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lb_leeTitle: Tucked, Forever, Right Now, and Shaved (three-story combo!)
Series: Infinity Smashed
Summary: Bob and Grey go full-bore into casual sex and do their best not to think of the professional or personal ramifications. NSFW!
Word Count: 2500ish
Notes: Okay, I finally have two brain cells to rub together, so I've decided to upload another 2500 words of Found Wanting for folks here, since that series was the poll winner and that makes things more in line with the "3000+ words a month" plan. Thank you for your patience.
Series: Infinity Smashed
Summary: Bob and Grey go full-bore into casual sex and do their best not to think of the professional or personal ramifications. NSFW!
Word Count: 2500ish
Notes: Okay, I finally have two brain cells to rub together, so I've decided to upload another 2500 words of Found Wanting for folks here, since that series was the poll winner and that makes things more in line with the "3000+ words a month" plan. Thank you for your patience.
Tucked
Fooling around with Grey while she was injured was a bad idea, so they agree to stop until she recovers. Bob stays at her place, playing helper, cooking her real food, filling her spice rack. Since the pressure’s off, they play a lot of sexual twenty questions and spend an evening on the sofa just touching, learning each other’s bodies and playing Hot and Cold, tapping out when it gets too hot. It’s been a while since Bob’s had a slow burn going. It’s nice. It makes returning to work (and all its paranoia) bearable.
When Grey’s well enough to come back, they get VD tests—taking care to do it outside work. When the results come back, Bob asks for a ride home.
He means hers, and Grey, smart girl, realizes it. They tumble into bed, necking furiously as they try to undress each other. Grey manages to pull Bob’s shirt off before he pushes her jacket down off her shoulders, and shoves her backwards so he can pin her wrists to the mattress and straddle her.
Something’s different, but Bob’s way too horny to figure out what until Grey taps pause against his hand.
“Wait,” she says.
Bob makes a sound of protest but stops. “What? What’s wrong?”
Nothing looks wrong. Grey’s panting, pink in the cheeks, seems to like being held down even though there’s no question who’s stronger. Bob can feel her hips moving under his, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
“Need to take care of something.”
“Now?” Bob complains. “Right now?”
Grey hesitates.
“I can be fast,” Bob swears, sensing weakness. He’s trying to hold still, but it’s hard with Grey rubbing up on him like this. “Whatever it is, I can be fast.”
Grey’s expression is a mix of want and uncertainty and something else, but she squeezes for yes. Bob makes a sound of relief and divine gratitude, kisses her, and gets her belt and slacks open.
Everything’s tucked in.
Bob looks up. Grey’s tense, nervous, but holds his eyes.
Long drawn-out processing is where sex goes to die, so Bob asks the only thing that matters and is any of his business: “it feel better if you stay like that?”
She nods. Bob smiles and shoves a thigh between her legs; she gasps and goes boneless under him, and that’s how they fuck, with Grey pinned to the bed and still mostly dressed. It turns out that she loves riding Bob’s thigh like this—maybe it’s a deep pressure sensation thing—and it’s not something Bob himself would want, but he sees no reason to complain, especially not for the thrill he gets from messing Grey up in uniform, covering her in hickeys, and making her come wet and messy in her neatly-pressed slacks, all the while staring up at him in awed adoration.
That last part should be a concern. Bob’s made it clear to her that this is just a day-by-day thing, friends blowing off steam, nothing more. But it hits his buttons when she smiles at him, says, “Thank you,” and then throws him off like he’s nothing. She shoves him down and sucks him off like their lives depend on it, and Bob doesn’t think about how quickly he gets off, or how hard. It’s hot; who cares why? He’s never been one to let his brain get in the way of good sex.
And if he maybe babbles something about opening her up and shoving her full of cock, well, it doesn’t seem to bother her.
Forever, Right Now
By the time they’re done celebrating, it’s late and they’re tired. When Grey reaches for her keys, Bob mumbles, “Forget it,” and she falls asleep in his arms, forgetting her morning alarm until it goes off before dawn.
Bob burbles indignantly but doesn’t move. Grey reaches to turn off the clock radio.
“Hell time’s it?” Bob mumbles into the pillow.
“Four. I run.” She disentangles herself to reach for her clothes.
Bob keeps his face in the pillow. “You’re crazy.”
Grey pats him and heads out, leaving coffee as an apology.
