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musingsofheaven · 3 days ago

Text

OFF THE RECORD.

crown prince!art donaldson x reporter!reader

⠀⠀⠀ heavy kissing. suggestive. intimacy. tension. ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ secret romance. not graphic, but loaded. ♡

One of the perks of being in this line of work is the connections you can build and the events you can go to. It's one of your favorites, actually. You just have to have the confidence to take on many tasks until this kind of assignment lands in your lap. And here you are… only just slipped your press badge into your evening purse- a slim, elegant little purse that barely held your phone and lipstick- when the message lit up your screen with three new messages. Come up. Suite 1806. Now. That was it. No explanation. Just three firm messages. Just that familiar, quiet command, the kind he always sent when he wanted something and expected a yes as an answer. And you knew exactly what it meant. He’d seen your name on the press list. Of course, he had.

He knew you’d be here tonight in your professional best, dressed like every other media rep at the gala. Giving your big smiles to people you'll have to interview, holding a microphone, voice clear and polite, asking the right questions to the right people. He knew you’d be close- close enough to hear him speak, close enough to catch his eye- and that you’d pretend, at least for the cameras, not to remember how he sounds when he’s panting into your mouth. Not to remember how his fingers curl when he’s about to come.

For a moment, you’d considered ignoring it because you know he's being needy again. Just need to see you the moment he hears you'll be there. You don't know if he's upset, but you’d worked hard to look like this. Your hair was freshly set. Your lipstick was flawless. Not too grand or too much effort with it but it's good on your skin. (It’s Art’s favorite color on you) It has a flattering shade you knew would stay in place through speeches and handshakes. You are okay. Good to go. Your interview questions were memorized, printed neatly, and somewhere. You were prepared. Controlled. Ready. You hadn’t planned to see him, let alone touch him- not tonight. Not in some kind of big event the Royal Family is holding. And certainly not in a suite no one was supposed to know you’d entered.

But the moment you read those three short lines, you knew. It wasn’t about sex. Not really. It wasn’t about anger, either. It was about that quiet, raw thing that got under his skin whenever you were forced to treat him like he was just a prince. That's it. A royal. Just another man smiling in a tailored suit. So you went. You know how he gets when he gets ignored, you know he'll be all pouty and annoy the hell out of you when he doesn't get what he wants: to see you.

But now you’re here- shoulders tense, throat dry- and he’s standing by the window like he’s being painted for history. His shirt is pristine like always. Buttoned and closed. Pressed so clean it looks starched. His hair is smoothed back, glossy and brown, it looks so perfect and it doesn’t even have strand out of place. Regal. Remote. Looks too good and he's so unreal. Like the day hasn’t touched him yet. Like he’s still the crown prince, not your crown prince- not yet.

He doesn’t move when the door opens. Not at first. He just let the step echo first. Just a subtle turn of his head, like the sound alone told him it was you- that familiar click of the handle. Your soft footsteps that he knows that are not heavy when you step it on the ground. Your scent of something expensive and warm that he’s already memorized for many times he holds you so close and he’s obsessed with. (He couldn't get enough of them especially when you are curled up against him) His eyes find yours, steady and sharp, and for a moment he just watches you. Stare at you. Then, quietly, without ceremony, he speaks. “You should��ve told me.”

Your stomach pulls tight and churns at the sound of his voice, that quiet and steadiness that masks something sharper beneath it. Low and deep. He's not mad but not in a good mood either. Still, you lift your chin with careful control. The habit you learn when you are in this kind of industry. Not to get intimidated. You are refusing to show the way his presence affects you. “Told you what?” you ask, your voice even, though your throat feels dry, but you are not being defensive about anything. You just don’t like that that was really his first words to you when you came inside. It made you raise your eyebrow while you waited for his response, staring at him and confused about what he was talking about.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. “That you’d be covering the event,” he says, the words level but too pointed to be casual. You don't know where you will go with this conversation though. “That you’d be there with the others.” His gaze stays fixed on you, he couldn't even get that mad when you look that good. But his gaze is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him- just slightly, just enough. He looks like he’s holding something back. Like he’s trying very hard not to let it show how much it stung to see your name on the list like it meant nothing. (Even though he knows there are big possibilities for it to happen because he knows what kind of work you have.) Like it didn’t belong to someone who knows what it sounds like when he whispers your name into your mouth. Maybe he's like this because you didn't give him a heads up… that he really has to know this from a piece of paper handed to him.

