Alex had wanted it again, had wanted it often, right from that very first time. The next morning, his words muffled against her shoulder, his cheeks flushing hot against her skin, he'd told her about how he'd fantasised about something like that, about being held down and taken and fucked, ever since he was in college; about how he never knew how to ask for it, how he'd never thought he'd get it. Claire had stroked his hair, scratched her nails through the fine skin at the base of his neck and tried to reassure him with all the steady calm that her years as a sex therapist had earned her; she'd known that letting Alex talk himself into being comfortable with this was the best way to deal with the surely impending heterosexual machismo-related freak-out.
He seemed fine of course, kissed her deeply before clambering out of bed in search of coffee, made her breakfast in bed without her even having to make a subtle hint in his direction, lay on the couch with his head on her lap while he read sections of the Sunday Times out loud to her; and yet she still spent most of that day—well, most of that week, if she was honest—waiting for said freak-out to occur.
Which was why Claire was almost freaked out herself when they found themselves in bed again the very next Tuesday evening, their clothes shed and scattered all over the stairs and the bedroom floor, Alex's jeans twisted halfway down his calves and her vibrator teasing at the edge of Alex's hole.
"You know," she says, voice hoarse, throat gone dry at the way Alex's eyes are already tight shut, at the way he's panting and twisting his head against the pillow, "I'm supposed to be working on case files right now, I'm not supposed to—"
"Claire," Alex moans, head thrown back, the long line of his throat exposed, clean and smooth and god, Claire thinks, I'm not supposed to want it this much.
She hesitates a little, but Alex is ineffectually trying to push back against the vibrator, whining high in his throat, and she takes pity on him, slicks it up and works it in to him; she twists her wrist a little on each push inwards, firm and slow, the way she's learning to know he likes. Claire watches, fascinated, at how easily he takes it in, the thick purple rubber sliding into him like he was born to do this, something twisting hot deep down in her belly at the sight, and she knows she's wet before he's even touched her.
Alex is arching his back a little, trying to work himself deeper onto it. "God," he says, "it's so big, I want, yes," and she shudders just from hearing the lust in his voice, the way it twists his words, makes them come thick and slow. Claire leans over him, the black lace of her bra and panties scratching against his skin while she tells him exactly what she's feeling—how hot he makes her, how hot he looks fucking himself on her vibrator, how she's going to keep making him do this, over and over until he breaks—and the part of her that's still detached, still clinical, still Dr Allen, finds it fascinating that that's the thing that makes Alex's eyes roll back in his head.
He reaches out for her, runs one shaking hand the length of her arm and says "Claire, please." She grins at him and kneels up, unhooking her bra and wriggling out of her panties. "Jesus, you're so beautiful," he says when she straddles him, "what you do to me, I can't..."
She grins at him, his gaze on her making her skin feel bright and over-sensitised; it makes her feel feral, free, like there's nothing she couldn't do with this man, nothing she couldn't do to him, and she reaches back to flick on the vibrator at the same moment that she sinks down onto his cock. Alex roars and swears and bucks up sharp and hard, arcing up in a line as clean and wide as the one she's describing with her own back.
"Harder," Alex grits out from between clenched teeth, "more", and she's as gone as he is now, nearly—can't tell if he wants more of the vibrator, or to be deeper inside her, if he wants more of her hands on his skin, or just the maddening, light scrape of her nails against his sides. She gives him it all, anyway, as much as she can take and more, tightens around him and twines her fingers with his as she comes, sobbing out his name. He's not far behind her, cock fucking up into her while all her nerves are still sparking white with pleasure, and he bites his lip when he comes.
She pulls off him slowly, slides the vibrator out carefully and tosses it to the floor; clean up can wait til the morning. When she curls up next to him and rests her head on his chest, she can feel the quick-patter rate of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breathing. "No more on week nights," she hears him mumble, "Work tomorrow. You broke me. Need splint."
"Mmmhmm," Claire says, and she's exhausted enough that she doesn't know herself if that was acquiescence or objection, sated enough to find that she doesn't care, asleep between one breath and the next, Alex's arms tight around her.