I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain
I only wanted to see you bathing in the purple rain
I only wanted to see you underneath the purple rain
Only want to see you in the purple rain
The sturdy surface of the white door is keeping her upright while she fights to steady her erratic breathing. Her forehead is pressed into the solid wood, her sweaty hands just lightly grazing the surface of it. If she were to move from the door, there would be an imprint of her palms left behind.
She can hear him clearly from behind the dividing panel, panting and grunting. The belt of his trousers thumping rhythmically against the door, the pounding tempo slowly increasing, and she knows, she just knows, the movement of his hips has now speed up, his hand working his hard dick harshly to the sound of her steely voice.
Yet, she is silent.
Can’t utter another word to help him hound the release he is so desperately seeking.
She knows the game. They have been playing it for a while now. Through the unexpected phone calls, in the anonymous hotel rooms and now in the comfort of her own home divided by the door to her en-suit bathroom. She knows by now that whatever words she will pronounce will topple him over the edge, push him in the right direction of dark, appalling pleasure.
But she just can’t.
Not, when it feels like there is a tight hold on her throat, an invisible cutting cord, constricting around her voice that broke her stringent tone into a mindless soft moan right after that fawning little shit chanted her name, sounding as if he were praying to his very own savior.
On his lips, her own name was a disarming distraction designed to render her weak.
Her eyelids shut tighter, her whole face contracting in, keeping her eyes closed, while she listens attentively to the changing intonations of his groans. The loud sounds echo in her bathroom, ricocheting between the tiled walls aiming straight into her core. She shifts on her feet, unconsciously readjusting the position of her legs, thighs opening slightly wilder, pursuing the unobtainable friction.
She leans more firmly into the door. Her glasses dig pointy into her skin and she tries to focus on that discomfort. With every heavy breath, her chest brushes against the surface, sending a shuddering shiver down her spine every time her satin clad nipple gains just that tiny bit of pressure, lungs expanding to their limit with every inhale.
It’s time to scold him, ruthlessly remind him that he is taking too long, that she doesn’t have all night, chop - chop they have to get going. She should repeat once more not to soil another of her robes that she purposely left handing behind the door just for him to abuse. The tip of his length softly nudging the purple silk, giving him rapture and not for the first time she wants to see it painted on his face. Wants to whiteness the sheer fulfilment their arrangement brings to him.
She has to bite her lip to keep any sound from escaping, but she can’t effectively silence herself, because when he finally finishes and his body slams with a boisterous bang against that damned door, she startles and a soundless whisper of his name blooms from deep within her like a snowdrop announcing to the world that the spring is finally here.
Her own shame washes over her like a cold morning shower.
She should move, far away from the door that could open any second now. Yet, her body is like a lead statue, unmovable for that spot. Her fingertips caress the white woody panel, nails scratching against it and she yearns for it to be his warm flesh.
An uncomfortable perspiration pools at the base of her neck, her hand slides against her skin, shifts the hair that has started to curl around her ear, and lets the cool air of the room wash over her. Her fingers reach the necklace she had put on in haste that morning. In her mind she meticulously counts every single bead that composes the string of pearls, because, God, she needs to calm the fuck down, but the silence from behind the door is so distracting. What is he doing there and why can’t she hear anything?
Fucking closed doors, they are always hiding behind them.
That’s what they are. Not top of the top of the American corporate ladder. They are both cowards, navigating through a blinding fog of forbidden desire.
She hears something and an urgent panic grips her heart, sending it pounding a mile a minute, constricting her chest. Suddenly, she recognize the noise, it’s her own shower turning on.
Water drums against the marble floor of the shower, its hypnotic rhythm sending her sparling once more. She can picture him now on the other side, standing naked beneath the hard spray, shoulders hunched, head hung, air heavy with water and hiding his face. And once again she can’t fucking breath.
Her fingers grasp the doorknob, blood pulsing in her ears in tempo with the running water, and before she can second-guess her impulsive decision, she turns it. The dividing door opens between them.
