Disclaimer: I do not own anything Marvel or Iron Man.

Warning: Contains smut.

Dresses.

You hate dresses. They aren't your thing and never have been. But the party called for them, and your friend called for you for the party, and long story short...here you are. Sipping on a drink at the bar, twirling the stirring straw in it to make the ice rattle as you watch her.

She's flirting with a decorated man across the room. He's military. If you had to guess...honestly, you couldn't. Doesn't look like Navy. Maybe Air Force? Army? Whatever, you've never been one for a man in uniform, but Jess...Jess prayed on them. You know that, because you've had to kick several of them out of your shared shower at the apartment you both rented in the canyon.

She touches his shoulder and you roll your eyes, setting down the glass on the bar once you've sucked it dry. It doesn't take long to get a refill, and then you're downing that just as fast; anything to get through this disaster.

She had drug you to this party in hopes of bagging Tony Stark, the billionaire,philanthropist, Iron Man, whatever...but so far, all she's done is flirt with this guy. And you have no interest in parties, so being abandoned like this has made you want to do nothing more than steal a few drinks and leave that cocky bastard Stark with a tab, not that it would hurt his bank account at all...

And that's when you see her point in your direction and the man next to her nods, their gazes following over to you. Jess waves a small wave, wiggling her eyebrows, and then you turn, asking for a third and letting your body sink down on your elbows on the smooth wooden counter top. The good thing? The bar tender knows better than to scold you for drinking so many so quickly; must be a perk of attending a party at Stark mansion...everyone is drunk and the drink count never matters.

And right before the third drink is set down in front of you, you nearly fall out of your seat at the sound of a voice in your ear.

"Let me guess, basic screwdriver? Sex on the beach?" it purrs, and you whip your head that direction, eyes landing on the man at fault.

He takes the seat next to you, but doesn't fully settle himself on it; no, he leans with one leg and an arm against the bar, motioning toward the bartender to fix the problem of his empty glass, and you turn your lip up, looking away from him and taking a sip of your drink.

"Jack Rose," you correct. "And you?"

"Whiskey, neat," he smirks, and tilts his head, analyzing you with those dark chocolate eyes you've come to hate from the photos. "So what's a pretty girl like you doing here alone?"

"Save it, Stark," you shoot back, not wanting any part of it.

To be honest, you have no idea where your hatred for this man comes from. But it's there, and you have no interest in him...or so you keep telling yourself. Maybe it's all the stories of him womanizing people you know, or maybe it's just that you have to look at his God damned face on every magazine, no matter where you go. ...His gorgeous God damned face...

"Ooh, fiesty. I like it," he retorts, and it only fuels your annoyance. "You know me?"

So you down the glass in one swift movement and motion toward it, earning a smirk from the bar tender as his eyes flash between you and Tony.

"Everyone knows you," you mumble. "Hard not to."

"Well that's funny, because I don't know you, but I want to," he muses, and you groan, grabbing the newly filled drink and standing.

"Guess you're shit outta luck then, aren't you?" you say with confidence, but your step says otherwise.

He grabs your arm to balance you as you trip on your own two feet, and you instantly flinch at the touch, pulling your arm from his reach.

"Careful there," he warns. "Too many too fast?"

"I'm fine," you protest, but you know he didn't miss it.

The tattoo on your wrist, the one that's small enough to hide, if you wanted to for professional reasons, but you don't.

"Wouldn't take you for one with an interest in ink," he observes, eyes back on yours.

"You don't even know me," you point out, your emotions getting the best of you now that you're pushing past tipsy.

"And now we've come full circle," he hum. "So you can either tell me about yourself, or I can guess and have Jarvis look it up later on."

"Jarvis?" you ask, puzzled as your head starts to spin and he smirks again, that sly fuck.

"Guessing it is," he grins. "So, what, sad girl, alone and jealous of your friend over there flirting with my buddy? Let's see, only child, daddy issues, probably pretty kinky in bed. Am I right?"

"That was extremely sexualized."

And it does disgust you, but he's not wrong. About...most of it. You're not jealous of Jess. But you were an only child. Your dad left and your mom doesn't talk with you much now, and...well, the bed manners are something he'll never find out.

"Am I right?" he repeats, slower, and his eyes burn with fire when you look at them.

"No," you refuse, then down the last of that final drink and set the empty glass down.

And that's when you decide Jess can find her own way home, and you grab your phone and make for the door...or try to, but instead, you run straight into someone at your side, leaving Tony Stark laughing his ass off at you as you're soaked with their drink.

"I'm so sorry..." you mumble and shake the water from your hands, noting your dress is a lost cause...why would you wear beige?!

The woman scowls at you for a moment, then notices Tony and becomes quite pleasant, shooting him a seductive look and grazing his shoulder with her hand as she walks past, but he doesn't notice. Instead, he's snaking his arm around your waist and guiding you away from the bar, toward a set of stairs, and you immediately start to panic at the closeness.

"Mr Stark, I told you before I'm not interested," you fight, but he he takes his time looking you over as he helps you up the stairs, his side pressed against yours.

It provides warmth, and now that you're wet, your drunk self welcomes it, not wanting to freeze.

"Please," he corrects, "Tony is fine. And don't get your hopes up, sweetheart. Just helping you to the bathroom to clean up. Got a couple bots that should be able to clean that stain right out if we cant get it."

"While I'm still wearing it?!" you gasp, and he opens the door to a big, spacious room with a mattress far larger than a king.

"Or while it's off," he smirks.

"This is a bedroom, not a bathroom," you scowl, and he simply points to a door across the way.

"Personal bathroom, sweetheart. Unless you wanna wait in line downstairs."

