thecapitol | tonight is the night we've been waiting for [closed]

Entry tags:

tonight is the night we've been waiting for [closed]

Who| Porrim + Nick Sr.
What| A re-do on their first meeting.
Where| The lobby bar.
When| Forward-dated to after the Arena finale.
Warnings/Notes| Sex sex sexy sex, language.

It's been a long six weeks.

Not that Porrim's been pining, or anything as ridiculous as that. No, she's a sensible woman, and she has a job that keeps her busy, especially as her Tributes come filtering back into the Capitol. She has doting to do, interviews to ferry them back and forth to, opportunities to arrange. But to say that she hasn't been thinking about her encounter with Nick in the lobby bar last month, well, that would be a bald-faced lie.

She's been watching his Arena endeavors with a mixture of amusement and regret. Because she can tell that he has no qualms about killing--he's exactly the kind of Tribute the Gamemakers love. And really, almost every Tribute she knows has killed, out of necessity, or not. And she tries not to let it bother her, because being stuck in those Arenas is sure to fuck with you in some way or another. So she's stayed detached, waiting until he's back and he can talk with her to form an opinion. And in the meantime, she sends him gifts every so often, with clever little notes. And the last one--over a hundred bottles of vodka with her last note, reminding him that they need to finish what they started.

It's almost become a joke, to her, their first meeting that was cut so terribly short, but it's left her curious, and she very much wants to seal the deal. To give him a chance to redeem himself for that 'five minutes' comment. So when she watches Nick's arena death, she knows that it's time to put her little plan into action.

The very next morning, and every morning until he shows up, she'll be sitting in the lobby bar, sipping champagne with her phone turned off and not a stitch of underwear underneath her dress. She's not desperate, she's not looking over her shoulder every few minutes. She's a patient woman.

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It has been a long six weeks. You don't know a long six weeks until you've weathered snow and fire and saber-tooth tigers. Even upon waking up, Nick feels tired. Tired and angry.

He doesn't run straight to Porrim, not when his frustration over coming so far and losing is all he can think about. He doesn't let himself feel guilty for getting his hands dirty, but he has regrets. His chances of getting a gun again are slim, the number of people out for his blood are higher and the odds are stacking against him.

The anger quells eventually, soon it's just frustration simmering under the surface rather than bitterness that he openly expresses. He's going to do what he couldn't for six weeks straight and god knows how long before- indulge. The incompetency of his Stylist doesn't go as far as suits, it seems. When he puts one on, the fit is fine and the fabric feels like it cost more than a car.

It's only two days after his death, but he shows up. There's a certain discomfort in his expression, annoyance that he isn't showing up a winner, but it melts away damn fast when his eyes lock on Porrim. He could be coy about it, but he isn't. He heads straight toward her and invades her personal space with a hand on the bar and a lean in.

"Miss me, sugar?"

Two days later, and he finally accepts her little invitation. She's not at all surprised at the way he gets all up in her space, and has to stop herself from bristling at the invasion and the pet name. God, he's annoying.

And yet, she smiles. Just a little, staring straight forward into the mirror over the bar, laughing quietly--almost like she's laughing to herself, except then she turns to look at him, her fingers curling and uncurling around the stem of her champagne flute.

"No," she says, deadpan, that smile turning into her trademark smirk. "Looks like someone got my little note." Which she already knew, of course, but she can't help but tease. It's been fun, after all, sending him her little notes, like a game. Far less brutal than the other one he's been playing. He's not going to be popular with the other Tributes, she can tell that much.

This is the havoc you have wrought, Porrim. It's like sitting at a dock with a baited hook and getting irate when a stupid fish comes along and goes for that juicy, juicy worm.

The bristle is notable enough to make Nick smirk, but it falls almost entirely from his face when she starts to laugh. How cruel, really. He isn't particularly phased, though. "Listen, kitten. It's kind of hard to buy the whole aloof thing when you sent me a hundred bottles of vodka to get my attention." He assumes, of course, that it's attention she's after here.

When he glances at the bartender, he waves a hand and asks for something "not cheap". Almost pointedly. It was crap vodka, Porrim. Even as a glass of scotch is set in front of him, his eyes are locked on her. His attention is focused, even if he's being smug.

"So I guess it's safe to say you do come here often." That is only a blatant change of tune.

