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sunpuffsstuff · 11 days ago

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𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗹 | "hot neighbor" (harris maderbach) x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | to some, he was hot neighbor, but to you, he was hot coworker-- and you figured he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 | 7.4k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | smut (18+ only!! minors gtfo), unprotected sex, creampie, oral m receiving, alcohol consumption, lots of dumb workplace flirting, basically porn with very minimal plot

You weren’t used to working in an office like this, even if your position here was incredibly similar to the last one. All the departments actually talked to each other, had shared events— even went out after work to drink together, from time to time. And that was how you ended up with something else you weren’t used to: a crush on a coworker.

He was from the realty division, probably the furthest from your own work, and yet he was one of the first people to introduce himself to you. The whole conversation had seemed just a touch flirty, but you couldn’t tell if that was actually his intention or if he was just charming (or if you just had wishful thinking).

“Always nice to see a new face around,” he’d said to get your attention, making you spin around in your chair and look up at him. He wore a friendly smile, running his fingers through his hair which you thought might be considered dirty blonde in certain lighting; it’s not that you were checking him out, necessarily, it’s just that you had acquired an eye for color in your years working with fine art.

“Oh— hey, yeah, I’m the newbie,” you awkwardly replied, not sure how to respond to that. Always nice to see a nice face around seemed too forward.

“Are you new in town?” he asked. “‘Cause I could show you around if you need—”

“No, actually— I’ve lived in Manhattan for about five years now,” you explained, “Christie’s is in Rockefeller center, just a few miles away…”

He pushed his lips together and nodded, like he took it as a rejection, and you felt a little guilty.

“But you’re really sweet to offer!” you blurted out. “I mean, if there’s any good spots for lunch around here, I’m all ears.”

He nodded quickly, but crossed his arms and changed the subject instead. “So, Christie’s? What did you do there?”

“Same thing I’m gonna do here— sell art,” you smiled. “Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” he encouraged.

It didn’t really mean anything, coming from a stranger, but somehow it still made you feel better; you thought about it the rest of the day, actually.

From then on, you’d become pretty curious about him. You asked around, but most people in your department didn’t know much: he was a realtor, after all, so any details past that would require talking to another realtor. The problem with that plan was that you figured if you asked somebody who worked closely with him for any gossip, it would end up getting back to him— and he’d probably be all cocky about it, from what little you could tell about his personality.

All you’d really put together was that his name was Harris, he was divorced relatively recently, and that he had quite a talent for architecture and interior design. Everything else you knew about him had been easy to put together: friendly, yet smooth; sexy voice; well-dressed, if more casual than some people in the office.

And everything else you wanted to know, you went to an after-work happy hour to find out.

You were getting worried that he would notice you glancing at him every, I don’t know, ten or so seconds; only once or twice did he meet your gaze, and whenever he did, he would look back at whoever he was talking to with a little knowing smirk. Bastard— he was taunting you, daring you to come over and talk to him— wasn’t he?

But you refused to give in so easily: you focused on chatting with other members of the art sales department, laughing too hard at their stories and jokes in the hopes that, for once, Harris would look at you first. If he did, you were too absorbed in conversation most of the time to notice.

Like all work events, though, people trickled out to head home steadily throughout the night. Probably half of them were gone within an hour; by eight, barely ten people were left. Rarely, the conversation would merge into one big group, and you would catch Harris’ eyes drifting over you when you added something, but usually people were within their little sub-conversations and you never quite seemed to cross paths with Harris.

Until, finally, he relented— only when you ended up sitting off to the side of one of the tables the secretary had booked; the person you’d been talking to left, and everyone else was wrapped up in what they were discussing, and you found yourself nursing your beer and staring off into space for a little while. Actually, you didn’t even notice him coming up to you until he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down in it with a sigh.

“How’s Samuel treating you?” he asked, and you gave him a confused look before he motioned to the glass in your hand of, as you’d apparently forgotten, Samuel Adams.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, shaking your head, “he’s alright— inoffensive. A work thing seems like the wrong place for hard liquor.”

“Is that a diss on my whiskey?” he frowned, swirling the dark liquid in his crystal glass.

“Do they have good whiskey here?” you wondered.

“No,” he snorted. “I was trying to be sophisticated, but it’s swill. Serves me right, huh?”

