Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.
Perficient: One who performs or perfects a work.
Monica had decided to accompany Chandler to work early. He'd offered to head in at seven in the morning, getting a few hours in before everyone else and then calling it quits at lunchtime when the food truck came around. All the other employees would have to stay to finish getting their paperwork from last week in order and then organising themselves for the coming one, just as Chandler had to do, making sure all the numbers were input and correct and staying until three in the afternoon to do so. He'd not be checking his emails, as he promised Monica, but he'd let them know he would see the emails first thing Monday if anyone had any questions or queries or mishaps.
Monica figured that accompanying her husband to work would serve two purposes. She'd get to organise his office. While Chandler Bing was tidy, he didn't naturally leave his things Monica Clean if she wasn't inspecting his handiwork, and he criminally underutilised colour-coded tabs in his alphabetising system. It wasn't something she'd be paid for, but Monica would be happy to explain to him an efficient way of filing documents away that could be integrated by all the new employees and become a habitual part of office life, making their lives a bit easier. Such a system might make him smile and think of her for a moment in his hectic day whenever he saw it.
Plus, if she got that done, she'd have the whole morning to roam the streets and sights, just as Chandler suggested, and know her way back so she could pick him up in the afternoon and they could lunch and stroll together just like they used to, back in New York, back even before they were dating.
Chandler pushed his office door open when the two of them reached the end of the carpeted hallway, letting her enter the room before himself but refusing to let go of her hand.
Monica entered the cavernous darkness, an intense feeling of emptiness surrounding her before Chandler's hand tugged her back to him in the doorway where he flicked on the light. It wasn't empty, per se, but it was definitely sparse, like her husband hadn't settled in yet, hadn't gotten comfortable in this unfamiliar space. Perhaps on purpose.
Monica couldn't imagine working in a space like this; empty, organised, indoors for hours, seated and stagnant and alone for the most part.
The view was nice though.
The sunrise over the city. Not New York City. Not from as high up as his other office, but then the city wasn't as tall as New York. She couldn't see a smudge of in the corner of the window, but there was the sparkle of water directly across from her, morning light glittering off the waves.
Monica crossed her ankles and turned around coyly, trailing her index finger over the top of his desk. "Nice place you got here."
Chandler chuckled. "It's not bad, is it?"
Monica took a step toward him. There had been another reason they came up to his office so early, after all.
"You know," she crooned, crooking a finger at him and curling it around the knot of Chandler's silky tie as she pressed her soft chest against his, her hip against the hard wood of his desk. "This might be the only time I'm in this office."
Chandler sent her a winning smile before realisation shot his eyebrows up across the forehead. Amazingly, he could still react like he was shocked every time Monica suggested a physical need for him. It certainly didn't happen as much as it once had, and Chandler had always been quick to pretend he wasn't so surprised, probably so as not to scare her off, but she caught the expression nonetheless.
When he spoke, his voice was husky and full of promise. "Better make the most of it then."
Monica beamed at him and let her smile find his, her lips pulling at his in an soft massage until Chandler pulled away from her breathlessly.
"Let me just leave my assistant a voice message," Chandler lifted the receiver to his ear, talking to Monica with the phone to his ear. "Morning. Just reminding you I have a phone meeting with Hannah this morning so if you could please hold my calls and reschedule anyone who wants a meeting until after ten. Thanks."
He clinked the phone back against the cradle and turned around in Monica's arms.
"Who's Hannah?" Her stomach didn't twinge or curl at the name, Monica trusted her husband. But there was a whole state of women, an office full of them at the very least, that Monica had never met, never even heard mention of, and Monica didn't trust them. Chandler could be oblivious when it came to women, especially flirting women, and he was completely oblivious to the way his power painted him, settling attractively in his colouring and imbuing him with a confidence that set his shoulders back attractively.
"She's on maternity leave."
Monica grinned but couldn't help but wonder if Chandler's assistant knew that the name indicated a rouse of some sort. She didn't ask. He looked so proud of his espionage skills that Monica didn't have the heart to deflate his ego.
At least, not about that.
"Ten?" she smirked. "Think you've got that long in you."
He chuckled but this time the sound was hot as Chandler crashed against her, low and deep and vibrating against the skin of her neck as he bent to kiss her there. "You wouldn't believe the things you inspire in me, Mon."
Chandler's eyes flicked up to meet hers, shining with mirth in the darkness of his lust.
"Oh, really?" she giggled despite the heat that pooled in the pit of her stomach when her husband looked at her like that.
He winked and Monica shivered against him. "But I figured you'd need an hour or two to really organise things in here."