She’s had the same routine for years: wake, stretch, run, shower, shave, breakfast. There’s comfort in the rhythm of her steps and pulse, the way her body wakes up and cooperates with itself, despite the wear and tear. It wipes the cobwebs from her mind and muscles. Depending on the time of year, she gets to see the sun rise.
She’s been too injured to run before, so expects the sluggish resistance. New is the pull in her hips and thighs, the lingering languor. It feels good.
She should feel guilty, but she doesn’t. For once, she doesn’t care about her job; she doesn’t have to. She knew what she was getting into, she made her choice, and now her body sings. Between breaths, she hums snatches of old songs. This won’t last, but it doesn’t have to. Right now, there’s the crisp pre-dawn air, the gravel under her shoes, and the memory of Bob’s arm over her.
When she returns home, pleasantly winded and sweaty, she finds Bob finishing off the coffee, dressed, shaved, and reading the paper. Not awake yet, but getting there.
“Morning,” he says without looking up. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
“Thank you.” Grey kisses his cheek, which she’s done before, but Bob jolts and watches her go. Grey’s barely in the bathroom for a second before he follows her in with a gleam in his eye and slides his hands around her hips.
“You look good,” he says.
Grey looks down at her knee brace, the gym shorts, the old Barbarian Barbara T-shirt. There’s nothing special about any of it. She gives Bob an inquiring look, but he’s kissing the hickeys he left on her shoulder and purring, “You smell fantastic.” Some parts of him must wake up faster than others.
“Shower,” Grey reminds, tapping out on his shoulder. Bob sighs but lets her slide out of his arms and shoo him out. “Read the paper for me?” She likes his voice like this, soft and rough from waking up.
She leaves the bathroom door cracked so she can hear Bob read off articles while she showers, shaves, and dresses. When she comes out knotting her tie, Bob twines it through his fingers.
“You look good like this too.” He tugs her down by the tie and buries his face in her neck. “Smelled better before you showered, though.”
“Work.” But Grey doesn’t tap out.
“I don’t need as much warm-up as you do.” Bob’s wrapped her tie around his hand to hold her in place, and his voice is velvet. “We can still make it.”
He hasn’t tightened his grip yet, and there’s a question in his eyes. Grey swallows and squeezes yes.
“Good.” Bob fumbles behind Grey for a towel, rolls it, and tosses it on the floor for cushioning. “Drop.”
Grey kneels and reaches for Bob’s belt, but Bob stops her, holds her chin and tilts it up for a second to smile down at her.
“What?” Grey asks, and he lets go.
“Nothing. You’re pretty on your knees.” He nods. “Go ahead.”
Grey sucks him off on the bathroom floor, and Bob pets her hair and talks through it in a voice that roughens and breaks the further along he gets. He gives plenty of warning before coming, but Grey just squeezes yes and takes it.
She’s about to stand when Bob puts a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t swallow yet.” His hand moves to her mouth. “Open.”
Grey does and Bob slides his thumb in to open her mouth further and pet her tongue. He smiles at what he sees, makes a pleased, possessive sound, and heat surges through her.
Bob must see it; he chuckles and pulls out so she can swallow, grabbing a washcloth to clean them up with. “Come on. If we hurry, we can still make it in time.” He wipes her face, glances down at her groin, and gives her that wicked smile. “If you’re good, I’ll have you for lunch.”
She knows Bob is teasing (even he isn’t that reckless), but she can’t help imagining it—him shoving her into a shower stall in the locker room, cranking up the water to cover the noise, dropping to his knees. Bob smirks at her expression, pats her cheek, and strides out the door.
They make it in time, Bob acts professional and restrained all shift, and the sound of his voice makes her crazy. For once, she doesn’t agonize about the new coworkers, the new policies; she’s distracted. She’s on the Comm floor the moment Darlene shouts, “First shift, clock out! I don’t care where you go, long as it ain’t here,” even though the other comboys eye her uneasily.
Bob smiles innocently as he adjusts his laptop bag. “No overtime, boss?”
Grey can’t grab Bob and drag him to the car. She has to keep her hands to herself until they arrive at her apartment and she can drag him to the bedroom instead. He cackles when she does it.