You step fully inside now, letting the door close behind you with a soft click. There’s a weight beneath his words, buried under the mask. He looks the part- composed, princely, in a shirt that’s buttoned up but there’s something in his voice that frays at the edges. Something personal. Something like disappointment. You can't figure out what it is though. You move a little closer, your voice quiet. “It’s not a secret. I’m on the press list.”

“It’s not your job that bothers me,” he says, the words coming fast. He can’t control them because he’s been holding them in. Like they’ve been sitting just behind his teeth since the moment he saw you. Or maybe the moment he saw the list. Like it's been bothering him since he saw it. “It’s the way you said it- like it's… You don't really tell me you'll be there.” His voice stays low, measured, but there’s a quiet ache underneath it, something raw and personal that turns the air heavier between you. He knows that you know that he doesn't like being surprised with information because it's throwing him off guard.

That’s where it lands- not as anger, but as ache. You should have told him. Because he doesn't like not being prepared because it's there, that slow, silent bruise he wears whenever you both have to pretend. Whenever you stand too far away. Whenever you smile like you don’t know the heat of his mouth or the way he falls apart when you touch him. Whenever you adore him while he has to act he doesn't know you, that he doesn't want to kiss you all the damn time.

Because you know him. You know that it's not really about not telling him. It's about both of you pretending this is nothing when people are around you. “You think I’ll ignore you?” you ask, your voice pitched low, almost a dare. But you don’t say that to provoke him. It’s softer than you mean it to be gentler. It is threaded with a question you’re not really ready to ask, but you do. You always ask him things especially when he can’t voice them out properly. You know him. But you know he's bothered about it. Because you can see how he looks. Now? He's holding it for a long moment, his gaze catching and holding, eyes moving over you like it physically pains him. It does. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the flicker of hesitation across his mouth before he speaks.

“I think you’ll try,” he says, and it’s not cold. It’s worse- it’s knowing. Certain. Like an assurance to himself that you might do it. The kind of quiet certainty that comes from watching you too long, too closely, and recognizing the cracks before you ever felt them form. “Because you think it’s easier,” he adds, and his eyes drift down, slowly, like every inch of you costs him something. Like looking at you is both a weakness and a warning.

You step forward. Not a dramatic move, just a quiet shift in the space between you, enough for the air to change. He still doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t move- his hands at his sides, his spine straight, shoulders set like he’s bracing for impact. But he wants to reach for you. To touch you. To feel you. His shirt is soft, collar neat, still buttoned. There’s no visible sign of strain, but you know how tightly wound he is. You can feel it, coiled beneath the surface of him, humming just out of reach.

“My boss would lose her mind if I got a quote from you,” you say softly, watching the way his mouth tightens when you speak. But you just said it to lighten the mood. To subtly tell him that it's not possible to happen, that you'll ignore him. “Do you really think I’d miss the chance to put your name at the top of my piece? That I’d stand ten feet away from you and not still feel you looking at me?”

“You’d better not,” he whispers, and it lands like something closer to prayer than warning. There’s no threat in it. Just hunger. Just yearning. Just that desperate undercurrent that’s always been there - the one he hides behind silk ties and perfect posture. “Because if I watch you tonight and you look through me- like I’m nothing but a topic in some article- I won’t forgive it.”

Your hand rises, slow and sure, fingertips brushing the edge of his collar. He twitches and tightens at your action at the same time. You feel the warmth of him there, the slow thud of his pulse under your thumb as you slip it beneath the fabric. His skin is hot and soft. You toy gently with the first button, and his breath catches. Just the smallest hitch. But it’s enough. Enough to tell you he feels something beneath all the walls he built.

“So that’s what this is?” you ask, your voice low but steady, your lips pulling into a shape that almost looks like a smile - but isn’t. It’s too sharp, too sad, too knowing. “You made me come all the way up here just to remind me I belong to you?” Not an accusation but a confirmation about something you already have the answer to.

He exhales sharply, and for a second you think he won’t answer. His nostrils flare, jaw locked, like he’s fighting himself. But still, he doesn’t move. But not until your thumb caresses his skin. His hand reaches out, wraps around your wrist, slow but gentle- grounding you there, holding you in place like the idea of letting go is impossible.

“No,” he says at last, and the word falls softly between you, but its weight is heavy. His fingers tighten, not cruelly, but with something closer to desperation. Yearning. “I made you come here so I could see you before they got the chance to look at you,” he said but still holding back the words in his mind about him missing you.

