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Her eyes are blurring.
She glances over at the clock on the wall. It’s well after midnight, and she’s hardly made a dent in the pile of reports she needs to review before tomorrow’s meetings. She sighs and stands from her desk, making her way over to the small kitchenette. Their housing on the base is small, but functional enough. There’s still half a pot of coffee left from batch she brewed earlier. It will have to do.
She’s just making her way back to the desk, mug in hand, when a knock sounds at her door. Unusual at this hour, but not unheard of. The work waits for no one. She sets the mug down and smooths her hair behind her ears, but there isn’t much else to be done by way of propriety. For whomever it is, pajamas will have to suffice.
It’s not who she expects.
“Doctor Grace?” She asks.
“Can I come in?” He asks, running a hand through his hair.
She steps aside to allow him entry, curious. She likes to think that she’s become able to read his moods, to know how and when to offer a kind word or a sharp reprimand as needed. Like all her scientists, he’s tightly wound and finely tuned, his intellect a skittish thoroughbred that needs to be carefully managed.
But in this moment, for the first time in a long time, she can’t read him. He’s distracted, not himself. Whatever this is, it’s something new.
“What can I do for you?” She asks. He’s still in his daywear — has he come straight from the lab?
He dips his head, just slightly, and lets out a breath. He can’t seem to meet her eye.
“Grace?” She asks, growing concerned. This quiet isn’t like him. “What is it?”
Maybe it’s the late hour, or the day she’s had, or whatever tattered scrap of human decency still lives within her; whatever it is, she has a sudden desire to bulldoze through the wall of professionalism they’ve both worked so diligently to quietly, carefully maintain. She’s a deeply pragmatic woman. She knows this will have consequences. But she’s also learned, over the years, that sometimes you have to listen to your gut.
She steps closer and lays a hand on his arm.
He inhales sharply, as though her touch is painful.
Oh. Interesting.
She knows then, with certainty, exactly what this is.
“It’s alright,” she says softly.
He finally meets her eye, and her breath catches. He’s fighting himself, shame and desire at odds and morphing quickly into something sharper and more potent. His skin is hot under her hand. She’s suddenly aware of just how close they are, of just how much of her collarbone is exposed by the drape of her shirt. She feels a flush rise up her chest and burn across her cheeks.
This — whatever happens next — is a bad idea. A terrible one, even. But she is not, despite appearances to the contrary and her very best efforts, infallible.
So she makes a decision.
“What do you need?,” She asks, her voice low and soothing. “Tell me.”
He has always needed the push.
He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m…” He hesitates, dancing around his words. She sees his mind working, watches in a split second as he considers ten different responses. “I’m kind of going out of my mind, a little.” It comes out in a rush, unsteady.
“Why?” she asks. She knows why.
”Please don’t make me say it.” It’s barely more than a whisper, and it lances through her like a spike.
“How can I help you, Doctor Grace?” She asks again, quietly. She needs to be sure.
He leans closer still. He smells clean, masculine, and every part of her is aware of him. The space left between them is singing now, charged and alive. He dips his head to her ear, and she can’t help but tilt her head, his breath warming the sensitive arc of her neck and sending shivers down her spine.
“Eva,” he pleads. His desperation echoes in the quiet.
She is, as it turns out, only human.
She draws her hand between them and palms him through his jeans.
He shudders and bites back a whimper, and then any semblance of control she might have had on the situation is gone.
She makes quick work of his fly. He’s already hard and he gasps as she wraps her hand around him. She feels suddenly drunk on the sounds he’s making and the way he’s choking back her name.
They’re sloppy, messy, fumbling like teenagers. He’s at her neck, in her ear, his hands slipping up under her shirt, into her hair, his skin hot against hers. She bites her lip to keep from moaning. It’s been a long time.
He finds his rhythm, grinding up into her hand until he’s slurring and senseless.
“Go on,” she murmurs, and it’s all he needs — he comes hard and fast into her hands.
“Sorry,” he pants as he comes down, hiding his face in her neck. “Sorry, sorry.” When he finally meets her eye he’s bashful.