“I guess,” you shrugged, “I can’t blame you for trying. Everybody here’s pretty uppity.”

“I hope no one’s made you feel out of place or anything,” he offered, putting his hands out slightly in a gesture of concern. “We wouldn’t want to discriminate against you just for being a poor vagabond from Christie’s.”

You laughed again, harder, and rolled your eyes. “Oh, really? I’m some kind of charity case?”

“Yeah, 20 Rock? That’s basically the inner city,” he joked. “Hey, did you ever go skating on that big rink?”

“No,” you admitted, “it feels like a waste that I didn’t— I saw people out there every winter.”

“You could still go,” he noticed.

“It would be even weirder now that I don’t work there,” you shrugged, “and besides, it’s just ice skating— expensive ice skating. I can fall on my ass whenever I want for free.”

He smiled and nodded in agreement. “I should probably do more ‘New York’ things, you know. I’ve been here— gosh, over ten years? I don’t actually do any of the stuff I’m supposed to, except some of the museums.”

“The museums are really excellent,” you agreed.

“Of course, you’re the art nerd,” he remembered. “Sorry— expert.”

You scoffed. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Do you own a lot yourself?” he wondered. “Do you get a good price on stuff, or do you have to save all the best ones for clients?”

“I don’t have a ton, but I have plenty of pieces I’m proud of, yeah,” you answered, “but I focus on new and upcoming artists, I don’t have any masterworks. Every once in a while I would buy something from an artist we chose not to sign, out of pity.”

Harris laughed, and you let yourself use the moment that his eyes were closed to take a closer look at him. He really was attractive in the most specific way, and his flirty attitude didn’t help either— but you had no idea how flirty he could really be until the conversation continued.

“Do you own anything?” you asked. “You must, with your eye for design. Unless you’re one of those people who gets those massive, mostly-blank interpretive paintings just to fill a wall.”

“You mean like in hotels? God, no,” he grimaced. “I have a few pieces, yes Actually, I’ve got this one painting at my place that I’ve been meaning to have someone take a look at,” he said after he finished a thoughtful sip of his whiskey.

“For what purpose?” you wondered, though you could already tell he was asking you for a favor. What kind of favor, though, was still up to interpretation.

He gave you a look of faux confusion. “It’s a painting— you can’t do much else with it once it’s hung.” You laughed, and he looked a little proud of himself before giving a real answer. “I’m sure it’s worth something, but I don’t know how much.”

“Shouldn’t you have gotten your valuation from Sotheby’s upon purchase?” you asked with a smirk. “We’re always telling people about how great that is.”

“Well,” he started with a mischievous look, leaning in closer to you with his elbows on the table, “don’t tell— but I didn’t get it at Sotheby’s,” he admitted in a whisper, making you laugh and raise your eyebrows.

“Oh! Naughty naughty,” you scolded playfully, noticing right away the way his eyes darted down to your lips for a moment. “Where’d you get it, then?”

“If you can believe it— Christie’s,” he laughed, and your eyes got even wider.

“Fuck off!” you yelped, probably a little too loud. “No way— I didn’t see you around or anything!”

He shrugged. “Maybe you did, and just forgot.”

Your heart already raced before you even said it, but you couldn’t stop yourself. “I would’ve remembered you,” you replied, lowering your voice; you saw his expression change, if subtly, and you bit your lip for just a moment before you caught yourself.

Just when you wondered if he would come any closer, he straightened himself up with a little groan and sigh. “Actually,” he began, “it was my ex that bought it. I ended up keeping it in the divorce, not that I specifically wanted it— I think, for her, it was too many memories… or something like that.”

You nodded, not totally sure what to say. Thankfully, he spoke again before you.

“Say what you will about her, she has good taste,” he chuckled a bit. “It’s a nice piece, but all the paperwork is long gone.”

“Well, if you bring it to the office and get it insured with us, I can guarantee the best estimate and a formal appraisal,” you explained, “but if you don’t mind just a ballpark…”

“I don’t need specifics,” he agreed, “I mostly just want to know if I’m sitting on something really special and don’t even know it.”

Mostly I just want an excuse for you to come to my place, is what you heard him say— not that it bothered you. “Well… I’m free tonight,” you told him, trying not to look up at him expectantly, but you couldn’t help it; you were too anxious for his response. Thankfully, you got a small smirk and a knowing glance.

