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Roman is growing tired of secrets. CEO and COO of Waystar Royco (interim CEO, Gerri is quick to remind him), they’re untouchable. Who gives a shit if they’re seen together, if they’re glimpsed having a romantic dinner, or getting out of the same cab, or if Gerri spreads him over her desk and fucks him in front of half the company? There are no consequences to anything they do anymore, not with Logan gone (“Your father isn’t dead, Roman, he’s simply not the head of Waystar anymore.” “Close e-fucking-nough.”). This must be how senators feel constantly, he muses to himself. No wonder Connor wanted a cushy Washington job. He’s starting to understand the appeal.
He brings it up to Gerri casually one evening, when she’s curled up in the corner of her sofa, pajama clad and laptop balanced on her knees, just as he likes her best. “I uh...I was thinking,” he says from his position on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, head just high enough that he can knock her laptop aside and replace it with his chin on her knee. “I was thinking. Maybe we like, maybe we start….y’know. Like a press campaign, except instead of rolling out a new shitty policy on like, women’s empowerment or whatever the fuck, it’s about us and our beautiful, sexy love affair. Just a thought.” He puffs air out of his cheeks and sinks back down, suddenly frightened to see Gerri’s expression, the way he knows one brow will arch as she considers the idea, or gives the illusion of considering it. Gerri rarely takes longer than an instant to make up her mind.
“Roman.” He sinks down lower at the soft tone in her voice, the pity he hears there nearly enough to make him throw open the doors to her penthouse balcony and hurl himself over the edge.
“Yes?” He turns the one syllable into three, sliding down until he’s lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Stupid Roman, assuming the best, assuming she thinks about him when he isn’t around, that he’s more than a housepet who knows how to use a cell phone and a toilet. He knows better than to push the issue. He gets all he wants of her this way, he gets indulgent end of day Gerri when he’s been especially good, he gets impatient, exasperated Gerri when he needs to be put on his knees, and he’s lucky enough at this stage to have witnessed every flavor in between.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Gerri is peering down at him in something between sympathy and exasperation, like he’s a child who’s just lost a favorite noisy toy. “Come on, come on up here.” She pats the spot on the sofa next to her, gesturing for him to join, where he knows she’ll kiss his forehead and smooth the hair back from his face, baby him, tell her that she has to keep her best boy all to her very own self, and isn’t he so lucky?
He doesn’t fucking want it.
“No.” He pushes himself up to his knees, facing her, his arms crossed over his chest as he settles back on his heels. “I don’t understand why. You never tell me, just that it’s not wise, it’s not prudent,” he mimics, using a favorite word of hers he’s heard frequently over the last year. “It’s not safe. It’s safe now. Who’s gonna get in our way? We own the fucking world now, god, we’ve so far above the normies that they might as well be ants. Don’t you just wanna stomp on them? Don’t you wanna get the biggest fucking magnifying glass you can find, just zap ‘em all to dust?”
“The thought has occurred to me,” she replies dryly. “But Karolina has enough fires to put out without handling the ones set by the interim CEO.” She sets aside her laptop, reaching to tousle his hair, then fix it back into place. It’s an apt metaphor, the way that she wrecks him over and over again, leaves him broken on the floor, then puts him back together, the cracks hidden under tight Oxford shirts and crisp slacks. He hates her for it. He’ll beg her for it every time.
He shies away from her just before her fingers meet his fluffy hair, falling back onto his ass with a thud, limbs tangled under him. “No,” he says, leaning back on his wrists, legs kicked straight out in front of him. “No, no, you don’t get to touch me.” He gives her his most serious glare, usually reserved for Hugo in C-Suite meetings when it’s 12:03 and he was supposed to be headed for lunch at noon. “You can’t use me as your...fucktoy,” he spits, watching the way Gerri’s eyebrows raise in vague bemusement at the word, “and then - and then - and then not want to take me public to the rest of the world. You can’t - you can’t just have me when you want me and expect me to always be waiting for you, god, I’m not just like - I have better things to do, you know, I have better - I have fucking supermodels dying to be seen with me and you won’t go on a proper-fucking-date. It’s sick. I know everyone wants to use me for my body, but I thought -”
“Roman.” Gerri’s voice cuts through the red of his vision and he sucks in a gasp, his lungs burning for the air he neglected while the words tumbled past his lips.