Ugh. He's so annoying with his terms of endearment, calling her 'kitten'. Annoying and handsome. The worst kind of annoying, really. As he orders, she turns in her seat, allowing him a three-quarters view, crossing her legs at the knee. "Oh, is that what I was doing?" She's definitely teasing him, now, her tone mild and good-natured. "I thought I was relieving myself of some leftover money, but your guess is as good as mine." She gives him a wink over the rim of her champagne glass. "Anyway, I got plenty of bang for my buck." Or she will, she's certain. If not, she'll have wasted two mornings.

The next thing he says is amusing, hearkening back to their first conversation, and the Escort hums lightly. "I suppose it's become something of a haunt," she admits. "I like to come here and blow off a little steam now and then." That's a definite twinkle in her eye, and a definite innuendo. Take that as you will, Nick. She's not wearing any underwear, she has nothing to lose, here.

His attention might be focused on her face for the most part, but the way she shifts her legs seems a good enough reason to glance down. He certainly doesn't regret it, either. His brows raise briefly, sincere surprise in his expression before he smothers it with the faux-aloof air they've begun to perfect with one another.

"Guess there are worse horses to lose out on." He muses, bitterness seeping into his tone as he draws a sip from his glass. Goddamn it. This isn't about being a sore loser, this is about the fact that a bombshell is playing all the right games with him. If that doesn't make up for a miserable failure of an Arena, nothing will.

"You don't say." There's amusement in his tone, followed by a low chuckle. "Maybe I'm not too familiar with the locals here, so enlighten me. How does a girl like you, in a place like this, manage to blow off any steam? End of the Arena, you must be swamped." He's not even subtle about the fact that he's needling for confirmation that she'll stick around this time.

"Far worse," she agrees with a snort. Is that a hint of bitterness in his tone? She can't exactly blame him, if so. He got pretty damn far in his first Arena, and for nothing, in the end. Maybe it's generosity, on her part, meeting him again like this. But it'd be a lie if she said this was a pity fuck. This is just as much for her as it is for him.

And hell, if she can't throw a sexy dude a bone once in awhile, what good is her burgeoning sexuality?

She leans forward a little bit, showing a little more interest as he frames his question, and she has to admit, he's clever. She knows exactly what the real question is, and her fingers twitch toward the black leather purse sitting in front of her on the bar. "A bit," she admits. "I just need to remind myself to disconnect every now and then. Cut loose." Turn off her fucking phone. She's not letting some idiotic bitch fight in Five ruin her luck this time.

There's a part of his pride and his insecurity that tells him this could easily be out of pity, not just because he didn't win but because she could just have a thing for sad, little Tributes. He doesn't really know her, after all. All he knows is that she's busy, and if she's busy she probably cares. In a way he doesn't get from Jason, in a way he really doesn't want from Jason.

She can act as cold as she wants, there's something warm there. Maybe a while ago he would have resented it, but now he finds himself craving it. He'll take pity, he'll take anything to feel a little more like a normal person with a normal life. Full of good booze and women and a place to sleep, showers and food and TV and every little thing he couldn't have for so long.

The way her fingers twitch threatens that, and his hand slips forward. Not toward her purse but to her face, so he can brush at hair that's barely ghosting toward her ears. It's his other hand that creeps into her purse and flicks out her phone with all the finesse years of petty theft has given him.

"Oh yeah? After six weeks in the wilderness, I think I can teach you a thing or two." He smiles, pulling his hands away from her so he can hold up her phone. "One, you don't need this. Two, you do need me."

She's trying very hard here to cover up her weakness the first time they met. She'd been a bit drunk, then, too many mimosas in too little time. Vulnerable, mostly, in a way she doesn't like to be. And he'd gotten through all that vulnerability pretty tidily--enough that she'd been the one taking the initiative. Now, she's reclaiming her initiative, without the help of alcohol--she's only had half a glass, and she's got a far clearer head. But all that amounts to jack shit when he raises his hand to her face.

Even someone as used to physical contact as Porrim can't help but shiver a little at the barely-there brush of his fingers against her temple. But when he holds up her own goddamn phone from her own goddamn purse, her eyes widen and she pulls back in surprise. "Hey--" she starts, indignant, annoyance flaring up again before he goes on and cuts her off.

