows. 

But all you can feel—all you can hear, sense, smell—is Mills and what he’s doing to you. What he’s doing to your body and how you never want him to stop. Never want to go back to the time when the two of you pretended there was nothing there. 

The thrusting of his hips imprinted on your nerve endings, and you can’t imagine a time, a moment, or a place where you don’t want him to bend you over something and take you. Have you. 

“Who knew all you needed was my cock to have you so compliant.” Mills grabs the back of your neck. His grip just as rough and embossed as the fingers at your hips. The weight of his chest drapes over you in a way that has you pushed further into the ground and your ass higher in the air, shoving his cock to the hilt, a cry falling from your lips. His name coated in a pleading whimper. 

“Next time you’re not listening to me, all I’ll have to do is fuck you, huh? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re ready to admit who’s in charge here.” 

There’s some part of your psyche that wants to fight against this. That wants to throw his words back in his face with something snide and angry, but you’re fucking pudy between his fingers, and he’s molding you into a perfect compliant hole for him. 

Into someone who wants to follow his orders just as long as they get his cock in return. 

But you still open your mouth to try to tell him just as much. To ask him to fuck you harder or agree with him, you’re not sure because it dies in your throat.

The words fall to the pit of your stomach as the both of you stop in place as your body feels the soft rumble of something moving outside of the cave. The rustling of trees, rocks, and branches being stepped on. 

“Mills,” you murmur his name. Soft enough for him to hear but apparently too loud for his liking as he shushes you. His hot breath against your ear, his hands maneuvering your legs so they’re underneath him now as he lays on top of you. The massive width of his chest makes you feel engulfed in him. 

His hair against your cheek, his breath held in his lungs just like your own. 

You try to listen. Try to hear anything approaching, growing closer to your indisposed state. The two of you not in a position to move as quickly as you should to protect yourselves. Mills not seeming to be as on edge as you are, the faith he has in himself to grab his gun quickly enough if whatever is outside moves in closer, is almost aggravating. 

Your mouth parts to tell him this, to push him off of you so the both of you won’t die while he’s still hard inside of you. 

But instead of an argument, a gasp falls from your lips as you feel Mills rock his hips against you. The tip of his cock pulled back to your entrance only to be thrust back in slow, and agonizingly sharp all in one quick rock. 

“Mi-” his palm presses against your mouth, silencing you.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your ear. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve been needing this, to fuck you.” His heavy breath and the deep timber of his tone as he tries to keep quiet, as he speaks the words for only you to hear, to know, and to feel, wash over your spine and lay achinly between your thighs where the shallow rock of his hips against your ass has your nailbeds housing rockbed as you try not to become a sobbing mess behind his hand. “You feel s’fucking good.”

And if the two of you were to die like this; with Mills rutting against you, his cock stretching you, his deep breaths and praises against your ear, your slick coating his length as you come, and his come leaking from you—leaving your pussy a warm and sticky mess as he continues to thrust inside of you even after the fact, as if he’s trying to keep all he can inside of you—then so be it. 

"Tommy can handle things," he murmurs against your skin. Rolls his hips up against your ass, the fabric of his sweatpants and your underwear causing just enough friction to rile you up in the same hand, it frustrates you from not feeling the hot drag of him bare against your ass.

"Hell must have frozen over," you tease. Reach your arm back to run your fingers through his hair. "Joel Miller, take a day off? It’s insanity." 

"Who said anything bout a day off?" He corrects, clarifies that the thought alone is the true insanity. "Just need a couple hours to be inside you," his tongue runs along your jugular. Teeth nipping at the vein, making you preen against him. 

You nod, give no argument because there is none when he’s working you up like this. When his mouth is edging you with both words and tongue. Fingers toying with your breasts, cock grinding into your ass—your core throbbing. 

You turn your head to meet his mouth, pulling him from your neck to breathe a whimper into his mouth, when you feel fingers move along the front of your clothed pussy. 

"Whatever the birthday boy wants."

Joel hums against your mouth. Hooks two fingers into the side of your underwear, yanking the wet fabric to the side and exposing you to the heat of the room; to his cock that he shimmies out of his sweats. The tip hot and searing when it spreads your wet lips; the sound vulgar and dirty. The underside of his cock catching on your clit and making your hips jerk. 