If he is going to use her facilities, the polite thing to do would be to ask for permission first, or at the very least offer to share it with her.
That greedy little pig. She will have to make sure he will never forgets again.
There is a lot to be said about a lazy Sunday morning. That moment cut out from the time and space of her hectic and ever so demanding business life, the slowness in her limbs, the distraction in her gestures, the unhurriedness of the early hour. She knows this bliss could end at any second, usually with the obnoxious ring of her cell phone that she cannot refuse to answer, her attention shifting to the next shitshow thrown at her, the clean-up of which would consume her in its totality.
Not this morning, though. Well, at least not just yet.
For now, she is going to enjoy the luxury of that quiet little gift as simple as a steamy, long shower.
The warm water rains down at the muscles of her tense shoulders, and she lets it hit her, lets it slide down her spine, willing her sore body into relaxation. She rolls her shoulders in small circular motions, just like her daughter reminds her to do when her lower back starts to ache and her neck feels horribly stiff. It has been a hideous week, and it took a toll on her, her body stinging more than usual. The lack of sleep weighs her down, her energy dissipating quicker than she would ever admit to herself, leaving her feeling her full age.
Maybe it was time for her to retire.
The thought hits her like a slap across her face and she has to pant for air.
Now she remembers why she never stops, not even for one soothing minute, always keeps going, regardless of how long and draining her days become. Why she occupies her mind with a thousand little tasks, so she just does not have time to think, conning her age, her body and everyone around her.
Annoyed, she turns the knob of the water into a harsher spray, because now she has to calm her nerves all over again.
“What the…” she jumps, startled when she hears the shower stall open. “Rome,” his name is a soft sigh as it escapes her lips. She takes a small step away. On instinct her body puts some distance between them. Her hands cross around her middle, safeguarding.
She had left him sleeping, not wanting to wake him up, not just yet. Rest comes so seldom to him, to both of them really, and giving him a few more hours of peace was not a costly kindness.
“Mind, if I join you?” His voice is laced with sleep, a croak of the dawn, and something tugs in her chest, pulling hard when she takes in his disheveled hair, every lock standing in different directions, making him look like a very groggy porcupine. The imprint of her pillow is still visible on his cheek. She tries not to smile, tries to stay aloof but he is there nude and drowsy, and there is a small part of her that feels slightly guilty, because she might have forgotten he was still resting underneath her sheets.
“If you must,” she answers unimpressed, her eyebrow shooting to her hairline. She watches as his lips form a smile which reaches his dark eyes, and she can’t help by feeling a tiny bit excited by his presence.
The shower door closes, and his body turns back to her. She leans marginally into him, her arm passing right above his shoulder, her wet skin lightly grazing his still dry one, leaving a trail of droplets behind, as she reaches for her shampoo.
His curious eyes track her movement, but he keeps still, rooted in the spot, waiting, his breathing accelerating, matching the pace of her thumping heart.
"May, I?" The timidity of his question snaps her eyes into meeting his, his voice meek as if he’s worried she will refuse him. It never ceases to stun her, the way he always waivers, constantly navigating the edge of hesitancy when it comes to their intimacy.
She hands him the bottle, watches him open the plastic lid, sniff the scent and his eyes close in concentration. His face changes while he is studying the aroma of its contents, memorizing it between deep inhalations. The anticipation mingles with impatience and she shifts on the spot, a shudder running down her spine.
The amount of shampoo he squeezes into his palm is excessive, she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping at him, pointing it out, but he smirks at her disapproval. Her face winces when he adds a dollop more just to taunt her. That annoying smarmy worm.
There is a glint in his eyes and his smile twists into something indecent, predatory even, bare feet shuffling above the slippery marble, beckoning her directly under the hot spray. She tilts her head and the water rains in rivulets down the side of her face, the droplets cascading over her forehead, and down her neck. A part of her relaxes some tension leaving her body and she lets him take the lead. Lets him have the wheel.
