Work Text:
“Hot.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And not too slutty?”
A pause. Clarke worries her lip.
“It’s a little slutty.”
She groans, “Rave!”
“In a good way! It’s a dress up Christmas party, babe. People are expected to dress a little slutty.”
“You sure?”
Raven clambers off the couch to stand in front of Clarke, bringing her hands up to her friend’s shoulders.
“Very sure. Plus, it’s funny. You’ve been saying that you want people to realise you’re not just a workaholic. This’ll help.”
Clarke worries her lip, “I guess so.”
“Plus you look like a total babe.”
Clarke huffs a laugh. Raven’s not totally wrong - she does look pretty damn good.
“Okay,” Clarke sighs. “It’s not like I have another costume to wear.”
“Exactly,” Raven grins. “Thank god we got drunk and bought slutty Christmas clothes in college.”
“You said a little slutty,” Clarke complains.
Raven cackles, smacking a kiss onto Clarke’s cheek in lieu of responding. Clarke narrows her eyes, but decides to drop it. It’s unlikely that her friend will offer anything that’ll make her feel any better, anyway.
She walks back to her bedroom rolling her eyes, beginning to carefully pull out the rollers from her hair. It falls in loose curls around her face, cascading down her bare back to tickle it lightly. Once she’s finished with her eyeliner, she chooses a dark shade of red lipstick, one that matches her dress and gives off a bit of a ‘fuck off’ vibe that she’s pretty happy to emanate. She’s looking pretty fucking good, actually.
She finds some black heels, a pair that might be a little too high for work, but are probably alright for a Christmas party, and steps into them before grabbing her dark grey coat.
“Wish me luck,” she calls to Raven as she walks to the front door of their apartment.
“Damn girl,” Raven hollers from the couch. “You finally making a move on Blake?”
“Shut up,” Clarke sing-songs, choosing to ignore rather than deny, and hears a cackle of obnoxious laughter in response.
The cab takes just over thirty minutes in the Saturday evening traffic, snow falling almost languidly from the dark sky. The party is at their office, because the staff collectively agreed that they would prefer a larger alcohol budget than hiring some place out, which. Well, it should tell you what you need to know about where she works.
She’s been working at Ark Magazine for a few years now, and it’s weirdly laid-backed. Everyone works hard and gets the job done on-time of course, and their standards are high (they have to be when they're still trying to sell print media), but everyone also gets drunk together and places bets with each other and really, most of them are her good friends (she’s not sure how to categorise Bellamy Blake, though). It’s weird, but she loves it.
It’s why she’s feeling okay about wearing something that probably wouldn’t be appropriate otherwise. She knows her friends will probably double over with laughter when she takes off her coat, maybe offer a round of applause (she’s hoping at least). They’re probably going to be wearing similar outfits, honestly.
Well, that’s what she’s expecting when she steps out of the elevator onto the seventh floor. Instead, she finds everyone looking nice. Like, suits and dresses nice. Fuck.
Clarke fumbles for the phone in her clutch, which honestly shouldn’t be as difficult as it is, and when she fishes it out, navigates to the texts between herself and Monty.
Hey, Clarke. Harper wants to know if you’re coming to the
Christmas party - she needs numbers. She said you never
rsvp’d. It’s on the 19th.
Shit, Mont. Sorry, I never read the email. I’m back in NY on
the morning of the 19th, so I’ll be there. Sorry!
That’s fine, Clarke :) I understand - deadlines. See you on
the 19th. Make sure to dress up!
And fuck. Fuck. Dress up. Dress up. Of course that means dress up to look nice. Not dress up in a fucking costume. She calls Raven, desperate.
“Hello?”
“Raven,” she hisses into her phone.
“Wow, you’re calling me after forty minutes. Disappointed, babe.”
“It isn’t a dress up party,” Clarke ignores her friend.
“What?”
“It isn’t a dress up party,” she repeats with a groan, hand already going to massage her temple. This was just - great. “When I read Monty’s text, I assumed he meant it was a dress up party. They kept saying they would do a theme this year or something, and I was so focussed on finishing my stupid story in D.C. that I didn’t even think to clarify.”
