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They're right outside the door and they don't know
How it feels so good, it feels so good
I never was very good
I haven't been so good
. . .
He started texting you the second you took your seats. Technically, he's been texting you all day, all last night at the hotel, the entire plane ride to London… You're still mad at him so you've barely been answering and it's just seemed to make him more determined.
The fight started with him pissed at you. Pissed that you wanted him to go along with, in his words, "that PR bullshit" and not interact with him at all the night of the promo interviews. You figured you could get through an hour or two in front of the cameras without each other to avoid the drama then you'd make it up to him in private.
Then he opened his big mouth and tried to claim you both apologized equally and suddenly you weren't feeling very sorry for him. So when he skips out early you don't follow him. And when he doesn't call you the next morning to wish you a happy "anniversary of us" you follow his lead and stay radio silent, too. By premiere night you're both too fucking stubborn to give in so when Peter asks you to fly to London for Federer's last match you quickly say yes.
Nothing makes him tip his hand faster than a little recreational jealousy.
You expected the texts, the calls, the bulldoggish way he tries to force you to respond to him more and more the longer you ignore him. What you didn't expect, was him actually catching a plane and crashing your trip.
It's late when the message comes through, one you fully intended to read and then continue to ignore, Peter asleep beside you in the hotel bed. But three little numbers have you rushing out into the hallway to call him instead. 911.
A strong arm wraps around your waist from behind as soon as the door shuts behind you, a hand over your mouth just in case you were to scream. You know it's him the second he touches you though, the electricity of his skin against yours unmistakable.
“Hey baby, miss me?”
It's a rumbling breath against your ear, meant to turn you on but you're still too pissed off for it to work. You bite at his fingers hard enough to get him to let go, spinning around with righteous fury.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?!”
It's too loud for the middle of the night in a hotel hallway with your unaware husband asleep on the other side of the wall and he knows it, grabbing your arm and pulling you down the corridor to the fire exit. He's pulled you into the stairwell and behind a closed door before you can protest.
“What the hell are you doing, Mariska.”
You hate him sometimes (you don't). He's huge in this confined space, his bulk boxing you in, brow furrowed to match yours in stubborn frustration. It should piss you off even more but goddamn him it's turning you on instead. He catches it the second the blush creeps up your neck, angry eyes softening as they fall to his lips.
“Not so mad anymore, huh baby?”
You want to slap the smirk off his face. You kiss him instead. It's a frantic thing, full of teeth and clawing hands, your back pressed up against the wall and his big thigh between yours. He's so hard already and God you've missed him.
“I'm still mad.”
If you've got his fly down and his cock in your hand as you say it, that doesn't make it any less true.
“Uh huh. Me too.”
You've almost forgotten what you're both mad about when his tongue slides into you mouth and his hand slides into your pajamas. Something about PR and apologies and oh fuck that's good.
This is stupid. You're in a public stairwell and anyone could come through that door and what if there are security cameras and fuck it you need him inside you right goddamn now.
“Stop teasing me, asshole.”
He laughs and kisses you again and it should piss you off even more but he's so hard in your hand and he smells so good and it's been too fucking long.
“C'mon, I don't want Peter to wake up and start looking for me.”
You know the effect saying that name will have, you're both already ticked off and impatient, so adding fuel to the fire seems like a great idea. His growl against your mouth is the only warning you have before he's stripping your pajama bottoms off entirely and hiking your leg up, pushing into you roughly.
“Still thinking about him or did I finally get your attention?”
He's arrogant and possessive and with the way he's stretching you open he has every right to be. His forearm is under your thigh, hitching it up even higher, pulling you onto your toes as he fucks into you at a brutal pace. The slap of skin on skin is filthy as it echoes off the concrete, your teeth digging into your bottom lip to stop from screaming. You're going to come already, damn him.
“Oh I don't think so, sweetheart.”
He's pulling out of you and slapping your bare ass just as you were about to tip over, the bastard. Before you can call him that and more though his tongue is back in your mouth and you're hungrily returning the kiss, trying to climb him in order to get him back inside you.
“Chris, please, we don't have time.”
He's shoving you away from him with an irritated huff and a roll of his eyes. That was apparently the wrong thing to say.
“There's never enough fucking time, Mariska.”
There's hurt in his eyes and in his voice but he's still distractingly hard and your mouth waters with the easier choice. You're on your knees in seconds, hands splayed in supplication and if he pushes you away this time you probably deserve it.
“Let me.”
There's a flash of shadow across his face that makes you think he's going to turn around and walk out that door and not look back. But the want wins, his, yours, the universal constant that proves you can't be alone together without fucking like rabbits.
His hands are in your hair and your mouth is open and it's so easy to swallow him instead of every reason why you shouldn't. He's still angry, his grip a little too rough, his thrusts a little too forceful. And what does it say about you that you're drenched because of it? You moan around him and he knows.
“You're so fucking sick, aren't you? What's getting you off? That I'm hurting you? That you're hurting me? Or that you're hurting him?”
You don't know and that may be worse. He's not expecting an answer though, both hands tangled in your hair like reins, keeping a punishing pace. You can feel his balls already tightening and you think you can come just like this, half naked in a hotel stairwell while he face fucks you and tells you what a bitch you are.
You're just about to come, both of you, you can fucking taste it, when he pulls you off of him harshly, palm on your forehead to hold you back as he strokes himself inches from you, finally releasing thick ropes over your cheeks and lips and chin. He tucks himself back in while you watch, on your knees on the cement floor, his fluids painting your flushed face.
“What would he say if he saw you right now? Should I go get him?”
Your cheeks flush again but this time it's shame instead of need. You know he can tell the difference. You think he likes them both equally on you. You hate him (love him) a little more.
“I'm sorry.”
You didn't intend to apologize but when you opened your mouth again those were the only words you had waiting there. You're not sure what you're even apologizing for. You think you might cry. He might like that.
“I really don't think you are, Mariska.”
He leaves you there on the landing, unraveled and unfulfilled, face full of him. You don't know how to fix this.