"The only thing I want right now is t'fuck this pretty pussy till my come is leaking from it," he groans into your mouth as he lines himself at your entrance and slowly pushes inside. You don’t need him to work you open with your fingers; don’t need that extra stretch to ease himself inside. Your walls accommodate him perfectly, given how wet he’s made you. 

His thrusts start out slow, dragging his cock almost all the way out of you. The tip the only thing fucked into you until you’re begging, and he’s pumping every inch into you with a slow push of his hips. 

His hand around your throat keeps your mouth fixed on his. Keeps your back arched and ass right where he needs it, so he can keep using your pussy, slamming his hips against your ass, dragging his cock against your walls, hitting spots he couldn't if you were in a different position. The heady torment heightened by his beard burning your cheek and chin from his lips, tongue, and teeth.

Your nails dig into his arm, "fuck, Joel." 

"I know, baby. It’s good. S’good." His thrusts pick up. Turn hard and fast, your body pushed and pulled back onto him—onto his cock. Your shared noises of ecstasy swallowed by the other's tongue, filling the room in a lewd show of desire and pleasure. "Can you beg for it–fuck–beg for my come. Your pussy's grippin’ me so tight." Hot breath brushes against your ear, his voice all you can hear; his grunts, groans, begging, and need. Completely absorbing himself into your very being. 

Joel Joel Joel. 

"Know you want it. Can feel how bad you need it," his teeth nip at your lobe. "Beg me." 

And you do. 

Beg him as you come. 

Beg him as you grip onto his arm, eyes screwed shut. A scorching heat taking over your body. Rendering you stiff and limp in his grasp. Your head feels hazy, dazed, and blissful. 

Joel grunts a string of curses and "that’s my girl, that’s it, that’s it, just like that." As you grip and tighten, and plead, around him until he’s spilling into your aching pussy. 

After he’s pulled out of you, your body still hot and sweaty against his; his fingers move through your wetness. Smearing the evidence of both your arousals along your core, coating your clit with the rotation of quick fingers that makes you hiss and jolt from oversensitivity. His fingers dip inside of you—to gather more, to follow the pattern he just followed, you expect.

The coated pads find your mouth instead. A wordless demand tapped against your lips obeyed as they press against your tongue. Lathering your taste buds with the bitter taste as you suck and lick the mixture of you and Joel off of his fingers. Of what you begged for. 

What he needed. 

When Miguel presses two fingers onto your clit, the obscene noises that are coming from where the two of you are connected—where the squelch of your mixed fluids are composing a symphony of desire, where you're coating Miguel's cock entirely, where your thighs are slick and sticky with your own wetness—only intensify. 

Your eyes rolling back, your teeth digging into your bottom lip, and your eyelids drooping in that pitiful way that makes him smile when you turn to face him. 

Your current position has you perfectly spread for him as he spears you with his cock; in his lap, your back pressed to his chest, legs spread out on either side of his knees. 

When he walked through the door hours ago, your overjoyed smile and blissful conversation quickly turned into smirks and moans molded against his mouth. His fingers doing the talking—the steady pull of your clothes from your body, the grip on your hips as he pulled you down on top of him on the nearest surface. His claws come out for half a second, digging into your hip to tug your hips forward and back against his hardness. 

Letting you know his restraint was holding on by a thread. 

“Miss me?” His lips moved along your neck. Your nod answered with a, “gonna show me how much?” which led to you on your knees between his legs with his cock pressed against your tongue and that scowl on his brows morphing into something pleasurable and demanding—demanding of more, to fuck your throat until you forgot how to breathe properly if your lungs weren’t trying to expand around him. 

It hadn’t lasted nearly as long as you wished before he was easily pulling you from the floor and into his lap, maneuvering you into the position he wanted, his hand around your throat as he thrust up into you. Your nails digging into his arm at the tight stretch that burned through your lower half at his girth. 

And before you could even think to continue the count—before your brain hadn’t become mush from the hammering of his hips and dirty words—you had come three times. 

Or was it four?

Five?