The first touch between them is always the most uncertain. No matter how many times they have been together, no matter the words they had shared in conspiratorial whispers, no matter the hidden location they greedily occupied, no matter the stolen moments in time they gifted to themselves. Regardless of all of that, the fear of rejection looms as a constant presence among them.
He is delicate, taps her arm prompting her to straighten her posture. The obscene amount of shampoo is still in his palm guarded like the most prized possession, and he leathers it between his hands, right before they slide into her blond locks.
His fingers begin slowly, carefully. The motion rhythmic when he begins to massage her head. He starts at the base of her skull, squeezing her nape. He rubs her head unhurriedly, making sure there isn’t an inch of her scalp left untouched. The pressure of his hands increases, and she closes her eyes, lets the sensation wash over her.
He scrubs her temples and behind her ears, fingers digging into her neck for a long moment before they run against the grain of her hairline. She can’t help but let the sigh of pleasure escape her, not when he is so thorough, so focused. His fingers run through her hair endlessly, crowding the locks in his fist, releasing them slowly and then squeezing them in his palm once more, caressing them over and over like the wind that runs over bare fields.
She reaches blindly for his body, narrowing the distance between their wet naked selves.
Her hand grips his shoulder for support not really trusting her own legs, while the suds of the shampoo pool at their feet.
"Gerri" her name is a rushed plea, and she doesn’t know what he is asking for. Whatever he wants, she is willing to gift it to him, willing to follow his every need in this endeavor.
She doesn't want to speak, not now, when his fingers change direction, move lower to the base of her neck massaging her stress away. She leans into him looping one of her arms up around his neck, pressing her warm slippery body directly against his and squeezes her eyes shut even harder focusing on the maddening vibrations he is creating all over her.
Their embrace is tight, his lips touch her temple, his breathing changing. The rise and fall of her chest is out of synch with his, her breasts faintly grazing alongside his skin, nipples perking at the sensations and she bits her lip hard, a vice grip between her teeth.
It’s not before long he has her crowded against the shower wall, her back aligned with cool tile slick from the steam billowing around them.
He leans down and catches her mouth in a kiss that’s soft and tentative at first, running his hands up and down her glossy arm. She threads her fingers through his hair, gripping tight enough for him to let out a soft groan that’s amplified by the tiled walls. One of his hands crawls up her side, skims over her ribcage, stroking the underside of her breast with his thumb. Gasping, she lets go of his neck to clasp her hand over his bringing it up to cover her breast fully. She nips at his bottom lip and when he pinches her pink erect nub she is curving fully into his touch, wordlessly begging for him to increase the pain. He takes advantage of the opportunity to turn the kiss into something wetter, dirtier, bringing them both to the precipice of sanity.
His touch grows bolder. One hand slips down the curve of her back, making her arch against his hips until he is cupping her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh leaving imprints behind.
His hard length is propped on her belly and she can’t ignore it any longer. With determination she drifts down to grip him, but he bats her away, pinning her hand at her side. His mouth greedily swallows the frustrating sounds that pass her throat.
She kisses him harder after that, hands scrabbling at his back, demanding more from him.
His lips shift and he bites her jaw, mouths her neck, teeth gripping her skin at the base of her throat and she tugs the roots of his hair mercilessly, the earned slap on her ass making her yelp.
She is growing restless in his arms, her hips backing up against his pelvis searching for friction he is stubbornly denying her. Finally, his fingers slide down her form, hover around her navel, and wedge against her core.
“Fuck,” she gasps.
But he is teasing her. His movements between her slick folds are deliberate, the exploration of his fingers slow, almost cruel, and she does not want to beg, absolutely not, but his lips catch her nipple and the pressure is simply not enough. She just needs that tad more, needs him to just, “Please, Roman,” she urges plaintively.
“Patience, Geraldine,” he mocks, and she is so ready to slap that triumphant grin from his face.