“No time like the present, eh?”

Both of you pretended this was still something it had stopped being before you even left the bar, even if there was a sort of undertone to everything. Even the coworkers who realized you were leaving together seemed to pick up on something, and you hoped silently that they wouldn’t make too many assumptions.

Even you had to resist the urge to make assumptions. You weren’t sure what was going to happen, if anything— nor did you have a clue if he was going to consider anything that might or might not happen a path to dating or just hooking up or… something else? If there are even other options…

After all, the cab ride was only small talk, nothing too forward; maybe the offer of a glass of wine when you got to his house was a little flirty, or maybe it was just polite, you couldn’t be sure. You accepted the offer regardless, taking a glance around his house while he shuffled off to the kitchen (after hanging up your coat for you).

“It’s a gorgeous place,” you noticed, “and, of course, you’ve decorated it beautifully.”

“Oh, thanks,” he returned, voice raised slightly so you could hear him in the living room. “Brownstones are so hard to get, you know— but it’s easier when you’re already in real estate.”

“Is this it?” you wondered, approaching a painting he had hung up on one of the walls— something modern, you couldn’t make out the signature, but it looked trendy and interpretive (if not quite as generic as those hotel paintings you’d mocked back at that bar).

“What? Oh, that one,” he realized as he emerged with a glass of wine in each hand. “No, my friend actually painted that, it was a gift.”

“Oh! It’s fun,” you smiled, “you can tell your friend he’s talented.”

“I do,” he agreed as he handed you your glass, “but he doesn’t believe me. Every six months he swears he’s quitting painting altogether— I can usually convince him to get back into it, but it can take a while.”

“Artists have to face a lot of negativity and rejection,” you hummed. “I don’t envy them. Most of the good ones won’t even be appreciated until they’re dead.”

On that morbid note, you paused to take a sip of the wine, which was overall pleasant but nothing too revolutionary. There were wine experts at Sotheby’s who could probably say more than that, but you were obviously not one of them. “Don’t tell Anton that,” Harris joked, “he would take it much too literally.”

“Dramatic artistic type, huh?” you assumed, seeing him tilt his head in reluctant agreement. “I’m familiar— they can be fun, but exhausting, too. And self-destructive.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he noticed, “let me guess: dumbass ex-boyfriend?”

“More than one, but yes,” you smiled snarkily.

“The painting I wanted to show you is in the dining room,” he finally informed you, gesturing for you to walk with him down the short hallway.

At first glance, you just noticed how well the color scheme of the painting blended with the decor of the dining room— there was a pale green, teal-ish accent to the whole place, but where the chairs and table were modern and minimalist, the painting was of a classic, Romantic style— Impressionistic, even. You recognized first that it was beautiful, before even worrying about the potential value.

Approaching it, you let yourself get closer than most casual viewers do— looking for any damage or aging— as Harris waited behind you.

“It’s in great condition,” you noticed, “it’s not very old, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed. “Have you heard of the artist?”

“Ilyayev,” you read the signature. “Yes, it rings a bell. He’s not usually so subdued.”

“This is subdued?” he realized. “I always thought it was a little loud.”

“It fits well in the room, though,” you decided, trailing off slightly as you tilted your head to examine it. “And this is an original?”

“To my understanding.”

You nodded, using your free hand to hold a fist under your chin, as if that would help you discern anything.

“So? What’s it worth?” he asked, but when you turned around to face him, he was standing a little closer than you realized— not too close, but… close.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” you noticed. “Your kid could do a finger painting, and it could be priceless; a half-finished sketch is worthless until someone can prove it’s a Rembrandt. So— what’s it worth to you?”

He pondered that as he finished his glass and set it down on the table, taking a step towards you. “A lot less than it used to be,” he decided.

“If you’re desperate, I can probably get you five or ten for it— maybe a touch more if I’m willing to call some old contacts at Christie’s and pull your original valuation.”

“I’m not desperate,” he replied, something a little too suave about his tone.

A moment passed, in which something in you— potentially the red wine— told you to stop pretending this was a normal stop by someone’s house to roughly estimate the value of their painting: if the way he’d looked at you when he said what he just said was anything to go by, he was on the verge of acknowledging what this really was.

And if he was going to, then so would you. You set your glass down on the table.

