*Beta'd by sendtherain

...

11. He Wants to Tempt Me in Public

It's a gala for Central City Citizen. I'm getting my Pulitzer – finally – probably. I'm in a satin, shimmering, deep violet gown that's snug and fairly low-cut on the top and flowy from the waist down with a high slit for my left leg. My heels are higher than usual. They shimmer too. And my hair is in a high knot with tendrils of hair floating down around the sides of my face and the base of my neck.

Barry Allen, husband of Citizen's founder, can't keep his eyes off me.

I smile to myself, because year after year his eyes are still hot with lust, warm with love, and playful with mischief. I have the upper ground now, but before the end of the night we'll end up in a closet somewhere making out heavily, if not doing more. I just hope it's after I receive the award that I know I'm going to get, because I will never forgive him if I walk onto that stage with sex hair.

It's five minutes before the ceremony is about to start, and Barry Allen joins me at our table where I'm nonchalantly sipping champagne.

"You look incredible," he whispers into my ear, sending a chill down my spine. It's not the first time he's said it this evening, but it still has the same effect as if it was. His hand dips halfway down my back, careful not to go into dangerous territory when everyone is getting ready for the host to appear on stage.

Smart, I think, and smirk to myself.

"You're not so bad yourself," I say in return, my eyes meeting his, full of lust and the mischief dancing in his eyes.

There are three ensembles I find myself unable to resist Barry Allen in: his Flash suit sans cowl, a tuxedo, and nothing at all. He knows it too, and he's using it to his advantage.

He takes his seat beside me, lounging appropriately with his hand on the top of my chair. No one else is at the table yet, and the surrounding tables are busy chatting about nothing. So, he meets my eyes, and I know exactly what he's doing.

"No," I say, but it only makes him smirk.

He straightens in his seat and leans towards me.

"I said no," I whisper heatedly, but my eyes are practically giggling with his persistence.

"So testy," he clicks his tongue, then places a soft kiss where jaw meets ear. I gasp. He's insatiable. I turn my head.

"One?" he queries, hopeful yet suave at the same time.

I flutter my eyelashes and succumb.

"I suppose."

He kisses me sensuously on the lips. It should feel like everyone's watching and I'm mortified to have been caught engaging in too much PDA with my husband. But it doesn't. It feels as if we're in a world all our own and nothing exists but the two of us.

I open my eyes into his warm green ones and see the lightning swirling around us out of the corner of my eye.

"Clever," I note, and he grins.

"Always."

Time resumes, and he sits back in his seat. It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep from dragging him into a closet upstairs before I'm called up on stage.

I manage it, but just barely.

"The Pulitzer goes to…Iris West-Allen!" rings in my ears 20 minutes later.

"Go," he urges with laughing eyes, and for as long as I'm on stage I'm able to stay in the moment.

But I dedicate the award, among other things, to him, and he's the one to drag me out of the room the second there's an intermission.