His thumb drags along your inner wrist, just once, slow and careful, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse. The thickness of your skin. The feeling of your hair. His eyes search yours - not asking for forgiveness, not even for understanding. Just looking. And then he kisses you.

Hard. Messy. Like he’s been starved for weeks and you’re the first taste he’s allowed himself. Like he's trying to prove something to himself more than to you. His hand slides behind your neck, the other curling around your waist. He squeezes it and feels the shape and the curve before he's dragging you in so fast your heels stutter on the marble. His mouth is hot and open and hurried like he’s punishing you for every minute you’ve spent apart.

You moan into it, fingers fisting in his perfect shirt. Making it wrinkly. Buttons snap loose. Your palms slide over the firm heat of his chest, feeling his soft chest and the hair on it. His curls falls loose, curling where your fingers rake through it, tumbling forward across his temple. You like the way it feels under your palms.

By the time he finally pulls back, he’s already a wreck- but not because he wanted to stop. It’s because he had to. For air. He’s breathing hard, dragging in air like it costs him, like it hurts to be apart from your mouth even for a second. His shirt is half off, wrinkled from your grip. Buttons gone. One cuff hanging loose, the other forgotten. His hair's ruined the neatness of it from earlier- wild from your fingers, damp at the temples. His lips are wet and red, swollen and shining. There’s saliva on his chin, and you know it’s yours.

And still, when he pulls away, he doesn’t really pull away. His mouth drags across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips again. Just peppering you with soft kisses. He’s chasing the taste of you. He can’t help it. Been a long time since the last time he saw you personally. “You’ll stand there tonight,” he breathes against your skin, “with your camera and your script- like I’m nothing but a headline.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your hand fists the front of his shirt. Tighter like you're mad at the words he's saying. You drag him back in, crashing your mouth against his like you’re furious with him, like kissing him is an argument. Like you don't like everything he said the moment you came here. Like he's ruining the mood for you to be at the event. Your teeth catch. Your tongues slide. His groan rumbles straight through your chest as he slams you back against the wall, fingers digging into your waist.

“I won’t,” you gasp when you finally come up for air- barely. Maybe just to say them. Maybe because you don't want him to have the last word. Your mouth is red and spit-slick, aching from how hard he kissed you, but you liked it anyway. Your throat burns like his tongue scraped it raw. You can’t meet his eyes. “I couldn’t.”

But he doesn’t believe you. He never does when he feels like this. When he wants you so much it hurts. His hand curls tighter in your hair like a warning. Like a claim. Then he crashes into you. Not a kiss, but you are colliding with him. A consequence. His lips smash into yours, already parted, already demanding. His tongue shoves inside like he owns it, licking past your teeth without invitation, taking like he’s starving for it. His tongue is exploring inside, trying to scrape everything to taste every inch of what he hasn't tasted for weeks. You moan into his mouth- into him- and he swallows it down like breath. Like it's some source of oxygen for him.

His teeth catch your bottom lip- bite, then suck until you can taste the metallic taste. Until it blooms. You whimper, your hand clutching tighter on his hair and shirt. He groans back into you like it hurts to stop. His hand fists harder in your hair, yanks your head back, and he licks into your mouth deep, wet, unforgiving. “You will,” he growls, breath hot and wet against your lips. “You’ll smile like I’m not still thinking about the way you taste.”

Your knees buckle. It’s not a metaphor. You almost fall. But he’s ready for that, too- like he knew you would. He's already holding you tight. His thigh shoves between your legs, and you grind against the thick press of him without even meaning to. Your body just moves. Your panties are soaked it's embarrassing. Your thighs tremble. You gasp against his mouth and he smiles- that crooked, mean, and cruel smile like he’s proud of you for falling apart.

“I’ll ask you two questions,” you rasp- an assurance to him that it won't be a lot when you interview him later, voice wrecked and slurred with spit and heat. You grab his collar and yank- hard. He chokes on it, stumbles forward into you, and you feel his cock twitch against your hip.

“Nothing too serious.” You add, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just groans- and kisses you again. Hot. Violent. Sloppy. Tongue sneaking into yours. Licking deep. Sucking hard. His mouth seals over yours like it belongs there, like he’s trying to breathe you in and choke you on him at the same time. His hands are everywhere- your jaw, your throat, your ass. Gripping. Lifting. Pulling you closer, harder, deeper. He couldn't just get enough of it, of you.