“No - no!” he protests, kicking one foot at the sofa leg and connecting with a satisfying thud. “I wasn’t done, you always do this to me, you always interrupt me.” He isn’t quite bold enough to make eye contact with Gerri while he rambles, preferring to instead keep his pout pointed towards her slippers. “Just when I was saying that everyone fucking wants me. Everyone. And no one even wants you anymore, no one but me and fucking centenarians, no one but me and people who were alive when Lincoln was president, no one but me and people who remember when the world was in black and white, so you could at least be the tiniest bit grateful and - “
“Roman.”
He knows enough to shut his mouth at that, looking up at her guiltily to see the stony anger resting on her face. She’s perfectly still, leaning forward with her forearms resting on her thighs, and he flinches involuntarily. Gerri has never hit him, not before seeing Logan backhand him and certainly not after, but the expression in her ice chip eyes is enough to make him doubt that assurance for just a half second.
She must notice the way he shies away from her, because it’s enough to make her murmur, “I’m not going to hit you, Jesus Christ, relax, you know me better than that.” He nods, grateful for the way that she constantly reads him, adjusting her treatment of him based on what she can sense he needs.
“Yes ma’am, sorry - sorry,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the middle button on her pajama top, just for something to look at besides the disappointment in her eyes. He isn’t looking at the outline of her breasts through her top, not really, but apparently Gerri isn’t as certain because she reaches out with two fingers before he can react and grabs his chin, tilting it up.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Roman,” she says, any hint of the reassurance that was previously in her voice gone now.
“Yes ma’am,” he whispers, nearly silent, and when she cocks a brow he clears his throat and tries again, louder. “Yes ma’am.” She nods, satisfied, but she doesn’t release his chin, tilting it until he has to shift forward on hands and knees, something akin to a crawl.
“Good boy. Jesus Christ, Roman,” she sighs, releasing his chin when he’s near enough for her to cup his cheek instead. “Is this how you speak to Mommy? Especially when you’re trying to get something you want?”
“No, Mommy,” he gets out, and was his throat always this dry and were these slacks always this tight? “No, Mommy, I know better, I’m sorry, I - sorry.”
She barely acknowledges his apology, waving it off with her free hand. “This is why we can’t do this, can’t - go public. Because you’re an insecure little boy who turns to negging when he’s trying to bully his way into getting what he wants. You’re a spoiled brat, Roman, you’re nothing but an overgrown toddler who throws a tantrum when he isn’t allowed candy before dinner.”
“I’m not -” he protests, only to be silenced by two manicured fingers pushing past his lips, gagging him. He swallows around them, beginning to suck in the way he knows she likes, letting out a little whimper as he meets her eyes. He’s half hard now, annoyed at the way she can coax arousal out of him with a few words, not even a brush of her hand over the front of his pants. One of his hands finds his way to his waistband, only to be pushed away with one slipper-clad foot - he knew better than to even try, in all honesty. Gerri never lets him get away that easily.
“You are,” she says, voice soft and light, enough that he has to strain to hear her. She pushes down on his cock with one foot, sending shockwaves down his spine, but when he presses back, desperate for friction, she pulls back, crossing her legs neatly at the ankle. He keens involuntarily, a high-pitched, desperate moan from the back of his throat around the fingers - he can’t say more and he knows better than to argue with what Gerri chooses to give him at this point.
“Oh Roman.” She shakes her head, soft curls tumbling over her face, only to push them back in an easy motion. “What am I going to do with you?”
He shrugs his shoulders, mumbling another apology around the fingers now beginning to pump back and forth slowly in and out of his mouth.
“Don’t bother, baby,” she says at his attempt, patting his cheek with her free hand. “You think I’m unattractive to anyone who isn’t you, hmm? Is that what this is? You’re trying to wear down my self esteem to the point where I’ll be so grateful that the fantastic Mr. Roy took pity on me, scooped me out of the depths of my lonely despair and stooped to have mediocre three-pump sex with me, when he can even figure out how to make his dick work at all?”
Roman whines around the fingers, nipping just a little, enough to make her pull her hand free and wipe her fingers on the front of his shirt.
“Don’t,” she says before he can even speak, hand finding its way to his hair now, fingers wrapping around the strands. “Now. Since that’s settled, I think Mommy deserves a little fun tonight after being treated so despicably, don’t you?”