Monica preened. She loved that Chandler loved her neurosis; nurtured and encouraged it. At some point over the years, her pleased and proud state when things were tidy and in their allotted space had mixed with Chandler's low timbre telling her all sorts of wonderful things about herself and how she shouldn't be ashamed of her need to control things, that he wanted her to embrace it especially in certain contexts, and the two had sort of become this indiscernible third option that Monica had no control over.
"I could organise first," she offered, her blood sizzling as Chandler tipped his head back and groaned like it was taking every ounce of his strength to not give in to her. "You know how that gets me going."
His eyes returned to hers, blazing. "I also know how carried away you get. And I want your full attention."
Monica pressed her lips together. He was certainly saying the words the right way, but she wasn't sure if his message made any sense. Often, Chandler spoke his own language and if you knew what he was saying, you were in elite company, proud to be in on the joke, but sometimes his words got carried away on the tides of his quick wit and even he lost his meaning. "If something needs organising, I can guarantee at least forty per cent of my mind will be focused on that."
He chuckled smugly, standing up straight, his body rolling languidly against hers as he did so. "Guess I'll just have to distract you, won't I?"
"You have been known to be good at it," she teased, resting herself on his desk behind her and leaning backwards so that she could press her inner thighs against either side of his hips.
Chandler grinned devilishly. "Besides. All that organising," his voice dropped lower and his lips caressed the shell of her ear, "All those files for you to colour coordinate and alphabetise and collate and put in binders -"
She shuddered violently at the word as Chandler brushed his rough palm under the collar of her shirt to push the sleeve partway down her arm, exposing her collarbone.
"That's going to be your reward," he announced. "You're going to be sated and satisfied and taking control in every way that you like, organising everything as you so choose until you're all hot and bothered and wanton again."
Monica keened as Chandler's lips brushed softly against her mouth when he spoke. Some words exposed his teeth in dangerous flashes of white, and some made his lips curl upwards as though he was grinning at his wicked plan. Just as he did when he spoke, emphasising the oddest of words and keeping her on her toes about what he would enunciate next, Chandler nipped at her bottom lip intermittently, keeping her disoriented and dizzy with desire and ensuring she'd not be able to hear him say the word "again" at any point in the near future without trembling.
"You're adorable," he says quite inelegantly, as though he wasn't intending to say them. "What on earth made you want to waste your time on me?"
"Yes," Monica rolled her eyes.
Chandler still struggled with his insecurities, but far less than he used to. It was far easier for her to deal with them now than it used to be. All those years when they were simply neighbours and best friends, his self-doubt had been frustrating and she always felt like her encouragements were insincere or halfhearted, after all, she was just his friend but she did see the whole wonderful picture that was Chandler Bing. Nowadays, he was less frustrating and it was far easier for Monica to feel as though she had a whole history and a multitude of evidence to support her claims. She always felt as though he believed her now. She also got the feeling that sometimes he was fishing for those compliments, or perhaps she simply liked the way he preened.
She slung her arm around his neck and pressed her nose against his. "Right, because you're not devastatingly handsome or quick-witted, or brilliant or anything. What, indeed?"
Chandler hummed his amusement and fitted his lips against hers in a searing kiss. His lips were soft, they were always soft, as though Chandler was cherishing the moment. Contradicting the soft massage, Chandler opened his lips against hers, Monica's mind turning fuzzy and her eyes rolling back as she lost herself in the sensation of Chandler pushing his body crushingly into hers, the hard muscle of his tongue sweeping into her gasping mouth.
Her blood thrummed with the intoxicating scent of him invading her senses and Monica melted into Chandler's touch, returning his kiss with fervour.
Monica tugged at his bottom lip and sucked it between hers, marveling at the appreciative rumble she could feel against her chest.
With a clever turn of his head, Chandler took back control of their kiss, beginning slowly, sweetly, slanting his mouth in a long embrace. Again, he builds her up slowly, his passion ignoring a fire within her but this time Monica doesn't encourage him further, content to let Chandler explore her any way he liked. His kisses turned to quick, spontaneous hips against her lips as though he wanted to pull away from her but couldn't bring himself to complete the action. Already, Monica was vibrating with excitement, or perhaps asphyxiation, given that if felt as though Chandler was stealing the breath from her lungs.
His hands gripped her hips as he stood between her legs and Monica slid her hand up his chest, caressing the lapels that covered his heart but not his racing heartbeat. She scratched her blunt nails in the divot at the back of her husband's head, making him moan softly against her mouth.
Monica hummed pensively, pulling away to gaze at Chandler. "Never cut your hair this short again."