Clarke just hears laughter over the phone, which is completely unhelpful and totally expected.
“Oh my god,” Raven finally gets out, with what seems to be a great amount of effort. She’s breathing heavy and everything. “So everyone’s dressed up all fancy and you’re in a fucking slutty Santa costume. This is just - oh god, this is almost too much.”
“This is what I get for being away for three fucking weeks,” Clarke mutters darkly.
“Uh-uh. This is totally your own fault, babe. Not clarifying a text telling you to dress up? That’s just asking for trouble. Don’t blame it on being away.”
“Raven,” she hisses. “Unhelpful. What the fuck do I do?”
“Just rock it anyway. You still look hot.”
“I’m gonna leave and say I was like, jet-lagged or something,” Clarke ignores her friend again.
“Jet-lagged from D.C.? Good thinking, Clarke,” she says sarcastically.
“Not helping,” Clarke mutters back, not entirely sure why she thought calling Raven would help. Of course her best friend was just going to piss herself laughing.
“Why don’t you just come back here and change?”
“That’ll take over an hour,” she sighs, worrying her lip and weighing up her options. “Okay,” she relents, “That’s probably my best option, oh fuck.”
“What?”
“Kane saw me. Kane saw me. Kane saw me and is coming over. Shit, Rave, I gotta go-” she ends the call and “Hi, Marcus.”
“Clarke!” Marcus greets with a large smile. “How was D.C.?”
“It was good, thanks,” she smiles back, hoping it doesn’t look as brittle as it feels. “Did you get the copy of the article? I sent it over last night.”
“Yeah, I did. Thanks again for doing that assignment for me,” he says as he passes over a glass of champagne.
“Not a problem,” she says as she takes the glass. She’ll need it, really. “Have you read through it yet? I have a few alternatives depending on how you want it framed within the issue.”
“Clarke,” Marcus says with a laugh. “No shop talk. You’ve been away for three weeks. Relax, mingle, catch up with people. Drink!”
Clarke laughs and nods. “Alright.”
“We have a coat room as well, just at Wendy’s reception area.”
“Oh, um, that’s okay.” He gives her a confused look, which, yeah - keeping a coat on inside is a little odd. “Still warming up,” she tells him, sheepish.
He nods in understanding before being called away, and Clarke sighs out a relieved breath. She can’t exactly leave now, seeing as she’s already been spotted, so she’ll just have to keep her coat on. When it’s warm inside. And nobody else is wearing one. Great.
She downs her glass of champagne in one gulp, eyes sweeping the room to find the bar that will promise more alcohol.
“Aha!”
She walks over to it - it’s just a table with champagne on one side and spirits on the other. So, her kind of bar, really - and starts making herself a bourbon and coke. She feels the warmth of a body behind her, and knows who it is instantly.
“Princess,” Bellamy says, low and sultry against her ear, and it’s honestly difficult for Clarke not to shiver.
She elbows him in the chest, making sure not to spill her drink with the movement, before turning around to face him. She’s not prepared, honestly. He’s in a suit (he’s never in a suit). A dark navy one, as well, which complements his tanned, olive complexion better than she would like. It’s well fitted, showcasing his broad chest and shoulders delightfully. It makes Clarke angry. She wants to glare at his stupid face and stupid body.
“Bellamy Blake,” she quips back, only because she knows he’ll roll his eyes. He doesn’t disappoint.
“How was D.C.?”
“Good,” she tells him, handing over a glass of champagne. “Saw Wells, researched, wrote an article,” she shrugs. “The usual.”
“You make it sound so fascinating,” he mocks, a cheeky grin greeting her.
“Shut up. How was stuff back here? Anything happen?”
“Same old, same old. We can run without you here, you know?” She kicks him in the shin and chuckles when he glares. “Real mature, Clarke.”
“Thanks,” she takes a sip of her drink. “I try.”
He rolls his eyes and sighs. “It’s bloody hot in here, ay?” He places his glass on a nearby table and takes off his suit jacket, which is entirely unfair. His shirt is white in that kind of see-through way. “Here, give me your coat and I’ll put them somewhere. Then we can get drunk and embarrass ourselves by shit talking everyone.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll keep it on.”
