A/N: For RagdollPrincess, and for myself to be honest. It is Amrod/Auggie centered. If you can't stand to see Wren with anyone but Thorin, ignore this one! We felt our brown-eyed hunk needs to get the girl at least once.
"Are You Gonna Be My Girl" by Jet
Your hand lies in his large palm, his long fingers envelop it, and his other hand is on your waist. The first step backwards, and his body is close. You feel the heat emanating from it, and you sigh… His chocolate eyes are warm and inviting, and you smile to him…
You stride into a lift, posture and the set of your head confident and proud. Three pairs of male eyes are on you, and you turn facing the closing doors. The conversation between them stopped, you can feel their eyes on you. Let's face it, you make yourself randy in this suit. Extra narrow pencil skirt, asymmetrical collar on the jacket, impeccable creamy colour, your copper curl in a strict do, smart specs, who wouldn't want to score this? The killer heels are exceptionally good today, their red soils a Siren's call.
The door opens and another bloke comes in. He is so tall that you are staring at his skinny tie. You lift your eyes and realize he is the reason you are in this hotel. You smile to him, "Mister Anderson, I am Wren Leary." His dark brown eyes fall on you, and he gives you a surprisingly genuine smile. "Miss Leary, pleasure," he shakes your hand.
The meeting is held on the last storey of the building, and you travel up. You are calm and collected, quickly appraising him, obviously without him noticing. My oh my, he is magnificent! The shoulder and waist ratio is mental, a perfect triangle. Extra long legs, and the size of shoes gives all sorts of thoughts. The saying is an obvious boggus, but a girl can hope. Impeccable white button-up, a funny Grandpa cardigan over it, narrow trousers, and, Lord Almighty, these buttocks will be visiting you in your dreams very frequently now.
He slightly turns to you and look at you askew. "How are finding New york, Miss Leary?" "Like a very dusty London." He smiles wider. "Not a big fan of it myself, Miss Leary. Grew up at the South." You push the fantasy involving him in a cowboy hat at the back of your mind. You do not exorcise it though, just store it for later. "But what business demands, business gets."
He owns an immensely successful IT company, which allows him wear such clothes to a business meetings and attracts the vultures such as your firm to try to lure him into a merger. He is resisting, and your boss decided it is time to try a new approach. That would be you. You are a highly professional merger lawyer, and yet you find yourself suddenly daydreaming of a client. Not good. Also, never happened before. You are very good in compartmentalizing. But the fresh nutty smell of his skin is surprisingly distracting.
The doors open, and you walk out. There is a rotating restaurant under the roof of this building, and you clench your jaws. You are not a big fan of heights. He glances at you, and you two approach the table. There are five more lawyers at the table, and everybody shakes hands. The seat they left for you is facing the window and is nauseatingly close to the glass. You take a careful breath in. A waiter comes to move a chair for you, but the client doesn't sit down.
"Can we actually get another table? I hate heights." He gives a natural apologetic smile, and everyone starts shuffling and moving their chairs. You are moved to the wall, and you breath out. Everyone starts taking their places anew, and you catch his eyes. Suddenly he winks to you and smiles. Bloody hell, he did it for you!
The brunch is predictably fruitless. Except you get to enjoy excellent jamon and their Cornish crab baby leaf salad. He is drinking beer, and the way his throat moves spurs your imagination in a very, very naughty direction. But again, you do not shag your clients. Ever. Completely unacceptable. His long fingers fiddle with a stem from a cherry, while one of your colleagues is droning at the background. These are sexy hands, slender strong wrists, muscular forearms. If he happens to know what to do with these fingers, it can be an exceptionally good trip to New York. Bad, bad, Wren, get this thought out of your mind!
The brunch ends, and he gets up first. Everyone starts noisily moving. He stretches his hand to you, "Miss Leary, pleasure to meet you, pity I couldn't give you what you wanted." You smile. "Gentlemen," he bids his goodbyes and leaves. There is half an hour of enraged rapport after that, which you tolerate stoically. It was a lost case from the start. He has too much integrity and too little concern for money to agree to their offer.
Your boss insists on another meeting. This time it is a different posh restaurant, just the two of you, this time the brunch is al fresco, and the day is warmer. He is wearing a button-up with a waistcoat, and the sleeves are rolled up. You get to enjoy the view of his muscular chest and biceps, and you think your vibrator will have to work really hard tonight.
Since this is your last meeting and obviously there isn't much you can do to influence his decision, and also nothing can bugger up your reputation either, you opt for a teal wrap dress. Maybe you just want to catch couple of his looks at your arse. Just an innocent game before you catch your plane back home. You can't touch but you can just busk in how warm his laughing eyes are.
