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“Hello,” Clarke calls out, clattering into the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of her bag, her shoes, her jacket. “Your hot piece of ass is home.”
Lexa turns from the stove, blinking big and serious. “You should grab some food down at the corner store, then. The two of us will want to be alone.” She cranes her head around Clarke’s shoulder, overexaggerated. “Maggie Q?”
Clarke socks her in the shoulder. “Bitch. You know I’m jealous of her figure.”
Lexa kisses her, with tongue, long enough that Clarke is breathing harder when it breaks. Her voice comes out low and rasping, a hum that makes Clarke’s heart beat faster. “I like your figure.” She ghosts her hand up Clarke’s shirt for a barely-there grope, escaping before Clarke can squawk and smack her cold fingers away.
“Frigid,” Clarke accuses, and Lexa rolls her eyes. Then she looks past Clarke’s shoulder, frowning. “Is that your jacket on the floor?”
Clarke pulls the neck of her shirt down. “Boobs,” she says enticingly, and Lexa wavers.
She rallies. “Hanger, please.”
Clarke sighs gustily. She scoops her jacket off the floor and makes her way to the hall closet, shoving the jacket onto a hanger and tossing it inside, slamming the door shut before it can fall out of the closet. “This isn’t what I meant when I said it’d be sexy for you to take charge once in awhile.”
“Really?” Lexa murmurs. She casts a look back over her shoulder, fluttering lashes and the cut of her jaw in profile. “This isn’t doing anything for you?” She runs her long dexterous fingers through her hair, around the curls of it, and then drags her nails across her throat, leaving faint red lines.
Clarke makes a strangled sort of noise. “Stop that, you know we don’t have time--”
Lexa drags the palm of her hand down her ribcage, over her thin cotton t-shirt, drawing attention to the flare of her hips and the tuck of her waist, before teasing her shirt up and showing Clarke a flash of her pale hipbones, the delicate dip of her belly button.
Clarke crosses the room faster than she’s ever moved in her life, crowding Lexa up against the counter. “You really want to provoke me right now?” she growls. “You’re the one that bought those stupid tickets for later tonight.”
She bites below Lexa’s ear, her hips pinning Lexa’s against the kitchen counter, one hand winding through Lexa’s hair to pull her head back to bare her neck, the other sliding up the front of Lexa’s shirt, her back against Clarke’s chest, Clarke’s teeth skimming across Lexa’s throat before sinking into her bared shoulder. Lexa sucks in a breath through her teeth, tensing, then goes limp at the firm press of Clarke’s bite. Clarke can feel her soft moan, rumbling through her chest and barely slipping out on her tongue.
“Didn’t buy them,” Lexa mumbles, going on tiptoes and obediently canting her neck to the side to wordlessly ask for more. “Free through work.”
Clarke laves her tongue over the indents from her teeth in Lexa’s skin, then kisses them, knowing it’ll bruise up perfect in the image of her bite, purple and dark blue and then yellow and green as it fades. She nuzzles her nose against it, eager to see it cloud up in broken capillaries, the faintest hint of copper wafting up with the single drop of blood she’s licked away. One hand starts as low down as she can reach without crouching on Lexa’s leg, above her knee, and then slowly drags up the inside of her thigh. “Is that the bone you want to pick right now, baby?”
Lexa’s hand, gripping the edge of the counter, releases to reach up and press against the back of Clarke’s head, guiding it back to her skin. “No,” she murmurs, so low and throaty it makes Clarke’s blood thrum.
Clarke presses her smirk against the nape of Lexa’s neck. “Good girl,” she hums, and feels Lexa shudder. Her fingers, which have been playing across Lexa’s ribs, occasionally ghosting across her breasts, once stopping to tease a fingertip at a nipple, withdraw from Lexa’s shirt. Before Lexa can make a noise of protest, she curls her fingers into a fist, pressing her knuckles against the small of Lexa’s back before spreading her fingers out, splaying her palm at the base of Lexa’s spine. She slides it up, slow and steady and with clear purpose, increasing pressure, until Lexa is bent over the counter, shivering as the cold of the tile seeps through her shirt.