Your teeth clash. Your lips slip. Neither of you stops. He kisses you like he wants to fuck your mouth open. Like he's trying to prove to you that he misses you. Like your mouth is a wound and he’s digging in tongue first, then teeth, then that awful, desperate moan like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He bites the corner of your lip. Sucks your tongue into his mouth and holds it there, just around his mouth. He tastes like heat. Like sweat. Like he wants to live inside your breath.

Saliva smears your chin, your cheeks. His spit. Yours. Both. The line’s long gone now- blurred out by hunger and heat and the way you’re rutting on his thigh like it’s instinct. Like it’s more important than your job. “Smile like you don’t know how I sound when I’m needy,” he mutters against your open mouth.

And you shatter. You kiss him harder- kiss him meaner. Like it’s the only language you know. Like maybe, if you keep going, if you keep licking him, grinding against him, tasting him, you won’t have to answer. You won’t have to admit how much it’s ruining you. Your hands twist in his collar, his shirt, his skin. You don’t know what you’re holding onto anymore- just that if you let go, you’ll disappear.

“I’ll be professional,” you lie, soft and broken and right against his lips. It sounds like it hurts to say, but you still do. He stills. Then opens his eyes- and you wish he hadn’t. They’re haunted. Glazed. Starving. He looks at your mouth like he’ll never get enough of it. Like he wants to spit in it. Cry into it. Fuck you through it. Like he’ll never forgive it for making him feel this way. And when he finally speaks, it’s not a warning- it’s a promise.

“You’ll be mine,” he says. Ruined. “Even if I’m the only one who knows it.” And when you finally leave- lip gloss smudged, shirt clinging in all the wrong places- he’s both of you are standing close to the mirror, looking like he just got hit by a tornado. One with lip balm and soft hands.

He’s trying to fix himself. Tugging his shirt down. Flattening the wrinkles in it. To straighten it without an iron. Refastening buttons that don’t quite line up. His curls are all flat on one side and sticking up on the other. He looks… sweet. Ruffled. Soft.

You blink at him and fix your clothes with a crooked smile. “Wait,” you say, voice small and teasing, “are you like this when you miss me?”

He freezes, glancing at you in the mirror before scoffing like you haven’t caught him red-handed. “Like what?”

“Like…” You step in closer, eyes wide with pretend concern. “All messy and flustered and- ” your fingers flutter toward his hair, curling it around them, “- your curls doing that sad little please touch me thing.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it only makes him look more adorable. You swear you saw him pout. “They don’t do that.”

“They do, actually,” you sigh like you are disappointed with what you heard, smoothing the worst of it down, fixing the strands you tugged on earlier when you were kissing him like it meant something. Your voice drops to a whisper as you tilt in close to his ear. “You missed me so bad, huh?”

He exhales sharply through his nose and doesn’t answer, but you can feel how warm his skin gets. So you poke his side, light and giggly, and say again, “Huh? Be honest.” You smile and play with him right now like you haven't had the most starving make out you have had in a long time.

He groans, turns to face you fully, and grabs your waist like he doesn’t even mean to, but it stays there. He squeezed it though before speaking, “You’re evil.”

“I’m right,” you proudly say, grinning up at him.

He kisses your forehead, quick and breathless, and mumbles into your skin before kissing your head, “Fine. Maybe a little.”

“A lot,” you correct sweetly, hugging him back. “You’re all needy and rumpled. It’s very endearing. I love it.”

He shakes his head like he disagrees, but he’s smiling- cheeks warm, curls still a mess. And when you finally do leave, slipping out with your lip gloss smudged and your heart doing something weird in your chest, he just… stays there. In front of the mirror. Still catching his breath. He stares at himself for a long moment. Tries to fix it.

Straightens his collar. Wipes the kiss from his mouth. Runs a palm through his hair- but it’s no use. His curls have that wild, post-you look to them now. Soft and ruffled and touched. The kind of mess that only means one thing.

He buttons one more button, just to say he did. But he doesn’t bother at all the way. Doesn’t want to. It still smells like you- his shirt, his skin, the air. Like heat and sweetness and something dangerous. So he leaves it. Half-undone. Like you left him.

And when he shows up at the event like that- lips clean but cheeks still flushed, curls all over the place, shirt buttoned like he couldn’t finish- everyone notices. They don’t say anything. Not outright. But they glance.

Someone claps him on the back and asks if he’s had a long day. Someone else raises a brow when he laughs too easily. One person says, “You look like you’ve been busy.” He did. But not with his responsibilities, just with your mouth this time.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫��𝐞𝐝

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