"I had to," he defended with a quirked eyebrow, as though she should have pieced the evidence together herself and come to the same conclusion he had. "That way we can have quick and feisty romps whenever you're ovulating and your brother doesn't look two seconds away from becoming Red Ross."
Monica laughed at that; not amused by the mention of Red Ross or the horrible flash of memory from when he'd been on sabbatical and had to find out about their relationship in the worst way possible, but grinning widely at the way in which Chandler referred to her brother. Whenever he did something favourable or commendable, Ross was Chandler's "best friend" or "my old roommate" but when he was annoying or frustrating or uncontrollable, he was always "your brother" and Monica's "problem" to solve. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd refer to their children in the same way, cooing proudly and possessively at their first word and step and solid food, and citing their relation to Monica when there was a particularly full diaper.
"Well," Monica shrugged, "if it's for the greater good, I suppose I can get behind it."
Chandler grunted, his chest jolting with the sound.
Monica knew what he was thinking the moment she felt him hum against her. In all honesty, the suggestion hadn't been her intention, but she couldn't rightly say she was opposed to her husband quirking his eyebrow salaciously at her. "Now there's an idea."
Chandler undulated his hips against her, a soft roll against her core with a growing friction of two layers of teasing denim between them. She scratched his neck in response, hoping to trigger something primal in her husband, but Chandler seemed to still have full control of all his faculties. He kissed her lazily and released her lips with a pop, rocking his hips against her until she whined with a smug smirk adorning his face.
Monica shivered against him, her body bowing towards his.
With a sudden burst of energy and as though possessed by the same thought, both Monica and Chandler reached for their various buttons.
Monica, regardless of how handsome she thought her husband was, was coursing with an electric hum that was both hazy and borderline painful, but where Chandler's lips met the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her cheek, her earlobe, the sensation was replaced with a pleasurable burn. She was desperate for more of it, of him, of the feeling that he was kissing her senseless and at the same time, making her finally see clearly. To achieve her goal, she made quick work of unfastening her blouse.
As though concerned only with her pleasure and fully aware that he could bring it to her, Chandler tapped his fingertips across her waist and drew lazy circles around the button at the top of her fly.
Monica shrugged out of her shirt and fisted her husband's tie, pulling him to her so forcefully that she fell against the desk with him on top of her. Thankfully, except for a photo of her, a frame of the six of their friendship group, and their wedding picture, the only other items on Chandler's desk were his phone and computer on either end, with plenty of uninterrupted and un-utilised space in the middle.
Her toes curled with anticipation as Monica inhaled deeply, eager to feel his solid warmth against the softness of her chest. She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, stroking the crown of her head tenderly in a stark contrast to his heated kiss. Monica squeezed her thighs around him, hitching her knees beneath Chandler's elbows to press her feet against his rear to shove him against her sensitive heat and holding him there, making him rock against her by massaging her ankles into his ass.
Chandler's breath stuttered against her neck but he was not distracted or spurred by Monica's actions, instead continuing on with his own interests.
Undeterred, Chandler shifted against her, leaving bruising kisses along the skin of her chest, tracing nonsensical patterns along the lines of her bra cups.
Expecting him to remove her bra and have his wicked way with her breasts the way she knew Chandler to be so fond of, twisting and teasing her already pebbled nipples until her whole body rippled with pleasure, Monica moved her hands to Chandler's shirt. She unthreaded the top two buttons and essentially ripped the fabric - tie loose but still looped beneath his collar - over his head.
Upon return, Chandler didn't fit his lips to her chest or reach behind her and snap her bra undone. Rather, he pressed his forehead to hers, blue eyes dark and twinkling with lust. Monica shook her head slightly, caressing his nose with the tip of her own in acknowledgement of his tenderness and reciprocation of his affection.
Suddenly, Chandler's brows jumped up his forehead like a taunt and Monica giggled at how playful her husband could be. She should have known what was going but it was very easy to be swept up in the tides of Chandler's moods. If he was passionate, it was overpowering, and if he was more interested in pressing kisses to her temple and holding her close, then Monica tingled with warmth and was overpowered with a sense of satisfaction and safety. It was very easy to forget he was as lust-riddled and desperate as she was.
That was, until his hand slipped between them. He was warm and heavy everywhere they touched but it was the two whispering fingers that painted up and down the inseam of her jeans. He stoked the for within her with those fingers, drawing a heady line across her aching opening, pressing the fabric into her until her thighs trembled. His soft caress turned harsh and merciless as he found the apex of her interest for him, holding the palm of his hand against her, cupping her through her pants.l warmly. His index finger scratched that pinpoint of nerve endings, the sound of denim against his fingernail permeating the air while his thumb stroked over the zipper of her fly.
