The wall is rough at her back, but his hand is cradling her skull. If he wasn't her head would be hitting the wall at every thrust. Mercy is grateful for that tiny hint of care and is ignoring it. She can't think about that. She's thinking about how his hipbones press against hers. How his other hand is gripping her ass, how his mouth is hot against hers.
He's filling every inch of her perception and she wants to ignore it’s him, but she can't. She fucking can't. So she does the only thing her body can think of doing at the time and fucks him.
She makes sure she gives and takes as much as he does. Dragging her nails over his back, hating his shirt is in the way and she can't touch skin. Mercy squeezes her legs around him, closing her eyes, half kissing half panting against his mouth. His thrusts are hard, pushing her harder against the wall. She can feel the power of his muscles, the edge of desperation to come in his action. Doesn't think about it mirrors her own.
When she comes, her orgasm fast and hard and exactly what she needed. Her body arches away from the wall and into him. Her eyes flutter open and she catches the way he's looking at her. Like he wants to devour her. Mercy groans.
She bites at his mouth to stop his name from escaping her lips, but it still slips out on a half breath.
"God damn you, Riley." Her head falls back against the wall, against his hand.
He comes hard after that, hip bones digging into hers. His mouth drags against her throat with just the right hint of teeth. Mercy thinks about how she could come again against that mouth. Ignores that thought, too.
She pushes out of the dingy bar bathroom and into the back alley three minutes later. The minute he pulled out she was half dressed and looking for the way out. This was such a fuck up. She fumbles for her phone and sends a quick text to Dorian apologising for bailing early. Headache, she texts. owe you a beer
Slipping into her car, she shakes off the few drops of rain that just started falling.
“Stupid, Mercy,” she growls at herself, starting her car.
So damn stupid. Worst yet, she can still feel him.
Her phone beeps.
Well, that clearly can’t happen again, she promises herself, fingers tracing the hickey he left on her collarbone.
Mercy rolls her shoulders and tries not look to her left. He's down here too and after last week’s… encounter at the bar she’s been trying to avoid him without it looking like she’s avoiding him. It’s been pretty easy considering they work in different departments.
But there are certain places they can’t avoid each other.
The firing range for one.
Just her luck she came down and out of all the people filling the slot, he’s there. Three down from her. Just her luck. And he doesn’t even look at her. Hasn’t in the last twenty minutes they’ve been in here. She doesn't blame him. She's not even thinking about it.
She’s trying not to look at him. She won’t. She hasn’t in the last five minutes. Granted it’d be a lot easier if he didn’t insist on flexing his biceps each time he fires one off. If she didn’t remember how they felt around her. How they held her up without issue and how--
“Nice shooting, Smith,” she hears as she pulls her earphones off.
His voice rolls over her and fuck him fuck him fuck him she starts a little.
Turning to glare at him, she almost collides with his chest. When did he get so close?
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
Riley only shrugs, slow, sleek. His shoulders are wide and she remembers gripping them. Remembers wanting to bite down on the muscle. She fucking hates him and his shoulders.
“You didn’t. You never do,” he says.
Mercy narrows her eyes, “Maybe it’s because I don’t want it.”
And like that they both know they’re not talking about her stance or her shooting. She wants to swallow her words, but that’s not quite true. She wants--- No, she cuts that thought off sharp and quick. Riley doesn’t do so much as shift a muscle, but she can feel how much tenser he is. He seems to fill up more space than before. She doesn’t feel cornered by it, by him.
Riley steps closer and Mercy lets him. There’s a dangerous feeling licking down her spine.
“Are you sure about that, Mercy?”
The use of her first name -- something they both avoid generally -- makes her grin. His eyes flick down to her mouth. Mercy grins wider.
She straightens her shoulder and closes up a few of the inches between them. She can smell his aftershave, clean and crisp. She see his jaw clench. She wonders if he thinks of biting her too.
“I’m always sure about what I want.”
Walking past him, Mercy forces him shift to the left as she goes to leave. He's stepped so close that her side brushes his arms and chest as she does. Mercy bites the inside of her cheek.
“So am I,” he says as she leaves and she feel his eyes trailing down her back. It should sound like a threat but it sounds like a promise and Mercy wonders if he’ll keep it.
Oh, she should have know the bastard would.
The elevator stopped ten minutes ago. Alexei said they’d be another twenty minutes before they’d get them out. Mercy is ready to kill someone. Specifically, Riley who's sitting across from her, saying nothing in that annoying way of his that is just full of judgement. Mercy feels like she’s a cat trapped in a cage. She doesn’t like the feeling.
Across from her Riley doesn’t move a muscle and she’s so fucking tired of him. She’s mad at him, too. He hasn’t approached her since the firing range, but he’s always around. She sees him sparring in the small gym they have in the basement. She catches him leaving or arriving during shift changes, always with coffee cup from the Lauren's down the street. He’s polite and quiet as fucking always when he’s not grousing over her bike blocking his car. (Which may or may not be on purpose.) It fucking bites at her.
