Work Text:
“You look nice.”
Emma whirls around on the ball of her foot, first assuming she must have misheard, then with the expectation that she’s going to see Fergus standing beside him and laughing while waiting for the punchline to come, but it’s just Adam — a solo performer, for once — in one of his weirdly wide ties, holding the dregs of whatever vaguely Christmassy drink he’s subjected himself to and apparently without any caveats to add.
His smile at her is expectant but dastardly, and she doesn’t trust it.
“I’m not trying to look nice,” Emma frowns. “It’s not even like we’re going out anywhere.” Same office as usual, so same clothes as usual (sensible skirt, sensible blouse, sensible blazer, sensible low heels); same slightly weedy plastic cups supplied to all government departments for reasons of cost efficiency. They might be on the small side, but from his mildly wavering countenance it looks like Adam’s already downed the contents of quite a few of them.
“Well, I’d fuck you,” Adam shrugs, as if he’s been asked to give his opinion on some not especially important policy point. He gives a quick matter-of-fact flick of his eyes down her body and back up again before sauntering away without another word to backslap a passing junior member of staff and grab a tepid bottle of beer from the table in the middle of the office.
Emma watches him go, her forefinger tapping absent-mindedly at the plastic rim of her drink. The back of Adam’s neck and the set of his shoulders, his face no longer visible, looks good, but it’s not like she’s going to tell him.
(God help her, she’s considering it. She’s not actually considering it, surely, but she is now thinking about it. Them. Doing that.)
She’s never seriously entertained the idea before. It’s work, you have to have boundaries — especially considering how fucking weird everyone is here, not to mention how spectacularly not going places the lot of them are — and Adam specifically is unlikely to be that advantageous considering how, come the next general election, it’s looking increasingly likely that his lot are going to get annihilated.
Still. Minimal lingering consequences sometimes have their own advantages.
*
On the other hand — okay, Emma’s decision-making abilities may have been slightly slowed or otherwise affected by alcohol, but clearly not enough for her to not be considering the counter-argument, ergo she’s completely fine, actually — she can’t bear the idea of doing anything to increase Adam’s hugely unearned air of complacent superiority. Even his baseline level of strutting around the office as if he’s the world’s first man to be genetically blessed with a good jawline and the ability to occasionally actually get shit done was borderline unbearable at the best of times. The notion of encouraging his scattergun attempts at peacocking? She’d rather have to try and relaunch Silicon Playgrounds, thank you very much.
Emma’s still ruminating on all of this when, lo and behold, Adam pops up from behind the nearest shelving unit, once again uncharacteristically alone, another bottle of beer in his hand, and Emma makes the entirely level-headed decision to march right back up to him so she can reclaim the last word.
“You know, you’re okay at your job,” Emma tells him. “But you’re a terrible person.”
Adam smiles back at her and her jabbing finger, pleased and barely sardonic for once, as though she has paid him an unequivocal compliment.
“But if you actually were such a smooth operator, you wouldn’t be working for the junior party in government.” Can’t he see how stupid he is? How foolish his choices are?
“Can’t someone want to unchain himself from the fucking night desk and,” — Adam coughs, then looks down at his drink for a moment — “help out an old friend? And yeah, I did have one or two things I actually wanted to get done, at least at one stage; sorry about that.”
“And stop being so transparently gross,” Emma glowers. “I’m not thinking I’m special here, and it’s not going to work. I’ve seen you try it on with just about everyone else, including that building receptionist downstairs. She can’t be more than about twenty-three. It’s revolting.”
“Which receptionist?”
“The pretty one.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Adam says, letting rip another contemptible grin. “Wasn’t exactly looking at her face.”
“Fine. The one with the enormous tits.”
“Oh, that one. Hah. Yeah.” He looks off into the middle distance, as if recalling a fond reminiscence, then passes another glance at the neckline of her blouse. “Jealous?”
“For fuck’s sake. You are unbelievable.”
“Some of us actually have a sex drive. Not all of us can be as monkishly devoted to the job as someone who can only communicate via Game of Thrones references.” Adam nods towards where, a few rows of open-plan desks away, Phil is having an animated conversation with Peter Mannion, who looks desperate to escape the conversation by any means necessary. She should, Emma ponders distantly, possibly go and rescue him.
“Well, you mostly converse in metaphors related to fucking football,” she tells Adam instead. That last word; she’s not going to let it go. “I don’t see how that’s so different.” Shit. It’s been a bloody awful party, but she isn’t standing here to start defending Phil.
“I can translate all of my football metaphors into dressage ones if it’s all rushing over your pretty little head,” he says. “Or lacrosse, perhaps?”