Monica bucked desperately, hoping for less teasing, needing more.
Chandler made an evil sound in the back of his throat as though he was about to pull away if he didn't behave as he desired, but then his tongue curled into her moaning mouth.
There was no room or time for Monica to take control of their actions and she found herself more attracted to the idea than she'd likely admit. She loved that she had a man she trusted enough that she needn't be the stoic dominant being all their, she could let her guard down and fall victim to pleasure, trusting that Chandler would bring it to her.
Monica had no idea how he did it, with his fingers teasing over her clothes and his tongue moving promisingly in her mouth, but she seemed and arched nonetheless.
Monica had certainly not expected this treatment when she and Chandler had discussed doing it here in his office. It was early, they could take their time, but they were still under a time crunch, even if he'd alerted his assistant to not bother him. He was the newly appointed boss, the figurehead of the company here in Tulsa, and yet Monica was not sitting him down at the head of that long table in the conference room and having her way with him, or ducking beneath his desk and placing him in her mouth until he was hard and desperate for her as she had been expecting, looking forward to even. She arched her back at a particularly deep bruise Chandler sucked into her clavicle and used her own momentum to reach behind her and unhook her bra. She could have used her hands to push Chandler's trousers down, probably should have, seeing how desperately she needed him as soon as possible.
Chandler mouthed at her exposed breast the moment Monica shimmied out of the cotton covering and Monica gasped breathlessly. That had been exactly what she wanted, and yet, Monica was surprised by the action and by the way his mouth made her whole body tingle with renewed vigour.
Monica almost said something, the words on the tip of her tongue, about to tease Chandler that she'd expected him to dominate her in this time and space, completely at his mercy, about to tease him about being so careful and caring with her, taunt him into being rough with a few curses and an ego stroke. But her breath caught in her throat.
Chandler bit her nipple, his fingers featherlight on the side of her breast and finally, finally, pulling her zipper down.
In one swift movement, his hands had changed direction, one palming over her ribs to slide hotly down her back, the other sliding beneath her waistband to grip her naked hip. Monica choked on her moan, gasping as Chandler pulled his insistent hips away from her, her focus caught between widening her thighs to encourage the warm press of his fingers where she wanted him and completely lost to his hot breath and its downward trend.
He rolled her over.
The polished wood of his desk was cold against her front and Monica shuddered as she placed her feet flat against the floor, Chandler's hand at her waist, tickling over her sensitive flesh and then pushing her lower back so her hips would roll towards him.
Chandler's nails grazed her hips and suddenly her skin prickled with anticipation and the chill of his movement, her whole body twitching and exposed.
Monica could feel the silky fabric of his trousers against her calves and felt the cold metal of his belt buckle graze the back of her thigh as she heard Chandler drop his pants. It was tantalising and she couldn't help herself, turning her head to rest her temple on her forearm so that she could watch him sidelong, worrying her bottom lip as she drank in the sight of him stepping out of his pants, thick and throbbing.
She felt his fingers first, toying with her backside, pinching the crease of her thigh beneath her ass and swirling patterns up her spine. But it was that other part of him, moist and heavy and hot, tracing idle lines up her thigh as Chandler stepped between her feet and caused her knees to buckle.
He teased her for a moment, that action so familiar it didn't surprise her, but maddening all the same.
His movements were minute, stretching her and then retreating, delighting her with the hot presence of him inching ever closer, pressing into her deliciously and then disappearing.
"You stalling for a reason, babe?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow at her husband over her shoulder.
She felt his fingers tap across her hip, warm and insistent as they slid across her waist and up her spine.
Chandler chuckled and the sound made Monica twitch, rocking her hips backwards in offering. "You're gorgeous," he breathed, fingers drawing circles against her arching back, the bulb of his affection drawing matching circles right where she wanted him. "And brilliantly impatient. Look at how much you want me."
His voice was thick with desire, reverent as always when he complimented her but lower than it ever was during the daytime.
Monica shuddered, tonguing her lower lip to alleviate some of the electricity that buzzed in her bloodstream. Chandler's breath was hot as it blew out of his mouth, sounding promising and lust-struck, as soft as his fingers as he fondled her rear.
Finally, finally, he stroked into her. His movements were fluid, almost lazy, like he wasn't teetering on the edge of a precipice. As far as Monica was concerned, that was entirely unfair and unacceptable given the way her own body ached for just one more push.