It was hard to tell when Miguel gave you half a respite before his fingers were back on your clit and you were squirming in his lap, making his cock hit places inside of you that had you gasping for air and arching your back. 

The sensitivity that felt like pleasurable pinpricks to the muscles of your inner thighs—and your fucked swollen walls—made your body go rigid against him. “I've been thinking about this for days,” his mouth sucks at your shoulder. The brush of his teeth makes you whimper, and the nick of one of his fangs makes your back bow. “Fucking you for hours. Making you come until you’re too swollen and sensitive to take me.” 

His hips snap up in a hard thrust that has a sob pulling through your weak moans when it’s complemented with his fingers pinching your clit between them for half a second before he continues the same rhythmic pattern that has pulled so many orgasms from your pliant body—your overworked and overfucked body—for the last hour. 

“Miguel,” your lungs try to catch the breath that he’s taking from you. By his cock, his fingers, his mouth, and teeth on the pressure points of your upper half that, as always, make you putty in his fingers for him to mold and shape into the perfect little wife waiting for him back at home to use, and take apart with his cock whenever it pleased him to do so.

The words you’re looking to say, to hopefully stop the torture he’s delivering to your swollen clit, catch on a harsh moan at the back of your throat. Miguel chuckles softly against your shoulder blade before pulling his mouth from your skin. The fingers leaving indents against your hip move to your jaw to bring your gaze back to him. 

And all you can do is shake your head at the expectant arch of his brows. 

If you could curse him for looking so good right now, you would. His heavy breathing, mixed with the growls and grunts he's been doing in your ear each time you're about to come, "that's it, that's it, you're gripping my cock s'good, amorcito," and the indent of his fingers on your thighs and throat when he needs to pull you back from that pleasurable delirium that has your eyes glazing over, are the only indications that he is as much a needy mess as you right now.

That animistic need in him completely taking over.

The tumbles of mixed sentences in English and his native tongue, the way he shapes them into something so beautifully filthy makes your body heat even more.

“Your body craves this does it not? It has to. The way it stretches and opens up for me. Calling me home. Where I’m meant to be, where you take me so well. As if your body were made for me to take like this. Claim you in the ways a god would a decibel.” He grunts, his palm running down the curve of your hip, over your ass, and between your legs where the two of you are connected. Where he can spread you wider, “and you’re so eager to take me, aren’t you?”

You can only answer him in a muffled cry. A cry that sounds like a hymn to his ears.

Facts you’ve come to learn from your own foolishness—and the countless times your boss has sent you to deal with a fuckup he made. Because who’s going to mess up such a pretty face. His words, when you had told him to do it himself. But his cowardice won out, and you had to grit your teeth and refrain from familiarizing your fist with his jaw. 

Smuggling, stealing, and scavenging were preferable to cleaning up shit or burning corpses until the stench of burnt hair and skin embedded in your own flesh lingered far beyond any crevices murky bucket water could clean. 

And besides the few assholes you had to deal with, the job wasn’t bad. 

Joel could be put on that asshole list. He was definitely on Robert’s. But to be fair, if you too had gotten a handful of blackened eyes and bruised ribs from Joel, you’d send a lackey to do your job to cover your ass for having screwed the man over once again. 

Unlike the other assholes he sent you to deal with, dealing with Joel was more of a pleasure than an inconvenience. 

Even if he could read through your bullshit. Maybe that’s why you liked him so much. Why these meetings went so easy, you could lie through your teeth and he could decipher the truth through your smirk and tone so easily that you barely had to try to be believable because you knew he already knew the truth. 

But that didn’t mean you still didn’t try to come up with your best lie. to prod at that scowl until it thinned out, his jaw clenched, sick of your shit before the game even started. 

Playing dumb had no room between the two of you because there was a lack of it. Not when his chest is pressed to yours, pushing you further into the wall, making your lungs gasp for the air he’s forcing out of you. 

“You gonna keep me here all night, or are you gonna make this easy for both of us?” His tone stern, rigid, threatening. 

And you’d be scared if you couldn’t feel the hardness of his cock pressing into your inner thigh. If the two of you weren’t used to this. This little game—the play before the third act—that has curses and nails digging into each other's skin. 

