Toby

The debrief between Toby and Lita lasted one drink too many. The lights of Vegas bled through the gap in the curtains, decadent even if muted, with just a lamp glowing by the side table. They'd wound down in his hotel room because it was closer. It was easier to walk to with their feet aching from three days of conference carpeting.

Their lanyards off at the door, professionalism went along with it. They'd giggled over the numbers, over the robolift made for seniors that caught a competitor's skirt and left her squealing.

He'd been noticing for weeks. Eyes locking in passing too often to be mere coincidence. The lingering touch trading a file. Proximity that encroached each other's personal bubble far too comfortably. Lita's scent was imprinted on him now, that Pavlovian response heating his body every single time.

He locked eyes again, the same way it had been building for weeks but this time, locked in the hotel room, all performance gone. Toby approached, crouching on the ground as they sat upon the couch. He rested a hand on their knee, a thumb stroked the small dip.

So, he said, it was less a word, more a conclusion.

A slow smile spread, not reaching his eyes yet. His thumb kept its slow, deliberate circle on the inside of her knee. So. All this... creative tension. We could keep auditing it. Or we could file it under 'clinical trial' and see what the data says.

She's not moving. Good. Means she's thinking about it, not running. Means she wants to know what his hands feel like without the pretext of a handshake.

He leaned in, his voice dropping, the English accent softening the edges of the proposition. My professional opinion is we're looking at a classic case of mutual, unaddressed curiosity. Poor prognosis if left untreated.

The joke's in the framing. Always. Lets her laugh, lets her walk away, lets her lean in. Gives her all the exits. Smart women like exits. They like choosing not to take them more.

His other hand came up, not to touch her face, but to gesture loosely between them. I've got a theory. Wanna help me test it?

Prognosis? He let out a soft huff of laughter, his gaze drifting down to his thumb still tracing circles on her knee. Deterioration of focus. Increased risk of inappropriate... speculation. Generalised professional frustration. He looked back up, his green eyes steady. The theory is that we're both adults who've been circling this for weeks. And that the most efficient way to resolve it is to stop circling.

She's asking for the terms. Good. Means she's in the negotiation. Don't fuck this up by being cute. Be clear.

He withdrew his hand from her knee and sat back on his heels, giving her space. The theory is one night. Here. No expectations beyond seeing if the chemistry matches the build-up. If it's shit, we laugh it off tomorrow over terrible conference coffee and never mention it again. If it's not... He shrugged, a single shoulder lifting. Then we've got a better problem to solve.

Toby didn't wait for a second invitation. He moved smoothly, shifting from his heels to his knees between hers, pressing forward until his chest brushed against hers. The air in the room felt suddenly thinner, charged with the kind of static that makes hair stand on end.

Always the best part. The moment the potential energy converts to kinetic. No more charts, no more projections. Just friction and biology.

Right then, he murmured, his hands sliding up her thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle with just enough pressure to test the tension. Let's administer the first dose.

He dipped his head, capturing her mouth before she could fire back a retort. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't aggressive either—just firm, confident, tasting of gin and exhaustion. He felt her breath hitch, a small, sharp intake that went straight to his groin.

Good. That's not boredom.

The kiss broke, both of them breathing a little harder than before. He kept his hands on her thighs, thumbs still pressing in slow circles near her hips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

See? His voice was lower now, rougher. Treatment's already working.

She hasn't pushed me off. Hasn't laughed. Her pupils are blown wide. The data's looking solid.

He leaned in again, slower this time, giving her space to turn away. She didn't. His lips found the corner of her mouth, then traced a line along her jaw. Bedroom's through there, he murmured against her skin, not stopping. Or we can see how far we get on this sofa. I'm not fussed.

That's the beauty of hotel rooms. Neutral ground. No history.

He didn't bother suppressing the grin that spread against her jaw. That's the spirit. Makes you work for it.

Presumptuous? he echoed, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, his hands still firm on her thighs. That's just good clinical practice. Assess. Hypothesise. Intervene. He leaned in again, his lips brushing her ear. Monitor response.

He shifted his weight, one hand leaving her thigh to slide up her side, over the ribbed fabric of her conference-wear sweater. His fingers found the hem at her waist, slipping underneath to rest on the warm skin of her hip. He applied a gentle, insistent pressure, guiding her to lie back against the sofa cushions.