Her hands are white knuckled on the edge of the counter, and Clarke eases her grip, linking their fingers together. “Shhh,” she murmurs, feeling Lexa tremble with the waiting of it, the way Clarke takes her time as she gently guides Lexa’s hands until her arms are straight out across the counter. Clarke presses her palms flat, and when she withdraws Lexa keeps them just there, obedient. “Good girl,” Clarke croons, and Lexa rocks up on her tiptoes before settling down again.
Clarke pulls Lexa’s shirt up, rucking it up without taking it off, then presses Lexa’s bared front against the tile, watching the goosebumps rise up and her skin shiver at the cold kiss of the tile on her skin. Clarke bends over her, feeling Lexa twitch at the tickle of Clarke’s hair on her back, dropping kisses along the knobs of Lexa’s spine, little closed mouth touches of her lips and the barest wet of the tip of her tongue, and then a long open mouthed filthy kiss to the small of Lexa’s back before making her way up again to finish with a strong nip to the nape of her neck. “What’s the name of it, again?”
She nuzzles her nose against Lexa’s cheek, huffing a stream of air into Lexa’s ear to make her twitch again. Lexa slits open a single eye, somewhere between glaring and glassy. “You know the name of it,” she says, and her voice is--it’s almost there. Floaty and mumbled and the words spaced out oddly, the cadence just slightly off.
Clarke lays a little steel under her own words. “I didn’t say I didn’t know the name of it. I told you to say it.” She flutters her fingertips across Lexa’s ribs to make her flinch and then digs her nails in to make Lexa moan.
“Carmen,” Lexa manages, her voice shuddering in the middle of the word when Clarke lazily uses her foot to nudge Lexa’s legs apart, her hand sliding around to undo the tie of Lexa’s sweatpants before teasing at just below the waistband. She snaps it against Lexa’s skin and presses the curve of her wicked smile just below Lexa’s ear. “Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, pitched just the way that makes Clarke’s knees weak.
“Shh,” Clarke hums, kissing Lexa’s hair, gentling. “Stay still.” She grips Lexa’s hips, enjoying the view of Lexa bent over for her, the way her waist tucks in and how Clarke’s hands fit so well on either side. Then she tugs Lexa’s sweats down, letting them fall after they pass her hips and her upper thighs. “Cute,” Clarke says, tracing the shape of Lexa’s panties, clinging to the curve of her ass. “You know I like these.”
She sees the edge of Lexa’s curling smile. “You gave them to me.”
“Yes,” Clarke agrees, feeling the sated possessive thrum hum in her blood. “You know I like it when I get to dress you.” She crowds up close, wanting to grind her hips into the swell of Lexa’s ass and not seeing a reason not to indulge herself. Long lazy rolls and then two sharp thrusts of her hips, watching the way it makes Lexa’s body jolt forward. She bends her knees, cradling Lexa against her front, and then slowly stands, dragging Lexa up on her tiptoes.
Lexa snorts, looking over her shoulder fondly. “Having fun?”
“Not enough,” Clarke hums, “if you can still make jokes at me.” She runs just the tip of her index finger across Lexa, through the thin silk of her panties.
Lexa’s breath hitches. “You’ll ruin them,” she protests, her ire undercut by the way she cants her hips into the touch, begging for more. “You--” Clarke rubs with two fingers, feeling the wetness start to seep through, and Lexa moans, widening her legs and hitching her hips back and forth as best she can.
“Stay still,” Clarke reminds her, and Lexa nods, dreamy. Clarke rewards her by worming her fingers under the crotch of her panties, feeling Lexa already slick and warm and wanton, the rumble of her noises and how they go more desperate when Clarke turns attention to her clit. Clarke teases at her, just a fingertip inside, barely enough for Lexa to feel it, before withdrawing completely. Rubs at her through her panties again, then just a centimeter more of her finger inside. Rinse and repeat until Lexa is twisting on the counter, sweat broken out on her back and her eyes closed, her jaw clenched.
