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CHAPTER SIX

take my body. eat. / natasza stark, lovesong: a murder, part i

The muscles of her body relax under the hands that hold her still.

When he breaks the kiss, she takes erratic breaths in her denouement. She is quite the sight to see: her cheeks are flushed prettily, her lips are red and glistening, and her eyes give off a luster when she looks at him. It urges him to show her more if she so desired. He can only imagine the look he is giving her, wolfish and full of dark promise, but if she wanted him to show her, truly, all she would need to do is ask.

Roy is not without his own benefit. He would be remiss to ignore how responsive Riza Hawkeye is to his touch; how she allowed her desire soak through her underwear and the taut grip around his fingers inside her. The heat of the room rises thinking about it - coiling in the curve of his collar, sweltering down his back and rounding back to the tip his groin. It takes a great deal of self-control not to ask her lie down and spread her legs when she bears the fruit so willingly. Miraculously, he knows this is the lust talking. However, Roy is not above bringing said fingers to his mouth, watching as she stifles a whimper, with a flash of shock and, perhaps, fascination dancing across her eyes.

Riza takes a deep breath, and he admires how steadfast her expression remains; it take him by complete surprise when she asks, "Do I taste good?"

"Yes," he says lowly, amused, wiping his fingers against the side of his slacks - the movement makes the fabric pull even tighter against the obvious bulge between his legs and he catches her glancing to and from like a nun accidentally catching sight of something indecent. His hands rest at either side of her on the desk.

A tiny smirk graces lips so close he could kiss them again, and she looks up to him coyly. "Is this you breaking another habit?"

"I'd like to, with you. Seeing as you're the catalyst for all these broken habits on the floor."

She smiles, tucking a few errant strands of hair back behind her ears and pushes him back. "I have class in fifteen."

He frowns, disappointment settling guiltily in his gut. The marked essay proposal sits with bent, uneven edges on the desk and even more guilt weighs him down. He grabs it and hands it to her casually while she straightens her skirt. "The grade was never changed in the system," he confesses.

Riza stares at the paper and it's like she's remembered why she came into his office in the first place. A light pink colors her cheeks again. She takes it slowly with a nod. "Was I lured here?"

"To talk. Properly." He crosses his arms. "It was the only way I could think of asking to talk to you without someone else realising. You gave me a pretty good excuse by falling asleep, again -"

"I wasn't given any indication there was going to be any type of talk after what happened in the library, so what was I meant to think when you changed my grade?" Riza says plainly, but there's distaste in her words.

Roy clears his throat. "Clearly, the lines of communication were…"

"Nonexistent," she supplies. Her arms wrap around herself, like she's guarding herself. "You could've just asked me."

"It's not standard and suspicious to do so." He does not miss the irony in that this could be said for anything that has already happened between them.

She hums agreeably, chewing her lip like there's something left she wants to say before she leaves. The clock above the bookcase at the end of the office reads ten minutes before the hour. "Where does this leave us?"

He fights a grin and invalidates the subtle feeling of flutters when he reaches back for a sticky note and scribbles on it quickly. "I'm officially offering you the assistant position in the Chemistry department. Text or call me with your response, but not right now. Think about it properly."

Riza reads the note for a long time before she slides it into the front pocket of her bag. "Would I have been offered this if none of this had happened?"

He understands her fears because he knows it far too well and the last thing he wants her to feel is used. "Believe it or not, you were my first choice by merit. I didn't expect you to help me as much as you did in the library, but I still would have gone with my second choice if you didn't ask "where does this leave us." If you want this to continue I'm more than willing; but perhaps not in my office when I'm meant to be available to talk to other students." She forms a small smile and nods. His depraved other self laments when Roy reiterates, "Think it through."

"I'll be losing more sleep, won't I?"

"If you'd like." He smirks and she still manages to intrigue him. He moves to unlock the door, opening it wide for her. "If you don't, I understand and we won't speak of it again. If you do...well, we can start as soon as I put in the request for your transfer."

She mentions her lack of time to get to her next class, scurrying out of his office but failing to leave his thoughts for the rest of the day.

Roy waits. He is distracted and senses a tiny sliver of guilt that really only serves to excite a thrill that may happen. Perhaps, he surmises, she is smarter than this - smarter than both of us, he thinks with uncertainty. Yet, he still hopes that each buzz from his phone is a message from an unknown number.

It doesn't make it better when he sits through a faculty meeting where nothing gets done or said in the typical way bureaucracy progresses forward. Roy would rather lose himself thinking about how she looked on his desk, writhing her hips. The image of her undone, trembling, and thoroughly kissed is a far more interesting one than what is happening in front of him now, with colleagues who look to have a foot already in their graves. He rubs his neck trying to think of cold showers and the uncomfortable way they are reminded of the ethical integrity of the University. Following the theft of lab equipment by a tenured professor, it was announced that meeting that an anonymous tip line was finally opened for faculty, students, and the public.

