@waynecross: [eavesdrop] sender fucks receiver where others can hear but not see
her designer jacket is on the floor, probably accruing viral strains unknown to most scientists. riko couldn’t care less; she's got wayne between her legs in a club bathroom, and he’s hoisting her up against the door. god, she’s wanted this for so long, wanted him and hated herself for it. she’s thought about it, of course she’s thought about it, nights when she’s by herself, or every time his teeth sink into her skin. when he tilts his head and gives her that — that look, like he could have anything in the world if he just asked nicely.
and still, the reality is better than her fantasy. they’d been in the club’s vip lounge for the afterparty, dwindling down to just the two of them with the rest of the band dispersed (and mary disappeared to cause chaos or destabilize a small country or whatever she does in her spare time). riko had been buzzing with how good the set had been, electric with it. wayne had been too, she could tell. and one thing led to another, led to his fingers under her skirt, led to her pulling him into the nearest bathroom. the look in his eyes, when he’d started to move his large and steady hand up her thigh and she’d spread her legs instead of smacking him. it was beautiful, seeing wayne shocked.
“you were so good today,” she says now and means it, panting. her manicured fingers curl into the long hair at the nape of his neck. “you were fucking amazing,” he’s enough to get her out of her own head for once, her bare legs wrapping around his waist, one heel kicked off god knows where. she’s a mess. she doesn’t remember the last time she let herself get this messy, barring the drunken nights of her youth. riko kisses him again. it’s a night of firsts for them both.
“i need you to fuck me,” she says. she almost doesn’t recognize the way her voice comes out, rough and wanton. riko hasn’t had more than a glass of champagne, but she feels drunk anyway, on the success. the music. everything going exactly as planned, for once. she wonders if people can hear them, back in the club. she doesn’t care. this scandal would ruin her if it leaked, but she reminds herself that there’s no reason for anyone outside this room to assume it’s his manager that wayne cross is with and not just any slut or groupie who crossed his path. need seeps into her tone; she tightens her grip on his hair. she’s soaked, after just a bit of lazy fingering and some kissing. “wayne, please.”
