Desirable Bachelor| Murray Bauman x Female reader
After a long night of witty banter and heavy drinking, the professional tension between you and Murray finally snaps, leading to a heated and long-overdue encounter at his place
Relationships: Murray Bauman x female reader
Chapter Three - Long overdue
The clock on the wall, caked in years of grease, ticked through another hour that neither of you noticed. Two more rounds had come and gone; Murray remained loyal to his vodka while you worked your way through the whiskey, the amber liquid loosening the knots of a long week. He had spent the last sixty minutes on a tear, his dry wit sharper than ever, and he clearly reveled in the results. Every time you laughed, he looked like he’d just won the lottery, a goofy, half-drunken grin plastered across his face that he didn't even bother to hide anymore. As the latest bout of giggles finally tapered off into a comfortable silence, the atmosphere in the booth shifted. The sharp, bright energy of the banter simmered down into something lower, heavier, and far more focused.
"Say," Murray started. His voice dropped into a quiet, private murmur. He wet his lips, his gaze flickering from your eyes down to your glass before landing on his own. He looked caught between a confident smirk and a vulnerable smile, his usual armor finally worn thin by the booze and the company. He began to trace the rim of his near-empty glass with his index finger, the motion slow and deliberate.
"The vodka in this place is sub-par," he said, his eyes meeting yours again, holding them with a sudden, suave intensity that made the air in the booth feel scarce. "Strictly for medicinal purposes and stripping paint. If you’re interested... I have some significantly better alcohol at my place."
He paused, his finger stopping its circular motion as he tilted his head, watching for your reaction. "No neon signs, no sticky tables, and I promise the host is slightly more charming when he’s not trying to compete with a jukebox."
The suggestion hung in the air, thick and enticing. At his words, your tipsy heart gave a sudden, heavy thud, the warmth of the whiskey blooming into a slow, low heat that settled deep in your stomach. You didn't pull away. Instead, you looked down at your glass and then at his, mirroring his movement by tracing the rim of your own. There was barely a shot left in either of them, just enough to seal the deal. You didn't offer a verbal answer at first. Instead, you gripped the glass, tilted your head back, and downed the remaining whiskey in one sharp, burning gulp. The fire of the alcohol hit your throat, chasing away the last of your hesitation.
Setting the glass back on the sticky table with a definitive thud, you caught his gaze. The red neon light was still dancing in his lenses, but his expression was uncharacteristically still, waiting for the verdict.
"I thought you'd never ask." You smirked, the words coming out with a playful, daring edge. Murray’s eyebrows shot up, a flash of triumphant surprise crossing his face before he smoothed it back into that devastatingly suave grin. He didn't waste a second. He drained his own glass with practiced ease and slid out of the booth, offering you a hand with a flourish that was only slightly undermined by the sway in his step.
"Don't get too excited," he drawled "It’s not exactly the Ritz. It’s mostly books, a suspicious amount of takeout menus, and a bottle of vodka that’s significantly older and more expensive than my van." He pulled you gently to your feet, his smirk widening as he took in your heels one last time. "Try to act surprised when you see the mess. I’d hate for you to think I actually cleaned up on the off-chance that my devastating charm would actually work on someone like you. It would be terrible for my ego if word got out I was an optimist." You found yourself grinning and whether it was the alcohol or not, you boldy leaned it and murmured "I've wanted this since the day you walked into that police station."
Murray froze. For a man who lived and breathed on having the last word, the silence that followed was deafening. Then, with a smirk, he stated "You’ve got a hell of a poker face." His face inches from yours. He let out a low laugh. "Forget the vodka. If you’re serious, we’re leaving right now, because I’m about three seconds away from testing just how much 'professionalism' you have left in front of this bartender." You bit your lip, eyes sparkling with excited.
The warehouse was exactly what you expected: high ceilings, exposed brick, and a floor plan that suggested Murray’s interior designer was a man who lived out of cardboard boxes. He didn't bother with the main lights. The space was a moody scene of deep shadows, slashed through by the amber glow of a lonely desk lamp and the rhythmic, pale blue pulse of a street lamp bleeding through the tall windows. The heavy steel door had barely finished echoing its arrival into the frame before the polite fiction of "having a drink" was shredded.