“You ever heard the saying, don’t shit where you eat?” you asked, making him laugh a little and tilt his head in a sort of relenting expression.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard that before,” he replied.

“I try to live by that,” you explained— and even though his reaction indicated that he knew what it meant, he played dumb with a raise of one brow.

“What do you think it means?” he pressed, speaking softly and slowly. “In this context.”

You took a moment to respond, mostly because you realized he was moving closer to you, his glass set down next to yours on his way. “Well, I think it means that… if you keep things separate…” you began, lowering your voice as he stepped up to you, “then you can avoid—”

“Contracting e. coli?” he finished for you, making you smile and glance to the side— mostly because, if you didn’t, you’d have to either stare straight forward at his chest, or look up to meet his gaze.

“I was going to say complications,” you finished instead.

“Right,” he nodded slowly in agreement. “And you like to keep things simple, don’t you?”

“When I can,” you agreed, but your breath caught a little when his hand rested gently on your hip, fingers tracing gentle and lazy shapes through the fabric of your dress.

Then, finally, you dared to look up at him through your lashes; his gaze was low and watching where his hand was touching you, but it darted up to your own eyes— then your lips. Fuck. You weren’t strong enough to think clearly, even if you knew you should reach up and gently push him back; tell him that you were flattered, but that this wasn’t a good idea.

“Well, I think this is pretty simple,” he decided.

“Oh?” you pressed, smirking slightly.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I find you… very attractive,” he said simply, making you swallow a bit, “and I’d really like to take you out sometime.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

He smiled a little, shaking his head. “I was trying to be polite.”

But his hand pressed flat against you and snaked around to your lower back, keeping you close; what was the point of mincing his words if he was going to be so forward with his movements?

“But no, that’s not all I want from you,” he added— his eyes were a little darker and you felt paralyzed by them, though you also didn’t really mind it.

You’d been wondering if you could get him to say it; but he did you one better, his free hand cradling the back of your head so he could kiss you. It wasn’t too hasty or rushed, but hardly a peck either; only a moment after he’d pressed his lips to yours, you felt his tongue gently guide your mouth to open for him.

He leaned over you even more, pressed against you even more, forced your head to tilt back even more— and you hummed against him, reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck.

It was mostly pretty relaxed at first— no rush to go further, just a chance to enjoy this moment— and you felt like it had been far too long since somebody kissed you like this. (Or at all, but that was another issue.) But something definitely changed, if subtly, when you reached up to run your fingers through his hair.

You didn’t mean anything by it, specifically, you just kinda thought he had nice hair from the start and you finally had an appropriate time to get away with it; he responded with a low groan and a tighter grip on your waist. It all got a little more intense after that— your head tilted more and he reached down to get a handful of your ass through the dress which, yes, was a bit unclassy but you were not complaining. In fact, you just gasped against him and rocked your hips forward against his thigh.

And then, just to be a little shit, he bit your lip: not, you know, too hard or anything, but it startled you. You tugged on his hair, mostly out of instinct, and then all pretense and patience was out the window.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips, and you whimpered as his hand slid up your back, tracing the zipper of your dress— he wasn’t really about to take it off now, right? Not that you would stop him.

“I want you,” you blurted out, not really even capable of filtering the pathway from your brain to your mouth anymore, and you just felt him nod as he started to guide you backward.

See, the whole push you against the wall idea was great in theory— it really was hot, like something out of a steamy movie scene— but it was just a little too hard. You were fine with it, actually, but as soon as your back collided with the wall while he pressed himself against you, that damn painting broke off its hook and clattered to the ground.

You both turned to look at it, startled by the loud noise, and watched as it balanced on its side for just a moment before falling face down onto the dining room floor. Apparently you had some instincts that could override the one that had been running the show just now: you tried to go for it, your inner art preservation expert couldn’t stand to see something flat on the ground like that— you needed to at least check that the frame wasn’t damaged—

But as you reached for it, he smiled and gently guided you back towards him. “It’s fine,” he promised.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” he said again, a little darker, pinning you back by your shoulders— gently, but the message was clear. You looked at him shyly, feeling slightly more self-conscious about all this than you had just a moment ago. It was different without that haziness in your brain; but god, it was almost better when he kissed you again, neither of you quite as drunk on the moment. You had to admit to yourself, again, how badly you wanted this even knowing it was misguided at best.