And fuck, he's right. Not that she needs him in some weird, soulmate kind of way. But she needs him to teach her how to loosen up the right way. He's the kind of guy who'd know, after all, from what she can tell. And maybe, just maybe, she needs a little bit of intimacy after a long, self-imposed dry spell. So she just huffs, resisting the urge to snatch her phone back. That would be petty. "It's off," she informs him coolly. "And--maybe." She wouldn't have invited him back here if he weren't at least partly right.

It's a low move, but the pay off is with it. He has acquired the tool of ultimate cockblocking and he has no intention of giving it back until they're done here (or ever, it looks fancy). Her annoyance just fuels him, because he's so impressed with himself and his pickpocketing skills that he needs to smirk a little wider.

"Aw." He murmurs in response to her indignant response. He turns the phone toward himself curiously, brows furrowed when he realises he has no idea how this thing works. The confusion is clear on his face, but he shrugs and slips his hand into his jacket to tuck it into his shirt pocket. "Then it doesn't matter where it is, does it?" He asks with a raised eyebrow, moving to push himself off the stool and stand. "Excuse me, though. I need to make a call." He doesn't think he needs to be as careful with the invitation as she had been on that first night. They both know where he's headed and what they want, he's just making the first leap this time.

He traipses into the bathroom, feeling as much in his element now as he had in the confines of the Arena. Only this time, he won't leave until he wins.

His reply has her snorting out an indignant breath, trying and failing not to let her annoyance show. He's infuriating, really; he's the opposite of what she normally looks for in a lay, and yet his whole macho vibe actually works for him. That's the kicker, in her opinion. So she watches her phone disappear into his pocket, barely stifling an eye roll.

"Fine," she drawls, her head following him as he stands and makes his excuse. "Have fun...sugar." What's the fun of a charade if she can't poke fun at him, after all?

She gives him a few minutes, nursing the rest of her champagne and then going ahead and finishing the rest of his scotch for good measure. Porrim pays the bartender and heads for the restrooms again, annoyed that he beat her to it. This is her game, she should be the one waiting coolly, instead of pushing open the men's room door and praying he's not waiting there in nothing but his socks. Don't disappoint her, Nick. "Hope this'll last longer than five minutes, baby," she muses aloud as the door swings shut behind her.

Of course it works for him, because he owns it. He knows he's an asshole and he revels in it. That doesn't mean he isn't the most irritating scum of the earth, but everything they say about the sexuality of self confidence is probably true.

Her quip doesn't earn her more than an eye roll, because he's on a warpath. He knows he both jumped the gun and beat her at her own game here, but there's know way of knowing it'll play off. If Porrim likes games so much, she might turn this one against him too.

So no, he isn't down to his socks. He's waiting impatiently in there, fully clothed and leaning against the sink with his arms folded over his chest. When she steps into the room, the temptation to cross toward her and just go for glory and everything is real. He should refrain, especially when she makes a quip like that.

And he does refrain. For about five seconds.

He steps over with an easy pace, placing a hand on the door behind her and leaning in with an artfully slow pace. "Right back at you, cupcake." He murmurs, leaning in to press their lips together while his other hand slips past to lock the door.

She can't resist, really, reminding him of that unfortunate slip of the tongue--repeatedly. It's fun for her. You can joke about drinking male tears all you want, but sometimes it's fun to make them squirm every now and then. Just a little taste of revenge for all the scumbags who felt it necessary to describe just what they'd do to a seventeen-year-old her, newly hot with tits and legs and an ass out to there. It's fun, but it's also necessary.

Not that her mind is on any of that. No, the minute the door shuts, her focus is all on Nick--coming toward her like he doesn't have a care in the world. Leaning in so artfully. Porrim leans gracefully against the door, sighing out an "Oh, honey," before their lips meet. She doesn't hold back--none of that coy, delicate shit. It's like the six weeks between the last time and now never happened. She's like a sports car--zero to sixty in seconds flat. And he'd better put on his goddamn seatbelt.

Nick isn't surprised she held onto that one for so long. Women, honestly. Clearly she isn't too bothered if she's angling to try it out. Not that he isn't a little nervous about his own ability when he's been out of commission for so long, but it's the confidence that will pull him through to the end here and no amount of her jibing and chiding will change that.

By now her ever changing pace doesn't throw him off guard. He matches the intensity of the kiss with ease and gladly flicks his tongue over her bottom lip to amp it up from the get go. His hand moves from the lock to her waist and he's quickly losing any will to be artful or slow about this. The fabric of her dress is in his hand and he's hitching it up over her hips. Fingers trace over the curve of her body before his hand ducks behind her to rest on the warm, soft exposed skin of her ass.