He narrows his eyes and Clarke tries not to squirm under the gaze.
“Gimme your coat,” he pokes her in the stomach.
“No,” she pokes him back.
“Clarke.”
“Bellamy.”
He pokes her again, and she pokes him back. And again. And again. They do this a lot; the teasing and touching. It’s not really helpful when she kind of wants to jump him 24/7.
“It’s hot in here!” He finally says. “Just take it off.”
“Aren’t those the lyrics to a song?”
“Cute,” he deadpans. “I’m serious, Clarke. As gorgeous as you look in it, I’m sure whatever you’ve got on underneath is just as lovely.”
She’s a little taken aback by the complement, and a flush creeps onto her cheeks at it. Still, she’s not sure lovely is the word he’d use for the outfit she’s got on underneath.
“Bellamy, seriously. No.”
He narrows his eyes again, and steps forward to start tickling her.
“Bell!” She giggles in spite of herself - giggles - while trying to squirm out of his hold. She hates that they have this relationship, that he can do this and it be normal. He gets a hand on a button of her coat and she panics. “Bellamy Blake, don’t you dare take this coat off!”
He pulls back to look at her, hands still holding onto it, and his eyes become amused, his smile smug.
“I didn’t really care,” he tells her, face dancing with mirth. “I just wanted to be annoying. But now I’m curious. What the hell are you hiding under there, princess?”
“Nothing,” she says, firm, maintaining eye contact because she’s sure he’ll just know if she avoids his gaze. “I’m just keeping it on because you want to take it.”
“You know, normally I’d say yes, because you’re such a brat.” He ignores her poked out tongue. “But you just sounded panicked.”
“Did not,” she says, petulant, though she knows it’s not true.
“Did. Too,” he grins, like the cat that caught the canary. Yeah, she’s feeling an awful like the canary right now. “So I’ll ask again: what the hell are you hiding under there?”
She not sure whether she’s imagining his eyes darken a little bit. She’s even less sure if she’s hoping they are or aren’t.
“Nothing,” she repeats, slowly, removing his hands from her.
“Nothing, ay?” He smirks, raising an eyebrow.
“Not like that,” she smacks him in the chest, ignoring how firm it is under her touch. “Shut up. Go put your stupid jacket somewhere. I’m going to go find Monty. With my coat on.”
He continues grinning at her, all amusement, and she turns away with a flick of her hair, eagerly searching for Monty amongst her coworkers. He’s easy to find, drinking and talking with most of the people she’s good friends with.
“Clarke!” Jasper slurs, embracing her in a tight hug in an instant.
“Hey, Jasper,” she smiles back to him, and then continues the rounds with everyone else.
They ask her how work was over in D.C., and she repeats what she told Bellamy before asking how everyone else is. They continue chatting away easily, the conversation landing on Clarke’s coat, and really. Why the fuck does it keep coming up? It really shouldn’t be a big deal.
Just when Monty and Jasper are telling a coordinated story of how they were banned from a bar for starting an underground robot fighting competition to one of the newbies (the rest of them have heard it a million times), Bellamy slides in next to her, handing over another bourbon and coke.
“Thanks,” she says with a smile.
He nods. “So, are you naked under that thing?” He whispers, leaning in so nobody else would hear.
“No!” She exclaims, loud enough that she interrupts the story. “Sorry,” she says, sheepish, before turning around to Bellamy. She narrows her eyes at him, aware that a few of their friends’ gazes are still on them, and pokes him in the chest. “I swear to god, Bellamy Blake,” she hisses quietly. “You drop this.”
“Okay,” he puts him hands up in surrender. “Guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”
She glares at him again, but he isn’t fazed. He never is, and it’s frustrating as hell. Can’t he just act like he’s affected when she’s giving him the evil eye? It’s just rude of him, honestly.
The group continues chatting, moving on to Christmas bonuses and holiday plans and then the new Star Wars film, and Clarke pretends not to notice Bellamy’s eyes on her. It’s difficult.
“You’re pregnant,” he whispers into her ear. “And you don’t want anybody to know. You’re trying to hide your baby bump.” She turns to look at him, offering her most unimpressed glare, but he just quirks his lips a little. “You can tell me, you know. I’ll keep your secret.”