And then his lips moved to your neck, making you whine a little and grab onto his shoulders. “F-fuck,” you gasped, feeling his lips and teeth tease all along your pulse.

“You’re sensitive here,” he noticed with a small laugh. “Are you trying to rub yourself on my thigh?”

You hadn’t even noticed— but yes, your hips were rocking forward in search of some friction all of their own accord. And the gentle condescension of his voice only made you more desperate, honestly.

Irritated by how composed he seemed to be while you were totally losing your mind, you impulsively reached forward and rubbed your hand over his pants— and it wasn’t too hard, no pun intended, to find what you were looking for.

You smirked to yourself when his own hips jerked towards you just a bit, a small sigh falling from his lips; not quite so cocky now, hm?

But you weren’t doing much better, not when you felt how thick he was, not when you could see the outline of him in the slacks. “Fuckin’ big,” you mumbled without really questioning it, hardly even noticing you said it out loud, and he grinned with a breathless laugh.

“You think so?” he encouraged, not exactly pulling off the humble act.

“Yeah, fuck,” you sighed, instantly getting to work on his belt.

“Shit, okay,” he laughed, “I guess we’re really gonna— oh, fuck.”

You’d managed to open his fly enough to reach inside and wrap your fingers around him, feeling him get harder in your grip.

He purred and kissed you again, hungry but slow. You couldn’t really stroke him at this angle, but you ran your fingertips along the shape of him and smiled when you felt him shiver. “C’mon, not here,” he decided as he pulled back slightly. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Taking your hand out of his trousers, you let him guide you there. As he stepped into the room with you just behind, he flipped on a lamp in the corner that lit the room with a dim golden glow— the curtains were drawn so only a few slivers of reflected city lights could peek in. You were thankful for the darkness, actually, as you would’ve found this a bit awkward in harsh, direct lighting. The room had a sensualness to it that matched him perfectly; you kicked off your flats quickly as you stepped in.

He sat on the corner of the bed, taking your hand and gently pulling you towards him, looking at you with a kind but expectant smile. “C’mere,” he mumbled under his breath, reaching up to trace your silhouette lightly. He had a delicateness and carefulness to everything he did, but you weren’t feeling quite so patient.

You quickly went to your knees in front of him, thankful for the plush carpet as you started to tug his pants down.

He laughed a little. “You really wanna—?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly, licking your lips as his cock bounced free and curved up to his stomach. You weren’t sure why but you just needed to do this to him— you already decided it, didn’t feel like being polite and, you know, asking. Thankfully, the way he ran his hands over his hair was obviously encouraging, it seemed like he was more than happy to let you go ahead.

As soon as you had the chance to get your hands around it again, your mouth was around the head, and he groaned lowly above you. “Fuck,” he breathed, and you hummed as you swirled your tongue around him.

Maybe it was hasty, but you started to bob your head and move your hand along with it, finding the pace that made his hand tighten to a fist in your hair and doing your best to stay steady there. The size of him was a bit of a challenge, you couldn’t go that far down yet and your jaw was already a little sore from being open so wide, but that didn’t faze you in the slightest. If anything it just gave you a challenge to work towards, patiently taking just a little more with each stroke, tasting whatever your tongue could reach in the meantime.

When you gagged as the tip brushed against your throat, he purred a bit; it was obvious his ego got a boost from that, which was a little concerning since he was already plenty cocky enough.

Maybe you were trying to humble him a bit by stopping, pulling your mouth off and moving your hand out of the way so you could give him one long lick: starting all the way at one of his tightened balls and going up to the very tip, tickling the opening there for a second. He shuddered, his cock flexing up as if trying to get back into your mouth, and then he started to laugh breathlessly.

“Fuck, you’re…” he began, then shook his head. “I’m really glad you came over tonight.”

You laughed a little, too, because that seemed like a weird thing to say at a time like this— but, you also agreed with him.

The hand on your head moved back and brushed over the back of your neck as he found the zipper of your dress; he leaned over you to lower it slowly, opening it all the way to the bottom. “Stand up,” he requested softly, and as you did, his hands grabbed the hem and pulled it to the floor, letting the garment circle your feet. He hummed a bit as he admired you in your bra and underwear— you would’ve picked nicer ones if you’d known this was happening tonight, but if you’d known this was happening tonight, you would’ve missed out on all this sexy spontaneous energy. At least your panties had a bit of lace around the hips and were free of old period stains… that was a win in your book.