This is what he has missed. No expensive scotch or suits really compares to an ass like that. The low rumble of appreciation in his throat is a very clear indication of his respect for it, coupled of course with a curious squeeze.

She might act cool as a cucumber, but now that they're down to brass tacks here, now that she's back in the saddle, she's not one to hide what she's feeling. She's a very appreciative lover, shivering in his arms at that swipe of his tongue, matching him with a nip of her own at his lower lip before letting her tongue flirt at his.

Meanwhile, he's already getting under her skirt, and the cool air conditioning meets her skin in a way that's almost pleasant as his hand on her ass, squeezing at all that supple flesh in a way she appreciates. Really, she wouldn't at all mind him getting a little rough with her. It's the kind of man he is, and she'd hate for him to hold back at all. So she tightens her arms where they've wound about his shoulders, letting her bare hips press up into his gladly.

There is absolutely nothing about Porrim that is a let down at this point, nothing but the fact that Nick is still wary of some sort of interruption here. All the more reason to proceed with gusto, right? As if he needs an excuse to do that much.

He lets out a hum of approval that could almost have turned into a pleased laugh. He doesn't often express this much unbridled happiness, but he's smiling against her lips when his hands slide up her back only to drag back down as he yanks the zipper of her dress open.

"Is it just me, or is it warm in here?" He murmurs the question against her lips, happy for a little banter inbetween the passion. He seems less intent with fully undressing her and more content with getting it down past her bra so he can see that much. His hips press back and he can't hide a shudder of pleasure while he tries to play it cool.

"Now," He says, addressing his question to her breasts more than her. "Where were we?" He very vividly remembers being interrupted with a hand on a breast, so that's where his hand is going again. He has no shame in cupping and grazing his rough palm over one, his other hand returning to rub up against her hip.

Nick is tugging at her zipper, and damn if it isn't sexy the way he drags her dress down. She laughs against his mouth. "Very," she agrees, letting the straps of her dress slide from her shoulders, reaching up to nip at his neck while he turns his attention to her breasts.

And, yes. He's talking to them. Of course. She snorts. "Deja vu?" She's not surprised. They'd been interrupted just as things were getting good, the last time. So she arches up into his hand, kissing into his neck eagerly. In fact, her hands have found their way to his collar, and she's not shy about tugging him closer using that. She might be coming off as a little more eager than she'd intended, but honestly it's just plain been awhile since she's had a good lay. And anticipation has made her want this a lot more than she initially had, even.

Slowly, they're stepping over the point they made it to last time. Or really, they're dancing over it at this rate. There's no slow about it, it's all raw and fast and real. It makes it harder to believe it's really happening, but he's happy to live life like it's some beautiful fever dream at this point.

"Something like that." He grunts, letting her pull him closer with a low laugh. He can practically feel his blood thrumming downward, making it harder and harder to draw this out. "I'll tell you something, sugar. You sure know what a slow play is." He murmurs that against her jawline, his hand slipping down from her breast to her thigh, edging closer and closer until he's rubbing his fingers between her legs. A thought occurs to him, and it's sort of hard to consider it at this point, but it's worth saying.

"Did you, uh. Come prepared?"

She's glad that she's got him laughing; unlike most Capitolites who turn into huffy little bitches if you so much as crease their collars, he seems happy to let her jack up the pace a little. His comment has her chuckling, too, under her breath.

"Plenty of time--for slow--later," she reminds him in between heated kisses. Right now she's on an avalanche and the more momentum she picks up the more she wants. She's very aware of those fingers creeping down between her thighs and soon enough they're pressing right up against her where she's bare and more than a little aroused already. Porrim lets out a low moan, pulling back just enough to answer his question.

"Got it covered," she reassures him. Medical miracles and whatnot.

Maybe back home he'd have been bothered, but he's realised he's basically got an endless supply of suits here. But really, the intention and purpose of a suit is to get a girl like Porrim interested. Seeing as she's here and interested, it's her god given right to do what she wants with it.

"You're speaking my language." He says in response to everything she tells him, and it could be true of everything she says. It's great how fast they've clicked, particularly when it's making this run smoother than fucking chocolate. His fingers press upward, running back and forth faster in an effort to really jump start this.