“Oh, fuck off, Adam,” Emma scowls, looking away from the stupid neatness of his hairline and swallowing down a great big glug of her drink in one go. Further fortification is going to be needed. And improvements made to her rejoinders, ideally. “Hardly as if you’re a crusading member of the proletariat.”
“What about you, then?” Adam asks her, beginning to stoop so that he’s closer to her ear. “We all work long hours, if that’s Phil’s excuse. How long’s it been since you’ve had a good seeing to?”
“Well,” Emma says, turning back to look at him again, electing to this time ignore his coarseness. “I put in the hours too, of course. But that’s actually none of your fucking business.”
“You know,” Adam says in a dangerously low voice, leaning in towards her in a confidential sort of way with a surprisingly uncoordinated swaying motion. And then he ruins all of her defences with a level, intense look directed straight at her, not unfocussed at all. “I’d hike up that good girl pencil skirt you’re always wearing and bend you right over the nearest sofa, actually.” He murmurs it, close and slightly slurred, shit-eating grin only fading when he fumbles and accidentally dips a finger into the neck of his bottle of beer. He winces, then lifts his finger up to his mouth and licks it clean. “You know. Just say the word.”
“Right.” Her head’s buzzing from the drink, and she’s not going to pay any attention to anything else she might be feeling, legs under the aforementioned skirt tight together. “Well, I’ll bear that in mind.”
Deep breath in. All right, she does have to pay attention to anything else she might be feeling, Adam looking at her like that, and all right: it was hot. Emma took great satisfaction in manipulating people around her to her point of view, not by screaming at them but by being around at the right time and knowing the right dirt and sometimes by throwing in a winning smile or two. And what was someone finding you attractive if not them being persuaded? Won over? It’s not like she hasn’t noticed Adam’s attempts at flirting in the workplace via showing off, sometimes unsubtly trying to look down her top at Stewart Pearson’s stand-up all-hands; she wasn’t stupid, she just knew it would be a terrible idea. After all, she’d tried to do sex and/or relationships across party lines before, and that wasn’t with someone who worked in the same office. Luckily it’s usually easy for her to think extra hard about Adam’s terrible personality and limited career prospects until any more unintellectual urges she has go away again.
But, tonight. Her caution-to-the-wind throwing is so carefully rationed, but surely there can be a night or two a year. And it’s been such a shit year.
“Come on,” Adam says, behaving so cack-handedly obvious in front of everyone, planting his hand around her waist for far too long. His annoying face, more relaxed when intoxicated, is still eminently slappable, but when his face is this close to hers she also notices the nonsensically generous sweep of his eyelashes. “I know you need it.”
She won’t want it tomorrow, most likely, but she does want it now. That’s the thing.
“Not here” she tells him, forcibly removing his hand from its continuous threat to rove either higher or lower than her waistline. Completely inappropriate out in the open it may be, but her body keenly feels the loss of contact. “Jesus Christ, do they teach you anything at those mandatory harassment training seminars, you walking liability?”
“I know a place,” he says. Great. They can carry on showing their faces here for maybe twenty more minutes, and then they can discretely get out of here.
*
“What’s all this, hm?” Adam wonders, his breath warm against the back of Emma’s neck, her hair swept over one shoulder. His hands span firmly across the bare skin above the top of her black hold-ups. Rarely fails to get a rise. It was the state schoolers who’d gone to school with girls, and girls in trousers at that, who weren’t fussed. There was an excitable interest in and gratefulness for sight of an actual real life tit or being allowed to put a hand up your skirt that men who attended single-sex boarding schools never quite seem to shake. Unfortunately those same men were also likely to have critically limited emotional range.
But the little happy-surprised truncated sort of noise Adam makes, right in her ear, when his hands finally get far enough up her legs to find out she’s not wearing tights. The exact moment his fingers start tracing over the band of warm skin just short of her underwear. That’s really quite something.
“Okay, come on,” Emma says, still facing the row of shelves she’s clinging for dear life onto, then takes one long breath, in and out, to try and centre herself and focus and stop her legs from shaking. “We’ve already stayed long enough to avoid career suicide – you leave now and I’ll meet you outside the pub on the corner in ten minutes and then we’ll… go somewhere, okay?”
“Why do we need to go anywhere?” Adam asks, one of his hands still rubbing a small, teasing circle on the back of her thigh. He hasn’t pushed her skirt up very far yet, but if he was going to and she could get her legs apart just a little further—
“I am not.” Emma swallows. “I am not having a within-department cross-party encounter in a stationery cupboard in the office in which we both work! Are you completely mental!”