Her breath catches when his thumb stretches upward finally hitting the abandoned bundle of nerves and he slides two digits into her. She writhes against his hand, her hips forming a rhythm that matches the staccato of the running water. Her fingers dig into his sides, nails leaving small red crescent-shaped marks in the skin. Their movements are frantic, she increases the tempo, and his thump rubs faster, harder. Her lungs expand erratically, begging for oxygen, while she can taste the sweet release coiling inside her, pulling right at her core, building up deep in her belly, all her pulsing blood seizing in one spot, the spot that he relentlessly keeps grazing, on and on, and on and on until she snaps.
Her body goes rigid and then slacks against his, a soft sound escaping her lips as her forehead presses into his.
Her chest heaving and still shaking, he brings his hand up to her cheek and kisses her again.
Kisses her like his life depends on it, and she matches his fervor.
She tries to put everything into that kiss, all the things she hasn’t said to him but meant to, all the things she needs to say to him but can’t, and all the things she probably will never manage to say, because she has never been good at any of that.
“Roman,” she murmurs, and slides her hand down his body, reaches for his cock and this time won’t let him push her touch away.
But now she remembers, now she absolutely recalls why lazy Sunday mornings are so fucking important, why they are meant to be cherished, like thoughtful Christmas gifts, so hard to come by, so easily underappreciated.
Gerri knocks on the door.
Her knuckles frenetically beat a sharp thumping melody against the wood.
She is met with total silence from the other side.
Where the fuck he could be? She had checked the bar, passed hastily through the restaurant and even gone down to the sport center for a quick sweep, couldn’t find him anywhere. It is not like he could vanish into thin air. They are locked up in the middle of nowhere, Montana of all places, for another tedious corporate retreat. Nothing but woods and wolves for miles on end.
She knocks again, harder this time, pouring all her impatience in one gesture.
She takes a long, painful breath and exhales it slowly, trying to steady herself while she glares at the offensive barrier. She has options. One of them is right in the pocket of her blazer. She slides her hand against the rough wool, fingers grazing the light plastic square that could be a solution to her current problem. Her nails tap a few times against the soft plastic as she makes the decision. She is going to use the key to open the door to his hotel room.
He is going to give her shit about it. She can already hear his mocking voice and anticipate all the juvenile comments about how she is running around with his key in her pocket, to feel oh, just so much closer to him, like a silly old girl with butterflies in her stomach and his hard dick on her mind, because he is a fucking matador and everyone wants to fuck him. Obnoxious little prick.
Not that he is entirely wrong, she does occasionally feel like a silly old fool, especially when he is able to distract her in the most inopportune moments with his surprising charm and infuriating stupid jokes. But for the sake of her sanity, he absolutely doesn’t have to know about it, and god help her if he ever does.
She looks over her shoulder a few times for good measure, making sure no one is in the corridor, before she takes the key out with a shaky hand and swiftly swipes it over the handle. The electronic mechanism unlocks and the tiny green light on the knob flashes indicating that she may go in.
Upon entering she is met with darkness, not even the courtesy lamps are lit, and she wonders if she should have even come. It feels a little like she is invading his privacy, an uncomfortable feeling settles over her, squeezing her stomach tight. She licks her lips in concentration, her tongue darting out, wetting her upper lip while her teeth scrape across the lower one effectively wiping away what little was left of her brown lipstick.
But she has a reason to be there. She has been frantically searching for him, because she is so damn worried about him.
“Rome, it’s me. Are you here?” She hesitates while passing the threshold and closing the door behind her. Yet, she is met with more silence.
She turns the lights on and makes a quick visual sweep. She can’t really see much from the foyer. The setup of the room is awkward, and she has to move forward through the small corridor to get to the open area.
Her footsteps muffled by the cheap carpet while she steps to the center of the suite. There is still no sight of him. She turns around and spots the door to his bedroom, notices that the door is cracked open and it seems that there is a bit of light coming out from there.
