Spoilers/Timeline: None/Set in the future
A/N: Pulled myself away from amazing comment!fic post at Donna-Harvey on LJ (seriously, it's amazing, go read!) to tackle this because I get ideas from the most random places.
Disclaimer: Suits doesn't belong to me. Title found in Lady Antebellum's Our Kind of Love.
Groaning, he tosses his shirt on the floor and steps into the shower. It's been a crazy day and all he wants to do is open the bottle of wine he's been saving for the signing of the Myrlet contract, listen to her gloat about how she owned his ass by bringing him the revised conditions before he even asked for them.
But no, they have to attend the firm's casino night.
Proceeds benefit the local Big Brother Big Sisters, which is commendable, but...
Well, he just wants one celebration to himself. To be able to pull her close without an entire room of people scrutinizing their every move.
(Sure, it's common knowledge now and while that's opened a lot of possibilities—she's always his date without question, they can actually leave work at the same time—it's also been a little confining.
As if they're under a microscope every time they're at an event together.)
At least she has an excuse to wear the new shoes she's been going on and on about for weeks.
The ones that have, until now, only seen the edge of his bed.
And fuck, as if that isn't going to make this night even more of a torture to get through.
He pushes the thought from his mind and reaches for his shampoo. His brain is still catching up to the rest of his body so it's over minute before he realizes he's squeezing the bottle and isn't getting a drop of soap in return.
He's out of shampoo.
Again.
For the third time in nine months.
His eyes focus on the shelf below his, her shampoo and conditioner perched between the multiple bottles of body wash, and he's suddenly certain.
She's been using his shampoo instead of her own.
The door to the bathroom creaks open and she slips in, humming as she adjusts the strap of her dress. She's barefoot, her hair cascading over her shoulders, deep green dress hugging her tightly.
Leaning down, she pulls her make-up bag from the shelf below the sink and wipes some steam from the mirror.
"So..." He slides the shower door open and leans out, the water still sluicing down his back. "You think it's perfectly acceptable to steal someone's shampoo. That there are no consequences whatso—"
The words die against her mouth as she turns from the sink and leans forward, pressing her lips to his. Moaning, she slides her hands over his shoulders as their tongues meet and he pulls her forward until her knee hits the side of the tub.
His fingers twist in the fabric at her waist, teeth raking over her jaw, as her hand flexes on his chest and she pulls away before he drags her completely under the spray with him.
"You have no proof."
She smiles, her eyes lighting up as she straightens her dress. There's nothing concrete but he sees it, the tilt of her jaw, the lift of her shoulders.
It's admission and challenge all at once.
Turning, she goes back to her make-up, hair falling forward as she rifles through the bag, toes curling into the bathmat. The dress dips dangerously low on her back, a large expanse of skin, her spine, begging to be traced.
Touched.
Yep, this night is going to be hell.
"...the new conditions and Myrlet's favorite brandy." She presses her lips together, sweeping on eyeshadow without bothering to look up. "Hurry up in there; we're going to be late."
Grinning, he slides the door closed and grabs the purple bottle from the shelf.
(They end up missing the entire forty-five minutes of cocktail hour.
He smells like violet, pomegranate, and her.)