"Just say it, Kincaid."
Riley’s eyes open and he levels with a look that should not make her nipples so hard. But she likes the way he looks at her, like he’s one second from getting in her face at the right word. She wants him in her face again, not that she’ll ever tell him that. She wants him under her with that look he gets. Like he wants to bite her and do more.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Smith."
She glowers at the use of her last name. He's only called her by that or Detective these last couple week. “Fine,” she scowls, settling against the wall.
"Okay," he says, slow, like he’s amused and she’s so fucking done with this. He doesn’t look away from her.
Mercy bites her lip, because she is not going to pout.
"So this is how it’s going to be?"
"Yes," she hisses out.
"Good to know," he’s got that slow smile again. The one that got her following him into the bathroom at the Wild. The one she thinks about when she’s alone in her apartment, fingers curled inside herself.
She hates that smile.
Mercy sighs and shifts. She needs to stop thinking about him. Stretching her legs out, she watches as his eyes trail every inch of them. She smirks. When he looks up she meets his gaze head on. Neither of them are smiling anymore. She’s reminded of the firing range. Of the booth in the bar when he frowned at her, bought her a beer, and touched her chin because of the day she had. She thinks about the first time she felt this pull in her belly for him, sparring in the gym. It was late and he didn’t hold back with her at all.
He holds back so much, so often, and in that moment he hadn’t. He pinned her (something she still hates to admit), his eyes bright with adrenaline, and then with something else she can maybe admit she’s been chasing since. She still remembers how it felt to have his thighs straddle her, the way the sweat matted against his forehead.
She'd been breathing hard and so had he. He was leaning down, his hands at either side of her head and...
Well, let's say she really remembers that's when Drew walked in. By the time she stood back up Riley had become The Wall again.
But Mercy has always been a bit of a battering ram, according to her mother.
It’s happens that fast, now, too. Way too fast to remember who moved first. It doesn't matter, because his hands are down her jeans, and she’s sucking at the underside of his jaw. Her nails scratch at his chest where she’s pulled up his shirt to his armpits. He’s rubbing his thumb against her clit hard. His fingers-- his wide, perfect fingers are fucking her fast and rough. It shouldn’t be enough, it barely is, but Riley is a determined man, and Mercy has been half turned on since that day in the firing range.
He's kissing her hard, his other hand sliding down the back of her jeans to cup her ass and squeeze. She’s riding his hand, gasping, grabbing her own breast. Riley groans when she grounds down on his erection. She wraps her arms tight around him. Her hand curls at the nape of his neck, needing to anchor herself.
Riley bends down and bites at nipple through her shirt and bra making her jump. He adds another finger, and it’s nothing like his cock, but it’s enough.
“Riley,” she chokes off his name and he nods jerkily, covering her mouth with his.
It’s messy and hurried just like the bar, the edge of her orgasm making her breathless. Or it would be just like the bar except just as she’s coming down, her body falling against his, they hear Jem on the intercom. They scramble to look like nothing happened. Riley, is still a bastard, and keeps his gaze on her as she pulls her jeans up and fixes her ponytail. He keeps his eyes on her as he grins, smug, and entirely too attractively, licking his fingers before sticking them in his pockets. Mercy flushes hard. When the elevator doors open, she shoulders her way out, yelling.
“Fuck you, Kincaid!”
Mercy waits until she’s at her desk to send him a message to come to her apartment tonight. She does plays fair after all. Usually. And she did say she was going to fuck him.
“So is this how it’s going to be,” Riley echoes himself from earlier. There’s a few notable differences. For one, they’re not at work. Instead they’re in her apartment. More importantly he’s deliciously naked and sprawled across her bed. Mercy flips her hair over her shoulder, and leans up on an elbow.
“Are you complaining?”
Riley gives her that smile again, the one from the elevator. The one she’s never seen before. One she wants to keep for herself, God help her.
“I’m just wondering how this going to be.” He reaches up and runs his hand up her neck and through her hair.
Mercy sighs, leaning into his hand. He cupped her head in the bar, she remembers, and smiles.
“I’m good with this,” she says, crawling over him, nipping at his collarbone, like she’s wanted to do for weeks.
Riley’s eyes light up and yeah she wants that for herself too. “Yeah?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Work,” he says, because he’s Riley and of course he’s thought of all the boring HR stuff.
“So old Captain Hawke will get a few more grey hairs, it’s not like you can notice with that hair of his,” she mumbles, kissing an old scar.
In that moment Mercy realises that Riley doesn’t laugh enough. She also realises she wants to make it her mission that he does. He’s still laughing as he tugs her head back and nips at her lips.
Mercy hums against his mouth, “I got the cool laid back Captain. He’ll throw us a party for the aforementioned grey hairs.”
She’s not wrong.