“Oh Miguel, baby,” Dana laughs, her cheeks rosy, “you never told me your boss was so funny!”
“Just a bucket of laughs,” Miguel says through grit teeth. “Have you been drinking?”
“A tad,” she pinches her fingers together and giggles. Beside her, Tyler keeps his hand on her lower back to keep her steady and Miguel can feel his blood boiling.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Tyler smirks, “we got so wrapped up in conversing that we must’ve lost track of how many glasses we had.”
“Maybe we should go, then, and get some rest.”
“Aw, Miggy, don’t be such a spoilsport. We only just got here!”
“Come, Mike. Enjoy the evening. Not often do you attend company outings, why not make the most of it?” He then turns and flags his assistant down. “Winston, bring Mike here a drink, won’t you?”
That’s when you arrive, taking your cue to approach the trio.
“Wine?” You offer, balancing the silver platter of glasses in your hands.
“Is this the 2003 I requested?” Tyler inquires, disgusted at the idea of drinking anything but.
“Yes, sir. It’s the Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“There was no ‘03 Sauvignon on the menu,” he informs and you frown slightly. You were certain that’s what you were told when handed the tray but you knew better than to do anything but nod and apologize to Mr. Stone.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll correct that.”
“It’s fine,” Dana chirps, plucking a stem between her fingers. “I’m not keen on the rich reds, anyway.”
“Dana, no, you mustn’t—” Tyler begins to interject and take the glass from her hand to replace. In the same motion, instinctively, Miguel darts his hand out to shoo him away and take the drink if only to not let Dana have any more.
In the midst of the action is you - namely the tray of wine glasses that are knocked by a rogue elbow and, with a gasp, hits the floor with a horrible shatter. The atmosphere in the ballroom is too lively to have noticed the scuffle or the crash but the sharp tongue of Tyler Stone rips through the air.
“You imbecile! Look at this mess you’ve made!”
“I-I’m so sorry, sir, I—”
“Your apologies won’t clean this up. Go now and you’ll be lucky to get any credits for tonight.”
Inhaling sharply, you nod swiftly and weave through the crowd that has begun to watch your humiliation. Seeking out a supply closet, you return as quickly as you could to find Tyler and company standing, waiting. Biting the inside of your cheek, you keep your head down and begin to sweep up the broken glass. Beyond the ringing in your ears you hear him talking about you, snide and judgemental.
Embarrassed, you excuse yourself to dump the debris and get a mop but when you turn around to return, there’s a body standing too close.
“Good evening Mr. O’Hara. I’m sorry about earlier, sir. I’m trying to clean as quickly as I can.” Gripping the handle firmly, you offer him a tight smile.
But he just stares at you in terse silence, expression unreadable behind his dark lenses. You get the strange feeling, though, that he’s staring at — through you.
“Excuse me, I need to…”
“Forget about that. Someone else can take care of it. Right now I’m more important.”
You hesitate to respond. You mean him no disrespect but Tyler Stone is definitely more important than anyone else in that room - in the entire building - but this man has seemingly frozen you in place.
Once he’s sure you aren’t going to disregard him, he then gestures to his suit. Namely the dark stain on his trousers.
“Oh my God, yes, we should take care of that. Here, follow me.”
Pushing the mop back into the closet, you quickly stride down the hall, the man close on your heels. Luckily, the restroom is empty when you reach it and you instinctively lock the door behind you.
“We’ll need to rinse the stain out with cold water, first. You’ll need to strip.”
In silence, he begins to shrug off his blazer, removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. To offer him some privacy, you start running the sink, ensuring it would be cold when he’s ready. Behind you, you hear his belt being unbuckled, the zipper, the quiet thud of him kicking off his shoes and the shuffling of fabric.
“Hm.” Glancing over your shoulder, you see he’s stripped down to his undershirt and boxer briefs. The former is, miraculously, stain-free. The same can’t be said for the latter.
“Oh. I can leave so you can do it yourself.”
“Not necessary.”
“They’ll be damp when you put them back on.”
“They already are.”
Grimacing, you only nod and face the sink again. You weren’t sure but you could’ve sworn there was a bulge inside the fabric; not fully erect but too prominent to be completely flaccid. Keeping your eyes trained on his shoulder, you hold your hand out. “I can take them, then, if you’re ready.” Wordlessly, he hands them over and you submerge them into the basin of cold water, letting them soak for a moment before rinsing it out.
