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Lucy doesn’t consider herself a sentimental person. That being said, she doesn’t think it gets much better than a warm August night in California.
Cool wind slides over her satin evening dress, reaching around to flick at the few stray curls resting near her ears. The bubbles in her champagne fizzle as infinitely as the stars above stretch the night sky. The faint sounds of classical music and academic conversation fade as she inhales, relishing in the clarity of the air.
Four years ago, this would have been a mundane occurrence. After all the time travel madness, she’s come to realize how precious peace is.
She’s broken out of her reverie by the sound of footsteps escaping the mumbling ambience of the party behind. Before she can turn to acknowledge the arrived, he presses a soft kiss on the back of her neck.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, smiling.
He pulls away just enough to let her turn around and wrap her arms around his neck. “Hey you,” he whispers back. “You look beautiful.”
She does a little bow, to both their chuckling. Oh, but he’s one to talk; he looks dashing tonight in his narrow-lapel black suit and a burgundy shirt, unbuttoned at the top to add an edge to the simple wardrobe. It matches the stray strand hanging loosely over his forehead, rebelling against the rest of his slicked-back hair. But the way his hands rest gentle against the small of her back tell another, softer story, as does the way he watches her with a reverence he reserves only for her.
If she focuses, she can hear the string quartet playing a gentle waltz behind them. Setting aside her glass, she sways with the downbeats and tugs at Flynn until he laughs and sways with her. She missed the chance to dance with him on the floor, half out of a genuine need to catch up with one of her old mentors and half because everyone in the room was already staring at the two of them and she wasn’t in the mood for more attention, no thank you.
(Lucy’s contemplating staying a good fifty-foot radius away from the department office tomorrow. She knows Tracy’s going to continue her barrage of questions about her “hot, European, older boyfriend” and Lucy does not want to answer any of them. He is hers and she is his; that is that.)
She quite likes this, she decides, sneaking away from a stuffy party to dance with a tall, dark, handsome man on the balcony. If she were younger, hadn’t had a gun pointed at her several times, hadn’t saved history from a fascist cult, she would have said it was the danger of him that allured her. Now, she knows it’s the peaceful isolation of the moment; she loves that when she breathes in, all she can smell is crisp evening air and hints of Flynn’s cologne.
Tightening her arms around him, she pulls him down, determined to take his breath away in a slow, sweeping kiss—only to catch her hip against the railing.
“Ow—”
He pulls back, concerned. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I just bumped the railing.” She turns back to him, giggling.
“Guess there are better places to dance than a tiny balcony,” Flynn says, raising an eyebrow as that shit-eating smirk she has a love-hate relationship with blooms on his face.
She’s apparently in a decision-making mood tonight, because she decides she wants to deal with that grin of his by kissing it away. She tugs him closer, relishing in the way his nose presses hard against her cheekbone.
It’s a sweeping, romantic kiss—until Lucy licks into his mouth in a manner decidedly not appropriate for a department function. Flynn groans, helpless, and his grip on her waist turns carnal.
Long ago, she used to dream of this—kissing Flynn. (She would jolt up in bed at night, heart hammering, her need throbbing, and jump once more at Noah’s concerned touch to her lower back.) In the dreams, he took without hesitation, pushing her where he wanted her as he did in their early antagonistic interactions. She knows better now—he’s happiest trailing after her. And she’s happiest when he’s red-faced and cross-eyed after she’s done with him.
With a shuddering gasp, she pulls back for air. Flynn’s eyes hold a hunger in them that leaves no question of his intent, and, oh, she is very much on board for that.
“What if I don’t want to dance anymore?” she asks, low.
He looks like he wants to take her right here. (Briefly, she wonders if that would be such a bad thing.)
A beat too late, he replies, “Oh?”
“Mm.” Leaning in until her lips brush against his ear, she whispers, “Take me home?”
Lucy realizes she’s got a perfectly good penthouse on campus grounds. She also realizes it’s ten minutes longer to walk to than her office.
So here she is, half-dressed on her desk, with Flynn’s face between her legs.
Flynn is unfairly good at this. Even before she realized Flynn gets overwhelmed fast when the attention’s on him, before he realized Lucy likes it a bit dirty and messy, he’s always made eating her out an exciting event.
Not to say he doesn’t use that knowledge against her. Even though he’s the one currently licking into her like a starved man, he’s still dressed—hell, he hasn’t even discarded his fucking jacket. Meanwhile, she’s got her dress pushed off her shoulders just enough to expose her breasts—his idea, of course, and one that sent a thrill down her spine when he yanked the fabric down, grinning knowingly. (She grabbed him by the hair and pushed him down to where he’s currently taken residence in reprimand.) Her underwear’s still looped around her right ankle, the soaked fabric hanging precariously close to the shoulder of his suit jacket. The fluorescent lights of the room are off, but the window blinds aren’t shut; while it’s dark enough that barely any of the street lights seeps through, it’s just enough to make her startle when he hitches her thigh up over his shoulder. She is, to any imaginary bystander out there, his victim.
And yet—yet. Despite the obvious picture of esteem and debauchery he’s painted for them, he’s the one on his knees.
Flynn laves his tongue over her folds, not bothering to give any real pressure, just making her slick. She appreciates it, really does—thinking about what a mess they’re leaving on her desk makes heat flash low in her stomach—but, frankly, she’s burning up with want here. She wants his tongue mashing into her, she wants his lips sealed over her clit. And here he is, kissing her at the junction of her thighs, over her folds. For one tantalizing second, his lips brush against her clit—and that’s about as close she gets to her wants being met.