Clarke licks the back of Lexa’s neck, fingers moving between her legs, tastes salt and smells Lexa’s lotion, the wetness that’s coating her fingers and the insides of Lexa’s thighs. Withdraws with a nip to Lexa’s shoulder blade to slide her dripping fingers into Lexa’s mouth, feel the rasp of Lexa’s tongue and the prick of her teeth as she suckles Clarke’s skin clean. “Good,” Clarke says, her own mouth dry, that flip in her own belly and heat between her own thighs. She drops to her knees, breathless, hands hooking under Lexa’s thighs impatiently and lifting her up, spreading her wide and exposed. Lexa sucks in a quick breath, realizing Clarke’s intent just a second before Clarke buries her mouth between Lexa’s legs and doesn’t stop until Lexa muffles her scream into the countertop.
++
“We’re going to be late,” Lexa mumbles, curled up in Clarke’s lap and sucking tiny bruises into Clarke’s collarbones, her hand in the hem of Clarke’s shirt, tugging it down to expose as much of her chest as possible.
Clarke is playing her fingers through Lexa’s curls, easing the tangles that catch around her knuckles. Lexa had wiggled out of her sweatpants before shoving Clarke to the floor and crawling to snuggle into her torso, and her long legs are a pleasing distraction. Clarke starts to trail a palm up her thigh and Lexa bites her shoulder. “No.”
Clarke sighs. “Selfish,” she sing-songs. “You got yours…”
“You bent me over,” Lexa corrects mildly, “while I was eating hummus.”
“Shut up,” Clarke suggests, and then, hopeful: “eat me out?”
Lexa kisses the point of her chin. “After, I promise. But I don’t want to be late and we both have to shower.”
“Shower,” Clarke repeats, brightening.
“Separately,” Lexa clarifies. She rolls to her feet. When Clarke frowns she sticks her finger in the hummus and pokes Clarke in the corner of the mouth.
++
Clarke is putting on her earrings in the bathroom when Lexa comes out of the bedroom. She’s aware of Lexa in the doorway, but she’s frowning at the mirror, cursing the finicky clasps on the expensive dangles Lexa got her the Christmas prior. “Ready?” she asks absently, moving sideways to make room at the vanity. When Lexa doesn’t join her, she looks back. “Babe?”
Lexa is staring. “You look amazing,” she says, and it’s not a poem or an ode, just a sentence, but it makes Clarke warm all the same. “You’re beautiful.”
“You too,” she says, quiet and heartfelt. And then, because she’s Clarke Griffin and awkward and unsure, “wanna bang?”
Lexa sighs. “You ruined the moment,” she says, walking up and lightly hip-checking Clarke aside to check her makeup in the mirror. “Zip me?”
“That was the least crass choice of all the things I was thinking about saying,” Clarke informs her. She indulges herself with a palm sliding up Lexa’s bare back, the warmth and softness of her, the way the nape of her neck fits into the curl of Clarke’s palm. Then she zips Lexa’s dress up, finishing with a soft kiss to her bared shoulder. “I like this dress on you…”
Lexa applies lipstick in the mirror. “And it’d look better on the bedroom floor, yes?”
“No one likes a line ruiner,” Clarke says, with a sigh and a put on pout.
Lexa lifts Clarke’s hand, linking their fingers, and blots her lipstick by kissing the inside of Clarke’s wrist. “I do owe you one, if that makes you feel better?”
Clarke turns her head to hide her smile, besotted even after so many years together. Almost by chance, her gaze falls on the open closet door, the edge of a box that’s tucked under the hanging coats and slacks. “You... do,” she says, slowly. “You do, don’t you? Two, even.”
Lexa pauses while checking her purse for essentials. “Clarke,” she drawls, questioning. “Have I begun something I’m going to regret finishing?”
Clarke crosses to the closet, crouching carefully in her dress and opening up the box. “What’s a little bit of regret, along with all the rest?” She stands, having found what she was looking for, and turns so Lexa can see it. “What do you think?”
