Title: "Let Them Eat Cake"
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: AC, JustFaith, sexual situations, language.
Disclaimer: Nope! Not my characters.
Summary: What may or may not have happened in his office all those years ago. Plot? What plot?
The pearl buttons of her white blouse were done all the way up to her collar. Prim and proper. Only, he knew she was anything but. His hand closed around her wrist and he tugged her towards him, scattering the papers she held with one swift motion. They were inconsequential. A cover. Something to get her here.
She looked like a slice of wedding cake. All exquisite icing and soft golden center. "Does that make you Devil's Food?" she countered when he voiced that thought aloud, fingers curling into the lapels of his navy suit jacket.
"Take a bite, Baby. Find out," he urged as her coat, and then her pretty blouse, tore beneath his hands, as buttons popped free and pearls rolled under his desk. In the coming weeks, he would find one, here and there, under a drawer, behind a potted plant, each one a reminder of slamming her against the desk and locking her legs around his waist.
Her tiny hands came up, around his neck, fingertips playing in the shaved base of his hair. She kissed him and he tasted the honey of her lip gloss, the candy of her tongue. He bent her back across the blotter, knocking pens and files every which way. Her knees came up to trap his hips...not that he needed to be caught, held, because there was no other place he wanted to be.
No other place except inside her.
Ripping silk, mouth on her hot skin, tasting the hollows and following the flushes all the way down her flat belly. She arched up against him, whispering "Fuck" and "me" and "now" and he echoed them back to her, adding sentiments of his very own. The love bites he would leave on the insides of her thighs, the bruises on her wrists to match the scratches her nails would leave on his back.
No spun frosting roses for them, no.
She wound around him, naked against his clothed body..."Careful...my nameplate will brand your pretty little ass," he warned.
"Too late," she assured, eyes dark and inviting. Maybe a little sad, but he didn't care. The hunger was stronger. "Too late to be careful, Justus. I'm all ready branded."
A point she proved as she fumbled with his zipper, as he sank deep and she cried out, muffling the sound by digging her teeth into his shoulder.
Did he taste like Devil's Food?
All he knew was that she melted like confectioner's sugar around him. Not too sweet. Just sweet enough.
She was so pale, so tiny and perfect... and yet so strong. There were no sounds of pain as he took her harder, deeper, against the solid surface of the desk. Just gasps, moans, obscenities, as hot and tight as the way she came. The way he followed.
"I changed my mind," she chuckled, soothing away the imprints of her teeth with the barest of kisses as he slumped against her, burying his face in her sweat-damp neck.
"You're not Devil's Food Cake. You're chocolate syrup."
"I am?" he laughed, weakly, raising himself up on his elbows, picking a stray button from the tangle of her hair. "And is this where you're going to tell me you're vanilla ice cream?"
"Hardly." She tugged him back down. All the way.
"Mississippi Mud Pie?"
"No...no, I got it...New York style cheesecake..."
"Do you want to eat me, Justus, or fuck me?"
"What do *you* think?"
It turned out...she didn't think much at all. She acted.
She took the first bite.
March 1, 2004.