“Anything.” Roman figures out how to make his voice work, nodding eagerly. “Anything, I’ll make you feel so good, I’ll make you fucking scream, I’ll - you know I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Oh - not you.” She chuckles at his words, shaking her head, leaning forward to press a sweet kiss to his forehead. “After all, I wouldn’t want to just ruin your day by making you fuck such an unattractive, disgusting old woman, would I? Not when I’m just so grateful to you for plucking me from obscurity. Up.” Gerri snaps her fingers and Roman scrambles to his feet, a marionette on a string, still unsure as to what her words mean. She wouldn’t, not his Gerri, she wouldn’t mean --
She’s already texting on her phone, ignoring him for one minute, two, three, making him shift his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot as she works. He tries to peer over her phone, read the characters upside down, but it’s useless. After five minutes, she looks up, smiling brightly, with what he imagines as the slightest flush to the high points of her cheeks.
“He’ll be here in twenty. Bathroom, now .”
His breath hitches in his throat as he drinks in her meaning, as he processes who the “he” in question is, as he thinks Gerri would never do this to him, then reconsiders, then reconsiders the reconsidering. Gerri is unpredictable, fire and ice, not vengeful, exactly, but ruling his life and his dick with a firm hand. Still, he isn’t going to take this lying down, or standing up pressed against the bathroom door with his ear to the lock.
“You’re fucking cucking me?” he spits out, eyes round and unblinking. “You’re actually - you’re gonna - fuck you.” He shakes his head at that, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back and forth on his heels, digging in. Let Gerri try her hardest, he won’t be swayed on this one. “You can’t, you wouldn’t, you won’t,” he babbles. “Not to me, Gerri, c’mon, this is ridiculous, I’m sorry, okay? I’m awfully, very, incredibly sorry.”
“That’s nice, darling.” She looks up at him with something like fond amusement, the ghost of a smile passing over her lips before she pushes herself to her feet and moves to check her reflection in the hall mirror. “But really, I’m expecting company very shortly and I’d rather not explain why there’s a child throwing a tantrum in my living room. So. Bathroom, go on now, there’s a good boy.”
“But - Gerri.” His bottom lip wobbles ever so slightly at the idea, and he gives her his most watery looking pout, his mind already exploring the possibilities of another man’s hands roaming her body, exploring the places that were once his alone. “So - what, I go in the bathroom and listen to some rando fuck you? What the hell, who even is this man? What if he’s a murderer, what then?”
“Then maybe I’ll get one solid orgasm in before I die.” She’s imperceptible as she pulls a lipstick from a nearby purse and applies a deep red to her lips, a color he’s never seen on her or never noticed (he feels like he would notice). It sends a flush through him as he watches her blot her lips on a tissue and toss it into a wastebin. He wishes he was the tissue.
He might have been thinking out loud, because all of a sudden, Gerri softens, crooks a finger at him, and murmurs, “Come here,” her voice low and smooth. He trots forward, immediately obedient, only to be met with cool hands on his face, squishing his cheeks, as Gerri presses a kiss to his lips. “Beautiful,” she says, satisfied, and he knows she’s left a lipstick stain behind.
“...what’s his name?” he asks, flushing to just a few shades lighter than the lipstick.
“Richard,” she answers easily. “Don’t worry, he’s lovely, he’s come to RECNY once, actually. That’s where we met - he’s CEO of that arts nonprofit? You know what one I mean. Widower, quite nice. He says he’ll take me out to dinner one of these days, but you know I always did prefer things rather...unconventional.”
“You like him,” Roman mumbles and feels the revelation hit him in the stomach like a fist. “I - god. Date him then, I don’t care. How old is he, thirty? Twenty-five? You’re fucking sick, you know, you’re -”
“He’s fifty-five or somewhere about,” she answers easily, pinning her hair up with expert fingers now. “Not so inappropriate, hmm? Certainly not like this. But he is a respectable man, he’s very lovely, and I think this is about the riskiest, most...hm...improper thing he’s ever done in his entire life. Which is why you’re going to be a perfect angel.” She turns and taps Roman’s nose with a finger before cupping his cheek with a deliciously cool hand. “You’re going to go in the bathroom and you’re going to behave yourself, is that understood?”