When she reaches the bedroom the chaotic sight of his bed freezes her in her tracks, and she briefly wonders why he had not called housekeeping to straighten it out like she had told him to.
The sheets are still a tangled mess, soaked with the scent of their bodies. He coaxed her into sneaking away during one of the recesses. She had faked a needed phone call, while he just bluntly announced to all assembled that they were giving him indigestion. They met shortly afterwards in his room. No one would bother loitering outside his door, interrupting, while she arched for him beneath the crisp cotton linens. Their bodies in perpetual motion, her legs gripping his hips, his mouth biting her shoulder. The mark is still freshly forming upon her skin, her blouse barely able to cover it.
She shakes her head, and the insistent uneasiness comes at her with an intense force. Where is he? In a frenzy, she tries his phone for the sixth time, but after one ring it just goes straight to his voicemail. Why had he switched it off? She has to swallow the groan that threatens to rise.
She detests not knowing, absolutely loathes being kept in the dark. No one was telling her much. Cyd just waived her off and Karolina shook her head, leaving her standing alone in a room full of insignificant people, right after someone made a disgusting joke, betting whether stock would jump up or drop, since some Roy blood had been spilled tonight. Oh, and it was also during a full moon, of course. From what she’d pieced together there had been another incident involving Logan and his sons. Hugo, of all the people letting it slip, and she had to stand there listening to him with an impassive expression, deliberately calculating every movement she made while a violent nausea washed over her, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth.
She is about to head out of his room when something grabs her attention, her body stilling as she listens intently. A whooshing sound catches her ear, and she isn’t sure at first what it could be. The rooms designated to Waystar staff were rather grand, but she is fairly certain she ran through every corner of his.
And then it clicks, it’s the sound of running water coming from his bathroom.
In a few hurried steps, she reaches the door and taps on it gently, not wanting to startle him.
“Roman,” she calls out in vain. “Come on, open the door, for me,” she pleads, her voice soft, calm, in total opposition to her shaken self.
She tries the knob, and it twists in her hand, removing another obstruction between them.
She enters the dim bathroom carefully, the only source of light is the small bulb situated above the mirror, casting a weak glow. Her eyes frantically dart around, but are immediately drawn back to the vanity, where crimson droplets stand out in stark contrast to the pristine white of the porcelain.
The anguished gasp she emits is a rushed and desperate sound that is thankfully muted by the running water.
A hand moves to her heart, eyes close for a briefest of seconds, and she tries to breathe through the fear of what she will find behind the shower curtain. She inhales the thick air deep into her lungs and exhales it slowly through her mouth, reining in all the emotions that are invading her, leaving her unsteady on her feet. She needs to put an effective lid on them, she’s certainly had enough practice.
With shaky fingers she grabs the slick material of the cheap curtain and tugs at it forcefully. The hooks rattling against the rod creates a shriek that stretches in her chest.
“Oh my god, Roman!” She can’t help it. She can’t hold in the cry when she finally sees him.
Slumped on the shower floor, his forehead presses against the yellowish tile, his back half bent in an awkward angle between the wall and the ceramic floor, one leg close to his chest the other outstretched before him. He lies there just like a forgotten rag doll tossed in the corner of a lonely room.
Water streams directly onto his head, sopping wet his clothes, and she tries to shut it down, tries so hard to turn it all off, but her hand is too unsteady, the faucet is clearly rusted, providing resistance against her slippery fingers. The only thing she can do is to change the direction of the spray so that it would stop hitting so harshly over his body.
He has not acknowledged her presence, did not move one inch, just shut his eyes tighter, probably hating her for the intrusion.
“Honey…” she ventures biting her lip, this usually does the trick, when she calls him with so much tenderness in her voice, tenderness that was only meant to calm him but now her attempt runs deaf on his ears.
She lowers herself down, her back protesting as she gets on her hunches and fully takes in his state. Part of his shirt is torn at the collar, there is a bruise starting to form on his jaw, and some blood still flowing from the cut on his lip. Her heart explodes in a million tiny little pieces, like a crystal statue hit with an iron pipe.
