The book about archaic power plants became a lot more interesting.
That is, until it was knocked aside rather violently by a blur of black-clad fingers. Fantastic. You could feel your irritation growing; just breathe, you told yourself, count to ten or something. Whatever thoughts you had about soothing the tweaking irritant in the back of your head were quickly squashed as that same intruding hand pushed apart the ones you had raised in an expression of why to situate the rest of the jerk's body right on your now-empty lap.
"Really, Hal?"
It was clear you were annoyed; the look you gave him was nothing short of bothered, and not in the way you were certain he was aiming for. No, you were, essentially, more than done with his pestering for the day– hell, the week– by the time he opened his mouth and started talking. You were hoping it wouldn't get any worse, but there he was, mocking you.
"Yes, really. You've been on the same page for twenty minutes, all because you aren't interested in paying attention to me. I've been watching you do nothing for hours. I'm certain you can afford a break. Really, you don't get a choice."
Before you could formulate a response, he was smashing your lips together. Your hands fumbled, but found his hair, trying to yank him off– you weren't in the mood for this, not right now, probably not until you both had sorted through some deep-set problems. He allows you to pull him off; your face is a barely-controlled tempest, ears and cheeks a stormy red, but once again, he cuts off your fuming by lurching forwards.
You could feel him grinning a cheshire grin and knew immediately that he thought this was just a fun game to him– the very implications of which were nothing less than entertaining to his mind. The concept ticked you off further; you tried to speak out against his mouth, but shortly found his tongue invading your boundaries and the feeling of it swirling around yours made you freeze and suck in a breath through your nose.
You were not enjoying this, definitely, without a doubt, not enjoying this, but fucking hell did the feeling plague you with a sort of kindled desire for more. Your hands were still threaded deep in his synthetic, white strands, but you weren't pulling half as hard anymore, eyes shutting as you relinquished some of your fight. He seems to take this gleefully, conquering the new territory their spat had gained him, tongue roaming your mouth with little hesitation.
His hands are moving, too; you almost smack them away when they peek under your shirt, but he's overwhelming your lips and for once, you're shit at focusing in on the boundaries you normally so aggressively defend. You feel his thumbs against your nipples and you lift reflexively, the softest of noises passing through your liplock, and suddenly he's pulling away and you're opening your eyes with confusion and he's sweeping himself off your lap, out of your hands, turning away from you with an impish grin cast over his shoulder,
"Break's over."br /span/pre