“You don’t want to be a bit naughty? Just the tip will have you begging for more, I bet. It always does.”
She can’t see his smirk, not with him behind her like this, but she can hear it in his voice. She can also feel his hands finally making their way up and then over her backside, fiddling with the hem of her underwear, and the keen press of his erection through his trousers. If his hands moved slightly further forward, between her legs, he was going to realise exactly how much she already wanted it. And that really would be mortifying.
“You don’t really want someone to walk in on us, do you?” Emma says, trying not to think about Adam’s warm, strong hands that seem to actually sort of know what they’re doing, or think too much about who those hands belong to, or about Adam’s dick, which really is just right there; he’s tight enough up against her for her to feel the scratch of his security pass between his chest and her back. Impossible to gauge his reaction otherwise, really: the only thing in her line of vision right now are numerous boxes of cheap biros. But that reaction is the all-important bit. “I’ll be ten minutes tops, I promise. Just got to throw everyone off the scent.”
His nostrils are at one side of her neck, then, millimetres away from her jugular, and he inhales in once, slowly and deeply, as if to suggest the scent is there for anyone to notice if they’re looking out for it. She feels rather than sees the shape of his grin. There is an intense, aching curl of heat beneath her stomach as, only adding to the problem, a fresh rush soaks her underwear.
“I knew it,” he says right in her ear, deadly quiet against the buzzing almost-silence of the cupboard. “I fucking knew it.”
“Knew what, exactly?” Emma says sharply, then belatedly realises that her teeth have been pressing down hard against the flesh of her bottom lip. Adam’s fingers were so close. He might be able to tell the state of her underwear already. Maybe he really can smell it. Her.
“That you fucking wanted it,” he sing-songs into her ear, triumphant and moderately smashed. “You dirty bitch, always acting like you were too good for it.”
Right, that’s it: if he’s going to be such a colossal twat about it, this stops now until there’s zero chance of them being overheard by anyone. The reputational damage for her alone!
Emma pushes Adam back and flips herself around so that they’re face to face, wincing through the acute loss of the pressure of his wandering hands from her thighs and the now thudding ache emanating from what’s between them. She notes with pleasure, her mind still alcohol-hazy at the edges, the look of surprise and then cock-teased disappointment fall across his face.
“Was it me always shuffling my chair away from you whenever you contrived to sit next to me at meetings?” Emma asks him, eyebrows raised; she takes in Adam putting his hands to his hips in instinctive response, puffing himself up to full size. “What gave me away?”
He looks every inch a man who’s been startled in a stationery cupboard: a section of his hair is sticking up weirdly on one side, and his tie is delightfully askew. Nevertheless he’s still emanating a trace of that conceitedness, as if Emma’s just lost some long-standing dispute between them.
“Ten. Minutes,” she says.
“And then,” Adam replies, looking down at her with a seedy kind of smile, a fraying slurring still audible when he speaks. He raises both eyebrows too, just in case his meaning wasn’t already abundantly clear. “We’ll go to mine.”
*
Handsome: that was an objective fact, like the existence of Peter’s love child or the proven efficacy of supply-side economics. It was just difficult sometimes to see past Adam’s dreadful personality, buoyed up only by semi-regular showings of actual professional competence. But right sort of background too, if you ignored his unfortunate choice of party affiliation. Mind you, Ollie had been… Well, he had been her bit of rough, Emma supposes. He was from Manchester, for goodness’ sake.
Emma finds herself with plenty of time to frown thoughtfully at the relative attractiveness of Adam’s face, think about how they’d both found themselves in this situation, etcetera; they say very little to each other in the taxi as her heart thumps pleasantly through her moderate level of intoxication. His flat turns out to be in a nice-ish, new-ish building, enough floors up that the view isn’t just of the wall of another building, but it’s still not what you’d call a good view. The interior is one that smacks of aiming for sophistication, but is inescapably inhabited by a man who doesn’t spend much time here, or appear to have many possessions besides flat-pack furniture and fitness equipment. Adam, thank fuck, doesn’t have a flatmate. She doesn’t want witnesses.
“This is the most soulless flat I’ve ever been in,” she tells him haughtily once the door’s closed behind them. Her hand goes up to her hair clip to unfasten it, but then she lets her hand drift away awkwardly instead, deciding against letting anything down just yet. “And I have dated several people who definitely don’t have a soul. It’s like you live inside a PureGym.”
“Oh, sorry I haven’t had time to redecorate recently,” Adam says, pulling a face of sheer puerile sarcasm. “Been too busy running the fucking country, haven’t I!”