You once attempted to retrace the events that led to this situation that the two of you frequently found yourselves in—touches and grazes that only occurred during these meetups. Your eyes avoided each other in crowds and on the street when you weren’t in this alley. When you weren’t making a show of threats and being pissed off. 

The anger was always real for Joel, though. Always truly pissed off at Robert’s need to be a slime ball. The anger never faltered, even when he was buried deep inside of you. You paid the price, that would usually be a punch, a bruise, with a hard fuck and not being able to sit down the next day without wincing. 

And in the sickest, filthiest way, you loved it. But that is what this world creates—ways to survive and sustain. To cover up the ugly with something that stings and burns with safety and life. A reminder that what you’re doing isn’t as bad as what's beyond the walls. You can still feel bad, hurt, and fuck because you're alive and not growing fungus. 

“It wasn’t–”

The tight grab of your jaw, his fingers digging into your heated skin, make your words die on your tongue. “No matter how many times you repeat it, don’t mean I’m gonna believe it. What did Robert do with the battery? Bullshit me and you’ll regret it.”

“That a promise?” Your smirk lasts all of a few seconds before you’re wincing from the marks he’s leaving against the skin of your jaw. A silent threat. A look of rage in his eyes; a fire you know you won't be able to extinguish no matter how many jokes and lies you tell tonight. “He sold it to someone else.” 

“Who?”

“Ahh, I don’t know.” Your nails dig into his wrist as you try to pry it from your aching jaw. His brows raise a warning that this is your last chance. “I swear.”

There’s a low growl in the back of his throat as he releases you, but he makes no move to remove his closeness. His chest still stealing your air. There’s a slight look of anguish laced in his curses and lowered brows. It makes you feel bad, and it's annoying. 

Robert was a piece of shit, but it wasn’t your fault he fucked up this deal. So why should you feel bad? Take on those feelings when it wasn’t your deal to begin with. It’s not as if you and Joel were anything but warm bodies to take things out on. He didn’t need your pity, and you didn’t have the energy to give it to him. 

What you did have the energy for, though, was making the inside of your thigh unbearably hot. That heat trailing up your body and embedding itself in the ache between your legs that housed your desire for Joel. 

It’s why you don’t think twice about rocking your hips forward at the right angle so the seam of your jeans rubs against the top of his thigh, giving you the friction your throbbing pussy needs—your own thigh rubbing along his hard cock. 

The shudder your body gives from the motion, the repetition of it, makes your insides melt even more when Joel’s glare burns a hole through you. He makes no move to  stop you. Just watches you, eyes flashing between your lips and the way your hips move against him. 

“Joel,” you whine. The noise is more of a demand than a plea for him to touch you. To get to the best part of your night before FEDRA catches you coming on his thigh and the two of you get locked up. 

“What? You don’t need me to get you off; if you want it, take it.” His palms splay outward and bracket around your head as he puts them on the dirty brick, encasing you completely now. Shielding you from the darkness around you, all you can smell is him—musky, burnt coal, wood—in the same breath as all you can feel is his weight on you. 

“Joel.” Your hips stutter to a stop. You refuse to beg him; you didn’t beg. Neither before nor after the world went to shit. You were not going to start now, even if the outcome would be in your favor. 

Was this your punishment for the fuckup? “Are you really punishing me right now?” You want to laugh, want to berate him, and feed him more bullshit so he can’t see the disappointment that’s slowly seeping into your chest. 

He doesn’t answer, just pushes his leg up and moves it along the crotch of your jeans. "Go ahead,” his mouth comes closer to yours. "Take what you want, isn't that what you do anyway? You take and take,” his movements match his words. "And there's no consequence," he says, as your nails dig into his shirt and your hips move involuntarily after each drag and pull. “Not for you, why would there be? You’re just the messenger.” His teeth bite at the skin of your chin, causing you to whimper. 

You let out a soft cry when his fingers dig into your hair, pulling the strands so your neck is on display for him. So he can bite and lick the sensitive skin with roughness, “So take what you want. Do your job.” 

The closer you get to coming, the harder he pushes up against you. The more your legs shake from the stance and strain, the more your knuckles and fingers burn from gripping the fabric of his shirt. His mouth is everywhere but on yours, where you dumbly wish it was. Where you refuse to beg him to go. 

