Chest heaving, you finished the duet deep in his personal space, feeling the heat of exertion radiating from his skin, unable to look at anything but his brown eyes, the curve of his nose, his parted lips-

And he grabbed you by the hair and shoved his pretty lips against yours, wormed his tongue into your mouth, and you backed him up against the wall, teeth clacking as he slipped one hand up your shirt and the other under your thigh. He kissed you roughly, on your lips, jaw, neck, throat, fingered at the hemline of the skirt you'd almost decided not to wear before saying "oh, to hell with it;" you registered (vaguely) the awkward shuffle of the cello guys hurriedly exiting but after that you couldn't hear anything but his heavy breathing in your ear, you couldn't feel anything but his fingers groping at your thigh and creeping up your stomach, the press of his lips on the juncture of your jaw and neck, just - there - the faint (desperate) twitch of his hips, you couldn't see anything but his wide brown eyes when he pulled away and just looked at you.

You'd never been looked at like that before, had you?

Which is why you tipped your head, put on your bitchface, and said,

"You're not my type."

He'd smirked, then, hadn't he, and said,

"I'll take that as a challenge."

He spun you around then, flung you against the wall and ground his hips into yours, digging his fingers into your ass, breathing hotly into your ear while you hooked one an ankle around his waist and rolled your hips just so. You grabbed him by the collar, yanking his mouth away from your jaw so you could suck a dark bruise into his neck, whispered "You couldn't get me off if you wanted to," relished the breathy whimper that followed. "Just try," you said, hiking your other leg around his middle and forcing him to bear all your weight but he just pressed his body harder onto yours, trembling a little with the effort as you started gently grinding into the curve of his deliciously hard cock.

"You c-couldn't get me off if you tried," he said, and you heard how he tripped over it, how he had already started falling apart and all you had to do was kick over the pieces and you'd walk out the undisputed HBIC. So you smirked into his skin as you grabbed at handfuls of his hair, tipping his head back for better access to his throat. You were both gasping for air, panting into the stillness of the empty room and as you braced your hand on his shoulder you could feel that it was damp with sweat.

He surprised you then, didn't he?

You felt his fingers, searching more nimbly than you expected, unraveling you faster than you wanted, jerking you off less roughly than you liked. But you couldn't disguise your breathy little whimpers, the way you pressed back too eagerly onto his hand, or the way your legs began to tremble with the starry sparks of pleasure that rocked through your core at every stroke.

"Is that what you like?" he breathed into your neck, wrist moving jerkily in time with each thrust of his hips that ground you into the wall behind you. "Getting fucked into the wall? This is nothing, sweetheart, and you're practically begging for more." His breath was shaky, loud, and shallow, and his whole body quivered as he shifted his feet.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were enjoying yourself, Floozy Funbags," you somehow managed to snark, "I guess that whole 'gay' thing is either a cover or you actually spent some time in the closet learning to play the banjo." He growled but didn't say anything, and you fucked his fingers with abandon, yanking at his hair and blazer as you felt yourself drifting up, and up, and up, every point of yourself drawing into the coiling warmth in your gut, tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and tighter, until-

He drew in a sharp breath, hips stilling as he stiffened against you, whole body trembling but he shoved two fingers in deep, probing, and the sudden stretch ignited white under your skin and you screamed out as the coiling pleasure broke and ripped through you like a punch to the gut.

You both slumped to the floor, dizzy and loose-limbed, still breathing heavily. Without the moaning and groaning, the room seemed much quieter.

As soon as you felt your legs had recovered from your post-orgasmic haze you stood, disciplining your hair into something less thoroughly-fucked, and found your hat laying abandoned under one of the chairs. You turned around and pointedly smirked at the blatant dark patch on the front of his slacks.

"I was better," you said. He actually laughed.

"Not even close."