Work Text:
This party fucking sucks.
You’re overdressed, embarrassed, still fighting off the chill from an unexpected motorcycle ride. Claire had told you she would pick you up. She just forgot to mention it would be on her bike. She had also forgotten to mention that this work party was super casual.
Claire had laughed when you opened the door to greet her, quickly assuring you that you looked great before you had the chance to crawl into your skin and die -- it just wasn't that sort of party. You must have looked like some sort of kicked puppy, because she’d laid the compliments on thick. Deflated, you'd offered to change, but there just wasn't enough time, and it would look bad if she was late – a whole slew of excuses. Heels and all, you had clambered onto Claire's bike.
You’d felt like an idiot, click-clacking after her in your heels and your pretty dress, being introduced to Claire’s friends and coworkers rapid-fire. You can't keep names and faces straight, but they look right past you and focus on Claire. Can't say you blame them for that.
It's a casual party, all right. Way, way casual. You look at odds holding your red solo cup in your pretty dress and your once shiny (now scuffed) heels, like a period actor with a cell phone. You don't know any of these people, and they're all clamoring for Claire's attention. You’d figured out pretty quickly that it was going to be difficult to pull her away from the center of things and resign yourself to the drink table. If she was your ride, you were at least going to take the chance to get hammered and forget that you looked like a dolled up tart.
Despite all the rancid ‘don’t talk to me, I’m drowning my sorrows and this is not a group activity’ vibes you keep putting off, a mousy woman who seems equally intent on getting plastered has taken up the spot next to you, going two drinks to your one. You miss her name in the deluge of information that she rattles off, but catch her job description. Office manager - seems about right. It doesn't take long for her to drift into gossip.
Most of it is banal. Your eyes search for Claire in the crowd and find her leaned against a bar top, talking to an unfamiliar face. They're all unfamiliar, sure, but Claire hadn't introduced you to this one. They lay a hand on Claire's arm, let it slide down slow - hold her for a moment. Your eyes narrow.
"What's up with that?" You gesture towards your girlfriend with your beer, bitterness soaking your words. Either your companion is too steeped in alcohol to pick it up, or she's savoring this drama herself.
"Oh - yeah, they used to have a thing. Like, way before they started working together, so it's all like, ethically above board, and --"
The woman keeps talking even though you're not hearing a goddamn word anymore. You nod along politely, tight smile pulling your face taut. Your eyes never leave Claire and who you now know to be her ex. Ex what, you don’t know. Maybe it was serious, maybe it wasn't. Doesn’t matter. They're an ex something. Currently, though, very close. Too close. Brushing Claire’s hair from her face - yeah, actually, you know what, fuck this.
Fuck this so hard. You’d walk home.
You chunk your drink into the trash and teeter away unsteadily for the bathroom. You’re too wrapped up in your own misery to have seen Claire push her ex’s hand away, or to see her look your way - you hear her raise her voice, but shut it out quickly behind the flimsy bathroom door before you can parse her words.
Stupid fucking party. Stupid fucking girlfriend and her magnetic presence, and her pretty smile that draws everyone in. You splash cold water in your face, trying to come to your senses. Barely two beers in and you’re acting like an idiot.
You don’t hear her slip in the door. She doesn’t knock - why would she. Claire drapes herself over your back, her arms slipping around your waist loosely. You jump, knock your head against her chin and leave her swearing, muttering Jesus, hun, it’s just me, before she melts into a chuckle. Her hand rubs at your head, soothes you instead of herself.
“You okay?” She asks, as if she doesn’t already know the answer.
“Yeah.”
Claire’s generous. She gives you a whole, agonizingly slow five seconds to retract that before she calls you on it.
“Okay. Because you kinda stormed off.”
She’s not just generous, you realize, she’s cautious. Like she knows you’re spring-loaded and ready to snap. That only makes you grit your teeth.
“Yeah, well, I’m just kind of over this.”
“The party? We just got here–”
“And you’re already getting real comfortable,” you snap, spinning in her arms to face her. It’s hard to miss the accusation, even if it’s not outright. Claire’s mouth thins into a hard line.
You can see her working through it all. The uncharitable part of you thinks she’s coming up with some excuse, some way to worm her way out of this. She takes a slow, deep breath.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, look, if this is about her– we work together, hun. I can’t just avoid her.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to get close.”
“I’m not, babe, I’m –”
Claire stops herself. A hand leaves your waist to pinch at the bridge of her nose. Another deep, steadying breath. You turn away from her again, back to face the sink. The silence chokes you, makes angry tears spring to your eyes.
Her hand slides up your thigh, following the curve of your body up towards the apex of your thigh. You push at her wrist. She’s trying to switch tactics, and you’re having none of it.
“Claire–”
“Let me apologize. Okay? I’m sorry for dragging you to this party. I’m sorry I sprung all this on you. And I’m very sorry for not warning you about my ex.”
Your jaw clenches. You shouldn't let her do this. Being with her is like training a dog - consistency is key. She’ll take the inch and the mile then come back asking for more. You’ve already embarrassed yourself at this party. If you get caught like this, your life is so over.
But Claire litters kisses against your skin, whispers please so sweetly in your ear. Her fingers slip beneath your top, graze against your belly in a way that makes your stomach flip and your nipples tighten.
“I want a proper apology and a proper talk,” you say. Your hands grip the counter tightly. You watch her in the mirror, see her face fall and her eyes darken. She sighs against your neck, her shoulders sagging against you. “After you're done.”
