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Eliza scoots closer to him, all length and heat, and different textures, and Henry is letting her closeness scramble all his focus again... she's like white noise and a frustrating whine too far away to be silenced.

"Have you thought about it, Henry," she asks, and he's sure she's attempting sultry and screw it all, it's working, "us alone here --"

"We are alone here," he points out.

"Henry, Henry, please. I'm trying to talk dirty here. You're killing the mood."

It's possible that this is what flies experience right before they're burnt to death by pretty lights that can't be ignored and... that's the absolute worst way he could ever describe exactly how much she makes him want that crash and burn.

Eliza moves her hand, down, looks up at him, all suggestive flirtation, strokes up with the heel of her hand, pressure and friction in equal gentle measure and he almost climbs the back of his office sofa in response, scrabbling away because it's just a bit too much.

"Easy, easy," she says and leans in, hands stroking down his arms, lips close to his, and all he can say is --

"Are you talking me down?"

"Is it working?" Her hands go to his belt and undo the buckle as she continues, not even waiting for an affirmative, and he should have known then from her careful avoidance of looking at him, as she continues, with a deftness to both action and word that leaves him struggling to keep up, "I've thought about this a lot. Catching you here, taking you in my mouth, god, I can tell already you're all smooth and heavy and I'll suck you off nice and slow and maybe, maybe, you'll make some noises but you know, if you don't, I get that. But that's what makes this delicious. I don't want to get caught doing this to you, but hey, if you don't want this you'll say so, right?"

He should have known before, before she moves her hands away, before she flicks her hair back with a toss of her head, before her eyes settle on him, before she slides down off his couch. Suspected right after she locked the door behind her and maneuvered him back onto this seat. Her uncertainty can't hide when she looks at him that way, gathered shadows in the back of her eyes, her hands off him now, either side of his legs, kneeling between them and now she's waiting, even though he's all but naked, fly undone, shirttails out and pushed up.

"I'm... I'm not saying no." His equivocation does nothing to dispel her worry. Of course not.

"That's not good enough," she says.

"No, no, it's not," he agrees, and puts his hand under her chin, leaning forward to press a kiss on her forehead. "You want it, you got it. But, be quick."

"I can do quick." She bites her lip, but there's nothing shy about it, only bright anticipation, and then she's touching him, curling her hand around his cock and he has to open his eyes to see her swim back into focus when she says, "Just, one thing -- you can pull my hair, but don't you dare hold me down."

"I would never --"


She swoops and takes him in her mouth, hot and wet, and adjectives he's completely blanking on, and he's fairly certain he says her name in a manner most uncontrolled, but whether he did or not is scorched away by the manner in which she hums and then swirls her tongue around and over and sucks, just like she said she would.

And it is quick. Almost agonizingly so. But, in a surreal way, like fireworks in slow motion, as everything reverses, coalescing back into... self. He opens his eyes to catch her sitting back on her heels, thumb swiping at her mouth and her eyes gleaming.

"You taste all right. I've had sweeter. Don't worry, you can do things to fix that. Do you like pineapple juice?"

"You -- you --"

"No pineapple juice, then?" By the time he can see that her pout is false, she's leaned back in, her hands covering and fastening him up, all the while with an air of pleased satisfaction, and when she's done she says, "I like you incoherent. I want to make you that way more often."