She waits for his nod before continuing. “Good, good boy. Two rules while you’re in there. One, you’re going to be quiet because I don’t exactly feel like explaining why I have Logan Roy’s youngest son locked in my bathroom, and while I don’t entirely hate the idea of a public statement at some point in the future - “
“You don’t?” He hears her words and latches on immediately, a dog with a bone.
“No, I don’t - shush now.” She moves her hand from his cheek to press a finger to his lips. “And two, you are not allowed to finish until after Mommy does. Nod if that’s clear.”
He nods, even though he’s already hard in his pants again and the idea of listening to Gerri moan while unable to touch her is not helping his predicament. Her free hand slips down to the front of his pants, ghosting over his length with featherlight fingertips, light enough that he could believe he imagined it before it’s gone again, her hand back to his cheek.
“Good, that’s my boy, my very best boy,” she praises, rewarding him with another kiss. “Be a good boy for Mommy and I’ll give you such a nice treat later, I promise, sweetheart, I promise. I’ll make it worth your while, I’ll make you feel so good if you behave.”
He’s flushed to his ears now at the humiliation he knows is waiting, mixed with Gerri’s sweet words ringing in his ears. “I….mmm,” he mumbles, suddenly losing all ability to make coherent words, not with Gerri regarding him with such sweet, patronizing patience. “Yes, Mommy, I’ll be good,” he says, and he realizes he means it, that he’ll be quiet and well-behaved and her perfect boy even as he listens to another man fuck her into the mattress.
“I know you will. Go on then! Bathroom, chop chop.” She snaps her fingers and points, and Roman scrambles, perching on the edge of the bathtub and listening for the familiar sound of the lock snapping shut from the outside.
He immediately huddles against the bathroom door, dropping to his knees so that he can see the outside world through the pin-sized keyhole. He sees the faint smile on Gerri’s mouth, the fond shake of her head that’s usually, blessedly reserved for him. He knows her well, he realizes, the way that a certain tilt of her head can communicate a novel. This man doesn’t, he thinks with a jolt of annoyance. He doesn’t know how she likes her coffee (cream, no sugar), he doesn’t know her favorite poet (Wendell Berry), he doesn’t know that she can’t sleep without blackout curtains or that the soap in her bathroom smells of peonies.
“Fuck -” His hand moves towards the doorknob, ready to put a stop to their game (Gerri always promises they can end whenever he’s had too much) but with just a centimeter to go he stops, Gerri’s words ringing in his ears, my very best boy . He has to be good for Gerri, she’s expecting so much from him. His downfall will always be an insistence on impressing Gerri Kellman, he’s realizing. With a groan, he pulls his hand away and traps both under his knees, turning his attention back to the keyhole. Gerri is tapping away at her phone, presumably to this mystery man, before she disappears out of sight, into the walk in closet on the other side of the room. Roman huffs as she vanishes from view, trying to swivel to see all sides of the room, but it’s useless, he might as well be trying to see through a brick wall.
“Gerri,” he calls, quietly at first, then a little louder, persistent, until he’s shouting at full voice. “Gerri! Gerri, hey, Ger, I wanna - whatcha doing?”
It’s quiet for a moment, but there’s no way his cries went unheart - the penthouse isn’t quite large enough for that, although Gerri might have preferred it that way. Then, the sound of footsteps approaching. Roman immediately climbs to his feet, backing away from the door as he hears her near, buttoning his pants and pushing his hair back into its usually gelled position with an anxious hand.
Gerri swings the door open with a look of irritation readily evident on her face, one eyebrow arched, and he shrinks back against the bathroom counter, shoulders hunched. His jaw goes slack when he sees what she’s wearing - a deep red lace bodysuit covered by her usual white linen robe. The robe is unbelted, allowing him to gape at the lace underneath, and she notices, clearly, the irritated expression replaced by a smirk as the bodysuit has its presumably intended effect on him.
“Roman.” She shakes her head, like she’s scolding a naughty puppy, and he raises both eyebrows, mock innocent, goading her on.
“Yes ma’am?” He shrugs his shoulders, palms flat against the bottom cabinets. “Something wrong? I thought I heard someone calling you, I don’t know - I don’t know what’s going on. Holy shit. You look great.” He whistles through his teeth, long and slow, letting his eyes roam her body, the way the bodysuit shows the curves that are usually hidden under blazers and long skirts. He grins at her, raising one hand to crook a finger towards her, beckoning her closer. “Can I touch?”