Regardless of if they weren’t your fanciest, Harrison seemed perfectly happy with the sight of you like this. His hands rubbed your thighs gently, and he leaned forward to plant a few soft kisses to your hip and lower stomach. He looked up at you, and his expression was inherently pleading and pathetic from this angle, but it was obvious that he was still totally in control.

“Fuck,” he whispered yet again, his breath tickling your skin, “so pretty.”

He carefully pulled the panties down, and never broke his eyes away from you as he did it; you felt slightly nervous from being so exposed like that, but his reverent sigh kept you from feeling insecure.

“God, you’re perfect,” he decided.

“N-no, definitely not,” you chuckled awkwardly, stepping out of the underwear and adding them to the pile with your dress.

“You are,” he insisted, “come here.”

He guided you to straddle his lap, still looking up at you but from much closer now. For some reason you were expecting him to say something else, so it was a bit of a shock— in a good way— when he guided your hips and lowered you down onto his cock. You gasped from the suddenness and the stretch, then whimpered as his lips found your neck.

“Oh my god,” he breathed before he’d even finished filling you, “you’re so fucking wet…”

When you were completely seated on his thighs, a shiver ran up your back: it was deep, a little deeper than you bargained for, and you had to take a shaky breath to try to adjust to it. One hand stayed at your side but another moved down to pet your thigh soothingly— he must’ve been able to tell you were struggling a little.

“Take your time,” he encouraged sweetly, “I’ve got you.”

Both of you exhaled deeply when you lifted yourself up slightly just to drop down again; he pulled you down to bury himself as deep in you as he could go, and a quiet yelp jumped from your throat.

He wasn’t holding you tight enough to keep you from moving, but he kept a strong grip on you as you started to carefully set your pace. You whimpered when the motion made your clit rub against him. “Feels good?” he asked, sweet with a hint of smugness.

“Yeah,” you breathed, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “Fuck, yeah, feels good…”

He started to unbutton his shirt, and you tried to help him, but your shaky fingers weren’t going to do much; you could at least help him get the undershirt off, which you pulled almost too eagerly off his head before kissing him again.

He hummed proudly as you rocked your hips a bit further— not faster, yet. The stretch was still making your toes curl, he could probably see that when you broke the kiss. But the slight sting only served to increase the pleasure, and the pleasure helped your body relax to take him more easily. Soon, you felt that energy building within you, that ache for something more: you rocked your hips faster, chasing after your mounting pleasure.

You moaned louder, tangling some fingers into his hair.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, lips brushing against your clavicle and hands running up your back encouragingly. “Fuck, that’s so good— baby—”

You whimpered and held tighter to his shoulders, gasping into the crook of his neck, increasing the speed of your motions yet again. Those hands on your back started to work on your bra’s clasp— you had barely noticed you were still wearing it, clearly you’d been sidetracked— and helped you slip it off your shoulders. Of course you expected him to grab your chest after that, maybe carefully pinch a nipple between his finger and thumb, but the way he instantly latched his lips onto you caught you off guard in the best way. “Oh!” you gasped, tossing your head back suddenly. “Oh, fuck, Harris—”

He hummed proudly, his tongue flicking your bud inside the wet warmth of his mouth. He broke away and kissed a path to the other: once, he bit you lightly, and you tensed up inside.

His grin was just diabolical then, and one of his hands gave your ass a smack to make you moan and flex again. But then he got back to work, spoiling your other breast with licks and kisses and playful brushes of his teeth. Your grip on his hair tightened, and you began to bounce more eagerly on his lap than ever.

The friction of your clit against his skin was good, but it wasn’t quite enough— maybe he read your mind or something, because he looked up at you as he slipped one hand between your bodies and held his hand against your lower stomach. He just pressed down at first, gently, but enough to feel his cock moving within you. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he lowered his thumb down to your clit and gave it some attention too.

“Ah, god,” you groaned deeply, shivering as his thumb drew circles on the bud. He kept watching you intently, studying your face which surely revealed how wrecked you were already. It didn’t take much of that to push you right to the edge— he didn’t have to be fast or hard about it, just consistent, to make you fall apart. “I-I’m close,” you admitted with a gasp.

