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STAY ON, michael robinavitch

— practical. necessary. because he needs them. robby gets glasses, fuelling his insecurity of getting older, while you... you can't seem to think of anything hotter than your man and his new readers. (17k)

pairing: michael 'robby' robinavitch x fem!reader, emergency department!reader

warnings: smut (straight up p*rn), unprotected piv, old man insecurities, sexy reasoning to why you love robby’s nose, sexual daydreaming, reader gets very wet, fantasying at work, age-gap (reader is in her twenties, robby is fifty-three), kind of female masturbation, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), fingering, public teasing, dry-humping on couch and in elevator, cowgirl, roughish sex, robby talks you through it, you get turned on by robby calling himself “your old man”

You realise it too quickly. Very quickly. One moment you’re at peace, hunching over your bent knee while you paint your toenails an aqua colour, then, the next Robby is walking through the door. You hear his key rattle and his footsteps are heavy when they're heading towards you. It’s the first time he’s left you alone in his apartment if it’s not for work after you’ve stayed the night. This— Robby was just going out for an hour, picking something up, and coming back. You recall him saying he wanted to come back to you, have you still be there, so when it happens, you get this fuzzy, swelling feeling that loops around your ribcage. You’re in his apartment, on his couch, painting your nails like this is totally normal for you to exist here, waiting for him. It feels serious now. It’s feels like it’s getting serious. He wants you in his home because you’re dating, because he likes you so much, because he might love you?

You don’t know. Either way you like it. You like him coming through the door and it almost being like he’s not coming back to a place but coming back to you.

Smoothly, you fasten the nail polish lid and set it aside: on top of the magazine on his coffee table. Then, you lift you head. You stretch your neck, craning it over the back of the sofa, and call out to him. “Let me see, then," you say, already knowing where your boyfriend has been for the last hour. “Let’s have it.”

Robby strolls into your view. He's shirking off his jacket before he dumps it over the back of the other side of the sofa. “Have, what?”

He greets you with kiss. Ducking down, Robby makes your lips meet his from above. His hand comes to rest on where your neck is stretched, fingers spread along the column of your throat. The touch is gentle, barely there, but Robby hopes it's enough to distract you.

It's not. You tap his hand, the one on you, and you both part. Your eyes are directed right up at him, at his face that looms over yours. Softly, you lecture, “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Neither do these," he retorts, talking about what you've brought up first; why he's left you on your first shared day off in two weeks. If Robby can sulk, he will. Yet, what your boyfriend presents as now is completely withdrawn; defeated by this latest stage of life he's reached.

A light laugh of your is stifled. This is big to him, whereas, it feels so miniscule to you because your generation wears them not just as necessities but as accessories also. It highlights the age-difference between you; because you see them as nothing, meanwhile, Robby compares himself to being one more milestones from a headstone.

“Come on, they can’t be that bad," you say, keeping your voice encouraging as he joins you on the couch. He slumps down, reclining back as far as possible without lying horizontally. “They’re just glasses, Robby. Glasses. To help you see better.”

“Because I’m old," Robby counters. He sends you a tired, resigned look. "I’ve got them because I’m old and I’m losing my sight.”

This time, you can't hold back your laughter. “You are not losing your sight at all," you assert. Lightly, you poke him with your foot; the one where your nails are totally dry from their fresh coat of polish. You smile at him when Robby's eyes land on you, him half-smiling at the attention you're practically poking him with. You carry on, "Yeah, maybe, your eyes are weakening, but it’s not like you’re having to wear them all the time. It’s just screens and reading.”

Any chance of him feeling better vanishes. Robby puffs and looks away, bemoaning, “It’s because I’m old.”

“You’re impossible," you say, with an eye-roll at his dramatics. Maybe it's because you're young, that you're not even approaching the stage of life that Robby is in for another two decades, but you don't see the big deal. They're glasses. Just glasses. Reading glasses specifically. You see people wearing them every day and don't consider if they're old or half-blind; short or far sighted. Your life is too busy, too hectic, to care. “Just…" You know you have to care if it's Robby. It's really bothering him, playing into the insecurity he already has that his life has slipping away from him in a blink of an eye, ironically. It doesn't help that he's clinging to youth by falling into a relationship with someone over twenty-years his junior. "Just, show them to me," you push. "They can’t be that bad.”

Thankfully, Robby isn't so bitter that he can't do as you say. His actions are unwilling, however. You wonder if he's as nervous, behaving so bereaved by another sign of aging, because it's in front of you. It's you he's having to experience these things with. The person who gets excited when his grey comes in more prominently in his beard, especially around his mouth, because weirdly that excites you. In fact, you're delighted when one morning you find a silver strand hidden within your hair because it means you're not so different from your boyfriend. You can grow old together. The person who stands in the steamy mirror after a shower and can stomach looking your body over in its full nudity; everything so young, so soft. And, right now, in your twenties, it’s the most fuckable you’re been so far.