“What happened?” She winces at her own words, because she knows what happened, can see it for herself. Once again the rage of an old fool exploded violently, bruising not only his tender skin but also his abused soul. She can only imagine the meaningless apologies that were uttered somewhat later, right before he dragged himself here.
He shrugs and that is a small start, she can work with that, no matter that the water is wetting her too.
She gets on her knees on the slippery floor, the pain cutting through her spine like a knife, but she needs to get closer to his body without crowding him. She brace on hand against the wall, with the other she reaches for his that lies near his hip. Lifting it gently, she hears him hiss and wince through his teeth, his bruised hand gives way to his red knuckles, one of which is scraped raw, and she runs her thumb tenderly over the different shade of red. His head shifts a tiny fraction, and his eyes are on her. She leans in and her lips caringly trace the harmed spots, kissing them lightly a few consecutive times.
He tenses, the set of his shoulders hardens, and she glides her touch up his arm, squeezing the soaked material of his shirt, beckoning him to her.
“Let’s get out of here” she suggests but he isn’t budging. His blood is still wet, and it drips down easily, painting the ceramic between them in hazy pink.
She moves to stand up, her impaired legs barely holding her straight. Reaching for him, she tries to drag his dead weight up with her, but in an instant he tugs at her, her balance so precarious she slides down, landing right in his lap. He groans loudly, the sound bouncing through the hollow walls, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the additional pain or from so much needed pleasure.
She tries to wiggle, get some of her weight off him, but he is holding her in place, keeping her to him in a vice grip, his arms wounding around her, sealing her breath.
His hands are everywhere, tugging at her wet blouse, tearing the buttons he cannot open, seeking her warm skin with his greedy fingers. One hand goes straight into her hair, fisting the locks that have started to curl, pulling them just enough to make her moan, seeking her reactions.
His mouth latches onto her neck and she lets him, lets him tear at her clothes, at her body. The pads of his fingers run endlessly over newly uncovered flesh. She lets him do all of that because seeing him like this, berated not by her words but by someone else's hand shattered something deep within her that nearly cannot be mended.
He sucks her nipple between his lips and she can’t help but arch for him and he bucks against her thigh, his hard dick begging for her attention, the zipper of his pants ripping at her pantyhose.
The frigid water cascades from above them in a heavy stream, every drop like little particles of mercury dripping one by one, poisoning their minds, weighting them further down.
He is frantic, his need fidgeting in her arms with dark possessiveness and yet she won’t match him. Her fingers rake deftly through his hair, wet locks slip leisurely within her touch. She caresses his back ever so slowly, up and down, up and down in most soothing motion she can create, plants faint kisses at his temple, on his cheekbone, across his forehead, on all the myriad parts of him that she can reach, cradles him in her arms like the most fragile Christmas ornament.
He thrusts his pelvis upwards with more force, and her hips move of their own violation grinding into him, and then her lips are at his ear and through a distraught whisper she repeats “It’s okay. You are okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” over and over and over again. Pronouncing the words clearly, wishing he would believe them.
And then it all stops, all the pulling, biting, scratching ceases, and the only sounds around them are their heavy gasps mingling with the running water.
His forehead presses more firmly into her collarbone and the first sob that ripples from his chest imprints on her skin. She stays in his arms unmoving, his sniveled apologies muffle against her chest, nonsense words endlessly lavishing her breasts.
The ache in her ribcage size again, constricting with an unbearable pressure, and she gathers his face in her palms, her thumb caching a teardrop on his cheek and finally kisses him, pours everything that she has left to give him into that one disparate kiss.
The potion of tears, blood and icy shower water tastes like broken rain on their lips.
They don’t have times for this.
They absolutely should not be doing this.