"So," Murray panted against your neck, his fingers fumbling with your zipper with a frantic energy that betrayed his cool exterior. "Is this the part where you tell me you only came here for the architecture? Because I should warn you, the insulation is terrible."
"Shut up, Murray." You breathed, your hands already tangled in the thick, messy hair at the back of his head. You pulled him back just enough to find his mouth, cutting off his next dry remark with a kiss that tasted of whiskey and desperate, long-overdue intent. He let out a muffled groan, his hands finally winning the war with your dress as he hoisted you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, the cool metal of the door a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his skin.
"You're remarkably bossy for someone off the clock." He panted, his breath hitching as you nipped at his lower lip. He backed you hard against the steel, his glasses crooked and his navy bowling shirt hanging open and forgotten.
The cold shock of the steel door against your bare skin made you gasp, a soft, broken sound that echoed in the vast, quiet warehouse. You arched your back away from the metal, the movement instinctive and bold as you pressed yourself more firmly into his space. Murray’s breath hitched, a jagged, uneven sound that caught in his throat. He went still for a heartbeat, his eyes tracking the line of your body in the amber light, before he buried his face against the lace of your bra, his nose grazing the valley between your breasts. He didn't pull back. Instead, his hands slid from your waist to your thighs, his grip tightening as he held you pinned against the doorl. He abandoned the last of his witty defenses, his mouth trailing a path of fire from the curve of your cleavage up to the sensitive skin of your collarbone. Murray’s hands, usually so steady with a camera or a case file, were slightly trembling as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
"The door is efficient," he managed to gasp out, "but I’m an old-fashioned man at heart. I prefer a bit more cushion for my impending heart failure." He carried you away from the cold metal and across the shadowed floor, eventually dropping you onto the oversized, worn leather couch that occupied the center of the room. Your dress, already a lost cause, was discarded along the way.
As you sank into the deep, cool leather, Murray stood over you for a second, his chest heaving.
He reached for his waist, his fingers working the buckle of his slacks with a focused, impatient intensity.
While Murray dealt with the stubborn buckle of his slacks, you didn't wait for him to catch up. Reaching back, you unhooked your bra with practiced ease, the lace falling away as you slid the straps down your arms. The amber light caught the curve of your shoulders, casting soft, golden highlights across your skin as you tossed the garment aside. When you looked back, Murray had gone completely still. His slacks were puddled around his ankles, and his thumbs were hooked firmly under the waistband of his briefs. He was staring at you with an expression that was halfway between reverence and a total system failure.
He kicked his trousers out of the way, his gaze traveling over you with a slow, heavy heat that made your skin prickle. The playful weirdo was officially dead and buried; the man standing over you now looked like he was finally done playing games.
"You are a very dangerous woman." He murmured, his thumbs tugging downward as he took a step closer, the leather of the couch creaking under his weight as he moved to join you. "I usually charge extra for this much trouble, but for you... I think I’ll waive the fee."
He leaned over you, his heat radiating through the small space left between your bodies. "Any last-minute objections? Because once I get down there, I’m not stopping for any more repartee." You simply shook your head, a slow, deliberate movement as you held his gaze. Your hands slid down to the waistband of your underwear, and with a rhythmic, side-to-side wiggle, you eased the last of your clothing down your legs and kicked it onto the growing pile on the floor. Murray’s breath didn't just hitch; it stopped entirely. His thumbs were still hooked in his briefs, but he seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be moving. The dry, cynical investigator was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he’d just stumbled upon the world’s most beautiful crime scene and realized he was the prime suspect.