She takes a pointed sip of her drink, raising and shaking it in his face. “I’m not pregnant,” she responds, trying to sound bored.
He considers, his small smile turning into a smirk as he nudges her shoulder with his. “True. You'd have to get laid to be pregnant.”
She cuffs him in the back of his head, and he glares while he rubs it. Clarke feels a tinge of satisfaction.
It’s not even five minutes later that he continues guessing. It’s annoying, and god damn distracting, because she can feel him flit his gaze to her every few moments, and it would make her heart hammer for other completely different reasons if she didn’t know that he was trying to figure her out; find out how to crack her.
“Tattoo,” he tells her, and she doesn’t even glance this time, instead trying to listen to the story Harper is telling. He tuts, leaning in closer as she ignores him. “You got a tattoo that you’re embarrassed to show. Is it my face? I know I’m devilishly handsome, princess. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
She continues not to look at him, but her hand goes out to cuff him over the head again. She smiles at his grunt.
“Bad fake tan,” is ten minutes later. “You came out looking orange. Don’t know why you wouldn’t just wear a long sleeved dress.” She rolls her eyes.
“You’re doing some sort of surprise musical number,” is next. “And the big reveal of the dress is important.” She raises her eyebrows without turning to him, a small smile tugging at her lips. Maybe if she was singing Santa Baby.
“Why are you hiding knives on you?” That one gets a raised eyebrow and actual acknowledgement. “Is there going to be an attack?” He whispers with fake astonishment, eyes dancing with absolute amusement. “Why would you choose knives, Clarke? Knives? At least smuggle a gun into the party.” She grins, rests her head on his shoulder for a few seconds, before returning her attentions back to the group conversation.
He continues guessing, her favourite being his mock gasped horror that she isn’t actually Clarke, and instead a number of aliens or gnomes stacked on top of one another.
“What would they even want?”
“Information,” is all he says, serious, and she tries not to think about the rush of fondness she feels for this irritating man.
By the time ten hits, everyone is on the tipping point of tipsy to drunk, and Clarke is wondering why she never realised Bellamy was as creative as he apparently is. She’s actually really fucking hot, and has to go onto the balcony to cool down, pretending she has a phone call, more than once. It’s annoying as all hell, and she kind of wants to say screw it and just let people take the piss out of her. She’s not sure this kind of suffering is worth the secret.
“I still think you’re just naked,” he says finally, and fuck. It’s not like he’s that far off. His breath is hot on her neck, and this time she’s had a few too many drinks to be able to control the shiver. She hears the faintest of growls as her body twitches so close to his, and when she looks up to him, his eyes are dark and lustful. It might just be the alcohol, but-
“Fuck it,” she says, grabbing his hand and leading him away from the group they were talking to and down the hallway. She hears everyone stop talking abruptly, and then suddenly start laughing and cheering, and yeah, it probably looks like she’s about to jump him. She's not entirely sure that she isn't.
She’s actually not sure where she’s leading them, her direction is just away, but suddenly he pulls her into one of the offices lining the hallway, and she kind of stumbles into him with the impact.
“What’re we doing in here?” She whisper-hisses, although she’s not sure why. Nobody’s around. She steps back from his chest, needing the distance. “Mon won’t want us in her office.”
A smile grows on his face, completely genuine, and her heart stutters. Stupid heart.
“Not Monroe’s office, anymore, princess.” He shuts the door behind her.
“What?”
“Small promotion. They moved me up here two days ago,” he shrugs, but can’t keep the smile off his face.
“What!?” She exclaims, hands flailing wildly. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is huge, Bellamy! You got promoted! You got your own office.”
It’s not totally unexpected, of course. He’s been working here for longer than she has, and technically, technically, he already had rank over her. She’s sure he does even more now, but she doesn’t even care. He deserves this, truly.
He shrugs again. “Didn’t want to brag,” he smirks, but she can tell something’s off. She narrows her eyes and he sighs, carding a hand through his dark locks. “I felt bad. We won’t, uh - we won't be working next to each other anymore.”
Clarke deflates, and over the sadness she feels at that revelation, she feels so much warmth for him. He was worried. About her.