++
The remote is in Clarke’s clutch. She plays with the snap clasp of it, rubbing a fingerpad against the gold painted metal and watching Lexa watch her. “Give me the tickets,” she says, and Lexa, busy staring at Clarke’s fingers, fumbles to pass them over, too distracted to question why.
The hold hands out of the uber, up the steps of the theater. “Is this a comedy one?” Clarke asks, idly, while they’re waiting in line. “Or is someone going to die of consumption while belting out a high ‘c’?”
“Somewhere in between,” Lexa says, smiling fondly, her thumb brushing Clarke’s knuckles. “You’ll like some of the songs, if not the the plot.”
Clarke tilts her clutch carefully, the angle calculated so that Lexa can see the flash of the remote as Clarke removes the tickets and passes them to the usher. Lexa’s stride falters, her hand grips Clarke’s a little tighter before it eases. They make their way to the reception area, which is rumbling with conversation and lined with counters with food and beverages available for purchase. Clarke goes up on her tiptoes to peer around. “I was kind of hoping they’d have those gold binoculars on a stick.”
Lexa rolls her eyes. Then--noticeable only to Clarke, who knows her so well--she squeezes her legs together, leaned against a wall, her hair piled up and escaping in artful purposeful twists, a slit in her dress showing flashes of golden skin. Clarke leans in close, checking from side to side before she dips her fingers into her purse and carefully thumbs the remote inside, setting the vibe on low.
Lexa’s breath sucks between her teeth, her eyes snapping shut before she forces them open. Clarke lays a hand on her hip, holding her close and familiar, before kissing her cheek. “I’m going to get a drink,” she says, and then hesitates, searching Lexa’s face.
Lexa gives her a smile. “All right,” she murmurs in consent, her voice pitched lower than it usually is. Clarke bumps her cheek against Lexa’s shoulder, unbearably fond, then makes her way to the line in front of the bar.
The line is long, and boring, and it’s more fun to watch Lexa out of the corner of her eye, how she tenses when Clarke fiddles with her clutch. The lowest setting is more of a hum than a buzz, and Clarke thinks it won’t do anything except warm her up a little. Still, by the time she is curling her fingers around the stem of a champagne flute, she’s feeling restless herself. She orders a glass of wine for Lexa and turns to catch Lexa’s gaze directly, bringing her glass to her mouth to wet her tongue with the bubbly drink while she turns up the vibrations to see Lexa jolt slightly before regaining her control.
By the time she makes her way back to Lexa’s side, Lexa is only just breathing a little bit harder, her eyes only just a little bit darker. She takes a big gulp of wine, then sighs in relief when Clarke splays a possessive hand on her back, reassuring and anchoring. “We can stop,” Clarke reminds her. “Just say the word.”
Lexa’s eyes flash. Her jaw sets.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Don’t be competitive about it.”
Lexa reaches between Clarke’s body and the wall and pinches Clarke’s ass.
The surprise of it makes Clarke jump, and yelp, and then laugh so loudly other people turn and look. She quiets herself with an effort a hand clapped over her mouth. “I love you,” she says, and they hold hands to their seats.
Clarke lays herself across two seats, kicking a heeled foot up. “I knew I locked down a good one,” she brags, smugly surveying her kingdom. “Where’s my caviar? I didn’t gold dig to watch an Italian opera with no caviar.”
“French,” Lexa corrects, pulling the curtain shut behind them and walking to the edge of the balcony. “I’ve never been in a private box before.”
“Private,” Clarke says, settling into her seat and extending her hand out to Lexa. “But still gotta be quiet for those sonnets.”
“Arias.”
“Egg salad sandwiches,” Clarke counters, and it makes Lexa giggle, coming to sit beside Clarke and lean her head on Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke slips a hand into her clutch, feeling for the remote with her finger, and Lexa lets out the quietest softest moan, just barely loud enough that Clarke can hear it. Clarke turns to nuzzle her nose into Lexa’s hair. “So hot,” she murmurs. “How long do you think it’ll take for me to be able to smell you?”