“Well, not really, have you,” Emma can’t help but shoot back, as she looks around for some sort of available surface on which she can safely put her coat and handbag. “Not from the DoSAC playpen. When was the last time you were inside Number 10?”
Adam clearly doesn’t have a professionally impressive answer to that one, because his response is to, of all things, start enthusiastically kissing her: lots of tongue and breathy panting, and surprisingly soft lips; one of his hands drifts back down to her backside over the smooth fabric of her skirt. He’s still wearing his overcoat, which turns out up close to smell only faintly of cigarette smoke in a way that pleasantly reminds Emma of her university days. Adam pushes her back against his plain and unadorned living room wall, and Emma responds in kind, enjoying the hot press of their eager mouths, the firm pressure of his hands, his brief but memorable diversions away from her mouth and towards her earlobe and the line of her jaw.
“Don’t leave a mark,” she says, when his mouth makes its way down to her neck. “What the fuck?”
She can feel how hard he is again, even though he’s trying to keep his crotch from rubbing up against her too much with an awkward little pulling back of his hips. One of Adam’s hands drifts to her back, and he gathers the ends of her hair up together in his fist and pulls. She gets one of her hands around the back of his neck in kind, fingertips running through his short hair, and digs her nails in. The groan he makes, running from his mouth right into hers, is pretty gratifying.
“Come on,” she says, and he takes her through to his bedroom. It’s slightly nicer in here, Emma notes with relief. The bed and its headboard don’t look as if they’ve come from from IKEA, and the sheets are neat and clean. The pattern on his curtains, which Adam breaks apart from her to close, is atrocious.
His hair all over the place like that, rather than gelled to within an inch of its life, suits him. It makes him look uncertain. She doesn’t like it when he looks at ease in a room.
“Mutually assured destruction?” Emma suggests, taking a seat on the side of Adam’s bed. A firm mattress. Her shoes are still on, noisy at her every step on the laminate flooring. “As in, we both tell no-one about this. That includes WhatsApping Fergus and whoever else you’ve got on your tragic group chat that you ‘smashed’ some ‘killer pussy’ tonight, which I am absolutely certain you do whenever you need to boast about the rare occasion when you’ve managed to lure an actual woman to your lair.”
“I actually have excellent gym game,” Adam says with an annoying little smirk, squinting disparagingly at her air quotes. He takes off his coat and folds it before putting it on the seat of the chair in the corner of the room. “Also pubs.”
“Abhorrent. Let me know which gym you go to and I’ll make sure I never go within fifty feet of it.”
“Sure,” Adam says, making it clear he’s humouring her. “Whatever you say.”
Her thumb absent-mindedly rubbing at her kissed lips, Emma watches him take off his shoes and suit jacket. He loosens his tie, but doesn’t remove it.
A laugh from him then, surprisingly self-conscious, or perhaps just foolish. He walks over to stand in front of her, the line of his erection clearly visible in his trousers and only inches from her face.
“You’ll take what I’m offering,” Emma says. “I’m doing you a favour.”
“I thought I was doing you a favour?” Adam replies. He looks down at her, at a significant height advantage like this, and one of his hands move to press the heel of his palm against the bulge in his trousers. Once again, against her better judgement, she feels a keen clench of heat between her legs.
“If you think I’m going to suck you off? No, sorry. You’ll have to find someone else for that.”
“You can put it in just for a second, can’t you sweetheart?”
“Don’t call me—”
“C’mon,” he says, eyes all wide and needy. “Just for a minute, please, come on, not for months have I... Oh, of course you’re too good for that sort of thing,” he says, when her expression remains unchanged and unyielding. For a moment, his hand hovers at the back of her head as if he’s going to push her down there, but in the end he chickens out.
“Lie back, then,” he mumbles, one might even think grudgingly, and she lets her feet slip out of her heels at last. “If you’re going to be difficult about it.” The shifting of sheets sounds the same as it ever does as he kneels either side of her legs, perspiration beginning to sheen at his forehead.
Adam’s wandering hands are back, roughly shoving the front of her pencil skirt upwards and then cupping her warm, aching cunt over her underwear; right over the whole mound of it. The wet patch is deeply visible and deeply humiliating.
“Do you know what to do with that?” Emma asks him with a fuck-off-now-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you kind of smile. “Seen one before?”
Adam’s eyes glint back at her as he presses his hand more firmly against the maddening heat of it, and he triumphantly watches her eyes flutter closed.
He pushes her underwear aside with a single sweep of his thumb, brushing up against her swollen cunt as he does so, some stickiness getting swept to the side along with the fabric. With his other hand, two fingers at last make their way in.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Adam says on the sight in front of him, as though he has grandly discovered something brand new to the universe.