“Bell,” she smiles, trying to keep the sadness out of her expression, and steps towards him. “Don’t feel bad. This is amazing, and you deserve it. Seriously.”
She rounds her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug as his wind around her waist. She allows herself to breathe him in for a few moments - she is drunk after all - before pulling back and offering a smile.
His returning one is soft and warm, and fuck she really feels gone for him.
“So,” his smile changes into more of a smirk. “Coming to show me I was right?”
“What?” She asks, a little dazed as she looks into his eyes, dark and warm.
“Coming to show me I was right?” He repeats, his tone teasing yet suggestive. “You’re naked, aren’t you?”
She feels herself flush, imagines the pink tint spreading down her face and to her chest. She can feel the mood of the room change immediately, the slightly sad tone to it becoming almost heavy with tension. She’s not sure where this is about to go, but. Fuck, it seems like it’s about to go somewhere.
“No,” she says, worrying her lip and stepping back. “I’m going to give you a bit of a back story to this first.”
“This requires a back story?” He asks, barking out a laugh.
“Shut up.” She rolls her eyes before sighing. “Okay. So I didn’t read the email about the Christmas party because I was busy working and um, Monty texted me about it instead. He told me to dress up and I was on like, 3 hours sleep and 4 cups of coffee, so I may have misinterpreted it and…” She unbuttons her coat, watches as Bellamy’s eyes widen, pupils dilate. She slips it off her shoulders and places it, along with her clutch, on the arm of the couch in Bellamy's new office.
His gaze flits over her, eyes hungry and full of lust as he takes her in. Her dress is a deep red velvet, strapless and tight against her chest and waist. It flares out into a skirt, white fluffy material trimming it, and a slight sliver of skin can be seen between it and the stockings she has on.
He’s speechless for a good few moments, gaping slightly at her until he snaps his mouth shut. Finally, “I don’t know whether to laugh at you or kiss you.”
Clarke’s eyes widen, not expecting whatever he would say to be so forward, but is able to stutter out “The second. Definitely the second.”
He steps forward, his hands and lips on her in an instant, and presses her against the office door. His mouth is insistent against hers, and she moans as soon as his tongue traces her lips, asking for entrance. She opens for him, and he licks into her mouth, tongue wet and warm. She responds with fervour, hands moving up his chest and to his shoulders, linking around his neck to brace him to her. He moves a leg between her thighs, and she grinds onto it instantly, the pressure vibrating at her pussy needing some sort of release. His hands trace her body, moving firmly down her sides to palm her ass.
He breaks away first, breath coming heavily and fanning over her lips. “What does it say about me that I want you to keep this on?” His hand moves to the hem of her dress, lightly tickling the skin at the top of her thigh. She can see the smudges of red on his lips, and feels herself flush with how hot it makes her feel - marking him.
She laughs into his shoulder, breath hitching as his hand moves slightly higher, tracing her lace panties. He noses her cheek, prompting her to move so he can attach his lips to her neck. He nips little bites, tongue moving to lave the area as her eyes flutter shut. She whines when his hands move to knead the flesh of her ass (he did always say he liked it), and her hands dart out to bring his face back to hers. She pushes him back, continuing to move her lips against his as they walk further into the office. There’s a desk and a couch, and while she’d probably really enjoy the whole sweeping-everything-off-the-desk-so-I-can-have-you-right-here thing, she’d appreciate the comfort of a couch more.
She begins undoing his shirt, lips still attached to his, and his hands move from her ass to help her. She slides it off him, caressing the hard muscles of his shoulders and arms. His skin is warm under her touch, his tan glowing slightly with the lights of New York city outside. She pushes him onto the couch, watches Bellamy look at her with a combination of lust and awe.
“So,” she says, a small smile tugging at her lip, her tone teasing. “Has Bellamy Blake been naughty or nice this year?”
He huffs a laugh. “It’s fucking awful that that line is working on me,” he tells her, voice deep and rough and thoroughly wrecked. It’s a good sound on him.
She laughs, biting back a grin. She steps out of her heels before moving forward.