It’s nothing, in the sense that this will not satisfy the ache for more, but it’s not nothing, because he is turning that very ache so whistling sharp it consumes all of her attention. The world is a thin, slicing cord between her heaving chest and his mouth, and all she can do is hold on.
She decides to be patient; it’s Flynn, she knows this will all pay off. And then, for a fleeting, stretched out moment, he dips just the tip of his tongue inside her—and the cord snaps.
“Flynn,” she whines. Her voice is far more wrecked than it has any right to be.
He looks up at her, eyes twinkling, and she realizes she’s in for a fucking ride.
Never breaking eye contact, he licks—firm—up her folds until he reaches her clit—then fixes his lips over it and sucks hard.
“ Jesus ,” she slurs, and the world goes blurry at the sudden rush of feeling. God, it’s almost too much, his undivided attention on that sensitive nub after all that not-nothing. Her hand scrabbles to find a grip, fingers catching at Flynn’s ear first before they find purchase in his hair.
With a groan, he redoubles his efforts. Eyes falling shut, he presses the flat of his tongue against her clit as he reaches up to slide two fingers into her. She’s so wet they meet absolutely no resistance, to his delight, and he gets down to rubbing the pads of his fingers hard against her inner wall until she’s gasping uncontrollably.
It’s overwhelming, every sensation in her drawn out from one cubic inch of her body, and so, so, filthy. She can feel herself leaking around his tongue just as surely as she can hear the schlep of slick as Flynn fucks his fingers into her. The air stinks of their sex and sweat, casting over the familiar paper-musk of her books. The hum of the ventilator, usually a rattling annoyance when she reads through her students’ papers, fades against Flynn’s throaty groans, her own reedy breaths, her quiet whispers of harder, faster, good—so fucking good, Garcia .
She’s gripping Flynn’s poor hair so tight it tangles when she tugs. He responds in kind by hitching her hips impossibly closer into his crushing mouth. It’s debauchery and devotion colliding and meshing until it turns into a Jackson Pollock painting of something she doesn’t currently have the facilities to name but is decidedly in the grand category of love.
“Flynn,” she cries out, eyes squeezing shut. “Flynn, Flynn, Flynn—”
He surges up to kiss her. His mouth is sinfully wet, and she loves how she can taste herself, she loves how fucked up it is to enjoy being so messed up, she loves the proof of his undivided attention, she loves him—
His thumb rubs hard against her clit, and her vision goes white.
It takes a moment for her to catch her breath. Flynn stays right where he is, bracketing her body with his as she trembles through the aftershocks. Through the haze clouding her eyes, she tries to keep her falling eyelids open to hang onto Flynn.
Everything he feels is betrayed in the twitch of his eyebrows, the swollen part of his lips, the flicker in his eyes. It’s beautiful, she thinks, to be able to hold such multitudes on one face.
She must have been staring too long, because he starts, pulling away. “Sorry, I should have known—the claustrophobia…”
“No, no, just—” You’re beautiful can’t make it past her lips. It’s not as easy for her as it is for him. “Stay. Please.”
He does. Pushing aside her Intro to Anthropology papers, he scoots himself up onto the table and manages, to the squeaking protest of the desk, to hold her. She snuggles into the crook of his neck and lets the feeling of his hand rubbing against her shoulder calm her sparkling nerves.
He keeps his touch chaste; fingers teasing the sweat-tangled knots in her hair, hands a good ten-inch radius from her pelvis. Even though she is very purposefully pushing her heaving, still-exposed chest close to his. Even though she can feel him straining against his very nice pants from where his hips are pressed up against her soaked thigh.
Still so self-sacrificial. Well, that can’t stand.
Lucy snakes an arm down to where he’s aching and unbuttons his pants. “I assume you’re alright with doing this in a public space.”
Flynn tries to laugh, but then she tugs at his length, and his teeth clack together. “I’d say that’s a fair conclusion,” he squeezes out.
She slides off the desk, not bothering to push the straps of her dress back on her shoulders, and kneels in front of him.
“Lucy,” he says, strangled.
She smiles with as much devilish intent as she can muster. “I would have hated to make you wait the whole walk back home.”
“That would have been very difficult,” Flynn agrees, a little wild-eyed.
She looks up at him through her eyelashes. How she had ever thought him unflappable, she doesn’t know–not when his face flushes at the simple vision of her on her knees, when all it would take to have him repeating her name would be to wrap her lips around him. She is grateful, nonetheless, that they have had to toil and rage at each other until they wore down their walls, until they could share these intimate parts of themselves with the other. Away from the party, away from everyone else, they have created their own little world; and she doesn’t want anyone else to know but the two of them.
The air curling around her fourth finger, devoid of a ring, hangs like a question. She knows he wants it, as he knows she worries about it. But the sureness of him is not the question in that issue. They belong to each other, she is well aware, and that does not scare her.
She laughs. Flynn raises his eyebrows.
She shakes her head. “You’re mine,” she says, still surprised by this fact.
“As are you,” he replies, grinning—and she knows he’s as elated by this as she is.
He does indeed say her name when she sinks her mouth over his length, and says it over and over again until she brings him off to a finish.
Mine , she thinks, as she dozes off on the desk, his body warm against hers. And yours .