They are already running late, falling behind the tight schedule of a busy Christmas morning. They had overslept, because that slime puppy turned off their alarms without hitting a snooze button claiming they could have five more stupid minutes, and now she barely has time for a shower. She meant to do it hastily, in and out on a rush, while he was supposed to prepare their coffee, get the fucking show on the road.
Somehow, he managed to sneak into the stall with her, she really needs to start locking the bathroom behind her. Arrogantly ignoring all her protests, he had maneuvered himself behind her, promising to wash himself quickly. Ranting between heavy kisses and very deliberate touches about how they are fucking environmentally friendly, Rockstar and Molewoman saving the planet one water bill at time. Oh, and apparently somewhere out there he is on record as being very anti-waist.
Full of shit, that’s what he is.
But all the worries about timetables, separate cars, fake excuses, and weak apologies faded away when his fingers slid through her folds skillfully distracting her. And now, she just couldn’t care less.
Especially, when her hands slide against the steamy tiled wall with every push of his hips against her ass. The angle is perfect, after some manoeuvring he is finally hitting the right spot. His deliciously long, slow strokes leaving her feeling like a taunt ball of electricity. He presses kisses to her overheated skin, then follows it with his tongue, licking the water that pours onto her back, scraping his teeth just to make her groan.
He chants nonsensical words into the space beneath her ear, utters profanities, moans and grunts interspersed with whispered mutterings of her name. His voice is like a thick glaze, creeping beneath her skin mingling with her pulsing blood, prickling her nerves with its intense low timber. The sensation renders her deliciously dizzy.
His hand glides up her thigh, across her hip, over her abdomen, right up her ribcage, his fingers brushing the side of her breast, fingertips pinching her nipple, teasing around it with cruel circular motions, not providing the pressure she seeks. And in retaliation she bucks against him, hard sending him off balance, and their feet skid over the floor perilously catching themselves with panting breaths.
And then he is retreating, pulling out of her, his body vibrating with every little movement trying to steady both of them, making panicked whiny noises as loud as the shower stream.
"Roman," she hisses a harsh warning, "don’t you, fucking dare," her hand reaching back gripping firmly on his hip, nails digging into his skin and he jeers in her ear. There is nothing more wasteful than an unfinished assignment, full of potential with a favorable outcome.
“Gerri, fuck.” He can’t help but slam into her, wet skin clapping against each other, their posture straightening, bodies aligning closer, her pelvis tilts off its orbit.
“Yes.” She moans, and maybe they should actually stop, maybe his instinct was right, they are way too unstable, but she can’t, not when he is so hard and eager and willing behind her. She has faith in him, trusts him to keep them steady, never let them take a foolish step.
His hips restart the maddening motion, the build-up continuing, he rocks up against her, pulls her back with him and she lets the overpowering sensation of their slowness wash over her. It flows hotly in her veins.
"Touch yourself,” he whispers, a low command while biting the shell of her ear, and she can’t hold in the gasp that comes with his request.
She is a bit fearful about their precarious balance on the wet marble floor and she hesitates for a split second. She’s unsure, but wills her mind to focus on the vice grip his hands have on her hips and she caves, relaxing. With reluctance one of her hands leaves the wall, skims over her neck, passes between the valley of her breasts, runs over her stomach, and reaches her swollen clit. Her thumb rubs it in a circular motion shorting the distance between the precipice of their release, while her fingernails grazes over his balls, her hand applying a little pressure on his dick that pulls out only to push back into her again, over and over.
He rotates his hips and curls his fingers into a fist, using his wrist to shove down on the small of her back until she’s almost half bent, forehead resting against the shower wall as he pounds into her without restraint.
And the heat is spreading, pulling her tighter and tighter, crashing steadily into her in small waves to be suddenly replaced by one last surf that floats over all of her, submerging them both, and she hears him come with a grunt on her back.
He slumps against her, both out of breath, eyes closed and unwilling to move.
“Merry Christmas, Geraldine,” he pants into her ear.
With one swift motion she shuts the shower off, straightens her back, and captures his lips in a slow, languid kiss.