He did, it transpires, know exactly what to do with it.
“You can do it, come on; I want to see,” he tells her, face displaying intense concentration as if this is something he really can’t miss witnessing, strong wrists working away, and Emma doesn’t really take to his tone as it is, almost whining, but it can’t be more than a few moments more of those fingers curling deep into her at a stroke before she’s moaning wordlessly and then, once she’s finally stopped clenching tight down on them, Adam takes those fingers away. They come out slick and drenched. Emma trembles when they’re gone. To be so clearly turned on feels like losing face in their bickering power struggle, like she’s relinquishing some control.
She gasps her breath back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sweat prickle at her hairline as the pulsing fades away. The stress ebbs away slightly. It had been a while. There’s a complete mess down there, she realises, so much so that she might have irreversibly ruined the tops of her stockings.
“Okay,” Adam is saying. “That was one. Now I want to see your tits.”
“Gosh, sorry, I didn’t realise I was in the company of one of our top Brussels-dispatched negotiators. You’ve got it, Prince Charming,” Emma puts to him through disapproving pursed lips, blinking into life again, although she does also start unbuttoning her blouse, rather defeating her point. She pulls the blouse out of the waistband of her skirt and throws it to the corner of the room, then unhooks her bra.
“Not bad,” Adam says eventually, after several seconds of what she hopes has been of the stunned variety of silence. “They’ll do.”
“Thanks,” she replies acidly. He’s still looking at them, which. Well, it certainly shows something.
“Gearing up to stick it in, I suppose?” she asks, nodding towards the belt of his trousers. “I assume you don’t go down on girls because of the endemic selfishness or the closeted homosexuality or whatever.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Adam insists. “Unless you rather I didn’t. Take off your skirt. It’s done all it can to protect your modesty, but now we really do need it off.”
“I mean, you don’t have to,” Emma says, smiling at him innocently. “I was expecting all this to be over very quickly.”
His lip curls at that, showing her a flash of teeth, and then she gasps and laughs, tipsy and easy, when his hands go to grab her waist, find (after a couple of tries) the zip on the skirt, and pulls it off her himself. The hold-ups stay on.
“Shit,” Adam says under his breath, but not unhappily, and he shuffles himself down the bed. Propped up on some pillows, she still has good sight of him. There’s an odd crunch of plastic against the duvet.
“Adam,” Emma says. “Could you perhaps take off your pass, now?”
“Right,” Adam says, uncharacteristically momentarily unsure of himself. He pulls the lanyard off over his head and puts it down on the floor.
“Look, come here, you cretin,” Emma says, and pushes herself up and forward as Adam sits back up again too. She goes straight for his belt to loosen it; he watches her wide-eyed as she gives his cock a quick but firm squeeze through his trousers, taking pleasure in how his expression slackens and an uncontrolled noise comes out of his throat. She loosens his tie completely, throwing it to the floor, and unbuttons the first two buttons on his shirt, watching with interest as his clavicle and some of his chest reveal themselves to her. Adam swallows under the lingering pressure of her fingertips at his neck and Emma feels the beguiling throb of vulnerability there. It feels newly close, however much Adam’s hands may have been on her already.
They are face to face. Emma woozily watches Adam unbutton his cuffs and roll up his shirtsleeves.
She tuts. “You know you’re all… stubble’s coming in a bit.” Emma lets her thumb rub over his cheek, then strikes the edge of his jaw with her fingers in a way she hopes is sharp but encouraging. “Why don’t you go and shave and then we’ll carry on?”
That flippant, brow-furrowed look crosses his face again. “No,” Adam smirks, and dives down to bite at the top of her thigh, five o'clock shadow and the rest of his face along with it snugly between her legs.
Adam breathes in against her sensible cotton underwear like a creep, then his fingers are back to pull off the sodden fabric with care, momentarily holding one of her delicate stocking-clad ankles aside to let the underwear fall to the floor. Adam gets a forearm on her, now bare from the rolled-up shirtsleeves, and pushes her legs up and back.
Emma feels unavoidably exposed like this, her cunt all puffy and drawing attention to itself. Fuck; she’s lying down on Adam Kenyon’s stupid bachelor bed, and she can feel the shape of his nose and chin between her thighs as he takes it all in
It feels hot down there, hot and feverish, and Adam’s arm isn’t letting her kick him back or hide herself away.
“Looking forward to this?” Adam asks, looking up at her from his prone position.
“I’m looking forward to you finally shutting up for a few minutes while you’re down there, yeah.”