It starts with a Dachshund sticking its nose into your Birkin. You honestly don't understand what it's looking for in there. There is no food in it, hardly any organic material at all, but it is persistently hunting it. You are spinning trying to save the leather from its muzzle, and the leash wraps around you. The owner is one of those old ladies that look very nice but will bite your head off when miffed. You are trying to politely extricate yourself out of it, but it is to no avail. He rushes to help you, and you two are pretty much grinding in the middle of the posh patio. The lady is loudly expressing her contempt, while he is trying to catch the dog, and you are still trying to save your handbag.
And suddenly he starts laughing, and it is hearty, open mouthed laughter, his deep chocolate eyes hide behind thick dark lashes and his white teeth are gleaming. It is so sincere and cheerful that you join in. "Have you see 101 Dalmatians?" He is panting from laughter. You chuckle and finally extricate yourself out of the trap. And then your heel catches on the cursed leash, and you fall into his arms.
You lift your face to him and see him smiling to you tenderly. You do not shag your clients, you do not shag your clients… Oh sod it all! You slide your hands on his chest and slightly dig your nail in the orgasmicly hard muscles there. He is looking down at you. "My place or yours?" Your voice is raspy, and you are only partially acting. He hikes up his brows but then bends down and presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is all wrong. It is passionate, affectionate, that is not a kiss to precede a one off thing. His hands cup your face, he is tender and experienced. A man like that will not only shag you but also will pull your soul out. And then you will have to pick yourself up from the bottom of despair and live somehow without him. Red alert! Red alert! Full retreat! You step back and tuck a runaway curl behind your ear.
"Sorry, that was inappropriate. Not something I should be asking a client," you emphasize the last word, "I withdraw the question." He smirks, "I am not your client. As of five minutes ago when I firmly refused the proposal from your firm. So we can absolutely freely have dinner tonight?"
You are being stupid. You are barmy, you feel like a muppet. What are you doing, Wren? What an actual bloody hell? He is in your hotel room, and you are kissing in front of the fire. You had a lovely dinner, and now you are botching up everything. You are in full scale panic attack internally. His fingers slide into your hair, his skillful lips move on yours, his tall mouthwatering body towering over you, and you are literally weak in your knees.
Alrighty, Wrennie, this is what we are going to do. We are going to indulge a bit more and then we are going to fake a headache and toss him out of our room. Because for the first time in your life it is not just your fanny demanding this sweet piece of arse. Every cell in your body is trembling, muscles ache, and your knickers are drenched. He is funny, charming, smart, candid, has lovely parents and you have a return ticket to London for tomorrow.
His hands slide on your shoulder and a strap of your dress falls off from one of them. He presses his lips to the muscle between your neck and shoulder, and you drop your head back. You feel his tongue swirl on your skin, and you grab handfuls of his hair. His fingers pick up the zipper on your dress, and you hear a quiet "zzzz". And then the pulps of his fingers brush down your spine. Boy, he knows what he is doing.
Somehow that makes you feel worse, not better. Should you not be glad? You wanted a great shag, and you got it. A nice small adventure on a business trip. You push him away and inhale. "I can't..." What the fuck Wren?! That has never happened before. "I am sorry, I..." Say you have headache, say it Wren! "I have an early flight tomorrow..." It is at six, but who cares?
His face is confused, but then he nods. "Sure, no worries," he turns away and picks up his jacket from the floor where it fell five minutes ago. He makes a few steps to the door, but then he stops and turns around, "If you don't mind me asking, what is stopping you?" He is earnest, confusion written all over his face. Words are your weapon, but for once you don't feel like you are at war. "I just don't want a one night stand with you. I mean, you are marvelous, August Anderson," he hikes up his brows in the already familiar gesture, "I don't want to miss you when I leave."
He is pondering it, "Then don't leave." You chuckle and turn away from him. "Sure, I'll give it a thought." You pick up a glass of water from the table but he is not getting any of that. He comes back to you and is looming over you. "I am serious. Stay in New York, I'm sure they are dying to have you here." You smile over the rim of your glass. "I have a life in London, Mister Anderson." "And what does it consist of?" He pulls the glass out of your hands, and his dark eyes are focused on you. It is an electrifying experience. You suddenly remember that besides a computer genius he is also a ruthless businessman. "An apartment, you can get one here, no pets obviously, I doubt there is even a plant in there. Family and friends?" You shake your head. He is intoxicating. "I thought so. Lover? Boyfriend?" You shake your head again. He throws the jacket aside again and pulls you in. "Stay with me, Wren, and maybe New York will be a little bit more tolerable for both of us."