Out of the pocket of his jeans, Robby fetches out a hard box. He pops it open and, once he's gotten the glasses out, the magnetic seal snaps shut. Robby kindly unfolds the temples of them and, then, slides them onto his face, comfortably over his ears and the settle nicely on his nose. Afterwards, Robby looks to you. He faces you and puts on a mocking, pressed smile. “See?”

“Hmm-mm." You nod a few times, small, endearing. "I do see." You're observing him over: the new addition to his appearance. "More importantly, can you?”

He gruffs out, “I can.”

Next, you ask, “Do they make things on the screens clearer?”

“Yes," Robby says, getting out his words with a souring reluctance.

A smile hits your face. It gets bigger and bigger, until you're beaming at your boyfriend. “So, stop complaining. It’s just medical intervention, if that.”

You can tell Robby wants to roll his eyes at you, but he halts the urge. To him, you're clearing making sense, and yet, this feels much bigger than what you're making it out to be. Robby tells you, “I’m not complaining because I need them. I’m complaining because they make me look old. They make me feel old.”

“Michael, lovey," you start, gently coaxing yourself further across the sofa, closer to him, "you are old.”

“Oh, Jesus, thanks," rolls sarcastically out of Robby, louder than he is prior. He's too close to an exclaim; his voice coming from the back of his throat. "Knew I could count on you for reassurance."

His reaction makes you laugh, not mocking but slightly disbelieving that this is really something that's affecting him. If you don't know any better, you'll think your boyfriend links this to impending doom: a headstone at fifty-three. Death on scene, no chance of saving, a 'DNR' printed on his forehead because he's 'just that old now'.

Plainly, you put, “Who the hell are you trying to kid here? You know your age, you know what comes with it. Just be grateful it’s glasses and not a knee replacement," you joke, but it doesn't go very far with Robby. Spying this is much deeper than a little insecurity, you poke him with your foot again. His eyes meet yours, tired, and you smile gently. "There's plenty of young people, old people, middle aged people who need glasses. Hell, I probably need them for how much time I spend on my phone scrolling," you comment, and Robby actually agrees with a small, breathy chuckle. “Plus..." You get up on your knees and crawl up up to him, finding a safe place beside of him. You trace your fingertips delicately over his beard, nails scratching at the skin beneath. "I find them very sexy," you admit of the rounded frames he's come home with.

There's a light crinkle of surprise to his face, eyes a touch innocent under raised brows. He's checking you're being honest without a word and when he sees you're being entirely sincere, Robby juts his side to the side and tries to park it. Instead of thanking you, Robby stays deflecting and says, “You’re a goddamn liar.” But he knows to placate you, his sweet overly-sensitive soul of a girlfriend. His hand runs up your thigh, lodged in next to him, and he expels a long sigh, "But I appreciate the compliment, honey."

“No, you don't. You hate compliments," you say rather knowingly. It causes his mouth to smile and he sends it over to you. "But..." You extend on your knees again and, much to Robby's amazement, throw one of your legs over his. You straddle him, climbing into Robby's lap like it's the most natural thing for you. Teasing him with a wicked smirk, you make sure to tell him, "Just so you know, I find you very sexy, so, by default, I find them very sexy." A kiss is pressed to his jawline, right at the edge of his handsome face. "I find you in them very sexy. In fact, I think this could work for me," you concluded, far too happy with yourself and what you're certain you can conjure up between the two of you.

By now, Robby knows how you give yourself away. He knows that wicked glint to your eyes; how it gets all warm and seductive. He can't help the smile that spreads across his face, making the skin at his own wrinkle. Excitement stirs in him, and Robby fixes his hands to your waist, bunching up the end of your top. "Work, how?”

“Hmm, I think…" You pepper a couple more pecks on his jaw, following upwards, "—maybe, I find them hot," you confide. "And we..." Your mouth tracks up to his ear, teeth grazing his lobe, right before you whisper, "can spend the next hour finding a way for me to show you how hot I think you are."

As your tongue flicks against his earlobe, Robby's grip fastens on you. He surges forward with you in his lap, now longer slouching. He puts you both on the edge of the sofa's seat cushion, and Robby asserts back, "I think we can do better than an hour."

You crane your head back to be able to meet his face, eyes large through the magnifying quality to his lenses, and you roll your hips once. Your hands cup his cheeks, right before another more bruising kiss, and you say playfully, "Oh, my Robby, always a fucking optimist."

They're practical, that's what you tell yourself. Practical. Necessary. Because Robby needs them. So, why is your head so full to the brim of the most inappropriate thoughts when he's wearing them? Why are you clenching around nothing more, squeezing your thighs together to help the heat, just to be able to get through an interaction?