“I’ll need to find some baking powder to help lift the stain. I can see if I can find you a change of clothes in the meantime.”
“No need.” From the corner of your eye, you see him move and he reclines against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking bored. After he examined the stains, he took the clean pieces back and now stands there with his shirt unbuttoned, undershirt still crisp, and mid-calf dress socks with gold toes held up with garters.
And nothing in between.
Quickly, you look away and can only nod.
“I shall return shortly, then.” Gently opening the door, you find no one waiting or even in the vicinity to catch a glimpse of what was going on.
Back to the supply closet, the mop bucket has been dumped and you hope that means someone else took care of the spill and not that they saw it abandoned and put it away. You don’t go to check the ballroom, though, lest you get caught up in some new mess - fired on the spot and further humiliated by Stone does not sound pleasant.
Against all odds, you find a spare uniform. It may not be classy enough to return to the party in but at least it’s something to wear.
Gently, you knock on the bathroom door. “Mr. O’Hara? May I come in?”
“Door’s unlocked,” he replies, and you can’t help but frown at his carelessness. Nevertheless, you let yourself in and keep your eyes towards the sink and not him, still casually half naked. How on earth he manages to seem so unbothered is beyond you.
“I found a spare—”
“I told you that’s not necessary.”
“I think I’d prefer it if you could. Sir.”
This man has the audacity to sigh loudly, like you were being such a hindrance, but takes the extended clothes. You sprinkle baking soda onto th—
Riiiiip.
Gasping, you turn around and stare in shock as Mr. O’Hara stands, slightly hunched over, frozen in place. The inseam of the pants you offered now bulges at his thigh, torn from being stretched over the dense muscle.
“If you knew it wasn’t going to fit, why’d you bother putting them on?!”
“You wanted me to,” is his response.
You’re at a loss of words. You’re also still staring at his legs, the way the fabric tried in vain to stay together, the slightest peek of—
Oh!
Facing the sink, you return to his slacks. Right. The stain you’re trying to remove. Behind you, more shuffling as he takes the uniform pants off.
“You can just pitch them,” you advise wearily. “It’s no loss.”
For a moment, the room is calm. In your rush to try and lift the stain you hadn’t really noticed the size of the bathroom, the proximity of the two of you. You use your thumbs to rub the powder in.
“Don’t mind Stone,” he breaks the silence and you look up, watching him in the mirror. He’s facing straight forward, his profile sharp but you swear you can see his irises, coloring the corner of his eyes, watching you in turn. “He’s probably already forgotten about it.”
“And yourself? Shouldn’t you get back to the party?”
“I’ll have to go collect my plus one at some point but I could use the getaway.”
“Not a fan?”
“I’d rather pluck out my own fingernails than attend another fundraiser.” When he sees you cringe at the visual, he eases off the moody spiral a tad. “It’s not like Alchemax needs any more money.”
“This event is for the new Anti-Pollution Brigade, right? A christening to its approval.”
The arm of his glasses click against the tiled wall when he turns his head. “Who do you think polluted everything?”
In the basin, the water is no longer cold.
“When you live a cushy life, you don’t want to see the ugly truths but you get to a point where it’s hard to ignore. If I crawl out of my cave once or twice a year to kiss up to the donors so I can keep doing my research—”
“Mr. O’Hara—”
“Miguel.”
You clear your throat. “Miguel. I’ve lifted the stain the best I could, but I’d get it taken care of as soon as you can. Thankfully, your slacks are dark enough it won’t be as obvious. Now it’s just waiting for them to dry.”
“Hm.” Stepping away from the wall, he stands beside you and takes his pants, examining them, holding them up to the light - his shirt raises and you promptly break the oath you made in your head.
You look.
A glance, while he’s distracted, then a stare. The man is hung and you don’t think he’s even chubbed. Something like that just hangs there? Has been hanging there this entire time? Forget the uniform being tight around his thighs, he’d break the zipper trying to hold that back.
“Thanks,” his voice draws your eyes away from below the waist and up to his face, where his expression is unchanged. “How’re the boxers?”
“Same situation.”
“I’ll just go without.” Tossing his slacks over his shoulder, Miguel picks up his underwear, wrings it out and then promptly throws it away, piled with the ripped uniform.
“You’ll still have to wait for your pants to dry, unless you intend on going back still damp?”