He's tenting his pants at this point and he presses his hips forward to make her aware of it. "Then there's nothing to worry about." He says finally, his hands returning to his waistbands so he can push both down as elegantly as possible. It seems they're mutually interested in making this hard and fast, so he isn't shy about pressing his hips forward again and making the mutual lack of any separation between them more obvious.

He pauses, in a rare show of courteousness, but without any objection he'll happily pull her toward him so he can start to push into her.

That's the thing about her: she's adaptable. She learns her partners' languages. Not specifically to be what they're looking for, but to make the experiences profitable for everyone involved. She might not be invested in being anybody's dream girl, but sex is a two-way operation, and it's only as good as you make it. And she happens to like getting other people off while she gets her own.

He's doing a remarkably good job of warming her up with his fingers; she graces him with a pleasured moan, hitching her hips upward into his touch. Porrim's pleased that he seems just as invested in this pace as she is, and she smirks when she feels him press his hips right into hers. "Come on, then," she taunts, only to have him comply a moment later, causing her head to tilt back, mouth an open, almost triumphant smile. Using him and the door behind her as leverage, and clinging to his shoulders, she hops up to wrap both her legs around his waist, cursing under her breath at the angle shift and the way at causes him to press into her just so.

In the first hours of arriving here, Nick didn't imagine he'd be trusting of the locals. He still isn't, he still isn't sure about her. Being in the Arena hadn't exactly inspired affection for the Capitol as a whole, but Capitol women? They were a treasure. Nick is running his hands over Porrim like she's spun gold, she's exotic and dangerous and just the right amount of invested while they keep each other at arm's lengths.

But here he is, finally, about to get what he wants. And he wants her, for all he's thought about this, it might as well be the Victory he was looking for. He's all full of pent up frustration in every sense of the word, he can feel it ebbing when he presses deeper into her at her bidding.

"Christ, sugar." He spits out, letting his movements stop entirely so he can do nothing more than enjoy the tight heat and the contact between them. The pause doesn't last long and his hips are bucking upward, movements shallow and rough already. His lips find her neck, breathing hot air against her as he moves.

Porrim's more than happy to let him take out all his pent up frustration on her. To be his outlet. To let him fuck her as hard as he needs to, since she is getting something out of it, too, after all. And he doesn't disappoint. The way he exclaims like that sends thrills down her spine where it arches against the cold metal of the bathroom door, and her head thumps backward against it a moment later.

"Yeah," she breathes out, encouragingly, as he starts to thrust. His lips on her neck are a shade away from perfect, and it's far too easy to let herself get lost in this. "Come on, baby," she finds herself moaning, completely without irony, her fingernails digging into his back through his shirt.

There's a part of Nick that can't help being wary about all of this. They're celebrities, this is the celebrity life, but it makes him think of something Emily said. The Capitol wants to feel sorry for them, and for all Nick likes to bitch, he doesn't want pity.

It doesn't make his passion wane, because that's the last thing on his mind now. There's no pity here, just raw attraction and fun and games. It doesn't have to be that way so he won't let it, there's nothing pathetic about a guy who gives it to you like it's a goddamn charity fuckfest.

The nails in his back are enough to make him hiss just slightly, hips jutting up just that little bit harder. "You like that?" He murmurs against her neck, and it doesn't sound like he's asking because he sincerely cares about her opinion. More like he just wants his ego stroked, but she should know that by now.

She's glad that her scratching spurs him on, because given half the chance she'd give him claw marks all down his back. Next time, she thinks, thoughts scattered, her spine arching and tensed, hips angled so he can drive right into her the way she likes.

And of course, the bastard wants her to confirm what she's already said, but she's so damn into this that she can't even complain, because what's life without a little dirty talk? So she obliges him, happy to stroke his ego a little bit if it means getting the best out of him. "Yeah," she whimpers softly, "yes." If he wants more he'll have to work for it.

There's a part of it that is just vaguely reminiscent of pounces he'd rather not recall, but when he crushes down the vague idea that she's a zombie he can just appreciate the little rush of adrenaline it gives him.

The added assurance to his ego earns a strained chuckle from him, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth when he watches her with content, half-lidded eyes. "Yeah, you do." He tells her, like she needs him to confirm that. The whimper just does things for him, man. It makes him almost growl with anticipation, hands moving up her and squeezing whatever he touches while he presses in deep.