But you don’t need them to get there. To tumble over that precipice and see stars behind your lids. All you need is more, just a little bit more, and you’ll be com–

Your body feels cold and stilted in time when he pulls away. Leaving your hips to follow nothing but air, your whimpers and moans turned into puffs of agitation. Whines swallowed down your dried throat. 

Joel doesn't give you a chance to reprimand or lament the orgasm you were about to have. To gather yourself enough to jab him with a brash comment covering up your need. His hand on your forearm squeezes and maneuvers you so your back is to him instead of the wall. His weight encases you once more, your cheek pressing into the cold brick. The tip of his boot kicks at your feet to spread your legs; your body moves on instinct and desire as your back bows and you push your ass out to him.  

The drag of your jeans and underwear feels chafed and tight just below your ass, where Joel lets them rest. Where he’s too impatient to push them further down, giving himself enough room for him to push inside of you. 

His fingers brush against your ass as he pulls himself from his jeans, wrapping a hand around his cock to bring it to where you’re soaked and pounding for him. Where all your heat is concentrated from how badly you want this. 

Your nail beds scrape against the caked-on dirt of the building as the tip of his cock crests your entrance. A moan rips through the back of your throat, loud and raw, as your walls stretch and burn to accommodate his girth. 

Your chest heaves harder as Joel's hand moves to cover your mouth, eyes screwed shut as he bottoms out. Nudging at the part of you that has you squirming against him, your thighs scraping against the building. 

And when he delivers the first thrust, hard and slow, those delirious black stars line your vision. Pleasure shooting through your spine in a way that has desperate and pathetic noises falling from your lips and to the rough skin of the palm encasing them.

"Since you’re so good at keepin’ things quiet for Robert.” He grunts against your ear, venom poisoning the words so they sound harsh and heavy-handed. “Let’s see how quiet you can be for me," his hips snap against your ass. Jostling your body against the brick and back onto his cock as he fucks you hard and unrelentingly. 

Your mewls against his palm are louder than they should be. Your teeth sink into your lip in an attempt to muffle more of your noises. Your insides are already burning with pleasure from the gasps he's eliciting with each rough drag of his cock. That you crave. That only Joel feeds to you without remorse or mercy because it’s what you both need. 

He’s tired of getting screwed over by the world, and you’re tired of putting on your tough act, of not being able to be weak because you’ll be preyed upon by the monsters this world has created. 

Joel’s breath is hot and heavy against your ear; the two of you screwed if anyone were to look down here. If a lone soldier were to shine his light and find his prisoners for the night, but neither of you seem to care. You never do, not when you’re both feeding off each other like your own sick versions of the clickers outside the wall. Taking and tearing each other down until you’re spent, panting, and covered in the others mess. 

He makes you delirious. Weak. Heady. All things you’re not allowed to be, to feel, in this place. 

You’d happily let Robert fuck over Joel a million times if it meant you’d end up with his cock in you, his mouth on your skin, filthy words and threats etched in bites and licks, all completely consuming you. Turning you into a moaning mess barely able to stand, his arm wrapping around your midsection to keep you in place. To keep your ass pressed to his pelvis so he can continue his hard strokes. 

Building up your climax again. Bringing you back to that precipice ten times more earth-shattering than before. 

There will be marks on your cheek in the light of the day tomorrow. Stings from the reminder of being stretched. Marks on your skin that will be missed by the blind eye but will make a jolt of electricity burn through you when your fingers absentmindedly move across them. 

“D’you enjoy it?” He asks, “Paying what’s owed to me with your body?” You can taste copper against your tongue from the bites your lower lip is taking. Your head nods in the confirmation you can’t give with the moans trapped behind your bloodied lip. 

Joel hums and groans into the skin just below your ear. His forehead pressed into your temple. His words tighten that coil inside you the more he speaks, the more your wetness coats the inside of your thighs from the way he drags his hardness out, only to push it back in even harder. “Christ you’re so filthy. My filthy fuckin’ girl.” 

His girl. 

Only in these moments. 

Only with heat against you—from within you. 

And when this is over, you’ll go back to being the girl who works for the guy he can’t stand. The thief. The smuggler. 