Lexa’s hand falls on her knee, gripping. “Clarke,” she breathes. The lights flicker twice, then dim.
Clarke links her hand with Lexa’s. “Shh. The show’s starting.”
++
It’s longer than Clarke thought it would be. Despite herself, despite Lexa’s increased breathing and her minute squirms, she’s drawn into the story, only pausing a few times to play with the remote, turning it off for five minute breaks and messing with the intensity of the vibrations. When the curtain falls and the lights come up for intermission Lexa turns and kisses her, sudden and filthy and more exuberantly that she ever has in public before, although they’re hidden from the main audience.
“I like the opera,” Clarke decides, breathless after the kiss has broken. “I like it a lot.”
++
Fifteen minutes into the second act and Lexa’s grip turns frantic. She makes a quiet whine. “Not yet,” Clarke whispers, during a round of applause. “Not yet.”
Half an hour after that and she’s shuddering in place; Clarke can feel her muscles flexing, her chest heaving, her heart thundering. “Clarke,” she mumbles, pleading.
Clarke sinks her nails into Lexa’s leg hard enough it’ll bruise. “Not yet,” she says, quiet but firm. “Not yet.”
Clarke thinks she’s got the hang of this opera thing. She can tell when an actor is gearing up for a big belting note, when the orchestra is about to swell. She times it just so. “Alright,” she says, and Lexa’s been holding so still and quiet, trembling with the effort to obey, that she has to gently coax her twice more: “okay, Lexa,” and then: “come for me.” Lexa buries her face into Clarke’s neck and bites her own wrist and shakes apart for almost five minutes, Clarke not easing the vibrations until Lexa makes a tiny choked pleading noise, her toes slipped out of her heels and curling against Clarke’s ankle.
Clarke watches with half her attention, listens with half an ear. Suddenly, despite how engrossing the opera is, all she can think about is the minute tremors that run from Lexa’s body into hers, Lexa’s wet breathing against her throat, huffing down Clarke’s chest and making her shiver, Lexa’s hair gone frizzy-curled and coming down from her updo.
++
“Well,” Clarke says, as the applause roars away and the performers take their final bows. “I think I could get used to this, tragic ending aside.”
Lexa, half melted into Clarke’s lap, heavy lidded and a flush high in her cheeks, snorts in disbelief. “You don’t have to lie.”
Clarke runs a finger down the side of Lexa’s face, curling under her jaw, feeling the flutter of her pulse in her throat. “I didn’t hate it.”
“Next time I’ll ask for the spa weekend.”
“Ooh,” Clarke says, perking up. “Hotel sex? Love it.”
Lexa smiles. She sits up straight with a sigh. “How bad is it?”
Clarke leans back to get a good look at her, her side gone immediately cold now that Lexa’s warm slight weight has lifted. Mussed hair and flushed; but not bad, not obvious. “I know I should be enjoying the dishevelment, but I’m really just impressed at your makeup staying. Is that weird?”
Lexa pats her hand, stands with a weak kneed wobble. “Such is lesbians.”
++
Clarke is handsy in the uber home, and she keeps waiting for Lexa to cut her a chiding look or say her name in that tone, but Lexa is not only receptive and encouraging, but reciprocating, evocative. Clarke kisses her cheek; Lexa turns and starts licking the curve of Clarke’s ear, tugging at Clarke’s earlobe with her teeth. Clarke brushes her fingers over the chest of Lexa’s dress in a light grope; Lexa sticks her entire hand down the low-cut of Clarke’s dress and tweaks her nipple, making Clarke actually squeak in surprise.
She promises the driver a forty percent tip and wrangles Lexa out of the backseat and up into the lobby of their apartment building. Lexa pins her against the wall of the elevator and tongues her like they’re seventeen in the backseat of a second-hand volvo.
She manages to get them out of elevator, turning to press the button while Lexa crowds against her back, murmuring filth into her ear, and then they make their way down the hallway, handsy and giggling and cursing when Clarke can’t get her keys in the lock until the fifth try.