“Don’t suppose you have a hairdryer on hand? No? Then I’ll wait.”
It occurs to you, then, that you are now formally no longer needed. You spilled wine on him and cleaned it to the best of your ability, now there’s no reason to stick around.
“I should get back to work, then.”
“Should you?”
Straightening your top, you turn to him. “Sorry?”
“Should you get back to work? No one out there appreciates you. They probably haven’t even noticed you’ve left.”
Unsure if he means well and is just bad at it, you stay and listen.
“If Stone does deduct your pay, let me know and I’ll cover it. Actually, let me—”
“Oh, no, it’s alright, really—”
“You’re going to let him talk to you like that and nick your credits? I didn’t think so.”
Unable to help it, you huff. “At the expense of being blunt, sir, that really is none of your business.”
“Fine,” he concedes but not without a slight bite to his tone. As of he isn’t standing with his—
With his dick now pointing out, stirring interest.
“Ah.”
To your surprise, he doesn’t apologize. Do you expect him to? Like he had been most of the time you’ve been here, he seems indifferent, unbothered.
You, however, are frozen in place, trying to find the words. A tense silence fills the room.
“I’ll, ahem, leave you be.”
“Why?”
Is he serious?
“Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Neither of us really want to return to the event, so what’s the rush?”
Inhaling through your teeth, you straighten yourself up. “I was trying to not draw attention to it, but I intend to leave to give you time to correct yourself.”
“My slacks are still wet, so nothing would change.”
“What would change is my being here.”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
You’re looking at his eyes, only able to see your own reflection in the lens. Pointedly not looking elsewhere but you swear you can see him getting harder.
“This is unprofessional.”
“I know this is unprofessional. I asked if you were uncomfortable.”
A response doesn’t come to you and you aren’t sure why. There’s an obvious answer, and yet.
“I’m not going to keep you here if you don’t want to. You can turn and leave right now.”
“What would staying entail?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m not the one who’s—” you gesture vaguely towards him and he raises an eyebrow.
“The one who’s…?” He prompts and you clench your jaw.
“The one who has his dick out,” you grit and he clicks his tongue and nods, like he didn’t know what you were alluding to.
“Right. That. That was due to your spill, though, wasn’t it?”
You bristle. “Mr. Stone—”
“I’m not blaming you, I remember the series of events that led us here.”
“Are you trying to imply I need to help you with this as well?”
“If you’re offering.”
Incredulously, you shake your head and mumble, “I got a call to cater an Alchemax fundraising gig and here I am.”
“Again, you can leave.”
“And I would, if I wanted to.”
“But you don’t?”
“No.”
“What’s the move, then?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“We’re on two different levels here.”
That’s a fair point. You begin to pull your shirt out from your waistband and unzip your slacks, going push them down when Miguel offers his help.
“You forgot your shoes,” he points out. “Here, sit.” Holding onto your hips, he sets you against the edge of the sink and removes your shoes, pulling your trousers down your legs and folding them neatly. “Hold onto them. Don’t want ‘em to get dirty.”
With a confused knit to your brow, you listen and hold them in your lap, untrusting about bearing your weight onto the sink but Miguel encourages you to try and get comfortable as he lowers to his knees.
“Oh!” Startled, you instinctively go to close your legs but he keeps a hand on the inside of both of your knees, keeping them open.
“I owe you,” is all he says before his hands move up, under the elastic band of your underwear and helps you shuffle them down. Handing them over, you lay them on top of your pants and watch with bated breath as he pulls you as close to the edge as you can manage before unceremoniously licks along your slit, wide and flat.
“Oh, shit.” With his thumbs, he spreads you apart and uses the tip of his tongue to coax your clit from beneath its hood, suckling on it once it becomes engorged with blood. Squirming, a quick flick of his eyes up at you gets you to still immediately and you can feel his smirk from where he’s burying his mouth against your mound.
Spitefully, you lift his glasses to the top of his head. He blinks a few times and squints, the room much brighter when not dimmed so heavily by his lenses, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing and instead meets your gaze head on. It’s overwhelming - there’s no way his irises are red, it must be a trick of the light but they shine like rubies.
“A-Ah—” Of course, while you had been distracted, he shifted his hold and slipped two fingers inside, shallowly thrusting. Tilting your head back, your eyes close and you focus on his touch, gripping the clothing in your hands.