“Can you touch - no, Roman, this is your punishment for talking back to me, for being such a little brat,” she says, and watches him shiver, watches him shift his weight from foot to foot. She tsks her tongue, her voice taking on a serious tone as she speaks. “I mean it, Roman, I mean it, I can’t have you running your mouth while Richard is here. Would be horrible to have to explain, would hurt your reputation as much as mine. Is that what you want?”
“N - o - o,” he says, digging his toe into the rug, spreading the fibers. “No ma’am. I’ll be quiet.”
“Good.” She pulls the robe tighter and cinches it at the waist, and he lets out a little moan of disappointment as the red lace disappears from view. It’s somehow more tantalizing, the way his memory and his imagination will have to do, how the knowledge of what’s underneath can stir his brain to action. “Do I have to gag my naughty puppy? Make it a little easier for him?”
His cheeks go hot and he shakes his head, stubborn. “No. I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good for you, Mommy, I mean it, I wanna be good, I’m sorry I was awful before, I am sorry.”
She softens, her blue eyes melting from ice to puddles he could swim in, and she taps her bottom lip with a finger. “C’mere. Kiss for Mommy.” He immediately obeys, lingering, taking her lip between his teeth and tugging until she makes a little cry of pain, swatting him off. He’s satisfied though, seeing the way her lip reddens, swells just enough to be visible. Let Richard speculate who else has been keeping her company then.
She leaves with a final reminder to be good, locking the door behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts, the memory of her in lace, and an persistent erection that he can’t ignore any longer. He traps his wrists behind his back, squeezing one with the opposite hand, even as he whines in annoyance at her command. She’s sadistic when she wants to be, possessive. He knows she wants him all to herself, every part of him, she wants to quite literally complete him.
He’s got one hand on his zipper, tempting himself, debating the pros and cons, when the doorbell rings. Immediately his eye is to the keyhole again, watching the door open, watching Gerri in the robe greet the man with an overfamiliar cry of “Richard!” The man is handsome, too handsome for Roman’s liking, over six feet tall with a full head of salt and pepper hair and an easy grin. Roman fucking hates him. He sinks back onto his heels, watching the two interact, bottom lip pushed out as he sees Gerri claim what she clearly deserves - a Real Man, not some pathetic little worm sitting on the bathroom floor with his dick in his hand.
Gerri keeps the robe closed as the man enters, as well as her lips and her legs closed - she doesn’t let the man touch her, even though he clearly wants to, his hands hovering just over her waist, not enough to touch. Oh, he’s a gentleman, Roman thinks sourly, but he’s relieved all the same as Gerri steps backwards, deftly navigates the man backwards into the apartment and fixes him a drink. They’re speaking too quietly for him to hear the conversation, however much he strains to listen, and he whines at the strange feeling, of being an outsider in Gerri’s apartment. He hasn’t felt so disconnected since the first time he entered her apartment, an excuse of paperwork cradled in his arms - paperwork that was never completed that night.
She’s laughing now, flirty as she clinks their glasses together and Roman can read the “cheers!” on her lips. She initiates contact then, not much, a gesture that could be taken for innocent, nothing more than manicured fingertips brushing a speck of link off the man’s shirtsleeve. He watches her fingers through the keyhole, wishes they were wrapped around his cock instead of another man’s wrist. He said he wouldn’t, he said he would be good, but the situation is starting to get to him, building in his brain, the way that Gerri discards him with nothing more than the turn of a deadbolt. He feels dizzy when he realizes that he likes it, or anyway, that his cock is responding well, pressing against the front of his slacks insistently. Gerri said no, Gerri said not to touch, to let her deal with it, but he just can’t resist any longer, and he wraps his fingers against his cock and begins to stroke himself with desperate, messy motions. His hand is slick and his heart is pounding so loud that he’s positive the man can hear it, but if Richard notices anything unusual, he doesn’t respond. Instead, Richard brushes a curl back from Gerri’s face, a move that Roman liked to think was his alone, and the knowledge that he’s not the only one who can have a claim on her is enough to make him grit his teeth and tighten his grip on his cock.
“So….you just invite me here to chat?” Richard asks, moving close enough to Roman to hear. Roman wants to rip every perfect hair out of his head, one by one. He wants to make the man bleed. “Because I would have just bought you lunch if that was the case. But judging from the robe, I’m guessing that’s not what you had in mind.”