She’s unable to suppress a small, self-satisfied smirk. Then she cleans her hands on his shirt, takes a deep breath, and asks, “Was there anything else, Doctor Grace?”
Direct. Professional. As though she hadn’t just had him begging in her hands.
“I — what?” He asks, incredulous.
“If there’s nothing else you need — “
“No,” He said, shaking his head, cajoling. “No. Come on.” His voice is low; it rolls through her every muscle, every nerve. There’s something plaintive in it.
She meets his eyes.
I’m right here. It hangs in the air. Use me.
She considers, for a long, searching moment.
Then she grabs him by the shirt and pulls him towards her, walking backwards until she feels the wall at her back.
Fine. Let him be used.
She takes his hand, warm and dry, and places it on her abdomen. He lets out a breath and grins. She settles her hand atop his, and leads him down, slowly, dipping below her waistband, through soft hair, guiding him. Her breath hitches as, together, they search between her legs. She’s flushed, can feel it burning across her chest, her neck, her face.
So much for professional composure.
She bites back a moan at the dip of his fingers, the gentle stretch that threatens to rend her limb from limb. She’s heady, heavy with arousal, and quickly losing track of anything that isn’t the feel of his hands on her, in her. He draws her out, searching and circling until he finds just the right rhythm to make her legs go weak. She throws an arm around his neck and buries a moan into his shoulder.
“Yeah?” He asks, flashing a boyish grin.
She threads her fingers into his hair and tugs sharply — it’s all the upper hand she can muster, given the circumstances.
He gasps a laugh and thrusts his fingers deeper in retaliation, an unexpected insubordination. It catches her off-guard and nearly throws her off balance; he wraps an arm around her to hold her steady. He’s so much stronger than he appears. For a split second when she catches his eye, there’s something cocky, almost arrogant there. He’s terribly proud of himself.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. And it’s been a long time since anyone has pushed back on her.
Her climax peaks hard and fast. She rides it out, grinding hard into the heel of his hand and clenching around his fingers over and over, until finally, finally, it sets her down, languid and spent.
He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Then he draws her over to the desk, guides her gently down onto it, and kneels.
“Wait, Grace —”
He’s already pulling her pants down over her hips.
“Grace —”
He discards them, settles between her legs, and grabs ahold of her hips to anchor her to the desk.
“Wait —” She swats at his hands, but he clearly has no intention of listening. He gives her a mischievous, hungry look, kisses the soft skin of her inner thigh, and brings his mouth to her.
It’s excruciating pain, searing pleasure, both. She hasn’t had enough time to recover; she’s still too sensitive, every nerve ending afire. She falls back onto the desk and threads a hand into his hair. She brings the other her mouth, biting down on the base of her palm, anything to try and muffle the cries he’s drawing from her.
He’s relentless, his hands like a vise on her hips, not giving her even an inch. She can’t get away, and he’s insistent, lapping, sucking, drawing her out until she’s nearly weeping. It’s too much. There’s no escape. And then suddenly she doesn’t want one as another orgasm slams into her, so hard she feels as though she’ll crack the desk in half. She’s seeing white, writhing, bucking up into him, clenching over and over and over. She doesn’t know how long it lasts. Time dilates as wave after wave rocks her, wrecks her. It could be seconds, or minutes, or hours. She can’t know.
He’s running his his hands gently over her legs as she comes down, placing soft, soothing kisses along her thigh.
She lays there a moment, coming back to herself, letting her breathing settle.
She looks at her hand. There’s a red welt forming where she muffled herself. She flexes and feels it throb. That one’ll be leaving a mark. Something in her likes the idea of it.
“Was there anything else, Director Stratt?” He asks, cocky. “If there’s nothing else…”
She groans, covering her face with her hands.
He laughs and pulls her up to meet him.
“Better?” He asks, his gaze searching, suddenly earnest.
She nods, a small smile playing over her lips. In this moment, she’s unbearably fond of him. “Yes. Better.”
He returns her nod, eyes dancing. “Good.”
And then, after a beat: “Happy to be of service.”