Bob stays the night again, sitting up in bed to play some indecipherable game on his laptop. Grey falls asleep with an arm over his belly, watching the letters and punctuation symbols do battle, and his clattering keyboard follows her into dreams. When she wakes up a split second before four, he’s sprawled against her side, arm tucked around her like he’s always been there. When the alarm goes off, he groans and buries his face in her neck; his stubble scrapes her skin. “You’re crazy, but I’ll give you today.”
Grey squeezes Bob’s hand, gets up, and goes to put the coffee on.
This time, she comes back to bed before showering. Bob approves.
Shaved
With one thing and another, Bob starts staying the night at Grey’s place more often. It’s easier, especially since Jenny knows and doesn’t require excuses. (Though she does seem horrified at the idea that Grey is a sexual being and not a killer government robot.)
Bob hasn’t had to share a bathroom in a while, but they build a morning routine. Grey gets up, puts on the coffee, and leaves the paper for him. Once the Liquid of Life rouses him, he drags into the bathroom and showers and shaves because once Grey returns, she’s in it til they leave. Sometimes he reads the paper to her but always through the bathroom door, and he has to brush his teeth over the kitchen sink. It works until he gets a bad breakfast burrito one morning and bursts in while Grey’s showering, apologizing profusely.
There’s no hiding the amount of shaving cream everywhere. Grey mostly shows concern for Bob’s health (he’s fine, once the burrito’s out of him), but she also seems shamefaced, like he caught her at something.
They rush on to work and can’t talk about it. Even if they weren’t courting disaster, Bob doesn’t know what to say to her, because he’s not sure what she’s ashamed of. If she’s not happy with her body, why remind her? If she doesn’t like him seeing her, how to reassure her?
Then he gets an idea. He packs a bag, stays the night, and come Saturday, forces himself up early to chug his coffee. When Grey comes back from her run, flushed and smelling delicious, Bob is alert and holding a straight razor.
“I could do that for you, if you want.”
Her eyes are wide, but she says, “Okay.”
The shaving kit was a well-meaning gift from an old coworker—tasteful, butch, and hilariously kinky. It’d taken all his self-control to say with a straight face, “Thanks Marv, I’ll treasure it always,” before forgetting it in a closet. Bob can use a straight razor (Bapu insisted he learn, that disposable razors were a racket), but he’s never wanted to wave a lethal weapon around before coffee. Well, not for fun, not until now.
With kink, his mind slows down and everything drops away. A daily chore like shaving becomes ceremonial, meditative… and hot. Usually, they fuck with Grey still dressed. He’s seen her naked before, during her recovery, but never for long. This time, though, she holds still, lets him build up a rich, creamy lather with the badger brush, soap her up, and razor her clean. Arms, chest, legs, it’s a lot of skin.
He knows the story of her body better now. As he guides the razor over her arms, he knows that the scars on her forearms are from her hire, the craters in her shoulder from an old firefight, as are the bullet scars in her bicep. As he works down her torso, he knows the weld job is from an event she only calls “the accident.” When he sits on the edge of the bathtub and braces her foot on his knee so as to get the best angle for her legs, he sees her battered knees, gotten the quotidian way: hit by a car while jogging.
She doesn’t talk about the burn scars on her shins at all.
When he feels Grey’s eyes on him, he looks up to find that worshipful look on her face again. Bob’s got enough of an ego to like the stroking. He smiles at her, and she turns pink and averts her eyes, which just ices the cake. Half the department is scared of her, but he makes her blush like a schoolgirl.
So when he finishes her legs, he tosses the towel over his shoulder and asks, “Want me to go higher?”
That, he can tell, Grey doesn’t shave, at least not regularly, but Bob can’t resist the look on her face. She swallows, opens her thighs to the razor, and this, this is what he’s kinky for, that perfect moment when she bends for him because she wants to, wants him to. Because he’s just that good.
Bob kisses her hip by the weld job scar, and she sucks in her breath.
“Twenty?” he asks.
“Sensitive.”
“Oh? In a good way?”
She nods.
He grins. “Good.” He goes back to work.
He likes the idea of her going to work with all this under her uniform. Part of him wants someone to notice. To want, though nobody in the PIN will ever admit that old Specialist Ironass is hot as hell.
Too late boys, he thinks. She’s mine now.
Then he catches himself, shoves that thought (and its possessiveness) away. Stop it; down, boy. Don’t ruin a good thing. Leave it in the scene.
But when he finishes and she runs her hands over herself, feeling the difference with a wondering expression, Bob has to busy himself with putting things away. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, and seeing this beautiful girl covered in signs of him—hickeys fading on her neck, skin razored smooth… seeing her like it…
“Thank you,” she says.