"Okay," he managed to choke out, his voice a low, vibration that was barely more than a whisper. "Fine. No objections. Excellent. I’m just going to... stop breathing for a minute." He finally followed suit, shedding the last of his clothes with a frantic, uncoordinated haste that was far more honest than any of his smooth talk. He stood over you, fully exposed in the amber light. He was thick and hard, his circumcised cock standing tall amidst a patch of hair that matched the dark, messy curls on his head. As his gaze raked over you, his body reacted with a sharp, involuntary twitch of excitement. You let out an involuntary moan as you shifted your legs, widening for him.
As he moved to bridge the gap, the worn leather of the couch groaned under his weight. He didn't hover this time; he came down over you, his skin a searing contrast to the cool air of the warehouse.
"You realize," he murmured, his face inches from yours, his glasses finally being tossed onto a nearby pile of folders with a reckless clatter, "that after this, I’m never going to be able to focus at the precinct again? I’ll be staring at your desk like a man who’s lost his marbles."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below your ear, his heat completely enveloping you. A low, satisfied purr vibrated in your throat, the sound seemingly a catalyst for the last of his restraint to snap. You reached out, running your palm up the soft, warm expanse of his chest and over the soft line of his shoulder, feeling the way his muscles bunched beneath your touch.
"Good," you murmured, your eyes locked onto his. "Do you have protection?"
Murray blinked, the haze of lust in his eyes clearing just enough for a flicker of his habitual dry wit to return. He let out a breathy, frantic laugh that was more of a huff.
"In this neighborhood?" His hand already reaching blindly toward the cluttered top of the side table, fumbling past a stack of case files and a half-empty coffee mug. "I've got a deadbolt, a baseball bat, and—"
His fingers closed around a small, square foil packet with a triumphant crinkle. He held it up between two fingers like he’d just discovered a crucial piece of evidence.
"—A very optimistic purchase I made about twenty minutes before you got to the bar." He finished, his smirk returning, though it was softened by the way his hand was shaking. "I’m a man of many talents, but 'unprepared' isn't one of them. Though, for a second there, I think you actually made me forget my own name, let alone the contents of my house." He leaned back down ripping open the packet and sheathing himself.
Your hand trailed restlessly down his thigh, tracing a path that made his breath hitch in a sharp, ragged staccato. You let out a soft, desperate mewl, your hips subconsciously rocking against him in an rhythmic demand for more.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
Murray’s composure didn't just crack; it disintegrated. He let out a low, guttural groan that vibrated through your entire body. One of his hands clamped firmly onto your waist, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady, while the other moved to cup your breast, his palm heavy and hot.
"Oh, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, velvet-edged growl that was entirely stripped of his usual dry irony. "I think I have a pretty good clue." He looked down at you, his eyes dark and blown out, the amber light catching the sweat beginning to beads on his forehead. The man who always had a witty retort for everything was suddenly, blissfully, at a loss for words. He shifted his weight, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulled you even closer, his body humming with a desperate, pent-up energy that told you exactly how much he’d been holding back.
With a slow, deliberate focus that made the wait almost unbearable, he eased himself into you. The sensation was a physical tidal wave, drawing a jagged duo of groans and breathless moans from both of you that echoed up into the dark rafters.
"Oh God..." Murray groaned, his voice breaking as his head rolled back. For th first time since you’d met him, the man looked completely overwhelmed, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a shaky, desperate breath.
"Murray!" You whined, your mouth hanging open slightly as you arched into him, your fingers digging into his shoulders to anchor yourself.
He stayed still for a heartbeat, just feeling the weight of the moment, his head and shoulders dropping to hunch over you. He was trembling, the cool investigator finally replaced by a man who was clearly out of his depth in the best possible way. He let out a weak, staggered laugh that turned into a low moan as he began to move, his grip on your waist tightening.
"Fuck." You breathed out, the word a ragged exhale. You instinctively widened your legs just a fraction more, a silent, physical plea to feel every bit of him. Murray read the movement loud and clear. He didn't rush; he didn't give in to the frantic, sharp rhythm you might have expected from someone who had waited this long. Instead, he gripped your hips with a bruising intensity and began to roll his hips in a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm. Each steady, deliberate push sent him deeper into you, a relentless pressure that seemed to touch the very center of your being.