As soon as the door’s shut behind them Clarke turns, gripping Lexa’s elbows, and pins her, Lexa’s front to the wall, Clarke’s palm heavy and firm on the back of her neck, giving her a shake. “Hold still,” she growls, and Lexa goes limp, obedient, breathing quick, palms against the wall. Clarke undoes her zip, slow to hear the metal teeth of the zipper rasp, a quick flick of her nail releasing the top clasp. Lexa’s dress falls to the floor, a puddle of expensive fabric at her feet. Clarke takes the delicate chain of the glittery necklace around Lexa’s neck and gently tugs it back until Lexa can feel it, the sharp line of pressure cutting at her throat. She shudders again.
“I’m going to keep my heels on,” Clarke murmurs, fingers tucking under the sides of Lexa’s panties and sending them to join the dress on the floor. She touches between Lexa’s thighs, slick and messy and the string of the vibrator stuck to her skin, then kneels. Hands sliding down Lexa’s calves, her fingers on the straps of her heels as she eases one off, then other. And then one of Lexa’s legs over her shoulder so she can drag her tongue slow and thick and heavy through Lexa’s center before pulling away. “A shame, I like you in those.”
Clarke walks behind her down the hallway, silent but her presence big and heavy and prowling. Lets her own dress fall while she walks. And then Lexa is hesitating, one leg up on their bed, casting a look back over her shoulder, all smolder.
“On your back,” Clarke clarifies, and watches Lexa watch her hook her thumbs in her panties and slide them down her legs. “Here’s the deal,” Clarke says, quiet but firm, kicking her underwear aside. “You don’t come until I say.”
Lexa’s brow furrows at the seemingly obvious instruction. She nods, tilting her head questioningly.
Clarke turns the vibrator on high, then sets the remote on the dresser. “Arms in,” she says, and Lexa’s eyes widen, realizing. She scoots back on the bed, settling into position and curling her toes while Clarke takes out her earrings, shakes out her hair. Touches the clasp of her strapless bra thoughtfully to make Lexa whine in disappointment when she finally leaves it on, walking to the bed and settling, knees on either side of Lexa’s face, Lexa’s hands rising to smooth reverent over Clarke’s hips.
Clarke is so wet Lexa’s going to be tasting her for hours after they're through. She rocks down for a grind, rises up to watch Lexa move with her, eager to please and eyes closed in concentration. Side to side because she likes to see Lexa’s face messy with it. And then slumped down, hands braced on the wall, the headboard, babbling how good Lexa is, how fucking hot she was, how Clarke is never going to be able to think about opera again without creaming her fucking pants.
After she comes she slides sideways, flopping over onto her back to pant and watch colors sunburst on the inside of her eyelids. “Fuck,” she mumbles floatily, after a few moments. She arches up, undoes her bra and tosses it aside, then pats her chest. “C’mere.”
Lexa crawls on her, breathing unsteadily and pupils swallowing up her irises, gone dark and heavy and wanton. She straddles one of Clarke’s legs, then looks at her for permission, so perfect, makeup finally mussed and the points of Clarke’s heels dug into the mattress. Clarke nods, smiling, hands on Lexa’s hip, and she rides Clarke thigh in the rhythm Clarke sets for her, until her eyes roll back into her head and she comes.
++
Clarke hums a stretch of music in the bath, on the tail end of the clean up, the bed freshly remade, the toy scrubbed and set aside, a couple drops of oil in the bathwater to make everything steamy and hazy and drowsy. She thinks she might have to drag Lexa out of the bath by the hair; it’s already gone cold and been refilled three times. “An insidious plot,” she muses. “To get me to be more cultured.”
“Curses,” Lexa replies lazily, trailing her fingers through the silk of the water. “Foiled again.”
“I cannot be swayed,” Clarke vows. Then Lexa pouts so she drains the water and fills it up again, piping hot and the eyedropper of lavender oil always within reach.