Gerri smirks - Roman can tell she’s smirking, even though she’s got her back to the keyhole. He knows what that intake of breath means, knows what her face looks like when she tilts her head to the side just so. “Richard, who do you take me for? Do you think that I invited you here at midnight like a college girl inviting her hookup of the week over?” She tsks her tongue and Roman can sees her lithe fingers slowly working at the knot at her waist, untying her robe. She lets the robe slip off her shoulders and pool at her feet, and Roman can read her body language without seeing her face again, the way she pushes her chest forward and straightens her posture.
He watches the way that Richard drinks her in, the way that his eyes roam her body, and his stomach tightens at the predatory way he observes her. The man lets out a low whistle and Roman can’t help the whine that escapes him at the degradation of it all, the humiliation of his position. Gerri is desirable, he knew this, but it’s different to see her through another man’s eyes, how Richard looks at her like she’s a privilege, like he’s fortunate to just exist in the same space as her. “I understand now, I - I’m sorry, I understand,” he whispers, really a bitten back scream because if the words stay inside him he’ll explode.
He releases his cock as the man steps forward, determined to be good, to prove to Gerri that he can obey, that he can be a good boy for Mommy. It bobs against his stomach, insistent and unrelenting as she tilts her chin up for Richard. The man kisses her and Roman’s hands fly to his mouth a half second too late to muffle the sound, his cheeks hot with the humiliation of it. If the man notices, he doesn’t react, not as Gerri moans enough to cover the sound.
It’s not cheating, not really - they aren’t together, after all. Tabitha still sleeps over every night he’s not with Gerri and he knows he goaded Gerri into the action, into whatever the hell situation that he finds himself in tonight. He doesn’t have a claim to her and she doesn’t have a claim to him. They’re just having fun, just passing the time until the next better thing comes along. He knew from the beginning that it was never going to end in a proper relationship, let alone in marriage - didn’t Gerri say as much tonight when she hinted what a bad idea a public announcement would be? It’s better this way, it’s better to share her, he tries to convince himself, even as he watches the man press a little line of kisses down her throat, his hands finding their way to cup her ass, fingertips plucking at the red lace covering her torso.
Gerri’s head is tipped back, her arms flung around the man’s shoulders, and Roman has to link his hands behind his back to keep himself from gripping his cock again at the site. The pleasure on her face is undeniable, her cheeks flushed rose as Richard lingers over her jawline. Her eyes flutter shut and she’s rocking against Richard’s thigh, grinding forward against him, front pressing into his hip. She sucks in a breath as he pays extra attention to a spot on her collarbone she clearly enjoys, and Roman wonders if he’ll have to view the evidence of the night peeking out from under her blouse collar and under a layer of concealer in the morning’s budget meeting. He imagines she’ll tug at her collar and display a rainbow of little love bites before straightening her blouse and beginning the meeting, deliberately ignoring the way his eyes will surely follow the motion. The image makes him moan quietly, makes him impatient for a fucking budget meeting for the first time in his life, Jesus, what is wrong with him?
He’s happily entertaining the idea, and oh look, one hand has found its way back to his length somehow, he realizes guiltily, but he doesn’t pull it away. Gerri’s enjoying herself, the least he can do is wring any pleasure he can from the situation. He lets his eyes close, shifting forward so that his forehead is against the door, as close as he can to hear the two move together. He hears Gerri gasp out a little “ oh,” and imagines the way her lips move to form the word, a perfect circle. He hears the man grunt, “Oh, you like that, do you?” before presumably repeating the motion. He hears Gerri’s intake of breath, sharp, before she moans, “Yes, Roman,” and suddenly he can’t hear anything at all.
He can’t help the yelp of response that he makes to the sound of Gerri calling his name - not Richard’s name, his name - and it snaps him back into reality, the reassurance that it’s him she wants after all. Not that he ever doubted it, he reasons with himself, not his Gerri, but he has to admit that he was beginning to grow anxious at the way she was grinding against the other man’s thigh.
He was louder than he intended, he realizes, because Richard breaks away from Gerri long enough to ask, “What was that, sounded like some kind of animal,” and the color rises to Roman’s cheeks both at the comparison and the knowledge that he’s been detected. If Gerri is flustered, she doesn’t show it, other than the way she bounces on her toes for a moment, wiping the corners of her mouth with her fingers.