“Fuck, there’s a lot of it, isn’t there? That’s disgusting,” he says approvingly, grin oozing across his face, his whole hand drenched and shiny, and she can’t help but keep looking down at it. “You shouldn’t want it like that, looking all buttoned-up every day. And icy. Fuck me, Emma, who knew you were such a slut?”
“Excuse me? There are two of us here, both doing the same thing.”
“But I can see you needing it. Feel it and smell it. And taste it.” He pushes her cunt apart, then, and runs his tongue down the seam of it, through everything, revelling in it. It’s quietly devastating on her composure.
“Now will you please… Oh, God.”
He’s actually quite earnest, when it comes down to it. Certainly doesn’t give up. Certainly seems happy to be down there, more so than she expected. Maybe he’s a better actor than she gives him credit for, or maybe he’s mentally replaying The 20 Greatest Goals Of All Time! (ULTIMATE COMPLIATION VIDEO) in his head until she finally comes, once. But his eyes, when they’re open, never wander. Maybe he really is happy to be down there.
His lips are surprisingly soft here too, between the burgeoning stubble and the nudge of his chin providing some additional pressure. He closes his shapely mouth over her clit, sucking gently with a touch of teeth, and if he hadn’t had her legs up like this she probably would have kicked him in the flank. His free hand is underneath her arse where her legs are lifted up.
“Wow, you really want it, don’t you,” he says throatily, pulling his mouth away, the breath of his words nudging against her desperate, needy cunt, and she whines in frustration, trying to reach down to his shoulder to push his mouth right back on. He doesn’t go. What a complete and utter dick.
“This is going to look so good on my cock,” Adam says, a probing fingertip returning to part her soaking cunt open by the smallest possible amount, and Emma feels the overwhelming prickling warmth of her insides turning over. His mouth stays so close, but not doing what it should be doing.
“Don’t you dare fuck around with me on this,” she says, trying to push her hips forward. That’s her bossiest voice.
He laughs between her thighs and she feels the warm vindictive pleasure of it heat the skin there, feels it all the way through her bones. Her head spins.
Thankfully, he eventually gets back to it.
She’s getting close again and she starts moaning a lot, looking up at Adam’s stupid ceiling and still all on show, and he murmurs against her in response to her moans as if in studious agreement, all while speeding up to a final, steady, relentless pace. No stopping this time. Biting down on her lip doesn’t prevent the racket she makes when she comes: one great big dirty pleasurable wave, and then a long series of aftershocks, her legs pushing up against Adam’s still-stolid forearm. He doesn’t take his tongue away until she pushes his head back with some force when it feels like too much and she manages to reach down and grab at his hair.
When Adam pulls away properly, finally letting Emma’s legs back down, his chin is a gleaming mess. Looking down at him like that makes something deep in her abdomen pleasurably clench. Some of his hair at the front, normally so carefully arranged, has fallen forward onto his forehead. It’s quite the picture.
“God,” she says, still panting. Around the ache down there from coming hard, and more than once, she still has the need to get filled. He’s already mentioned it, after all. Surely he desperately wants to.
“It does still look like it needs more,” Adam says thoughtfully, patting her cunt fondly and looking so pleased with himself it’s as if he’s personally invented the female orgasm. She would sit up and give him an earful on that kind of talk if she hadn’t had some of her relentless energy to challenge temporarily felled by coming so spectacularly. Gently, he presses two fingertips against it.
“Really? You’re going for another one? It’s okay, you’ve done your bit; you can have your way with me now.” Sure, she’s not fussed. Honest. She’s had sex before. She hasn’t even seen his cock yet. Can’t leave without seeing it, that’s hardly quid pro quo. Oh shit, she really needs it now, she actually fucking needs it. How awful.
“You’re fucking insatiable. Give me a minute, yeah?” His fingers linger on her. She’s so sensitive, so aching, and it’s too much, and yet the idea that he can’t get in her right this second after all this waiting. Unbelievable.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Useless. Her cunt was going to die an undignified death at this rate. Here. In Stockwell. “Too much booze?”
“It was there before. It’ll come back. Then you’ll fucking see.”
She lets him lie on top of her and they kiss for a few minutes, although sometimes it feels more like they’re fighting. She could take or leave the kissing in general, but this at least gives her the opportunity to occasionally rub herself lazily against his thigh. His hands stay on her tits the entire time.
Distractingly, the fabric of his half-opened shirt brushes against her skin. Too many clothes.
“Hey, let me,” Emma says. He rolls off her, sits on the edge of the bed and turns away, unbuttoning as he goes, then lets her take off his neatly narrow-striped shirt completely. His back looks good, really good, and the back of his neck. She's a fan in general of seeing the back of Adam, really. It might mean he’s going somewhere.