Bob isn’t sure why she’s thanking him, but he also never wants her to stop, so he says, “You’re welcome,” and kisses her hip again.
She squirms, and for a moment, he thinks she’s going to pull away, but then her hands come down on his shoulders. Her eyes are questioning.
“Please?” she asks.
Bob has never been able to resist a sub with good manners.
Fooling around with Grey while she was injured was a bad idea, so they agree to stop until she recovers. Bob stays at her place, playing helper, cooking her real food, filling her spice rack. Since the pressure’s off, they play a lot of sexual twenty questions and spend an evening on the sofa just touching, learning each other’s bodies and playing Hot and Cold, tapping out when it gets too hot. It’s been a while since Bob’s had a slow burn going. It’s nice. It makes returning to work (and all its paranoia) bearable.
When Grey’s well enough to come back, they get VD tests—taking care to do it outside work. When the results come back, Bob asks for a ride home.
He means hers, and Grey, smart girl, realizes it. They tumble into bed, necking furiously as they try to undress each other. Grey manages to pull Bob’s shirt off before he pushes her jacket down off her shoulders, and shoves her backwards so he can pin her wrists to the mattress and straddle her.
Something’s different, but Bob’s way too horny to figure out what until Grey taps pause against his hand.
“Wait,” she says.
Bob makes a sound of protest but stops. “What? What’s wrong?”
Nothing looks wrong. Grey’s panting, pink in the cheeks, seems to like being held down even though there’s no question who’s stronger. Bob can feel her hips moving under his, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
“Need to take care of something.”
“Now?” Bob complains. “Right now?”
Grey hesitates.
“I can be fast,” Bob swears, sensing weakness. He’s trying to hold still, but it’s hard with Grey rubbing up on him like this. “Whatever it is, I can be fast.”
Grey’s expression is a mix of want and uncertainty and something else, but she squeezes for yes. Bob makes a sound of relief and divine gratitude, kisses her, and gets her belt and slacks open.
Everything’s tucked in.
Bob looks up. Grey’s tense, nervous, but holds his eyes.
Long drawn-out processing is where sex goes to die, so Bob asks the only thing that matters and is any of his business: “it feel better if you stay like that?”
She nods. Bob smiles and shoves a thigh between her legs; she gasps and goes boneless under him, and that’s how they fuck, with Grey pinned to the bed and still mostly dressed. It turns out that she loves riding Bob’s thigh like this—maybe it’s a deep pressure sensation thing—and it’s not something Bob himself would want, but he sees no reason to complain, especially not for the thrill he gets from messing Grey up in uniform, covering her in hickeys, and making her come wet and messy in her neatly-pressed slacks, all the while staring up at him in awed adoration.
That last part should be a concern. Bob’s made it clear to her that this is just a day-by-day thing, friends blowing off steam, nothing more. But it hits his buttons when she smiles at him, says, “Thank you,” and then throws him off like he’s nothing. She shoves him down and sucks him off like their lives depend on it, and Bob doesn’t think about how quickly he gets off, or how hard. It’s hot; who cares why? He’s never been one to let his brain get in the way of good sex.
And if he maybe babbles something about opening her up and shoving her full of cock, well, it doesn’t seem to bother her.
Forever, Right Now
By the time they’re done celebrating, it’s late and they’re tired. When Grey reaches for her keys, Bob mumbles, “Forget it,” and she falls asleep in his arms, forgetting her morning alarm until it goes off before dawn.
Bob burbles indignantly but doesn’t move. Grey reaches to turn off the clock radio.
“Hell time’s it?” Bob mumbles into the pillow.
“Four. I run.” She disentangles herself to reach for her clothes.
Bob keeps his face in the pillow. “You’re crazy.”
Grey pats him and heads out, leaving coffee as an apology.
She’s had the same routine for years: wake, stretch, run, shower, shave, breakfast. There’s comfort in the rhythm of her steps and pulse, the way her body wakes up and cooperates with itself, despite the wear and tear. It wipes the cobwebs from her mind and muscles. Depending on the time of year, she gets to see the sun rise.
She’s been too injured to run before, so expects the sluggish resistance. New is the pull in her hips and thighs, the lingering languor. It feels good.