Roy tries his best to appear attentive.

Riza Hawkeye, 2:13pm Can I ask you a question? I need advice

Riza Hawkeye, 2:13pm I'd ask Becca but she won't give me an unbiased answer

Olivier Armstrong, 2:16pm You just did

Olivier Armstrong, 2:16pm But sure. Shoot

Riza Hawkeye, 2:18pm idk if Becca ever told you about the party we went to a few weeks back but

Olivier Armstrong, 2:19pm FFS if this is about a boy

Olivier Armstrong, 2:19pm Look

Olivier Armstrong, 2:19pm I'll assume this is about some booty call or some shit

Olivier Armstrong, 2:20pm And you want me to tell you what to do because then it won't be 'all your fault' when it fucks up

Olivier Armstrong, 2:20pm No

Her phone suddenly lights up with Olivier's caller ID.

"Olivier, I-"

"Listen." Olivier's sounds bored over the tinny connection. "Either you like him or you don't. It's that simple."

"I mean, it's more than just that-"

"It's really not. Whatever beef you have, it's with him, or her, or whatever. You can deal with it like an adult, or you can sit and complain. What do you owe to yourself in this instance?"

Riza's mouth goes dry and she scrambles to find good retort. It never comes.

She arrives late in the evening. The address he's messaged her is in one of the nicer parts of East City. Better illuminated streets, a gated complex and she wonders about him even more. Riza keeps telling herself she isn't here for a fuck, because she's not. However, that voice isn't as loud as the one telling her she wants one. From him.

He answer a few seconds after she knocks and she's suddenly overcome with a feeling of timidness, of being well out of her element. For a long time, all she's had in her mind was school and work and, at times, the tragedy that was her father, but now she's in uncharted territory without means to keep herself afloat.

That's a lie. She has this new work that pays more and will looks dazzling on her resume come next spring. She's taken out of her head when he asks her if she'd like anything to drink. Before we fuck? is what she'd like to say, though he says, "Before we get started." She shamelessly feels a familiar heat coiling in between her legs and she declines his offer with as much grace as she can manage in her current state.

As he leads the way, she notices how much his apartment matches his office. Couches and end tables are placed out of necessity. Rugs and curtains all in neutral colors of indigo, beige, and white, as if he had bought the furniture and arranged it from the most basic setup straight out of a catalogue with nothing to give it the feeling that it's someone's home. This place does not feel lived-in, it does not feel like a real home.

Well, at least they had that in common.

The next room she enters is much warmer with the tones of rich wood and a fireplace to counter the frigid cold. There are numerous books decorating the walls with built-in bookcases and carpet compared to cool, dark hardwood of the other living space. A desk and behind it, a comfortable armchair with red and gold upholstery with its twin nearby in the corner. "It's a study," she says, surprised.

"Were you expecting something else?"

Her cheeks flush traitorously. "No," she says quickly. "You don't normally see these in modern apartments like this. I haven't been in one for a long time." The thought sobers her better than a bucket of ice water and she swallows that particular memory back down.

They do, in fact, actually get to work and she performs her duties diligently, forgetting all about the perverse thoughts lingering in her mind. He was true to his word when he mentioned that there were books he had that he couldn't get from the library; large tomes that would be impossible to lug around. Every once in a while, she peers over at him sneakily and she has to cast away the intrusive thought that she came all over his fingers earlier that day.

She decides to focus on the work at hand and ignore him as best she can It works well for a while; Riza curls up in the armchair in the corner and methodically works through the large books, noting down quotes and ideas with the corresponding page numbers. The reading is not the most...stimulating and all too soon she finds her eyes once more wandering to where he sits at the desk, head resting against hand as he taps his pen against his mouth. The simple action shouldn't be so engrossing to watch. Occasionally he draws the pen into his mouth properly and chews on the end of it. Riza has to look away and bite on her tongue painfully to stop herself from...well, she's quickly losing that resolve. She doesn't understand why he's become such a source of distraction for her - well, alright, she does know why - but it still doesn't excuse that all he's doing is fiddling around with a pen and oh fuck he's asking me something and I wasn't listening.

"Sorry, I blanked for a moment," she confesses, smiling in the blandest way she can muster. "What did you say?"

"I was just wondering where you were with the Curtis notes."

She quickly flicks through her notepad, before uncurling herself from the armchair and walking over to where he sits. She passes the notebook to him, feels his fingers brush against hers. It hangs between them, the singular point where Riza can feel the heat of his fingers overlap her own.