“Merry Christmas, Rome.” She can’t help but smile.
A brisk gust of wind hits her square in the face as she opens the door and steps out into the balcony. A few locks of hair immediately pulled from her meticulous French twist. Quickly, she tries to brush them off her forehead before they can catch in her red lipstick.
“Yes, I understand,” she says matter-of-factly already forgetting the name of the person now blabbing on and on into the phone, demanding her attention, pulling her out from the rowdy Christmas gathering organized by Waystar.
The wind picks up ruffling the chiffon of her dress between her legs. The air is misty, heavy in its crispiness for a December night. She looks up to the sky, the dark, moody clouds effectively covering the starry night, hanging low and casting a purple glow over the restless city. She can’t remember what the forecast has predicted this morning, if it would snow, or rain.
The answer came pretty quickly, little droplets of rain scattering on her bare arms sending a chilly shiver running down her spine and she regrets immensely that she didn’t step into an empty office to take this call or at least pick up her warp that was laying forgotten on the back of her seat at the table.
The rain shower grows in its intensity, and she looks around for some shelter, but all the outdoor umbrellas where closed, no one anticipated guests wandering on the balcony.
Her skin feels cold, goosebumps rising all over her body and she rubs her arm with her hand, uselessly trying to create some heat.
“I think that could be a good solution,” she says on autopilot, pretends to listen while thinking of who to email right after this call ends and maybe try and fire the person who put her in this cool predicament.
And then something drapes around her shoulders. The warm material enveloping her in a gentle hug, the rich scent that clings to the jacket gives away its owner, and she turns on her heels locking her gaze with his. His eyes are wild, a hint of concern in them. She crocks her eyebrow in a questioning manner and he just shrugs, sporting a weak smirk on his face. She reaches out to touch his forearm, squeezing it lightly in a form of gratitude.
He crowds her a little, stepping closer, trying ineffectively to shield her away from the persistent rain and wind, but she has to move away. Her back to him, as she takes few steps from the little of comfort that his presence was providing, trying to regain her focus on the call in progress.
No matter the day, month or time of the year, there always will be a phone call, or a meeting she will be obliged to take part in, never clocking out, always running endlessly on Waystar time, but this one, damn, this one could have been a fucking email.
“Yes, goodnight.” She says curtly, clicking the end button, effectively cutting off her caller that was in mid-sentence reciting polite holiday wishes, not caring about them one bit.
She moves to the door, her eyes glued to her phone while she scrolls through it, but she noticed something out of the corner of her eye and halts abruptly in her tracks.
He is still there, leaning on the concrete wall, getting all soaked by the rain, waiting for her.
“Rome?” she questions urgently as she walks towards him starting to take his jacket off, but he stops her, one hand on her shoulder, eyes evading hers.
She can’t help but wonder why he didn’t go back inside, avoid catching pneumonia or worse, a new plague that was running around. Why is he continuously there? Always only few steps behind her, making sure she is alright, lurking, needing, being.
Her fingers slide into his wet hair, catching the lock that falls onto his forehead, putting it back in its place, and he leans into her touch, her hand on his cheek, his lips faintly brushing the core of her palm.
She closes the distance between their bodies, between their mouths. The taste of wine mingles right with their breaths, and the kiss deepens, his tongue skims over her lower lip caressing the plum flesh lightly. His breath hitches and she knows he is panicking, can feel him fidgeting on his feet.
Their first kiss out in the open happening right outside their nearest and dearest.
Her heart never felt more at peace.
She reaches for his hand and their fingers lace together, in union they walk towards the exit.
Right before opening the door, he tries to drop her hand, but her hold tightens and he makes a weird noise in his throat.
“Ready?” She asks, the meaning much deeper than the simplicity of re-entering the party.
“Only if you are.” And she is not surprised by the confidence in his voice, knows he has been waiting for it for longer than he would ever care to admit.
She hums in agreement. No time is better than Christmas to step out in the open, from under the shower of a purple rain.