Monica lifted her forehead off her folded arms and stretched herself over Chandler's new desk, gripping the far edge. She could feel bruises already forming on her hipbones where her body folded over the wood. It was a heady contrast, the cold wood and the steely warmth, and Monica tipped her hips to encourage more of the aphrodisiacal friction that accompanied it.
She tipped her head back, catlike and lazy, her body coiled as tight as a spring but relaxed and liquid. Monica's chest dangled tantalisingly over Chandler's desk, peaked nipples grazing the wood, her hips pushed back against his. She could feel Chandler's strong thighs behind hers, muscled and taut and tense between hers.
Chandler caressed her languidly, pulling away with a whine and then filling her, making Monica's body twitch as he stroked her just the way she needed, hitting that spot that made her quiver. When their hips are joined, he lazily rutted his hips, letting her feel just how deep he is, rolling his body against hers, grinding them together.
No longer fully aware of herself, Monica stretched up onto her toes, hoping to feel more of her husband, and the hot puff of air she felt on her shoulder was evidence enough that he was feeling as wrecked as she was.
He gripped her waist tightly, tugging at her body and increasing his pace, erotic sounds surrounding them, spilling from her mouth as she asks for more, grunts and moans vibrating against her back and echoing in his empty office.
Monica pushed her hips backwards but trusted her husband knew her body and what she wanted, relaxing into his motions. Instead of matching his thrusts, Monica hitched her right knee up onto the desk, opening herself up to him and relishing as Chandler's warm palm massaged the back of her thigh, filling the space she made for him magnificently.
She keened as their bodies slapped together, shuddering when Chandler's mouth panted against the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
Covering her back with his chest, Chandler slowed again, giving her long, purposeful rolls of his hips before pulling away and snapping them against her again, changing pace from quick to slow and back again so that Monica could not gather her bearings, prey to his whims, torturous and tantalising. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth and canted his hips, striking her deliciously, making Monica do her best to match him.
Pleasure coiled within her and Monica vibrated with the sweet release that ripped her apart. Behind her, Chandler groaned as she tightened around him, whispering carnal praise in her ear. Monica was lost to the bliss that was her climax, ears buzzing, blood boiling until she overflowed. Dimly, she heard Chandler groan behind her as he joined her.
For a long moment, Monica was aware only of the heavy rise and fall of her breathing, his skin heated and damp against hers as he suspended himself on the desk above her, his arms shaking beside her head. Then Chandler's lips brushed her cheek, lingering against her skin before he pushed back and withdrew from within her.
Sated and boneless, Monica stayed stretched out atop the desk, an absent smile lingered on her lips as she rolled beneath him and sat up, sharing a few soft, sloppy kisses with her breathless husband.
Languidly, Chandler bent to pick up his clothes from the floor and Monica was quick to help him despite her foggy mind. Monica slipped the buttons of his shirt into place, reaching for his tie as he secured his belt. He rounded her, helping her into her own shirt one sleeve at a time.
With practised care, he fixed her shirt, his blur eyes sparkling as they lingered on hers while she straightened his collar and began securing his tie into place.
As she finished with the knot, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt in silence, she felt his stare linger on her. A gentle flush crawled up her neck at his intense scrutiny.
Once she was finished, Chandler nodded his expression blank but for the hint of a delectable smirk.
She could see the words forming on his lips, eyes still heated as they held hers, and she stopped him by speaking first. "Don't say it."
Chandler's open mouth snapped shut and he nodded his understanding. They'd done that the first few times, claimed that this one felt like they'd done it, or made big, funny, egotistical comments about how they couldn't not be pregnant after that. But the line had grown stale quickly when it turned out they weren't, they never were. Besides, a watched pot never boils, wasn't that what Chandler had told her when he saw her frown that first time the pregnancy test came back negative, they couldn't be thinking about it all the time or it would never happen. But what they could do was live in the moment and enjoy their marriage while it was still just the two of them and they didn't have to tiptoe around anyone. Tulsa, as much as Monica hated that he was here while she was in New York, did make living that way, completely preoccupied by each other when they were together instead of stressing over the fact she wasn't pregnant yet, especially because that, and a strict ovulation-and-sex schedule, would have been exactly something Monica did if not for the fact she needed to cherish her husband when she had him by her side these days.
Chandler chuckled and kissed her lips quickly. "I was just going to say you look beautiful and that if you want to do a thorough job organising my files and sorting out how I should arrange my desk, then you might want to start now and you might even be able to finish before anyone else gets here."
Monica beamed at her husband, not quite ready to let go of him yet, her legs still dangling on either side of his hips. She had other ideas on how to spend their time.