He doesn't make any indication that he's aware of what he's doing, but as the moment stretches on and he continues to watch her face and not move his hand, Riza decides that she will make the choice for them both.

She pulls the notebook firmly out of his grip and tosses it onto his desk. She takes his pen too, sliding it from his grip. He's silent, and offers no resistance, but she knows he's being coy with her, trying to salvage whatever walls he had built in a futile attempt to distinguish their rapidly crumbling boundaries. It's funny because he has been dismantling it himself, brick by brick, with every interaction he has had with her. His actions speak louder than the words that are left unspoken between them, and the silence is more than deafening.

She ignores the paper fluttering and falling behind her from his desk, one leg after the other climbing so that she can straddle him properly. A glaze go over his eyes and his pupils dilate, imperceptible if not for the soft yellow light from his desk lamp. She settles comfortably on his lap, hooking her fingers behind his neck and its gives him the go ahead to touch her heated skin along her thighs. The goosebumps are as instantaneous as the hardening to the peak of her breasts.

So she brings his lips to her with her hands entangled in his hair, tenderly and slow, as if to set a pace. But the rest of her body tell a different story: her hands running through his hair to bring him closer, nails scratching at his scalp. her hips undulating against his legs. Riza is not without control. This lust may have been burning wildly, starting from the kindling of the first day thanks to her own near-narcoleptic tendency, but she wants to savor it, feel it, enjoy it in ways she knows she hasn't been able to before. Before was rushed and hurried and always with the fear of being caught. Here, in his study, they are alone in every sense of the word and the freedom is thrilling and euphoric in equal measure.

The want is back, elevating itself as she thinks again about that afternoon, and she's breathing in deeper as the seconds go by and with each time his fingers grip her skin. Her lips swell and that slow pacing has transformed into the deep, lustful coupling incident at the library. Excitement teases her again when she remembers there are no books to interrupt, or students to hear her moan. She's delighted, gripping his shoulders, when his lips peck at the sensitive skin on her neck, like he's made note of it from before. She feels him, hard against her inner thigh. Her hands glide down his torso and gently nudges herself back to properly touch him.

He sucks in breath and feels so ready underneath his trousers. She comments on his rigid eagerness nestled in his pants and he responds only with a teasing bite to her neck; she arches her back. Without restraint, his hands slip underneath her shirt and surpassing the extremity of science, his touch is even hotter than her flushed skin and it leaves a blazing trail in its wake, seeping deep into her blood and pooling in between her legs, no doubt heated and wet again from this man's touch. His fingers slide past the underwire of her bra just as she finds his lips again. Riza mewls, tongues tangled, when his hands cup her breasts. He alternates between massaging handfuls against her chest and rolling hardened nipples with his thumb and index finger in an unhurried and agonizingly patient way as if he was biding his time. She whines when they slip back away from her, settling on her waist, and he bites her lower lip in the way that reminds Riza of the way she knows how.

She is spoiled: if it feels this good, he should continue.

Riza, the hypocrite - the one who wanted to pace them not even moments ago, can't stand for paced teases anymore. She tells herself she wants the fire to die, to turn back to sleep-deprived Riza who couldn't think beyond school and work. But it's a lie, a half-hearted attempt to deceive herself: she wants this and no amount of convincing from her part - or from anybody else - could tell her otherwise.

Pulling away, she gets on her knees before him and separates his. He's panting lightly and it's delicious how his mouth is open in anticipation, because he knows - he knows the boundary has been crossed yet again but this image of her, on her knees in between his legs, is the epitome - the fantasy - of all the moral wrongs between their academic professions.

If he hesitates, he does it for only a second. Roy unbuckles his pants, scooching closer to the edge of the cushion, and she helps him shed it, pulling them down as they pool at his ankles. He's hard with veins marking the length of him and as flushed with blood as her cheeks. He murmurs something but it's cut off when her tongue wets the underside, following the vein from the base to just before the head. Her tongue circles around the tip of his cock before she takes it in her mouth. Groaning, his fingers clutch with great force the arms of the chair. Her hips wiggle comfortably over her feet.

She bobs her head leisurely, if not uncertainly, only able to take half of him before hitting pesky gag reflexes at the back of her throat. Where she can't reach, her hand strokes and she lets go of him in intervals to lick and wet the unattended areas of him with her mouth. Fingers go through her hair and it's so clear that he wants her to go further with the subtle twitch at the end of his fingers, but he never tells her so. His groans fill the study and it goes straight into her ears down to her cunt.

She opens her eyes when she tastes the precum. She lets him go with an unexpected pop and worries that she's already made a fool of herself. But he's leaning back breathing heavily now. His hair is sweaty and even messier. As if reading her mind, he mentions the condom in his wallet. She rummages around in his messenger bag for a minute before she finds it, freeing it from the packaging and rolling it over his cock currently coated with her saliva.