You just can't believe it! Does he really think he would be enough?.. He catches your mouth, and you think he might be onto something. The long fingers slide in the open back of your dress and he pushes it off you. Without taking his lips off you, he divests you of it, picks you up and carries you to bedroom bridal style. You are complacent, you are gathering information. He is putting you down and stretched on the bed near you. And then proceeds to caress every inch of your skin. He is tender, passionate and playful. He kisses, licks, nips, and even draws some patterns on it with the tips of his sensitive fingers. The tip of his long nose tickles your stomach, and you giggle.
And then you sharply push him and roll over him. He chuckles. You straddle him and straighten up your shoulders. "You are a bit of a wolf, aren't you? A manwhore is the word you habitually use in these lands, I believe." He is giving you a radiant smile and then gasps in fake horror. "Oh no! Don't tell me you are virgin!" You laugh. His tie flies off, and the shirt follows.
He is beautiful. Even bronze skin, perfect long lean muscles, and that is the most gorgeous chest you have even seen in your life. There is a tattoo between his shoulder blades, as you soon find out. You two are rolling on the bed, the fight for dominance getting increasingly more obvious. At some point you flip him over and have a peek. It is a large bull's skull, as far as you can understand. One of those things they put on the front of a truck in cowboy films. You trace it with your fingers. "I was eighteen, and all my brothers got one." You press your lips to the warm skin.
Then you press your cheek to his back, and your hands slide on the buckle of the belt. You shake him out of his trousers and pants, and oh my! He is not exceptionally thick, but the length! You are a small bird, that will take some getting used to. Which is jolly good news!
He presses you into the sheets. "Gender equality," he is murmuring into your skin and pulls off your knickers. And then he dips his tongue into you, his large hands caressing your breasts. You shift your hips guiding him to the favourite spot. He is rubbing your nipples with his thumbs through the lace of the bra. And then the palms swiftly cup your buttocks, and he lifts your pelvis. You open up more, and he is very, very thorough. There is an interesting pattern in his ministrations, lick, lick, twirl, lick, lick, dip, twirl, dip… And then he suddenly covers your whole sex with his mouth and sucks. Your hips jump up. Unpredictability is the mother of thrill.
One long finger slides in you, and he rubs the back wall of your entrance. That elicits the first moan out of you, and you press down into his hand. He is deliciously attuned to your reactions, and he is sucking on your clit, gently massaging the wall between your vagina and arse, and you come with a scream. That was fast, most men require instructions!
He carefully pulls the finger out, but doesn't move. He is still spread between your legs, and you peek on the chestnut mop of curls. He is tenderly kissing the sensitive skin on your thigh, and swirls his tongue on the hollow between your sex and the hip. You giggle, it tickles.
You sigh and grab his ears. The orgasm is still buzzing between your legs. "Shall we proceed?" He smirks, "No, I want another go." "What?" He presses his thumb into your clit, and you squeak. He is gentle but determined. His tongue dips into you, and you are moaning loudly. His hands are on your hips, and circular movements of his thumbs add an interesting dimension into the experience. You are panting, but with the second one you need just a bit more stimulation. You open your mouth to say so, when he tilts his head and pulls your lips into his mouth. You feel his teeth gently nipping, and you come the second time. It takes much longer to come down from this one.
He wipes his face with his palm, and you beckon his with your finger. You are so in love with his brilliant white toothed smile. He stretches near you on the bed, and you turn and press your lips to his. It is unhurried and passionate, and you feel like an icecream in sunlight. All sweet and liquid. He tries to roll over you, but you press a foot into the sheets and resist. You want on top, he is obviously not having any of it.
His hands slide on your waist, and he flips you on your stomach. That works too. He is kissing your back and gives you a long lick between your shoulder blades. The mouth moves lower, he kisses your right buttock, and then you hear him chuckle. "I was fifteen, and I thought Jonny Greenwood was fit." "At least you are not into Thom Yorke. But I can see you have a type." You are laughing, and then his hot length presses into your buttocks.
"Protection?" He hums and takes your hand. He puts it on his cock, and you feel the ridge of a condom on it. How in the name of all deities? And when?! He is laughing and out of sheer vengeance, and because this low throaty rumble does some magical things to you, you pick up your pelvis and swiftly push yourself onto him. He chokes and groans.