“So…outfit staying on,” she confirms with a smirk, loving how his hungry gaze turns almost predatory when she rucks up her skirt, moving her hands to slide down the lace panties. He watches, waits patiently as she makes her way to the couch, to him.
Clarke rests her hands on his shoulders as she straddles him. His arms come around her waist, holding her close, his fingers moving lightly against the small of her back. Even through the fabric she feels a jolt of arousal rush through her body, the wetness at her pussy becoming more evident. She wants to grind down onto his growing erection, wants to feel exactly what she’s doing to him, but that moment, it will come. Because right now, he’s looking at her softly, even with all the lust and the hunger. She moves her hands from his shoulders up to cradle his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb, and leans in slowly, carefully. It’s a sweet kiss, not chaste, but not messy either. It’s slow - almost exploring, even though it’s not their first - but just as consuming as the others.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he breathes against her lips. She can feel his smile, can hear it in his voice, and it makes her smile too.
“So have I,” she tells him, peppering small kisses along his throat, up to his jaw, to the corner of his mouth, and finally onto his lips.
His grip around her tightens, and he breathes in deeply as his mouth opens, letting her tongue in instantly, and now she has the chance to grind onto him. He’s hard, feeling impossibly good against her throbbing cunt, and she’d be embarrassed at the thought of leaving wet evidence of her arousal against his slacks, except he groans, hot and needy into her mouth, and her thoughts are kind of redirected.
It becomes hot and messy and wet, their need evident in the lack of care as their mouths move together, as she grinds down onto him, as he moves his hands from her hair, to her back and down to her ass. They move under her dress, squeezing her thighs at the junction between silky material and soft skin, and trail up - almost to her pussy but not quite, teasing her when they don’t reach the place she really needs them. She allows him to do it for a while, getting enough satisfaction by rolling her hips into his, but when he starts trailing a finger over her folds lightly, never parting them to find her clit, she’s had enough.
Her hands move to his hair and she tugs, eliciting a delightful groan that she’ll definitely try to make him produce again. His lips leave hers reluctantly, his eyes impossibly dark and boring into her own.
“I swear to god, if you don’t stop fucking around, I’m leaving,” she says, lowly. It’s an empty threat of course, and he definitely knows it, but he smirks, starts kissing her neck, and finally, finally, moves his fingers to part her.
He growls, moves his head to suck on her earlobe before he tells her, “So. Fucking. Wet.”
He begins rubbing tight circles into her clit, making her mewl with the pressure. His head moves down, nosing at the top of her dress, and she removes her hands from his hair to pull it down.
“Fuck,” he mutters, which, yeah. She’s not wearing a bra with the dress, and he probably wasn't expecting that.
He kisses along her chest, darts his tongue out to trail down her breast and find her nipple. He bites lightly, teasing, before sucking on it, bringing his hand up from her ass to knead her other one.
She feels herself heat up even more, feels the coil within herself getting impossibly tighter. The pressure at her pussy is close to unbearable in the best possible way, and she can feel the heat of her breath on her own skin, ragged and quick.
“Fuck,” she breathes out, “Bell, I’m gonna come.”
His fingers quicken their pace, mouth soaring up her catch her lips in a searing kiss, and she has just enough time to card her fingers through his hair before she tightens them. She breaks away from his mouth, a broken cry escaping her lips as she comes hard, toes curling and body flushing with hot release.
He works her through it, begins peppering soft, sweet kisses up and down her neck, to her jaw and the corner of her lips.
“Holy shit,” she finally says, her voice breathy and wrecked when she comes down from the high. She hears a low chuckle, feels it against her skin, and even with her orgasm, it makes her shiver with the promise of more. “I’ve got a condom in my clutch.”
“Always prepared,” he teases, but he’s already opening her bag, fishing out the packet as Clarke unbuttons his pants. She props herself up on her knees, and begins tugging them down, an unexpected laugh bubbling out of her at what she finds.
“Festive,” she says, eyeing the red and green underwear with Santas and reindeers dotted across. It’s at complete odds with the outline of his hard dick confined by them.
“Shut up,” he huffs out, and when his hands move to bring his underwear down, she does. Because fuck. She knew he would be big, in the general sense that Bellamy Blake would be nothing less, but. Fuck.
