"Fucking hell!"
You bit back a smile as you grabbed a handful of tissues to blot the coffee soaking into his good shirt.
To the world, he was sweet, nerdy Superman. But to you? He was your foul-mouthed, nerdy husband.
It hadn’t been easy getting a spot on the crew for his press tour, but you had to. You couldn’t stand another night away from him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, spreading jam on one half of a scone and cream on the other. Then, with zero hesitation, he smashed both sides together and shoved the entire mess into his mouth.
You doubled over with laughter.
"You're never gonna stop that now, are you?"
"Fuck no," he mumbled, mouth full.
He chased the scone with a loud slurp of coffee.
You giggled harder, clutching your side. "I guess the scone sandwich is the only thing you're taking from the UK, then. Shouldn’t you have that with tea?"
"I would... but you’d have to use a bloody mug." He grinned at you — wide, boyish, sticky — and you leaned in to lick crumbs from his lips.
He flicked out his tongue in response, and when your tongues brushed, his eyes darkened instantly. You kissed the tip of his tongue, sucked on it for a beat.
Then pulled back, breath catching, eyes flicking toward the open hotel room door.
He followed your gaze.
In one smooth movement, he stood, crossed the room, and closed the door with a solid click of the lock.
You bit your lip, thighs pressing together like that could stop the ache already blooming between them.
"Shouldn’t you be getting ready for press?" you asked, voice tight — mostly because his belt buckle was already clicking open.
"Mhmm... this won’t take long."
He leaned in, sapphire eyes scanning your face like he was reading your thoughts. Before you could speak, he kissed you — deep and claiming — and when he lifted you from your seat, you barely felt the ground leave you.
Your feet touched the floor again as he spun you around, your back flush against the hard line of his chest. His hands slid under your shirt, warm palms tracing your belly before cupping your breasts over the soft cotton of your bra.
You should’ve worn lace, a useless part of your brain whispered.
He brushed his thumbs over your hardening nipples, teasing through the fabric.
"David..." you moaned, your hand reaching behind to tangle in his hair.
He slipped his fingers beneath your bra, tugging it down until your breasts spilled free. Then his lips found your neck — kissing, biting, licking — as his other hand worked open your jeans, dragging them down along with your panties.
You squirmed when he knelt to pull your jeans past your knees, resisting the urge to pull his head back to your neck.
He moved to the couch, guiding you to stand in front of him-- your ass near his face -- as he tugged your jeans to your ankles and ran his hands slowly over your hips.
“Touch your toes for me, darlin’,” he rasped.
You obeyed instantly, like his voice alone had a hold on your body.
And then — his tongue was on you.
You gasped, legs trembling as he licked your folds with slow, greedy strokes. His large hands gripped your thighs, anchoring you in place while he feasted.
And just when your knees threatened to give out, the heat of his hands disappeared.
He didn't give you a chance to guess where they went before he lifted you effortlessly onto his lap.
One hand gripped the base of his cock, the other holding both your legs up as he pushed inside you, inch by thick inch.
You threw your head back, helpless as he filled you.
He gave you a moment to adjust. Then he started to move — or rather, he moved you.
He lifted you up and down on his rod, slow at first- letting you feel every stretch, every drag. Then he picked up speed, bouncing you to match the thrusts of his hips.
You tried to stay quiet, but your cries rose with every stroke. He fucked up into you harder, faster, his mouth against your ear now, muttering filth and praise in a growl that made your spine arch.
You couldn’t control your hands. Couldn’t control your voice. You were completely at his mercy — helpless, breathless, unraveling in his grip.
Your vision blurred as another orgasm surged through you, your whole body clenching around him.
He thrust into you, groaning out a tortured-
"Fuuuuuuuuck"
-and buried himself inside you, hips twitching as he emptied himself with a shudder.
He pressed his lips to your neck, breathing hard, both of you trembling in the afterglow.
Then he bent down, peeled your jeans from your ankles, and stood with you still in his arms.
“I think we both need a fucking bath,” he muttered, carrying you to the bathroom.
You nodded, dazed, still drunk on him.