“Oh, I forgot, I’m dog sitting,” she says briskly, slipping her robe back on and fluffing her hair from underneath. “Puppy sitting, actually, he’s just a little thing.”
Roman glares from behind the bathroom door, mentally boring holes in the wood from the intensity of his stare.
“Oh yeah? I love puppies, I wanna meet him,” Richard says, and Roman sees him start towards the door, only for Gerri to bark a panicked “No!” that makes him stop in his tracks.
“No, uh, no,” she says, knotting her robe at the waist, instantly cool again. “No, he bites, he’s still a puppy and he...you know, isn’t housebroken entirely.” Roman glares again. “No, you can meet him when he’s a little older, I promised my friend that I would take very good care of him, and oh, he’s probably hungry, he eats so often since he’s so small, I really do need to look after him.” With an expert hand on Richard’s back she’s guiding him to the door, gesturing towards his shoes, telling him that she’s very sorry for the interruption and that she’ll be in touch with him throughout the week, maybe they can do it again sometime, who knows! Roman gives a yip of annoyance at that and Richard turns back towards the bathroom, only for Gerri to tighten her grip on his shoulder.
Richard lingers in the doorway for longer than Roman would like and he’s growing antsy by the time Gerri unbolts the door and stares down at his kneeling form. “Hiiiiii,” he gets out, sing songy, and he gives her a little five finger waggle with the hand that isn’t still latched onto his dick. “So. You have fun with Richard, did you? Because I thought - I thought - I just - I didn’t want you to forget I was in here, with all that fun you were having, with his ten inch cock and his fucking hair and his - his massive hands and that thing he did to your ear and - fuck off, can’t you? God, just - I get it. I get it, I’m sorry, you’re perfectly beautiful and desirable and sexy and - fuck, Gerri, I didn’t know how much I would hate that.”
“Not all of you hated it,” she says, a note of wickedness creeping into her voice as she stares pointedly at his hand. “Roman….come here, baby.”
He climbs to his feet, sniffling just a little, pathetic and shivery in the chill of the bathroom. She wraps her arms around him immediately and presses a kiss to the top of his head, keeping him close to her chest.
“I don’t believe I will never want anybody more than I want you. But I don’t need this relationship, I can exist without it. I’ve existed without it for decades and I can do it again. Which means that I don’t tolerate silly little boys trying to neg me. I’m worth more than that and I’m assured enough that I don’t need to be in a relationship with someone who thinks that putting me down is the way to earn my attention. Do you understand, Roman?”
He’s so dazed that he can’t even speak for a long moment, just gulps and finally stammers out, “...are we in a relationship?” The smirk on Gerri’s lips is impossible to read as he lifts his head to see her expression, so he pouts prettily, letting his eyes go wide and soft.
She kisses his pout and it’s all he can do to keep himself contained, desperate to erase the memory of another man’s lips on hers. She pulls back first, pats his cheek with a cool, soft hand, and murmurs, “Go get in bed, sweetheart.”
He obeys immediately, practically running to the bed and stretching himself out on her sheets, shifting to make himself comfortable. “You coming too or do I have to do everything myself?”
“Careful,” she warns. “I reserve the right to change my mind at any point in the next five minutes.” She stalks to the bed, casting the robe aside as she nears, and the sight of her is even more mesmerizing up closer.
“Fuck,” he gasps, his jaw slack as she straddles his waist, hands on his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, decides to be a good boy and leave them on the tops of his thighs, not touching. “Fuck, I uh, fuck,” he says again, his brain devoid of any thoughts except Gerri Kellman on top of him in a fucking red fucking lace fucking bodysuit. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his mind enough to at least speak, and ends up coming up with, “Let’s see if we can make you moan my name again, huh?”
She actually blushes at that, clears her throat and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I - yes, well, you were on my mind considering you don’t know how to be quiet longer than thirty consecutive seconds, apparently.”
“You thought of me,” he teases, a lightness bubbling in his chest. “You thought of me, you were gonna imagine it was me, weren’t you? Gonna get railed by that beta-cuck but thinking of me the entire time, God, I love how much space I take up in your mind. Gonna start charging you five grand a month in rent.”
