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“You can leave now. I’ll talk to him alone,” you say, voice dispassionate. Expression flat. You don’t look at your underlings as they leave, choosing instead to sit down on the table set a good two meters away from your captive. You lean back a bit, supporting yourself with your gloved hands. Crossing one suit-clad leg over the other. Tilting your head to the side, you narrow your eyes as you study him.

 

Even tied up to a chair and covered in bruises, Ortega still manages to look smug and in control. It never fails to irritate you. You’re in one of your more disposable hideouts, an old concrete warehouse with blinds on the windows. The rows of sunlight passing through them light up his face, bathing his incredibly smug expression in a golden glow. His black hair looks almost brown in places. Radiant. The effect, rather infuriatingly, is carried on to his moustache.Your mouth tugs downwards as you feel a strange knotting sensation in your chest. He’s always been so annoyingly confident.

 

“You just gonna stare at me all day, Luka ?” Ricardo says with a smirk. “Not that I really  mind, but if all you wanted was to have me all to yourself, you could have just asked.”

 

You push yourself of the table, taking brisk strides towards his chair. Tugging a hand in his hair, you pull his head up. You will your face into a disdainful grimace, trying not to react to the laughter in his eyes. Fuck this arrogant bastard.

 

“You cocky asshole. Do you think I won’t fucking end you?” you hiss, lips pulled back.

 

“Tsk tsk. Did your henchmen teach you those words?” he says reprovingly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Baby’s first curse word.”

 

Your face scrunches up as colour unwillingly flushes your cheeks.

 

“ I’ve been talking filth for years , Ortega,” you retort, stepping back. Turning your head away for a few seconds before you look back at him. Trying to keep your composure. Why does he always treat you like this? “I’m not a fucking kid.” Ortega’s eyes widen.

 

“Is that why you’re doing this?” he says, sounding half-way disbelieving. “Cause you want me to-” he stops himself. Swallows. Tries again. “I never saw you as a child, Luka. If I made you feel coddled or was overbearing or just. Anything. I’m sorry.” You feel stricken. He sounds too genuine.

 

“You’re reading too much into this,” you say, nails digging into your hands even through the gloves. “You know I have-”

 

“Enemies, yeah?” Ortega interjects, giving you a look. “That you had even before you met me.” His voice softens. “I already told you. Your past doesn’t bother me.”

 

“What about my present, huh? You think I’m some kind of damsel?” you snort, straightening your back. You only manage to look down at him when he’s sitting. It’s always been like that.

 

“No. But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re not a killer, either,” he retorts, face serious.

 

You take a step back, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Are you high? I beat you up, tie you to a chair, tell you I’m a fucking criminal , and you’re trying this spiel on me? What the hell?”

 

“I already told you, I-” realizing what he’s about to say, you clasp your hand over his mouth. Too fucking cheesy and too fucking smooth. You’d almost forgot how fast he changes gears. Unfortunately for you, you’d forgotten how good he is with his mouth. When your grip slackens, he takes the opportunity to suck one of your fingers into his mouth. Your mind stops functioning as he sucks on the leather-clad digit, applying suction and tongue like it’s a cock. When you regain enough presence of mind to realize what he’s doing, you yank your hand back. Your cheeks feel warm. Stupid. You can’t keep your cool around him.

 

He’s licking his lips, eyes dark. Fuck. You need to get your bearings. Straightening back up, you force your face back to a semblance of neutrality.

 

“You know what? I wanted to do more foreplay, but if you’re that eager I’ll just fuck you now, I guess,” you say, hoping your voice isn’t hoarse as you take off your gloves. You throw them to the side. Then, you move closer to him, eyes focused on his sly smile. You dimly realize your noses are almost touching. He moves fast.

 

He kisses around your mouth. On it. Teases you open with his tongue. His moustache tickles your upper lip, contrasting with the softness of his mouth.The heat of the kiss makes the room spin around you, your eyes closing. He’s so warm. When he disengages, you try to follow him before you remember yourself. Why are you acting like he’s got you on a leash? You’re supposed to be in control.

 

“You’re really cute when you say things like that” he says, and this time your ears feel hot as you turn your face away. You feel soft. Pliable. He chuckles, and you don’t resist as you feel two hands on your hips. Guiding you onto his lap.

 

Wait.

 

Hands?

 

Realization washing over you, your head whips forward again. Your wide eyes meeting his self-satisfied ones. His hands are cupping your ass. His erection obvious against the taut fabric of his pants. You let out a moan, heat pooling in your own crotch. When did he get free? How?