He takes care of his socks, trousers and (rather eyebrow-raisingly tight) boxers all in one only slightly undignified go. He turns around again, and her gaze falls mostly to his generous thighs. He sees her looking.
“Yes,” she says, mock-thoughtfully, looking up at his face again. “I think you might have mentioned partaking in some recreational sport maybe once or three hundred times?”
“I’m glad it’s working for you,” he says, back to looking smug even with all the shining mess that still on his chin.
While blatantly checking out her tits again, he pulls on his dick once. It looks fine.
“So are you going to fuck around forever?” Emma asks. “Or are you going to do it?”
“Don’t go thinking you’re special,” he tells her, running one of his hands through his hair. “I’ve drilled many a rarefied twat before. Always happy to do it for the Pony Club.”
“Oh my God, would you please shut up and fucking do it,” Emma says. She really could slap him. “Show me something, if you’re going to be so vulgar and you’re supposedly so fucking good at it.”
“Tell me you want it,” he says, doing that stupid one-sided smile he sometimes does, like he’s being impossibly wry.
“Yes I want it, okay,” she snaps. “Yes I want it in me. Please put it in me.”
“That’s it,” Adam says, almost as if he’s trying to be encouraging, but as ever any magnanimity on offer is largely undercut by his clearly perverse motivation or else his general wankerish air. “Okay, we’ll sort you out now. Get up and let me lie down.”
“Finding it all a bit tiring?” she sneers. “Bit much? Bit more effort than jizzing over your laptop one lonely evening, isn’t it.”
He slaps her on her bare backside a couple of times in retaliation when she’s got herself up. She doesn’t like that she likes that, but the fact remains that she does like it.
“Come on, get up here. Like riding a horse, yeah?” and that makes her scowl at him again. She kneels facing away from him and gets her legs, still in the hold-ups, either side of his perfectly pleasant thighs.
Then he starts to bring his finger round to push into the crease of her arse, but she slaps it away, twisting her body around so that she can look at him directly. “You’re all fucking obsessed with it, aren’t you. You’ll have to go to Phil for that sort of thing,” and that’s another tell that he’s still drunk because he forgets to pull a repulsed face, he just laughs and laughs. “You don’t get to choose the hole, I’m doing you a fucking favour.”
“What am I to you, chopped liver? No need to be so fucking sanctimonious. I’ve given you two favours already. Or was it three?”
“Only because it took that time for your cock to get going again,” she fires back. “Dickhead.”
“That’s just the booze,” he says. “All in good working order, don’t worry sweetheart. You can get yourself on it now.”
”You hold it steady,” she says, and he does.
“Oh, fuck,” Adam says, voice all punched out, when she sinks down onto him, still madly wet from earlier, his spit having added to it all, hands to steady herself spanned across the expanse of his thighs. It slides in ridiculously easily, all at once, and she squirms on it for a moment, keeping all of it in tight.
“Move,” she hears him say from behind her, sounding winded, and considers fucking around with him a bit more but in fact starts riding him as aggressively hard as she can manage. His breath is gratifyingly fluttering and fucked-out-sounding, to the point of sounding like he might not last two minutes. “You’re so fucking ready for it.”
Positioned like this, she doesn’t have to look at his face, and it’s fair to extrapolate from what’s happened so far that he won’t mind the view. There’s the sound of their skin slapping together, and the firm seal of his dick staying inside the heat of her as she bounces, hair still half-clipped out of her face.
“Good girl,” he says, and she, unseen by him, grits her teeth, but — blame the drink, if you like — can’t stop the pleasurable whine that comes out of her mouth. She fucks back onto him hard, and he says “good girl, you’re good at that, don’t stop taking it”, one hand splayed in a firm grip around her arse, and then he slaps her hard, making her gasp and her rhythm falter.
“You want something big enough to feel the next day, yeah?”
“I’m still looking out for it, then — oh, fuck, fuck you.” she says when, rather than continuing to let her control the pace, he tilts his hips upwards and slams in deep. She manages to get her hands behind her and on his hips instead of his legs, and starts riding him again, breathing hard. But then Adam makes plenty of noise of his own. His hand goes to her waist, a tight grip, clearly wanting to push back up into her under his own steam.
“Hey, can we…” she begins, stopping and pulling out, and he groans in frustration. It hasn’t been all that long, but he must be close. Should get a condom, really. Could put it on him and let it snap tight against the base of his dick, just to see him look annoyed and flinch a bit. He feels good though, all hot and viscerally thick and overwhelming. It’s not like there’s extra room.