Grumbling, you accept it and stomp into the bathroom, but his voice carries through the door frame as he waits, pacing.

"J, tell me more about..."

"(Y/N)," you tell him finally, the alcohol taking over.

You watch through the mirrors as you dap at the spot that got stained. Tony smirks and shrugs his jacket off; it falls to a pile on the couch toward the side of the space, and then he's loosening his tie, and you shift, uncomfortable. Not because he's annoying the hell out of you, but because you're seeing things through the theoretical beer goggles right now and good Lord, is he an attractive man. His slicked back hair, the way his bottoms hug his ass...

"You're staring," he comments, and you blink ferociously, looking anywhere but him.

"Miss (L/N) has a bachelor's degree in accounting. Graduated from Columbia, currently lives with one roommate in an apartment complex in Burbank. Only child to (mom's name), father since imprisoned in Los Angeles County Jail. Hazel eyes, (hair color), blood type-"

"That's enough, J," Tony interrupts, and the voice goes silent. "Funny, I think I hit the nail on the head."

You clench the counter top, staring at the ground as he wanders over to you, unbuttoning the buttons on his sleeves, and you can hear his footsteps getting closer. They echo on the marble floors, but you keep your head down, making sure not to make eye contact. He isn't wrong, and you're well aware of that.

But then his shoes are visible in your line of sight, and that forces you to look up as he settles himself into your personal space, grabbing a towel and wetting it down before gesturing to your dress.

"May I?"

You glare at him and stand tall, making sure he knows he hasn't won...yet. "If you insist."

"I do," he smirks back, eyes burning fire into yours, and suddenly the cool feeling of the damp cloth against the light material is shocking you.

You bite your lip, looking down at where his hand is pressed against your rib cage...his very large, rough hand. The hand of a mechanic, of someone who actually did manual labor and wasn't just the pretty boy face of a multi million dollar company.

And then when you look back up, you have no room to react; his lips press against yours in a strong kiss, and you squeak in shock, stepping back in your heals and parting from him. It's a surprise to you that you've stayed standing, but thank the Lord you're still sensible when you're drunk, or you'd hate Jess for leaving you alone with Stark. But as you stare at him, mouth parted and brow pressed together, he lifts his hands in apologies. Yet you can't stay mad at him. It's like that scratch of his goatee sanded away any rough edges you had, and now your annoyance has brought your walls crashing down and that's when you decide to make a spontaneous decision to have some fun for one night, stepping back up to him and declaring him yours with another kiss.

You can feel him smirk when you toss yourself back at him, and he doesn't waste any time dropping the towel on the counter and snaking one arm around your waist. He pulls you to him, instantly parting your lips to slip his tongue into your mouth, and his free hand finds the back of your hand, his hands tangling in your hair as he roughly presses his body against yours.

And somehow, you forget your hatred of him for the time being and shift to make him back up, as if he needed direction. And then you're falling over him onto the large bed back in the main room, your hair falling freely over your shoulders when he pulls a pin out of the bun by accident. Your hips swivel against his and you hear him groan and it's more of a turn on that you expected.

The click of your heels echos as the shoes hit the floors, but you don't hear it. You're too focused on unbuttoning that dress shirt of his...too needy for human touch right now than making sure those expensive leather numbers you wasted your last paycheck on make it through the night alive. Tony doesn't object; he's pulling at the zipper on your back and once that now wet garment is slipping off, he grabs for the clasp on your bra, grinding his hips into yours.

So, this is what it's like to mess around with Tony Stark, huh? Who knew he was a bottom?

Funny thing is you think too soon; when he works his magic there, he's grabbing your waist and using his legs to flip you over, his body now pinning you to the mattress. He's focused on you neck when he parts from your mouth, and you instantly miss the feel of his tongue tangled with yours, his taste...

Thankfully, the feeling of his warm lips nipping at your neck and tracing down to your chest is enough to distract you...until he pinches at one breast and takes the other in his mouth, his tongue flicking back and forth and making your lower stomach tighten with anticipation. He's skilled and he knows it, and he's using it to his advantage. You can't help but arch your back, and gasp out as your eyes close and your hands subconsciously go for his waist, just wanting to feel him.

He takes the hint, knowing you don't care about foreplay tonight, and he pushes off of you for just a moment to drop his pants and grab protection from the night stand, and then he's climbing back over you, sliding your underwear off in one quick motion.

"I still hate you, you know," you comment, but he's grunting in acknowledgment as he captures your mouth with his again and he spreads your legs, settling in.

"Yeah, we'll talk about it later," he mumbles against you, and you know damn well you won't.

But that's okay, because you lose all focus when he pushes into you, giving you the slightest of seconds to adjust to him, and then he's pushing himself away from your kiss and using his arms to elevate you as he focuses on the space between you, watching as he thrusts back and forth.

"Fuck," you whisper, and grip the sheets in your hands at the sides of your body, and that gets him going.

"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough and lustful and you moan in response, unable to form words as he dives deeper and harder with each passing second. "You like getting fucked?"

God, how you wish you could answer, but you're too lost with his movements, with his scent, with the pressure of him on top of you. So, you grab for him and pull him down instead, and he goes for your neck, sucking and nibbling on a spot that makes you shiver as he drives you. Your legs lift, wrapping around his waist, and that gives him better access, making him groan into your skin.

He's rough. Not disrespectful, not mean, just rough. And it's okay, because you like it. The way he decides what direction you're moving in, the control as he goes hard and fast and there's nothing you can do about it. Because when you finally arch your back against and give into that familiar bliss and he grunts into your shoulder before collapsing into a heap over your body, you realize he's right.

Only child, daddy issues, probably pretty kinky in bed.