"Damn, you're good." He murmurs in tone, voice lower like it's a secret somehow. "I can't keep my hands off you."

He's such a cocky bastard. Really, he's pretty insufferable. Under normal circumstances she'd be rolling her eyes. But here, in this context, it's just kind of hot. It weirdly does it for her.

And so does the way his hands move over her, squeezing and plying at her flesh, and she moans in response. "Please don't," she replies. She's very much okay with his hands-on approach. "Don't you--fucking--dare take your hands off me."

Playing lines like that is always a risky gamble with ladies, but most of the time he's found it pays off. There's nothing more satisfying than being assured and in control, far better than some squirmy loser who doesn't know what to do with a woman like Porrim.

Nick knows just what to do. Fuck her. Obviously. Rock his hips up against her and feel her and taste her and graze his hands over every inch of her. That's what you do with Porrim.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He assures, dragging his fingers up her waist, breast and collarbone until he can hold his hand against her neck and jaw and lean in for yet another kiss. He crushes their lips together, seeking intensity as he moves more and more erratically. The sounds building in his throat are indication enough that he's getting close, but his movements read it too.

Good. He's not an idiot. He knows when to stop playing games. She is so not in the mood for games right now. What she is in the mood for is everything he's giving her, the drag of his fingers over her skin. And then he's kissing her again and there's no more need for talk, no more need for veiled threats or begging or anything more embarrassing.

She can tell that he's getting close, and damned if she's going to let him come before she does. So Porrim bears down, tightening, brow furrowing as she concentrates on the pleasure building in her core, on all that sweet friction she gets every time his hips meet hers.

He's a little bit of an idiot, but not when it comes to getting what he wants. And boy, does he want this. Months of scraping by on the barest amounts of human contact, when sex was compromising and impossible to come by have left him with hungers and desires he'd thought were insatiable. Porrim, as it happens, seems to encompass those desires thoroughly. She's hot, she's exciting and she's interested in a detached way that drives him crazy.

Speaking of crazy, the way she tightens and shifts against him is enough to draw a wobbly sort of groan from him. It's not a cool sound, it's an unhinged and needy noise. It feels like his hips can't move any faster and he's greedily taking all he can get, picking up on her competitive vibe.

"C'mon, sugar." He huffs encouragingly, hands kneading against her to help with the stimulation. He pinches and flicks at a nipple, pressing kisses to her jawline as he does.

He's redoubling his efforts, and Porrim certainly appreciates that little sound he lets out--it's almost endearing, really, how needy he sounds. He toys at her nipple and vocalizes his encouragement and that's exactly what she needs to push over that edge, to tighten around him and come with a cry that's far louder than it should be. Anyone could be listening on the other side of the door, but she doesn't care about that right now. She can't think about anything other than the white hot heat that flares in her limbs, clinging to him as she rides out her orgasm.

"Oh, fuck," she breathes into his neck, staying tensed around him, working toward his release now to reward him for how fucking good she feels.

Nick can hardly care about the volume either, not when it's a mark of pride to make her cry out like that. It isn't a sound he's heard in a long, long time and it's like music to his hears. He doubts he'll be forgetting it soon, seeing as how it's still sending tingles up and down him even now.

His thighs tense as he bucks upward and buries deep, gritting his teeth as she keeps clenched and moving just those few more shallow times before it's all too much and just enough. The grunt he makes isn't precisely the most attractive thing, but it's followed by a pump of his hips as he meets his own climax. He keeps up the movement for as long as he can, drawing out the pleasure until it's slowly replaced with mild exhaustion. Fuck being old.

"That.." He starts slow, pulling out carefully and holding his hands out to steady her in an almost gentlemanly manner. "Was worth the wait." Oh god, he's winking.

Porrim arches into him, pressing her hips forward to meet the surging of his own, letting her spine stretch out--tensing and relaxing as the last ripples of her own pleasure fade and are replaced with faint, sleepy contentment. She watches with hooded eyes as Nick finishes, a faint smirk playing around her lips when he finally moves to pull out, using his hands as support until she's got her feet planted firmly once more, albeit on wobbly knees.

She can't help a good-natured eye roll. "I'd have hoped so," she replies, even if that makes her sound cocky. She has a good reason to be cocky, and she knows it. "You doing alright, old man?"

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tonight is the night we've been waiting for [closed]

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