It’s like you flipped a light switch. Claire’s smile brightens immediately, ignites a hungry spark in her eyes. She drops a kiss against your shoulder, drags her nose along the curve of your neck. Her hair falls against your neck. The bright, summery scent of her perfume envelops you and coaxes you back against her, her hands roving leisurely against your side, your stomach, your hips. She never needed much of an invitation to explore you.
Your eyes are locked on the mirror, watching the door for any sign of movement. The pleasure building in the pit of your stomach barely outweighs the prickle of anxiety that blankets your skin.
Her lips press against your neck. She's well-behaved until your head lolls to the side, your anxiety smoothed into a pleasant tingle by her kisses
“Relax,” Claire whispers, voice cloying. On her best behavior.
Your brow furrows. You have half a mind to pull away, tell her this is a stupid idea, that she’ll get in so much trouble if someone walks in. Her thumb brushes over your clit through your panties. You whine In the back of your throat, a pathetic, needy sound that makes Claire press a laugh into your hair. She shushes you, almost sounds gleeful about it - bet she’s real proud of herself for that one.
Fuck. Now you're mad at yourself.
“Hurry up,” you mumble. She’d make this last the rest of the party if you let her. Keep you trapped away in this bathroom til you’re sore and chafed.
Claire laughs. Low and soft, right next to your ear. Her thumb rolls over your clit again and again. It's hard to tell which is making you drip more. Her hand finally slips beneath the fabric to touch you for real, long fingers parting your lips.She stays just shy of where you want her, fingers spreading to rub the sides of your clit at the last possible moment, taunting you with the promise of direct contact, of the pad of her finger rolling against you again and again.
“I could do this for hours.” She purrs. Her teeth nip at your neck. She sucks a mark onto your skin, her tongue laving over the spot again and again to seal it in, make sure it takes. She finally gives you what you want. Your hips jut against her hand, chasing more touch, more feeling.
“They’re gonna see,” you whine, wiggling in her grip. You just know she’s get the blood flush to the top, a mark that will take a week to fade.
“Good.”
Heat soaks through you. She presses a finger into your needy hole, crowding you over the sink and bending you to the angle she needs, the angle she knows is best for ripping orgasm after orgasm out of you. You keen, poor little thing, and she joins another finger to your core, grinding the meat of her palm against your clit, and drumming a harsh pace. It’s so easy to move you where she wants you. You’re so malleable beneath her hands, the deceptive strength that guides you where you need to be, where she wants you. Rocking against her rhythm is pointless. You fall out of step quickly, unable to do more than try to keep your knees from buckling while her fingers drill into your cunt.
Her other hand slides up your body, squeezing handfuls of your tummy along the way. It's far from worshipful. The way she grips you, tugs you back into her with each pull - it's obsessive.
Her palm flattens to slip into the valley between your breasts. She spreads her fingers tantalizingly slow. She paws at your breast, feather-light and teasing for all of five seconds before she gives in and squeezes. Patience has never been her virtue.
“Did you get jealous, baby?” she coos, taunting. Her fingers hit against you just right, no gentle massaging, no torturous pull of pleasure - just the electric feeling lighting through your veins and the sloppy noise you can hardly believe is coming from your own body.
“Mmhmm,” you whine, your eyes squeezing shut tightly. Claire squeezes your other tit, rougher than the first and Jesus Christ, when you manage to open your eyes for two seconds and catch your reflection in the mirror you realize you’re drooling, a quickly cooling trail down your chin.
“I'm three knuckles deep in your pussy and you’re still thinking about my ex?” Her fingers curl the moment you open your mouth, massaging that spot that sets a bomb off in your core, floods your limbs with mind-numbing sensation. You rock back into her, toes curling, thighs caving inwards and trapping her arm in a plush prison.
You snap in her hands, hot, wet rush soaking Claire’s fingers and the rug tangled up between your feet. Claire slips her tongue into your mouth and drinks down every noise you make, her kiss bruising and her fingers still drilling into your cunt, her eyes locked onto the mirror, savoring every reaction she rips from you.
You have to push at her wrist again to get her to withdraw. She’d keep doing this if you let her, you know she would. It’s her turn to whine and pout. She winds her hand up over your shoulder just to suck her fingers clean.
“Unbelievable,” you breathe out. The noises she’s making are obscene, slurping your taste off of her digits in a way that makes your stomach flip all over again, clit throbbing for more attention.
“Right?” she agrees, cheeky little grin making her look younger. “That was like record speed for me. I could have taken way longer. Really drawn it out.”
You snort. The look you level her with must be pretty damn serious, because she doesn’t keep rambling.
You can’t stop staring at the dark, wet patch you’ve left on the bathmat. Your brow furrows. Claire follows your eyes, trying to see what the matter is. She points to herself. You shake your head. She looks behind her, shrugs, can’t quite figure out what the matter is.
“Made a mess,” you mumble, embarrassment lacing your tone. You nudge at the edge of the mat with your toe. “They’re gonna know.”
Claire rolls her eyes. She flips the sink on, cups water in her hands, and slings it onto the same bathmat you had just squirted all over.
“There,” she says, more exasperated than accomplished. “See? Totally normal. It’s a bathroom. Things get wet in bathrooms. Like you.”
But it’s hard to be enamored with the way she looks on her knees for you when you can’t stop staring at the dark, wet patch you’ve left on the bathmat. Your brow furrows. Claire follows your eyes, trying to see what the matter is. She points to herself. You shake your head. She looks behind her, shrugs, can’t quite figure out what the matter is.
She sets her hands on your hips, turning you to face her. Claire guides your panties up your legs, sets them back in place for you. You smile, affection blooming in your chest. Such a lady, after everything.
Or maybe you’ve spoken too soon, because she makes a point to kiss your clit through your panties before she pulls your dress back down.