“I can leave, you know? I can put you back in that bathroom and let you finish the job yourself.” He knows she’s mostly teasing from the arch of one brow, but he’s willing to play along anyway. “And if anyone is the, ahem, beta-cuck here, I don’t think it’s Richard. Now.” She lifts her hips for him to wiggle out of his slacks and underwear, leaving him breathless and exposed for her. “There’s my good boy, oh you were good, weren’t you?” she breathes, before she continues without waiting for a response. She runs one finger up the underside of his cock and he nearly comes undone, shifting under her, fingers gripping at the sheets.
“Fucking hell, are you trying to kill me?” he gasps, and she laughs softly at that, clearly pleased by his response.
“After that little stunt you pulled tonight, I’m tempted, but no, no, Rome, not quite. Shush now.” She presses a finger to his lips before settling herself between his legs. “Be quiet and let Mommy take care of you now.”
Mommy does take care of him, just like she always does, knowing exactly the strings to pull to make him fall apart in an instant, and it’s worth it, oh, it’s worth it. He realizes exactly what Gerri is doing to him halfway through his orgasm, with her name on his tongue and her mouth around his cock and two fingers inside of him, twisting in just the way he likes. “Aw...fuck you,” he groans, his eyes closing and his fingers loosening from their tight grip in her curls. “You make me wait and then you make it fucking worth it, I hate you, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She’s already in the bathroom, brisk as ever, rinsing with mouthwash before she returns back to his open arms, settling between them easily. He wraps his arms around her waist and drops a kiss to her shoulder, spent and content. “No, you don’t hate me, you wouldn’t beg me for more in that sweet little voice of yours if you truly hated me,” she decides. “Little toad, aren’t you?” There’s no malice behind the insult, just a familiar fondness that makes his toes curl under the covers and makes him duck to bury his face in her hair.
“Yes Mommy,” he agrees, pulling them to lie face to face now, shifting to tangle their legs together. “Yeah, I - oh.” He remembers the way that the man made Gerri moan, decides he wants to do the same, and presses ever closer, pressing a line of kisses down her throat the way that he saw Richard do, gentle but insistent. “I’m sorry I ruined your fun tonight,” he murmurs. “You deserve someone who can make you just like….fuckin’ squirt yourself.”
“I do,” she says, fingers moving to trail through his hair, a gesture that makes him shiver. “But somehow I found myself strangely drawn to a little nepotism brat with a Vienna Sausage below the belt and I can’t seem to shake the idea of him. He pops into my mind at the worst possible times. We all have our flaws.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins at that, beginning to nibble at a spot on her jaw that he thinks would look very nice with a purple blemish in the morning. “So what, that’s what gets you wet in C-suite meetings? You sitting there tryin’ to decide if it’s worth sneaking to a storage closet and fucking yourself with a letter opener?”
She rolls her eyes and kisses him instead, a slow, long kiss that makes him forget the image of Gerri masturbating in a broom closet and forget the way that Richard kissed her just minutes before and forget everything but her name and the way her tongue claims him with easy, confident motions.
“Still horny, huh?” she says as she pulls back. “I’m gonna have to invest in a spray bottle, squirt you with cold water whenever you misbehave, aren’t I?”
“If you can’t resist the sight of me dripping wet, yeah, no, yeah, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
“I have them sometimes, I’m glad you agree. Not saying that I enjoy objectifying you but uh -” She clears her throat, waves a dismissive hand. “...Roman, I’m not….agreeing to anything at the moment, but I think we should have dinner and talk about where we stand tomorrow night. Properly talk about it, no other….visitors or interruptions or sexual activity getting in the way. Are you free tomorrow night?”
“Always,” he says immediately and tries to pretend like he wouldn’t clear his calendar in a heartbeat for five minutes in her presence. “Tomorrow night, I mean? I mean - yeah, no, yeah, I should be, I’ll keep you updated, but….pencil me in.”
“Mm, I think it’s safe to use pen.” She kisses him again before pushing him back onto the mattress and settling onto his waist, leaning down to cup his cheek while guiding his hand to one breast. “Now, is it finally my turn to have a little fun for once around here? I’ve been so very patient, don’t you think?”
Roman barely hears her, he’s too busy mentally picking out china patterns. First dinner, then a press conference, then they’re on the cover of every business journal in America, then they’re celebrating in their lake house with their Golden Retriever named Scout and wedding photos plastering the wall and then - well. Maybe he should start with dinner.