“Careful,” comes a voice between your thighs, “you’ll wrinkle them.”
“I really don’t think you ha-ave any—” Now you know he’s doing it intentionally, pulling your attention away from his ministrations only to then switch it up. Raising one of your legs, you press your heel into his shoulder and bring him closer into you. Sitting up, he focuses on flicking his tongue over your clit while stroking your walls, making your toes curl and uncurl. “Fuck,” you hiss, “Miguel…”
From the floor, he only hums in acknowledgement. With his eyes shut, eyelashes fanned over his cheekbones, he is focused solely on getting you off and the devotion of this — this snobby, pompous, egotistical practical stranger sends you over the edge, hiccuping out little gasps and moans.
And he doesn’t relent, maintaining a steady rhythm of fingering and tasting despite the way you writhe and come completely undone beneath him.
Only when you slide your hand down, prying his mouth off of you, that he does stop. Laughing, you admire how fucked out he looks from just eating you out. It makes you forget, for a moment, where you are, what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.
A knock on the door makes your stomach drop. The handle rattles and you say a silent prayer that you remembered to lock it.
“Everything alright?” Someone asks from the other side and the color that had drained from your voice returns when you realize it’s possible someone just heard you—
Miguel, with a smug grin, pinches the inside of your thigh and you jolt.
“Yes, I-I’m fine!” You croak, then clear your throat to try and regain your composure.
Whoever was on the other side doesn’t respond and you’re about to call out again when Miguel, with more care, pats your knee.
“They left.”
Your mouth opens to give him a piece of your mind but that smirk he’s still wearing has a light sheen, his lips sticky with you, sweat at his hairline. Fucked out from giving.
“Come here,” you tell him, widening your legs to give him room to stand. At the sight of him before you, fully erect and neglected, a wanton moan is drawn out from your chest and he motions for you to stand. Not unlike a newborn horse, your legs buckle when you stand and you find yourself laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Carefully, he turns you and has you face the wall before bending you at the hip.
Laying himself over you, he sighs against the side of your face, his hot length smooth as it rubs against your skin. Taking hold of himself, he lines the tip along your slit, gathering the natural lubricant there with languid strokes.
“Are you sure?” He breathes, a quiet whisper.
“Yes. Fuck, please.”
After a couple more passes he presses in, slowly, until you feel him bottom out.
“Wait, wait.” Still sensitive from the amount of pleasure he had given, you know he can feel the way your cunt pulses and molds around him and you can feel him twitching in response.
Between clenched teeth, he hisses and his hips buck involuntarily.
“Miguel, wait,” you pant, your muscles tensing at the notion of him moving when everything already feels alight.
“I can’t,” he grunts, a hand on your hip tightening as he tries to hold himself back. “Fuck—” Lifting himself off of you, he places his hands on your waist and pulls out almost entirely, shallowly thrusting the head of his cock into your wet heat. “I’m gonna— oh, fuck.” Blunt nails sink into your skin and he shoves in once, twice, three times, each one punching a shout out of you before he pulls out entirely, the heft of his cock hitting your tailbone with a wet slap before he shoves your shirt up and out of the way. There’s a sound, briefly, like he was going to speak but got choked up in a moan and then you feel it - him . Ropes of hot cum on your bare back, stepping back to ensure none of it would get on your clothes.
Trying to catch your breath, you slump forward and press your face against the cool tile.
“Damnit,” you hear him muttering, moving around. Dampening paper towels under the faucet, he cleans your back and between your thighs. Though you aren’t sure, you almost think he apologizes and something softer carefully wipes around your pussy. Looking up in surprise, you see he’s somehow managed to strip completely, using his undershirt to tend to you.
“What are you doing?!”
“Cleaning up?”
“With your shirt?”
“The towels are scratchy,” and he says it like it was the next reasonable solution. “I won’t put it back on,” he assures you, going so far as to demonstrate to you as he balls it up and throws it away - now with a ripped pair of pants and a wine-stained pair of briefs.
“Well, thank you.” Gathering your own clothes, the two of you start to redress in an awkward silence. Not uncomfortable, not comfortable; there’s no pillow talk or pleasantries. “Are your pants dry?” You ask, tucking your top back in.
“I’ll manage.” Buttoning his shirt again, he clears his throat, almost nervously. “I meant to… Or I mean, I didn’t… I usually, uh, last longer than that.”
