Work Text:
He’d thought the library was empty until he caught sight of Finch’s jacket, carefully spread over the back of a chair. John couldn’t resist brushing a hand over the black wool and feeling the smoothness of the tiny woven fibers. It was the kind of jacket that cost over a thousand bucks, and Finch only wore that suit when Harold Partridge was in play. He smiled. Their latest number had required some corporate dragon slaying, and Partridge was the most powerful of white knights. This suit was his armor and his shield, and John loved it when Finch destroyed the bad guys with his intelligence and his money. It was so damn hot of the man, and now that their latest number had been resolved, John had a strong urge to show his appreciation.
He found Finch in Geophysical References, reshelving a couple of leather-bound books, and three rungs up a library ladder with its locking brakes secured. He was engrossed in his work and had his back to John, which at least afforded a fine view of the rest of the Partridge ensemble. The shirt was probably worth another hundred bucks and the back of the jet-black suit vest was top-grade silk. The pants were what caught most of John’s attention though. They were impeccably cut for Finch’s figure and gave the pleasure of seeing the man’s hips, thighs, and especially the way his pert buns held themselves so high and inviting. Wolfishly, and putting all his stealth training to effective use, John slunk up and rested his head against the back of Finch’s legs.
“Mr. Reese?”
“Hope you weren’t expecting anyone else.”
He let his fingers trail playfully up the side of Finch’s left thigh and used his cheek to rub Finch’s ass. Their case was closed, this was the time they could allow themselves some physical relief, and John was going to make damn sure Mr. Partridge got some.
Finch, however, was a little nervous.
“I’m at something of a disadvantage up here.”
“No, you’re not.” John pulled back slightly and growled, “Turn around.”
It was not an elegant maneuver, Finch’s hip meant his turning circle was labored, but John guided him patiently. Somehow the time it took made it all seem more erotic.
“Don’t worry, Harold. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
As Finch gripped the ladder side rails, John smoothly put his hands on the man’s hips and nestled his face close to the fabric of that beautiful suit. He’d half an idea to strip the pants down but when Finch reached to undo his belt, John was seized with a better idea and stopped him. Nosing his way into Finch’s fly, he used his tongue and then his teeth to pull down the zipper. He was going to take him fully clothed, with just his cock pushing out like some decadent regency dandy demanding service.
He could tell Finch was interested but not yet hard, so John handled him out and began to work on rectifying that. He used his palm and fingers until he got the straining response he desired, then put his tongue to work. Finch shifted his stance a little and gripped the ladder supports a little harder. It was all the encouragement John needed. He took a couple of inches into his mouth, tasting the salty vein underneath, feeling the power of the man build. Deep throating was for porn stars, and besides John knew all the pleasure points and how to tease them. He worked the base of the shaft with two fingers and his thumb, maintaining a steady rhythm and working him with his tongue. All the while, he was aware of the hold this mysterious man had over him. Finch was everything to him. Finch was John’s world.
He took a second to look up and saw blue, slightly glazed eyes, staring down at him. Behind the respectability of his glasses, Finch couldn’t hide his look of admiration and pride at John’s work ethic. He responded by building his rhythm, wolfishly enjoying the sensations he was causing. Finch was all cock now. That was all that mattered to him. His whole body was dedicated to one thing and John was the one doing it to him. When he began to shake, John pulled his mouth away and let the man cum over his chin and shirt front. Neither of them swallowed, they’d learned that about themselves when they’d first explored their bodies, but John got a kick out of making Finch be so damn messy when he ejaculated. Getting him to ruin one of John’s shirts was always a personal goal for him.
John held Finch steady until his legs stopped wobbling and his eyes uncrossed. Then he helped him take the three rungs down and smiled.
Finch was still flushed but smiling too. “What brought that on?” he asked as he passed him a box of Kleenex.
“Mr. Partridge,” John admitted. “There’s something about that suit that gives me all sorts of ideas.”
Finch tugged at himself and began to clean up. “I should wear it more often then.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve another suit that also gives me ideas.” John flashed his teeth. “One that makes me want to push you over a book cart and take you there and then.”
Finch looked briefly nervous, uncertain if he was joking, but at last, the sparkle in his eyes told John that, though he was in no state now, the idea was not unappealing.
Figuring it was time to find himself a clean shirt, John made to leave, but at the doorway, Finch’s voice stopped him.
“Which suit do you mean?” He phrased the question airily, trying to suggest it was only of academic interest to him.
John took pleasure in looking innocently back at him, teasing out the moment, until finally he said, “I guess you’ll find out.”