“Wanna see it,” he purred. “Wanna see you come. C’mon, baby, show me.”

You clenched your teeth together hard, summoning the physical strength to move as fast as you needed to, desperate to come for your own sake but happy to appease him as well. His eyes on you were so overwhelming, his hand on you was too, but you loved it; it all came to him so naturally, like he already knew your body as well as his own. It made you feel a little predictable, a little… silly, for lack of a better word. Weirdly enough, you kinda liked that too.

As you finally reached your climax, all the energy in your body seeming to tighten up and center at one point, you worried your moans were loud enough to be heard in the adjoining houses. But he was happier than ever, smiling widely at you as you were overcome with ecstatic sensations.

You wanted to stay in it forever, and it really felt like that as long as you kept moving it could just keep going and going and going… but sadly, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Your legs quivered and your hips faltered, and you were forced to slow to a stop as soreness and exhaustion caught up with you. Damn, I need to get back in the gym, you thought to yourself for a second, before you blinked and found him still staring proudly at you. Or maybe I can just keep doing this for my workouts…

“You sound so pretty when you come,” he praised. “Can you do it again?”

“Y-yeah, probably, but not… not like this,” you sighed, “too tired.”

“S’okay, honey,” he assured sweetly, holding you close and turning to quickly drop you on the bed. You giggled a little as he hovered over you, but when he moved again, it all felt so different: he hit different places inside you, especially when he held your legs and pressed them forward to all but fold you in half.

Your eyes rolled back when he gave his first thrust into you like that. “Fuck,” you growled, hardly believing how your own voice sounded at that moment. He chuckled proudly and did it again, really savoring the feeling and rolling his hips teasingly.

Turns out, your thigh and hip muscles might’ve been done for the night, your inner muscles were as happy as ever to flex and pulse with every drag of his cock against them. “Fuckin’ tight,” he praised roughly. “God, you feel so good.”

You whimpered a little, gripping the sheets under you. He turned his face to kiss along your calf, beside your knee, basically anywhere on your leg he could reach— and you weren’t sure you’d ever felt so worshipped. You whined properly then, and his fingers gripped tighter onto your thighs; him holding and positioning the body just how he wanted was so erotic and dominating, yet he used his power not to satisfy himself but to give you exactly what he knew you needed. Clearly he was the generous type…

Truth be told, you weren’t a good judge of how much time passed during all that: the pleasure seemed endless, and you constantly lost yourself in the feeling until he shifted himself above you and sharply brought you back to reality with a punch of his hips. “Oh, that’s it,” he praised, before even you had realized you were getting closer again. “That’s it, baby, I can feel it—”

“Oh god,” you whined, fluttering your eyes shut. “Yes!”

He growled through his teeth, moving your legs out of the way so he could press himself against you; you felt surrounded by him, filled by him…completely helpless to him, and it was wonderful.

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding on as tight as you could as he pounded into you. “I’m coming!” you shouted, and it came out all whiny and wimpy but you couldn’t do anything about that now: pleasure was crashing over you so hard you struggled to even breathe. You definitely stopped breathing, for at least a few seconds, and your vision had little dots that flashed and twirled around like glitter or something.

Only when you let out the air you were holding did reality seem to catch up with you. You felt yourself go a bit limp, you suddenly became aware again of the bed under you and the man above you and the pins and needles in your fingers and toes. “So good,” he praised in your ringing ears, his pace having slowed down a bit to not overwhelm you, “you’re so good for me, huh?”

“Me? You’re good,” you returned with a thin laugh. “You’re so— fuck, that was incredible.”

“Yeah? Looked incredible,” he agreed, “felt incredible. Feelin’ your little pussy squeeze me like that…”

You shivered at the lovely filthiness of his words.

“Fuck, should I pull out?” he groaned roughly. You shook your head quickly. “Inside?”

You nodded, and you felt a small laugh fan against your neck.

“Really? God, that’s so hot…”

As he trailed off, his thrusts became faster and more aggressive, forcing your back to arch up off the bed even when your body was totally spent. He chanted curses with every breath, mumbled something about how good you felt— and then he shuddered and let out the loveliest shaky groan you could imagine.