So far, he continued, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, the patient is demonstrating poor adherence to verbal denial. Body language's telling a different story.

She's letting me move her. That's the real answer. The words are just the noise on the line.

He kissed a trail down the column of her neck, pausing to suck lightly at the pulse point, feeling it jump under his lips. There. Direct stimulation of the carotid sinus. Not recommended for everyone.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her throat. Ineffective, is it? He pulled back, his expression a mix of amusement and challenge. His hand, still under her sweater, slid higher, his thumb finding the lower curve of her breast. He didn't cup it, just rested there, a promise of pressure.

See, I think you're a terrible liar. He leaned in, his lips hovering a breath from hers. Your heart rate's up. Your breathing's shallow. And you haven't told me to stop once.

His thumb began to move in that same maddening circle, this time against the soft underside of her breast. That's three data points contradicting your hypothesis. In my field, we call that 'statistically significant.'

She's biting her lip. Trying not to smile. God, she's gorgeous when she's being difficult.

He finally closed the distance, kissing her again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips. When he broke away, his voice was rough. Tell me to stop, Lita. Or don't. But pick one.

The grin he gave her was pure, unrepentant challenge. Allergies, he repeated, savoring the lie. Right. That explains the elevated heart rate. And the way your hips just arched into my hand.

He didn't wait for another deflection. His hand under her sweater moved decisively, pushing the fabric up. He dipped his head, his mouth finding her breast through the lace of her bra. He sucked hard, the fabric creating a delicious friction, his tongue working against her nipple.

She's pulling my hair. That's not an allergy. That's a fucking yes.

He released her with a wet sound, looking up at her. My deduction is, he said, his voice muffled against her skin as he moved to the other breast, that you're full of shit. He bit down lightly, just enough to make her gasp. And I'm absolutely right.

He pulled back, his lips wet, eyes narrowed. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. Oh, she wants to play that game. Brings up work. Fine.

You're right, he said, his voice deceptively light. He sat up on his knees, pulling her sweater the rest of the way off in one smooth, efficient motion. The bra followed. I misread the biomarkers that time. Won't make that mistake again.

His hands went to his own belt buckle. The metallic click was loud in the quiet room. See, I'm learning. I'm adapting. He stood up just long enough to shuck his trousers and boxers, then knelt back between her legs, his cock hard against her thigh. Right now, the biomarker I'm reading is your pulse, hammering right here. He pressed two fingers firmly against the side of her neck, over her carotid. And the fact you're still here, bleeding from your own lip instead of telling me to fuck off.

He leaned down, his mouth close to hers. Taste that? he whispered, licking a stripe over her cut lip, tasting copper and gin. That's not a period, Lita. That's just you, losing.

He didn't kiss her. Instead, his hand slid down between them, fingers pushing past the waistband of her trousers and her underwear. He found her wet, hot, and he let out a low, satisfied groan. Yeah. There's my data point. One finger slipped inside her, curling upwards with deliberate, knowledgeable pressure. Right there. The anterior wall. The urethral sponge. Pay attention.

He held her gaze, his finger moving in a slow, relentless rhythm. So. Still allergic? Or are you ready to admit the diagnosis was correct?

He laughed, a sharp, delighted sound. Anaphylaxis. Right. He added a second finger, stretching her, his thumb finding her clit with unerring accuracy. His rhythm didn't falter. God, she's tight. And so fucking clever.

You know the treatment for a severe allergic reaction, don't you? he murmured, leaning in to bite her earlobe. Administration of a sympathomimetic. Adrenaline. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, increasing the pressure, his fingers curling that perfect, devastating spot inside her. Raises the heart rate. Dilates the airways. Causes flushing.

He kissed her, hard and deep, swallowing whatever retort she was forming. When he broke away, they were both panting. Funny thing, he breathed against her mouth. My symptoms match yours exactly. Must be contagious.

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring her soft gasp of protest. In one fluid motion, he hooked his hands into the waistband of her trousers and underwear and pulled them down her legs, tossing them over his shoulder. He didn't give her time to think, to regroup. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her.

Last chance, he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. Call it an allergy. I'll get you an ice pack and we'll order room service. Or admit you want this as much as I do. He rocked his hips forward, just an inch, just enough to tease. Your call, Doctor.