He’ll go back to the remnants of his life, and you to yours, until you meet in this trash-filled alleyway again. He’ll grunt dirty words and sing praises into your skin as your body takes all he’s willing to give. 

If you think about it deeply enough, it might make your chest hurt. Might make something out of nothing. But you refuse to do that because, fuck, you love being his girl, if only for a little while. As pitiful as it sounds. 

You want to tell him to say it again. To tell you you’re his girl. To bite it into your skin as he fucks you harder and faster. All that can be heard are cut-off mewls and whimpers from you, though. Words failing while pleasure coats them like honey. 

He knows though, can probably tell by the pulsating grips of your walls tightening around his cock. “There ya go, take what you want. Take it from me, baby. You can have it. Come on,” it’s a gruff command on the verge of a groan. That white-hot heat at the backs of your eyelids, ready to engulf your body in that debilitating ecstasy. 

His name is on the tip of your tongue as you feel it growing closer and closer, until it’s gone. 

Until Joel pulls his cock out of your clenching heat and shoots rope after rope of his hot come on your ass cheek. His deep groan muffled by the nape of your neck. Curses and declarations uttered without meaning in the headiness of pleasure. 

Your stomach sinks when you hear the clanging of his belt buckle, the fumbling of his fingers righting himself, and the warmth of his body gone from your back. There have been many nights where he’s finished before you, when there was a time crunch and you needed to be quick. His mouth or fingers always returning the favor, bringing you there with ease and memory of how to touch you. 

When you turn around and look at him, there's a half-smirk on his face, any glints of kindness dying in the fire of the anger he still clearly feels at Robert's hands. 

“Really?” 

“Who’d Robert sell the battery to?” 

You scowl at him, “Joel-”

“Find out.” He steps back into your space. Gives you the quickest peck to your lips before he’s pulling away. “And then I’ll repay ya.” 

You swat his hands away when they try to fix your jeans, a death glare making him snort, as you right yourself and storm from the alleyway. 

You were going to kill Robert. 

“Maybe I should go tonight.” You tease, grin at the softening of his hardened expression when he meets your eyes through the mirror. You both know you hate these kinds of events, and you’re already happily comfy between the sheets to put on some tight dress and fake pleasantries for a whole night. “Don’t know if I can trust the office girls to keep their hands to themselves,” you let your eyes drag down the open collar of his dress shirt to the tightness of his pants around his thick thighs, and back up again as he turns to face you. A dreamy sigh falling exaggeratingly from your lips, ”I can hear them now ‘Oh my god, Namor, you look so good, oh Namor your wife’s not here? oh how sad. Let me go get you another drink, Namor, anything for you, Namor!’” You mock.

His laugh warms your chest, his fingers buttoning the front of his suit jacket as he strides over to you. “Those poor girls. If only they knew.”

“Knew what? How you look even more devastatingly good under the suit as well? The whole package,” your eyes home in on his crotch, giving him a playful look. “And then some.”

The grin on his face stays amused and sweet until he’s leaning down, taking your chin between his fingers, hovering just above your mouth. “If only they knew the only thoughts getting me through the night are returning back home to you,” his hand slides under the covers, running up your inner thigh slowly. Your legs open almost as if on command for him, just from a simple touch. A small gasp lying dormant in your throat when he skates past your underwear to hook a finger in the waistband and lets it snap against your skin. “Naked in this bed, ready for my return.”

His lips press to yours, the kiss not lasting nearly enough for your now needy insides.

When he tries to lean back up you stop him with looping your arms around his neck, “or I could be naked for you right now, and you can show me what else you look good doing in this suit.”

“And be late?” He smirks, but makes no move to remove himself from your hold. “That’s not setting a good example for the investors.”

“You’re charming and look like you belong on a magazine cover, the words coming out of your mouth don’t matter to them. You’ve already won them over by looking like this!”

His chuckle vibrates against your lips as he leans in for another kiss, “I could be convinced then.” His tongue runs along your lower lip as he pushes himself further on the bed, and on top of you. “Keep complimenting me–I’m charming, I’m sexy, what else?”

“Sweet talking you out of your suit now am I?”