Her fingers hook over her panties and brings down to dangle them off her thumb before they fall to the floor. He adjusts himself in the chair as her legs settle on either side of his.

Inelegantly, he asks, "You're going to fuck me in your skirt?"

She smiles at him, slightly gasping only as she rubs herself against him lubricating him with her own arousal. "Is that a problem, sir?" On cue, his fingernails dig into her skin. She knows. She's picked up on it. The tremble of his hand. How rigid he goes. Even now, he looks stunned, and his neck is tense; Adam's apple bobbing from her innocuous show of respect.

"Mmm." He sounds strained, throaty. "So you know about that, huh?"

Riza bites at her bottom lip, digging in even harder as the tip hits her swollen clit, only hinting at the pleasure she knows to follow. "You make it hard to miss. Besides, two can play at that game." She lifts her hips over him, settling the tip at her entrance. "What was it you called me?" She slowly swivels her hips around to stimulate him the tortuous way he did with her. "Little bird?"

His brow is scrunched. The corner of his lip half cocked. Breathlessly, he says, "You liked it."

"Yes, I did."

She sinks into him and her mouth opens up, gasping, as if she were singing to the ceiling. He fills her. He fills her so pleasantly, so well. His hands clutch to her hips for dear life and when they are not, they helping her move against him. The chair creaks and whines. Their skin smack against each other, and it's humid and hot. And over the sound of their sex, wet and steady and demanding, she can hear him moaning, something she's only ever imagined.

Her imagination has nothing on the real product. She grabs onto his shoulder for leverage, but she begins to grip even harder when she cinches around him, feeling the muscles from her back to her thighs to her walls around him tense each time she falls onto him.

Her body trembles. She tightens and throws her head back. He brings her in closer as she comes and it's the second time he's made her orgasm within the last twenty-four hours.

He gives her but a few seconds before he picks her with him and places her facing the chair. Her knees, a little raw from the floor and friction from the armchair, sting slightly when they're placed near the edge. She holds onto the back of the chair and she swallows, feeling him position himself behind her.

His hips drive into her no sooner than when she gains the slightest ground on recovering. It's different. Different-good. The band on her bra loosens from her torso and his hands travel up her thighs over her bunched up skirt and under her shirt. He grabs onto her waist when he increases the frequency of his thrusts. He cups her chest, grabbing onto them with familiarity like they were his. His strong arms lift her away from the back of the chair, her solid ground, so she is less angled and closer to his chest. His hot breath is at her ear. He straightens them more just as she getting used to the pleasantly unexpected spots he's discovering for her and her dainty whimpers are moans bouncing off his study into his books, expressing what she couldn't in his office. His grunts and moans and expletives all tickle in her ear, shifting her hair.

"Come for me, little bird." She can hear the teasing in his voice; she allows herself a small smile despite the precarious position she's in. She hates admitting it felt just as electrifying as it did the first time, but she is not without weapon.

"Make me, sir."

She realizes her relinquished control far too late, enveloped in the stream of her own pleasures. She realizes because he ventures south with his hands and slowly rubs over the hood of her clit. Her hips and shoulder jerk, one trying to go back down and the other away from the sudden shock up her spine. His arm crosses her torso diagonally to keep her in place clutching her other breast as he continues with his ministration without so much as an interruption to the rhythm to his thrusts.

A moment of sobriety settles in between her orgasms. He's learning from her. What she likes, what elicits a moan, what gets her wetter, picking up the cues her body gives to him. On his desk, in the library, in this armchair. The thought makes her grip at him further. Her encounters from before now feel like fumblings in the dark, like given an instruction manual for equipment without understanding the language. Here's a man who's fluent, who's ripped apart her preconceived notion of this manual and put it together into something beyond its evolutionary purpose that overwhelms her in its intensity, inundates her with the pleasure. She feels it at the bottom of her feet to the tingling bliss on her crown. She scratches at the forearm over her chest, whining and whimpering, occasionally whispering "Fuck" into the room.

He's holding onto her tighter. It's building again mercilessly with his touch. Her head rocks back, hitting his clavicle. Her legs begin to tremble by her body. She cries out for him louder than she wanted to. She heaves for breath with an arched back, wondering if she'll ever find solid ground again.

Suddenly, Riza is free then to clutch the back of the chair and he hunches over her, shuddering. He stays there for a moment, clutching her waist and kissing the side of her neck before he slides out of her. It takes her a moment to reconfigure use of her arms and legs before she collapses on the chair. She hasn't caught her breath when he returns from the short trip to the wastebasket. He asks her, jokingly, if she's okay.

He must've not heard her completely because he leans in closer to hear her better.

"More."