She should feel guilty, but she doesn’t. For once, she doesn’t care about her job; she doesn’t have to. She knew what she was getting into, she made her choice, and now her body sings. Between breaths, she hums snatches of old songs. This won’t last, but it doesn’t have to. Right now, there’s the crisp pre-dawn air, the gravel under her shoes, and the memory of Bob’s arm over her.
When she returns home, pleasantly winded and sweaty, she finds Bob finishing off the coffee, dressed, shaved, and reading the paper. Not awake yet, but getting there.
“Morning,” he says without looking up. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
“Thank you.” Grey kisses his cheek, which she’s done before, but Bob jolts and watches her go. Grey’s barely in the bathroom for a second before he follows her in with a gleam in his eye and slides his hands around her hips.
“You look good,” he says.
Grey looks down at her knee brace, the gym shorts, the old Barbarian Barbara T-shirt. There’s nothing special about any of it. She gives Bob an inquiring look, but he’s kissing the hickeys he left on her shoulder and purring, “You smell fantastic.” Some parts of him must wake up faster than others.
“Shower,” Grey reminds, tapping out on his shoulder. Bob sighs but lets her slide out of his arms and shoo him out. “Read the paper for me?” She likes his voice like this, soft and rough from waking up.
She leaves the bathroom door cracked so she can hear Bob read off articles while she showers, shaves, and dresses. When she comes out knotting her tie, Bob twines it through his fingers.
“You look good like this too.” He tugs her down by the tie and buries his face in her neck. “Smelled better before you showered, though.”
“Work.” But Grey doesn’t tap out.
“I don’t need as much warm-up as you do.” Bob’s wrapped her tie around his hand to hold her in place, and his voice is velvet. “We can still make it.”
He hasn’t tightened his grip yet, and there’s a question in his eyes. Grey swallows and squeezes yes.
“Good.” Bob fumbles behind Grey for a towel, rolls it, and tosses it on the floor for cushioning. “Drop.”
Grey kneels and reaches for Bob’s belt, but Bob stops her, holds her chin and tilts it up for a second to smile down at her.
“What?” Grey asks, and he lets go.
“Nothing. You’re pretty on your knees.” He nods. “Go ahead.”
Grey sucks him off on the bathroom floor, and Bob pets her hair and talks through it in a voice that roughens and breaks the further along he gets. He gives plenty of warning before coming, but Grey just squeezes yes and takes it.
She’s about to stand when Bob puts a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t swallow yet.” His hand moves to her mouth. “Open.”
Grey does and Bob slides his thumb in to open her mouth further and pet her tongue. He smiles at what he sees, makes a pleased, possessive sound, and heat surges through her.
Bob must see it; he chuckles and pulls out so she can swallow, grabbing a washcloth to clean them up with. “Come on. If we hurry, we can still make it in time.” He wipes her face, glances down at her groin, and gives her that wicked smile. “If you’re good, I’ll have you for lunch.”
She knows Bob is teasing (even he isn’t that reckless), but she can’t help imagining it—him shoving her into a shower stall in the locker room, cranking up the water to cover the noise, dropping to his knees. Bob smirks at her expression, pats her cheek, and strides out the door.
They make it in time, Bob acts professional and restrained all shift, and the sound of his voice makes her crazy. For once, she doesn’t agonize about the new coworkers, the new policies; she’s distracted. She’s on the Comm floor the moment Darlene shouts, “First shift, clock out! I don’t care where you go, long as it ain’t here,” even though the other comboys eye her uneasily.
Bob smiles innocently as he adjusts his laptop bag. “No overtime, boss?”
Grey can’t grab Bob and drag him to the car. She has to keep her hands to herself until they arrive at her apartment and she can drag him to the bedroom instead. He cackles when she does it.
Bob stays the night again, sitting up in bed to play some indecipherable game on his laptop. Grey falls asleep with an arm over his belly, watching the letters and punctuation symbols do battle, and his clattering keyboard follows her into dreams. When she wakes up a split second before four, he’s sprawled against her side, arm tucked around her like he’s always been there. When the alarm goes off, he groans and buries his face in her neck; his stubble scrapes her skin. “You’re crazy, but I’ll give you today.”
Grey squeezes Bob’s hand, gets up, and goes to put the coffee on.
This time, she comes back to bed before showering. Bob approves.