Unrolling your sleeves, you smile at him. “I have absolutely zero complaints.”
“Okay. Good. Me neither.” Watching him correct his appearance, you get the feeling that his brashness was just a stick up his ass and an orgasm helped placate him. He must sense your thoughts before the harsh edges of him start to reshape, a sobering reminder of your dynamic.
“We should get back,” you announce, glancing towards the door. “Ideally, everyone will be too drunk or too caught up in who’s the biggest kiss-ass to have noticed.”
Wiping his lenses off, Miguel puts his glasses back on and rolls his shoulders. “Let me pay you. Not for—” he waves his hand to indicate all of this , “but for cleaning my suit.”
“Really, I didn’t do much. You should still get them properly cleaned.”
“Then compensation for dealing with Tyler.”
That you can’t really refute so you nod.
“Are we all done here?” He asks and it feels like the end of a transaction.
“I think so.”
“You go out first.” Blinking at him, you only see your reflection.
“Alright. If I don’t see you again, have a good night, Mr. O’Hara. And thank you.”
“Same to you.” Before you can turn the lock, his hand overlaps yours and he presses a chaste kiss to your temple, unlocking the door and opening it for you, staying hidden on the other side. It gives you no time to process it before you have to keep moving, instinctively back to the supply closet. Maybe you could hide there for the rest of the night.
Wrong.
A couple other staff members are rummaging through the supplies, moving hastily, and one of them spots you.
“Where have you been?”
“I wasn’t feeling well—” you begin but you’re already being talked over.
“We need you in the kitchen. These snotty assholes didn’t like one of the appetizers so we had to— ugh—” annoyed by the whole ordeal, they wave it off and motion you towards the kitchen, where you scurry away.
Like no time had passed, you’re back on the floor, silver platter in hand, offering bite-sized dishes that cost a paycheck each. You notice someone flagging you down and turn on your heel to head their direction.
“I’m not hungry,” she tells you when you’re close enough and you stop, your eyebrows furrowing, while she digs through her clutch. “I wanted to apologize about earlier.”
For a moment, you only look blankly at her and she seems almost embarrassed to realize you weren’t on the same page.
“You were the poor girl Tyler yelled at about the wine, weren’t you?” She lowers her voice and then it clicks.
“It was my mistake for knocking the tray over, miss, but I appreciate the apology.”
“Miss!” She gushes. “Please, call me—”
“Dana.”
“Mig, honey, there you are! I was wondering where you went.”
“Restroom.”
“For that long?” When he only shrugs, Dana rolls her eyes and turns back to you. “Don’t mind Tyler, I don’t think the wine was that big of a deal, he just wanted to act like it was.”
It doesn’t make you feel any better about being humiliated like that but you shouldn’t be surprised to know Tyler was the type to get off from pushing those below him around. You’re distracted, though, watching Miguel touching Dana, a possessive hand on her side while he surveys the room. She asks him something, briefly, turning her head and he puckers his lips and kisses the bridge of her nose, those same lips that had been pursed around—
“—but here, do take this.” In front of you, Dana has extended a card.
“Oh, I—”
“A tip for your troubles,” she clarifies with a smile.
“Thank you, uhm,” you and Dana come to the same realization that both of your hands are busy holding the platter of appetizers and you don’t want to risk another incident.
“Babe, take the tray, would you?” She asks Miguel, who picks it up with one hand, his other hand reaching into his blazer pocket to pull out his own wallet. Taking the offered card from Dana, you thank her again and she clasps your hand in hers. Instead of handing the tray back, Miguel passes you a card as well.
“She had to deal with Tyler,” he explains to Dana’s confused expression.
“I know,” she says, “I tipped her.”
“And I’m giving her my tip.”
Huffing, she focuses on making sure her clutch is organized and you swear Miguel winks at you when he hands over the card, waits for you to pocket it, then returns the tray.
“Can I get you two anything else?” You ask, wanting to be anywhere but here.
“I’m fine. Love?”
“No, thank you.”
Trying to maintain your most professional abscond, you waltz around with your platter until it’s empty and then volunteer for dish duty for no reason other than to hide away. Before you do, though, you see Miguel has taken off his blazer and laid it over Dana’s shoulders and you try not to think about how he has nothing under his dress shirt and slacks. Next time you get a call for a catering job at Alchemax, you’ll tell them to stick it.