"You like that?" He asked through partially gritted teeth. He was vibrating with the effort of keeping that slow, torturous rhythm.
"Fuck yeah, Murray. Faster, please!" You pushed yourself even harder into his hips, the coarse, dark hair of his bush tickling against your inner thighs. He gave a sharp, single nod, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden focus.
"Roger that." He swallowed hard as he began to pick up the pace, tentatively at first, a steady build-up of pressure, before he truly let go. The slow, deep rolls sharpened into hard, driving thrusts that made the leather of the couch creak in a frantic rhythm.
Your hands were in constant motion, needing to touch every inch of him as the pace intensified. You dragged your palms up his shoulders, your fingers tangling once more in the thick, messy curls at the back of his head to pull him closer.
You didn't stay there for long, your touch sliding back down the planes of his shoulders to his soft chest, feeling his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your palms. Finally, your hands came to rest in the crooks of his neck, your thumbs tracing his pulse point as he drove into you.
"You're killing me," Murray groaned, now lowering himself into the crook of your shoulder, his skin slick and burning hot under your fingertips. He buried his face in your neck, his breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. "If you... keep touching me like that... I'm not going to be able to keep this pace for much longer."
He tightened his grip on your hips as he adjusted his angle to find an even deeper friction. The shift in his angle caught something deep within you, a perfect, hidden pressure point that sent an electric jolt straight through your nervous system. You let out a loud, uninhibited moan that rang out through the warehouse, your brow furrowing involuntarily as your face contorted with the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the sensation.
"Oh God, fuck... whatever you did then, do it again!" You gasped, your voice breaking as you slung a leg around his waist. Murray’s eyes flared, his pupils blown wide until the irises were just thin rings of color. He didn't need to be told twice. He locked his grip on your hips, pushing you deeper into the sofa as he narrowed his focus, driving back into that exact spot with a relentless, rhythmic precision.
"Yeah?" He turned his face slightly, breath fanning over your neck and earlobe. "Christ, if you keep moaning like that I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind." Your hands scrambled for purchase, finding their way back into the thick, messy tangle of his hair. You gripped him tight, your voice reduced to a series of helpless mewls and high, desperate whines that seemed to drive him even harder.
The worn leather of the sofa was slick with the heat between you, sticking to the skin of your back with every rhythmic friction as you arched up to meet him. The sound of the leather creaking and the soft tack of skin pulling away from the surface only added to the heavy, primal atmosphere of the warehouse.
"Look at you," Murray rasped, his voice a broken, breathless wreck as he watched the way you moved beneath him. He was trembling again now, his knuckles white where he braced himself against the couch cushions on either side of your head. "You’re absolutely... ruining me." His hips moved in a frantic, driving blur that made the world outside the amber glow of the desk lamp completely disappear.
"Murray, oh, fuck you're gonna make me cum. I'm gonna cum!" You panted beneath him
"Stay with me," he groaned, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. "Don't you dare... stop now."
The tension that had been building for months finally reached its snapping point. Murray’s rhythm became frantic.
"I'm—" he started, but the word broke into a jagged, breathless gasp. He gripped your waist so hard his fingers left ghost-white marks against your skin. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
You felt the first wave of the climax hit, an electric, shimmering release that made your vision go white. You cried out his name, your fingers digging into his scalp, pulling him down as your internal muscles tightened around him in a rhythmic, helpless squeeze. Murray let out a sound that you weren't even sure he could make. His mouth flew open as he drove into you one last time, his entire body shuddering with the force of his own release.
He collapsed down onto you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours like a trapped bird.
For a long minute, the only sound in the warehouse was the rhythmic, heavy sound of your shared breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.
"Well." Murray finally spoke. He let out a long exhale and reached over you to replace his glasses back on his face. His skin still radiating an incredible heat.
"I’m going to need a minute. Maybe an hour. Possibly a year." He let out a weak, genuine laugh. "You okay, sweetheart? Because I think my soul just left my body, and I'm not entirely sure I want it back."