His grip on your thighs loosened, and you felt a new heat and wetness between your legs compared to before. Slowly, he started to catch his breath, and you felt like the two of you were in the same half-dream together, soaking in the same afterglow.

When both of you were a bit more conscious, he sat up a bit; as sexy as getting filled with come, or filling with someone with come, can be… the after part can be a little unsexy. But then again, maybe that’s true of all sex.

“Hold on, I, uh— I have some… tissues…” he mumbled with a rough voice, reaching over you to his nightstand and pulling some Kleenex from a box.

“Convenient,” you noticed, and you hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but he smiled with a hint of nervousness.

“They’re, uh, not normally for this,” he assured as he brought the handful of tissues back with him, sitting up more instead of leaning over you. “I really don’t do this kind of thing very often—”

“O-oh, I wasn’t—” you interrupted. “I mean, it’s fine if you do. Wait, do you mean you don’t have hook-ups often? Or you don’t, uh, have to clean up creampies often?”

He laughed, dropping his head above you like he couldn’t believe you, but he seemed endeared by it anyway. “Uh, neither,” he explained. “So, this is a hook-up then?”

Now that you were on the other end of the personal questions, you felt a bit more awkward about it. “Um, well…” you trailed off.

“‘Cause I was kinda hoping I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

“Right, yeah— I mean, you can,” you agreed.

“Maybe I should ask you again after I’ve cleaned you up a bit,” he noticed. “You’ll be more impartial.”

“Sure,” you agreed with a little chuckle, and he leaned back to get a better look at where your bodies were still joined, as if assessing the damage.

“Let’s see if I can…” he trailed off, mostly talking to himself as he tried to find the best angle to get the tissues under you before he pulled out and inevitably let the mess flow out of you.

“It’s kinda like Indiana Jones,” you blurted out, and he gave you a quizzical look. “You know, like, with the golden idol and the sand bag… you gotta get the dick out and then catch everything with the tissues…”

After a short silence, he laughed and shook his head a bit. “Indiana Jones,” he repeated. “You’re a trip. I love it.”

He seemed to get more serious again for a second as he did it— pulling back and quickly using the tissues to gently wipe up the trail of come that leaked from your opening— but then he started to laugh softly again.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head,” he announced.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he soothed. “I mean, I guess being compared to Indiana Jones in bed is pretty much always a good thing.”

You laughed a little, too, and his eyes widened as he pressed the tissues up to you again; apparently your laugh had pushed a little more out.

“Okay, I think that’s as good as that’s gonna get for now,” he decided as he laid down beside you on the bed, turned onto his side to look at you with a smile. He laid his hand on your waist, stroking your flushed skin with his thumb. “You are… really incredible.”

You wanted to refute the compliment, but you knew he wouldn’t let you; “Thanks,” you mumbled nervously.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Do you even need to ask?” you scoffed. “I haven’t come that hard in… I don’t even know.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he smirked. “Can I get you some water?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you agreed with a nod, and he sat up to slip off the bed— not too fast, you noticed, indicating he was feeling some of that tiredness you were.

Finding his boxers discarded near the bed, he slipped them back on and crossed the room, smiling at you one more time before disappearing out of the doorway.

You took the moment alone to process all that had just happened, as best you could at least. You sort of knew what you were getting yourself into by coming over to Harris’ place, but you couldn’t have predicted this: how forward and aggressive yet sensual he was, how amazing he would make you feel. And then that it wouldn’t just be one night but, apparently, something he wanted to continue… you were smiling to yourself, without even realizing. Of course you shouldn’t be hooking up with— or dating— or whatever— somebody from your work… but aren’t all the most fun decisions also the riskiest ones?

When he came back with a bottle of Evian, your eyes widened. “Woah, woah, I thought you were just gonna use the tap,” you chuckled, “this is too much.”

“Oh, it’s the least you deserve,” he grinned, sitting next to you on the bed and handing it to you as you sat up a bit.

“So is the quality of the water proportionally to the quality of the sex?” you asked before taking your first sip.

“Totally,” he joked. “Dasani for the truly mediocre encounters.”

You snorted before drinking more from the bottle and setting it aside on the nightstand. “Sorry about your painting, by the way,” you mumbled. “It’s… probably worth less now that it fell on its face.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I think I’ve got something more valuable in front of me now.”

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