She licks her lips at the sight of him, hard and thick and inviting, the tip of his cock dripping with pre-cum. She steps off him for a moment to tug both his underwear and slack down. His shoes are still on, so she lets them pool around his feet before climbing back onto him to find he’s rolled on the condom.
He leans forwards to catch her lips again, and she perches herself up, finding his cock with her hand to line them up.
“You okay?” She asks against his lips, and with his nod, she slowly sinks down onto him, getting used to how he stretches her out.
They both let out moans when she reaches the hilt, Clarke’s head falling back as Bellamy’s rests on her shoulder. He quickly starts kissing her there, open mouthed and wet, and Clarke rolls her hips, hands moving around his shoulders to feel the taut muscles of his back. One of Bellamy's hands move to her waist, rubbing small circles into the fabric there, while the other plants itself on the couch for support. His lips move down, tongue going back to play with her breasts.
She begins lifting herself up, and then down again, her arousal already building with how much he fills her up. They don’t even try to start out slow, the need and desire for each other too much to try teasing, and every time she moves, he moves with her, meeting her thrust for thrust.
“Kiss me,” she breathes out, and he responds immediately, darting his head away from her chest so his lips can meet her own. It’s hot and messy and dirty, moans passing their lips as they continue the fast pace of skin slapping against skin.
His hand moves up from the fabric at her waist and onto the skin of her back, rough against her soft skin. It continues to her hair, grasping it at the base to make her gasp and angling her to deepen the kiss. She’s not sure how she’s still breathing at this point, because he seems to be stealing any breath she has from her. Her hands glide down his chest, her fingers trailing along the ridges of the abs she didn't know he had.
She finally moves her mouth away from his, needing a breath, and buries it into the crook of his neck. The sound of them moving together turns her on even more, and she can feel the burning within her core build and coil every time she hears him groan and every time she can see a bead of sweat trail down his skin and every time she hears the slap of their bodies as she rides him and every time he buries himself deep within her.
His hand slides down her side and moves under the hem of her skirt, finding her clit easily and pressing his thumb onto it, moving in tight circles. She lets out a breathy moan at the contact, her thrusts stuttering and not keeping with the fast rhythm they've created.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she breathes out, starts trailing kisses along Bellamy’s neck. “I’m gonna come.”
He starts thrusting into her harder and faster and she loses herself once more, moaning against his hot skin. She clenches around his cock, feels how warm it is within her, and her orgasm washes through her. He continues moving within her, letting her ride it out as he whispers sweet nothings into her ear. She removes his hand from her centre when she comes to it, the pressure too much, and feels him lose his own rhythm - the only thing keeping them moving together. Clarke pulls back, hands sliding to his shoulders and hair and kisses his lips once, twice, three times, before trailing up his cheek and to his ear.
“Come for me, Bell,” she says, voice wrecked. “You feel so good. Just let go, baby.”
His hand tightens around her waist, head dropping onto her shoulder as he lets out a broken moan, repeating her name as he pulses within her.
She trails kisses onto his face as he catches his breath, and his hand moves to the back of her head when she lands on his lips, keeping her there for another deep kiss.
“That was amazing,” he tells her when they break away.
She giggles, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth before looking at him.
“Yeah, it was.”
He beams at her, fucking beams like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen, and god she’s so fucking gone on this boy it’s not funny.
“So better than if I was just naked under the coat?” She teases.
He laughs, the wonderful sound vibrating against the skin of her chest before he presses a kiss to her sternum.
“Better. Much better.”
“I’ll just have to remember that.”
“You better.”
She worries her lip a little, not wanting to ruin the moment but having to know.
“I like you, so um,” she closes her eyes, “you should tell me now if this is just a one-time thing or whatever.”
“Clarke,” he says, moving his hands to cradle her face. She opens her eyes, finding him looking at her with such warmth and fondness it makes her heart stutter. “I really like you. Like, really like you. So, not just a one-time thing for me.”
“Good.” She lets a smile grow on her lips, leaning in slowly to brush them against his lightly.
She finds out what sweeping-everything-off-the-desk-so-I-can-have-you-right-here sex is like twenty minutes later.