Shaved
With one thing and another, Bob starts staying the night at Grey’s place more often. It’s easier, especially since Jenny knows and doesn’t require excuses. (Though she does seem horrified at the idea that Grey is a sexual being and not a killer government robot.)
Bob hasn’t had to share a bathroom in a while, but they build a morning routine. Grey gets up, puts on the coffee, and leaves the paper for him. Once the Liquid of Life rouses him, he drags into the bathroom and showers and shaves because once Grey returns, she’s in it til they leave. Sometimes he reads the paper to her but always through the bathroom door, and he has to brush his teeth over the kitchen sink. It works until he gets a bad breakfast burrito one morning and bursts in while Grey’s showering, apologizing profusely.
There’s no hiding the amount of shaving cream everywhere. Grey mostly shows concern for Bob’s health (he’s fine, once the burrito’s out of him), but she also seems shamefaced, like he caught her at something.
They rush on to work and can’t talk about it. Even if they weren’t courting disaster, Bob doesn’t know what to say to her, because he’s not sure what she’s ashamed of. If she’s not happy with her body, why remind her? If she doesn’t like him seeing her, how to reassure her?
Then he gets an idea. He packs a bag, stays the night, and come Saturday, forces himself up early to chug his coffee. When Grey comes back from her run, flushed and smelling delicious, Bob is alert and holding a straight razor.
“I could do that for you, if you want.”
Her eyes are wide, but she says, “Okay.”
The shaving kit was a well-meaning gift from an old coworker—tasteful, butch, and hilariously kinky. It’d taken all his self-control to say with a straight face, “Thanks Marv, I’ll treasure it always,” before forgetting it in a closet. Bob can use a straight razor (Bapu insisted he learn, that disposable razors were a racket), but he’s never wanted to wave a lethal weapon around before coffee. Well, not for fun, not until now.
With kink, his mind slows down and everything drops away. A daily chore like shaving becomes ceremonial, meditative… and hot. Usually, they fuck with Grey still dressed. He’s seen her naked before, during her recovery, but never for long. This time, though, she holds still, lets him build up a rich, creamy lather with the badger brush, soap her up, and razor her clean. Arms, chest, legs, it’s a lot of skin.
He knows the story of her body better now. As he guides the razor over her arms, he knows that the scars on her forearms are from her hire, the craters in her shoulder from an old firefight, as are the bullet scars in her bicep. As he works down her torso, he knows the weld job is from an event she only calls “the accident.” When he sits on the edge of the bathtub and braces her foot on his knee so as to get the best angle for her legs, he sees her battered knees, gotten the quotidian way: hit by a car while jogging.
She doesn’t talk about the burn scars on her shins at all.
When he feels Grey’s eyes on him, he looks up to find that worshipful look on her face again. Bob’s got enough of an ego to like the stroking. He smiles at her, and she turns pink and averts her eyes, which just ices the cake. Half the department is scared of her, but he makes her blush like a schoolgirl.
So when he finishes her legs, he tosses the towel over his shoulder and asks, “Want me to go higher?”
That, he can tell, Grey doesn’t shave, at least not regularly, but Bob can’t resist the look on her face. She swallows, opens her thighs to the razor, and this, this is what he’s kinky for, that perfect moment when she bends for him because she wants to, wants him to. Because he’s just that good.
Bob kisses her hip by the weld job scar, and she sucks in her breath.
“Twenty?” he asks.
“Sensitive.”
“Oh? In a good way?”
She nods.
He grins. “Good.” He goes back to work.
He likes the idea of her going to work with all this under her uniform. Part of him wants someone to notice. To want, though nobody in the PIN will ever admit that old Specialist Ironass is hot as hell.
Too late boys, he thinks. She’s mine now.
Then he catches himself, shoves that thought (and its possessiveness) away. Stop it; down, boy. Don’t ruin a good thing. Leave it in the scene.
But when he finishes and she runs her hands over herself, feeling the difference with a wondering expression, Bob has to busy himself with putting things away. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, and seeing this beautiful girl covered in signs of him—hickeys fading on her neck, skin razored smooth… seeing her like it…
“Thank you,” she says.
Bob isn’t sure why she’s thanking him, but he also never wants her to stop, so he says, “You’re welcome,” and kisses her hip again.
She squirms, and for a moment, he thinks she’s going to pull away, but then her hands come down on his shoulders. Her eyes are questioning.
“Please?” she asks.
Bob has never been able to resist a sub with good manners.