 

Does it matter? It feels so good.

 

“You’re really handsome, you know that, right?” his voice smoky, teasing. “But I’m not sure you should be promising to fuck me when you can’t even look me in the eyes when I flirt with you.”

 

“I- That is,” you break off into a moan as he rolls his hips, thrusting his crotch into yours. The sensation makes you buck back into him, a frantic need driving your movement. The flash of indignation you felt at his insult feels unimportant. Your body feels electric. You want more.

 

“Ortega, please,” you whine, “ I need- I need more.” He leans forward, planting a kiss on your nose. You stutter incoherently in response, your body seemingly primed to overreact to his every action.

 

“Do you want to take this further, Luka?” he asks gently, giving you more random kisses on your face. He’s too affectionate. And you like it.

 

“Please, yes,” you say, voice breathy. “Got lube in my pocket, the left one,” you let out an embarrassing noise as he bites your earlobe slightly, “and we can, we can move to the table.” You wrap your arms around his shoulder. Your jacket’s crumpled. Probably all your clothes will need a thorough cleaning and ironing after this. Fuck. Ricardo hums his assent, moving his hands so he can hoist you up as he stands, your legs spread. This is why you had him sit. He’s too tall. Or maybe you’re too short.

 

He lets you down on the table, and you sink back on it, already a mess. He looks full of himself, too self-satisfied. His expression makes even more blood pool in your crotch. He’s too good-looking. Too pleased. He’s removing your shoes, and then tugging down your pants and underwear, gently asking you to lift your hips for easier access. Fuck. You’re always so weak around him.

 

Now that he has your half bottom naked, he’s rummaging in your pocket for the lube. Fishing out the small bottle, he gets his fingers ready to prepare you. As he works you open, you start breathing heavier, covering your face with your hands. Your palms are sweaty. Warm. He chuckles when you let out a gasp as he hits your prostate, the sensation going straight to your dick.

 

Once he finishes, he unzips his own pants, and you manage enough strength to crane your neck up to look at him. Commando. Of course. He lubes himself up, lining up with your hole, one hand at your hip to steady himself.

 

The first stretch leaves you breathless, exhaling on a sweet moan. He thrusts slowly at first, leaving you begging for more.  “Put your hands on the table. Away from your face. I want to see you, Luka,” he ends the sentence with a groan. Feeling too soft to do anything but comply, you do. When he speeds up his thrusts, Ortega takes one of your hand in his. Squeezing. You meet his gaze through the daze of pleasure, feeling a tickle of nervous something as your eyes meet his. Too warm, too loving. He’s not… He wasn’t supposed to care about you like this.

 

“I love you, Luka,” he says, voice thick, eyes reverent. Loving. He leans over you, giving you a chaste peck on the lips. You can feel your face burning.

 

“Idiot!” you shout, voice high-pitched. Your chest feels too warm. Too full.

 

He chuckles, moving the hand on your hips over to your erection, making you writhe on the table. His grip is warm and slick (When did he apply more lube?), and combined with how well he’s fucking you, it isn’t long before you come undone, spilling into his fist. Whole body tingly, you smile dopily, eyes rolling into the back of your head.  

 

Through the aftershocks of your orgasm, you can feel your partner following suit, spilling himself in your ass. He stays still for a few seconds, panting, and you jerk your hand loose from his, covering your face. As he pulls out, you feel a lazy peace settling over you. As you hear the distinct sound of a zipper, something warm trickles out of your hole. You scrunch up your nose in disgust. Ew. Forcing yourself up into a sitting position, you give Ricardo your best glare.

 

“You better help me clean up, nasty idiot,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed. He smiles, teeth white and eyes bright. Trying not to blush, you focus on the matter at hand. “In one of the crates by the entrance- I’ve got towels.”

 

He laughs.

 

“Sure. Of course,” he slides a hand across your cheek in a loving gesture, “you just stay right here.” As he moves away, you make a noise, calling out to him.

 

He turns. Gives you a questioning look.

 

“Yes?”

 

You look to the side, suddenly very aware that you’re not wearing anything on your lower body. You try in vain to tug your shirt over your crotch. Gathering your courage, you rush through your words quickly.

 

“I- I love you too, Ricardo.”

 

He answers with a chuckle. You throw him an unamused look. He winks.

 

Flirty. Gentle.

 

“I already know, Luka.”