Looking murderously near to, of all things, rolling his eyes, Adam sits up and grabs Emma by the shoulders, pushing her down on the bed; for a moment, there are teeth at the underside of one of her breasts.
Oh, so he can hold himself up on his arms like that, can he, when he’s actually making an effort, and then he can… wow. That’s quite something. He slides back in so easily. So easily.
“You little bitch. That’s what you get.” Like this the angle’s good and deep, doesn’t matter so much every inch a man might possess when he’s determined like this, sturdy thigh muscles working away. “That’s it, let it all in.”
“More. Harder. Stop being such a… weak tea fucking pussy.”
He laughs mirthlessly at that, as if her words are all scrambled, as if she’s asking for a challenge she can’t meet, and then… that’s more like it. If she’s going to come again, it’s going to be at this angle, an intense look of frustrated concentration on Adam’s face as he gets in deep as he can go, and she’s aching and crying out and getting closer with every slammed-in thrust. Everything’s so pink and swollen down there, ready to go yet again from sufficient stimulation.
“You need putting over someone’s knee, you do,” he manages to tell her between two of his firm, deep thrusts, and she squeezes herself around him to just watch him look all knocked out again.
The clasp of his hand presses into her stomach as he doesn’t let up. He’s surprisingly good at this. He may have actually had sex with quite a few different women. You had to hand it to him.
“Oh, it’s going to fill you up. I’m going to fill you up,” he says, eyes going all unfocussed and mouth parting beautifully, and she gets her hands on his hardworking back and hangs on, taking in just how much of a mess he’s in. “Nice, nice and full now. Oh, God.”
He manages to get the right angle then, by now up on his hands and knees, watching rapt at how much her tits move with every thrust he makes.
“Oh,” Adam says, sounding far gone himself as she starts to once again quake around him, heart beating faster and a flush falling hot across her face. “Oh I can’t believe you’re coming, are you really coming, I can feel you, oh that’s— oh, fuck, oh—“
Emma’s just past the peak of coming, a slice of sensation ripping through her, aching, overstimulated, entirely wringing her out at last, when Adam makes a low, loud trembling groan of pleasure and she feels the hot, wet rush of his come deep inside her. He, all but out of breath, eases himself out of her and, as if stunned, as if seeing something he cannot remember starting, watches his come begin to run out of her and join the sticky mess that’s there already.
“It did need more,” he says in apparent amazement, still sounding dazed.
Emma puts a hand to her head, exhausted, already in anticipation of warding off a headache — especially if Adam doesn’t soon shut up.
“Shit,” Adam says, putting his fascinated finger through the stringing mess of his come and everything else. It really is too sensitive for that now; she swats his hand away. “Fuck.”
“Well, it’s done now,” she mumbles, trying to get under the covers of Adam’s bed, then giving up on that to hook her finger under the top of each of her stockings and flinging them off to the floor at last. They’d never had that conversation. Obviously she’s sorted on birth control, she isn’t an idiot, but who knows where Adam’s been? He might have been slightly more adroit than she’s previously thought, although what with all the work and the squash with Fergus she doesn’t know how he finds the time. “S’fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Who knew you had it in you, Ems?” he wonders quietly, giving her backside a final slap as much as he can reach it when she’s lying down, still unable to look away from her post-fuck cunt as if under hypnosis. “Me in you,” he then says to himself quietly, as if he’s sluggishly working out how to turn it all into a crude line.
“Don’t call me Ems,” she fires back. The temptation to fall asleep is getting harder and harder to ignore, but she’s always been good at thinking on her feet. Even while lying down.
“Alright, you tetchy little Sloane,” he says. “Keep your hair on. This is my bed. I’m not going to sleep on the sofa.”
“Fine,” she says, getting under the covers and rolling over so she’s facing away from him. Oh my God. Adam, Adam Kenyon, one of her least favourite work colleagues in what’s a remarkably competitive field, has eked more orgasms out her than she generally manages or has time to give to herself, and finished inside her rather spectacularly too. Is there any coming back from this, or is he just going to be even more of a self-satisfied nightmare all the livelong day?
“Are you still going to go out of your way to annoy me and get my projects binned at every possible opportunity?” she asks him, feeling him shift around on the other side of the bed, trying to get comfortable. When they wake up tomorrow, it’s going to be absolutely disgusting.
“Nothing will change,” Adam assures her, already sounding half-comatose, and she gives him a shove back that is genuine irritation but risks coming across as something approaching mateyness. Jesus Christ.
She doesn’t mean to fall asleep there, but then did she mean to do any of this in the first place? The hangover, she realises as she falls asleep, body oh so deeply and pleasantly aching, will only make her feel worse in the morning.