Can you write something for the Ross girlies 👀I would give you a big smooch xx
ok! ;)
play with me ross macdonald x reader
“You can’t outdrink me,” he stated, the words carved in stone. He wasn’t challenging me, teasing me, or insulting me. He was making the facts clear.
“I can try,” I shrugged, fingers wrapped around the vodka between us.
“You shouldn’t,” his eyes followed my fingertips, pressed into the bottle. He was trying to hide behind the shadows on his face, to settle into the dark of the empty bar. I wasn’t supposed to catch him, drinking to soothe himself into the end of the day. And I wasn’t supposed to tell him that I was here to do the same thing.
“Fine,” I reached behind the bar for a shot glass, filling it, “I can drink alone.”
He inhaled a little deeper, watching me let the liquor burn down my throat. Watching my lips, stoic and wet, my tongue licking the vodka off of them. He looked back at the bottle quickly when I tried to meet his eyes.
I poured another. He cleared his throat.
“I prefer it, actually,” I took my shot with a grin, cheeks heating already.
He buried his chin in his hand, “You’re the one who came in here.”
“Didn’t know you were here,” I ground the glass into the wood countertop. I reached for the bottle, each drink making me thirstier. “The bar is closed, you know.”
“I’d slow down,” he grumbled, fist now curling under his chin. I watched the muscles flex down the back of his arm.
“You would?” I laughed with disbelief, filling my glass again. When I brought it to my lips, his hand caught my wrist.
“I would.” He took the glass from my hand, my wrist tingling. He took the shot, his lips smudging against my lipstick stain on the rim. He set the glass down, bored.
“I’m winning,” I whispered, my knee brushing his. He laughed, more of a sustained grunt than anything actually jovial. I reached for the vodka, but he pulled it away. He dragged it along the bar, frowning, pointedly placing it behind him.
I liked the idea of going through him for a drink.
I pouted, planting my palm above his knee, “Come on. Play with me.”
“You were always a fucking lightweight,” He glanced down at my hand on his leg, as if it were a fly that had landed on him.
“Just have another drink. For me,” I smiled, sliding my hand off his leg.
“You’re starting to piss me off,” he groaned, but grabbed the bottle and brought it to his lips. A quick swallow, then the sound of the bottle hitting the bar. He raised an eyebrow, happy?
“That’s against regulation,” I pushed the shot glass closer to him. “I can’t monitor your intake.”
He smirked, “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” I shrugged, “Just use the glass next time.”
He pointed at the shot glass, head tilted, “This one?”
I frowned. I nodded slowly.
He swept up the glass with his fingers, and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall on impact, glass trickling to the floor.
I covered my mouth, “What the fuck?”
“Was that against the rules?” He asked, unable to hide his stupid grin.
“Asshole,” I couldn’t help but laugh, his stifled giggles infectious. “You’re a sore loser, anyways.”
“You’re deluded if you think you would have won,” he muttered, his smile melting off his face. His elbow guarded the liquor behind him.
“Well,” I tapped my nails against the bar, “I hoped you might let me win.”
“You hoped?” His shoulders stiffened as he breathed. His eyes kept jumping to my nails.
I nodded, leaning in, “I hoped you’d get drunk with me.”
He clasped his hands together, roughly entangling his fingers.
“Is that what you hoped?” He spoke slowly. My heart tripped, scattering ahead of me and chanting; yes, yes, yes!
My temple brushed his cheek, “Maybe.”
“Is that all you hoped?”
“No,” I breathed, lips on the stubbly edge of his beard. He was unnaturally still, barely breathing. The bottle scraped against the bar, the sound of vodka rushing to his lips in my ear. He pulled back, looking down at me as he took another sip.
“You need a drink?” He asked slowly, letting his right hand hover by my jaw. I leaned into it, the heat of his fingers connecting to my cheek. I had missed it, his calloused fingertips on my skin, pretending to be gentle as long as he could.
“Badly,” I whispered. His fingers crawled up the back of my jaw, barely there. He was so close, I couldn’t look at him. I watched his collarbones, the tides of them, rising and falling.
His thumb moved to my chin, pressing just below my lip. His palm tilted my head back. My pulse ran up my neck, my vision blue and blurring with the rush of blood. I thought I might slip through the spaces between his fingers, the way my blood slurred and my skin heated. He slipped his thumb between my lips, dragging it into my mouth. His knuckle caught on my teeth. My jaw relaxed for him, and he brought the bottle to my open lips. I watched him through the haze of my lashes, his lips parted as the liquor pooled on my tongue.
I struggled to swallow, his thumb still holding my mouth agape. He sighed, a sort of laugh, watching my throat try to pull the liquor down. He loosened his grip, letting my lips wrap around his thumb, finally letting me swallow.
“How’s it taste?” He tilted his head to the side, setting the bottle aside. He kept his thumb in my mouth, wrapping his other hand behind my neck.
“Like shit,” I replied, muffled. His thumb was on the center of my tongue. I wanted to lick at it, or wrap my lips around it and suck, anything to elicit some reaction in him. Anything to get him to blush. But I was nervous to lose the moment, and let his thumb melt on my tongue like a cough drop.
“I meant me,” he said, lips in my ear. “How do I taste?”
My thoughts stalled in my skull.
I could taste his heartbeat on his thumb, and I let a sigh slip as he popped it out of my mouth. He cradled my face, stroking my cheeks. Looking into me, forcing me to look back. He glanced between my eyes and lips, breathing deeply, a quick sip of air. How he did before he kissed me.
He brought his lips to mine, feather-like and careful. He kissed me slowly, drinking in my lip gloss and liquored tongue. If I listened carefully, I could hear the moans catching in his throat. I waited for his hands to move, to slip a strap off my shoulder, to grasp at my neck or grip the bone at my hip.
“How do I taste?” He repeated, speaking into my mouth. I gasped, thrill crowding my head and scrambling my confidence.
“Like you always did,” I mumbled, and he pulled back. He took his hands off of me, sitting back in his chair. He held the liquor instead.
“I don’t want to be mean,” he frowned. I watched his throat pulse as he took three long swallows.
I shook my head, “I don’t mind.”
He winced, “You do mind.”
“Be mean,” I whispered. “I’ll forgive you tomorrow.”
His face was twisted, his hand curled under his chin. He rubbed at his forehead, between his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You shouldn’t,” he murmured.
I nodded, and reached for his wrist, “Kiss me again.”
“Maybe you’re not good for me,” he laughed quietly, returning my grip on his wrist and pulling me in.
“I don’t care,” I grinned. He picked me up, setting me on the bar counter. I liked how he stood between my thighs, his nose on mine. I liked how he battered kisses into my neck.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed, and brought his lips down on mine again.
part 2