"Damn it, Wren, you are so hot..." The accent is stronger, the Southern drawl more obvious, and it is so bloody sexy. He is supporting himself on straight arms, and experimentally rolls his hips. You push back, he pins you down. And then he start moving slowly, accentuated deep thrusts, and you are bending backwards, trying to get him deeper. One of his hands lies on your hip and squeezes it. "You just can't pass the reigns, can you?" He is raspy.
You push back and give him your best impersonation of a stretching cat. Your arms are straight in from of your on the sheets, nails clawing the pillow. "God, you are sexy..." He pushes more roughly, and you purr. And then you get up on all four and shove your pelvis back. "Well, since you just can't calm down…" He straightens up, kneeling behind you, and plunges his cock into you. Oh yes, that's the spot!
You two set a nice rhythm, and you are whining. It is fucking brilliant! Everything about it is perfect, he is perfect. Sweet, hot thrill is running through your veins and nerves, every cell in you is singing, and you bend your back more. One of his hand slides on your back, and you can feel the scorching palm and splayed fingers on your tingling skin. "God, I am so not letting you go..." Your eyes are closed, and you gasp, "I am not going anywhere..."
He is speeding up, and soon you can feel he is close. 'Come, Wren, I need you to come..." You are half-conscious by now, your head spinning, but you somehow manage to moan, "I can't, not like this..." He suddenly bends down, his arms on your sides, hands on yours, and you feel his lips on the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Tell me how…" "I need to be on top, that's the only way..."
"I bet, I can do better..." He pulls out of you, and you gasp. His large hands lie on you, and he pushes you on the bed on your back. He spreads your legs and thrusts into you. You arch your back and moan. Orgasm or not, he feels exceptionally good inside you. He is supporting himself on his elbows, his forearms under your shoulders, and his warmth, his smell, his body are all around you. You are intertwined, and you feel enveloped in him. He catches your mouth and starts moving.
It feels so fucking good, but you feel a bit bad for him. Many tried, no one succeeded. If they add some stimulation of the clit, it just feels annoying. If you try yourself, you are distracted. He is not moving his hands though, they are still on the sides of your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones and temples. He is kissing you, and you decide to just go with it. You start reciprocating, your lips and tongue answering him, and strangely enough you feel some pressure building in your lower stomach. And then it hits you! You gasp and twist your mouth from under him. "Oh my god, oh my fucking god, oh my god..."
It is big, hot, like a tsunami, like a forest fire, like a… You are making loud panting and moaning noises at the same time, you also might be chanting his name… That's what everyone is talking about! That is a fucking bliss and rapture! You don't even have any energy left to grind into him, everything is white and hot, the world has faded, and all you can perceive is the perfect orgasm roaming through your body.
You open your eyes and look at him. He looks exceptionally smug but you don't fucking care. You press your lips to his, you are so fucking in love with him right now! He is kissing you, and you smile into his lips. He lifts a brow. "Care to aim for another one?" You feel his thumb moving towards your clit, and you bite his lip. "Leave my fanny alone, she is unconscious!" He laughs. And then your wrap your legs around his narrow hips tighter and push your pelvis up. "Come for me, Auggie… Come for me, baby," you are murmuring, and he starts moving.
You are so sensitive that you can't help but cry out with each of his thrusts. He is obviously gentle, but soon his control is slipping and he lift his upper body over you. His eyes are shut, and he looks so beautiful! At the very last moment the chocolate eyes fly open, and he looks at you. There is a new smile on his lips, you haven't seen this one yet, and then he throatily moan and comes. His head drops down, he presses his forehead to yours, and his hips roll into you several more times. You can actually feel his cum hitting the condom inside, and his cock is jerking in you. You are rubbing his shoulders and kiss his temple. You feel him press his lips to your neck, and he is murmuring something. It is something beautiful and sincere, and you understand with all possible clarity in the world that you are so not taking that plane tomorrow.
You move to the rhythm. "I love this song..." He smiles. "That is why we chose it. Isn't it the whole point?" You roll your eyes. "I mean I am loving it right now. Koko knows what she is doing!" He chuckles. "Though the lyrics are not very fitting don't you think? I'm a-mixed up about you?" "But you are mixed up about me, aren't you Mister Anderson?" "Well, yes I am, Missus Anderson," he drawls with an exaggerated accent, and pushes you away on his stretched arm and then swirls you. Your body is light and bubbling with the familiar thrill he gives you, and then you are pulled back into him. He dips you backwards, and the wedding guests cheer. You are laughing into his happy eyes and shimmy your shoulders. "Oh I am so having you for dessert tonight, Mister Anderson!" He straightens up and catches your mouth. The music goes on but you two don't care. His hands slide on the lace on your back, and you shiver. "And any other day too, please, Missus Anderson."