It starts off innocent. That's what you want to believe, anyway. Your gaze often finds Robby's throughout a shift — checking in, promising with a raised finger that you or him will be one minute before either of you is by each other's side. Both of you keep another in your sights, in your path, in your way sometimes you'll argue when he's feeling particularly wantful. It's nice, though, to know you're considered. Thought of. But this is different. This feels unique to those new reading glasses of his. Your eyes aren't just drawn in or searching anymore; they are attached. Glued. Pinned. Set on him. And Robby? All he's doing currently is charting.

The glasses are perched nicely on the bridge of his nose, at the top. It's no secret that you've always found Robby's nose handsome. His prominent, large feature adds to your attraction. It makes his face more striking; compelling. The pleasure you have in both watching him and being intimate with him is rooted in that beautifully thick nose of his. The first encounter where Robby ate you out: his broad tongue swiping at your glistening, leaky hole is seared in your mind. When you peak and he dives his face in closer, inhaling you, devouring the gushing you give him, and the tip of his nose catches your clit — it's otherworldly. You remember the strangled cry. The yelp you let out after. How Robby, ever attentive, figures out fast what's happened and uses his nose to his advantage to hear you again. He has you grinding down on his face, smothering him; clit rubbing wildly against it as you chase your high on it.

All of it plays in your mind now, worsening. You're picturing the same scenario, but, now, Robby wears his reading glasses. Those round, intelligent frames on his beloved nose. You imagine the lenses fogging up from his hot breath echoing back at him from where he pants it into your sodden pussy. How your arousal smears on the glass from how close he is. That Robby will see every inch of you more clearly that he ever has. He won't miss anything. Every button of yours he presses. Every trigger and what it does. Every tell of yours he'll find, uncover and bank to his skills while wearing those glasses...

Snap!

You jolt back. The pencil you've been biting breaks. It shocks you. You're startled as you take in the two splintered halves. Drool pools in the corner of your lips and around the pencil itself. Something's broken in you, too. Another twisted, previously undiscovered part of your is pried open, jarringly wide. It's alive. It's fiery and beating; throbbing and thirsty for this fantasy your brain has conjured up for you.

In a harsh flash, back in reality, you realise you have a problem. An ache — wet, heavy, unmistakable. You feel your pussy pulse and flutter thrice in a row. There's absolutely nothing to satisfy it; to grip your warm walls around, least of all Robby's dick right now. It makes you feel inherently empty and gagging for Robby. You look over to him again and your head drops shortly after, groaning when you spy he's still got the glasses on.

You take yourself off from your spot, out of the stool on wheels. Covertly, you check where you've been sat and swipe your palm across it just in case. You're vastly relieved to find it's dry when you're very blatantly not. Getting away from central hub, for a moment's privacy, is the only thing that can save you. Yet, instantly feeling the slick of you causes you to cringe. Your folds feel both engorged and drenched. You worry about the state of your underwear and how you look walking. It's mortifying to think your legs wobble and can't graze together because it'll be worse. The cute panties you slid up this morning are stuck to the shape of your private, moulded to soak up the moisture, gathering up between your legs. It causes you to walk with them parted a tad, to stop it spreading and spoiling your scrubs as well.

The smile you have on is fixed, straining. You aim it at patients in the hall and fellow colleagues, who just think you're heading for the toilets. You hope your journey there looks more natural to them than it feels to you. However, the desperation hits you as your palm does the restroom door. You shove it open with more force than intended, but you're in. You're safe. Once you turn the lock, you have privacy. As much as you can with the bustling chaos of the emergency department muffled through a door.

Humiliation degrades you while you grip the string-tie around the front of your scrubs. Your shaking fingers make fast work at undoing the knotted bow and, then, they grab either side of your bottoms and underwear. The thin, baby-blue lace mocks you now. In your distress, you drag both down at the same time, lowering yourself down to the toilet also. When you sit, you meet the stark evidence of your vivid imagination.

The gullet of your panties wears a slimy, thickened version of your arousal. Your slick smothers the material. So far Robby's glasses have cost you one pain of cute pants, a pencil and your dignity. It's embarrassing how wet you are; how worked up you've gotten from a basic, functional accessory. That a pair of reading glasses has done this to you.

While you wipe below, with three pieces of toilet roll folded, the shock keeps coming. The wipe is both too smooth and not enough. There is no friction all at. There's not enough paper to collect up your wetness. It's comfortably slick between your lowers lips and following the track to even slip between your ass cheeks. An irritational part of you panics, figuring you'll won't survive the rest of your shift without a plug of some sort. Then, the sensible you is triggered: it doesn't work like that. But you're never been this wet before. Not from mere thoughts of your boyfriend in a sexy situation. Lord, what have a simple pair of readers done to you?

You're completely sodden. You think this is grounds to make an Irish goodbye, a sick absense; go home immediately. How can you work after this, with this? How can you even look your boyfriend in the eye knowing how horny he's made you, all accidentally? You're not responsible enough to be caring for ill and/or injured patients. You've a sexual deviant. No trust should be put on you, especially when it takes four wrap-around loops of toilet paper to collect up your problem. But what kind of excuse is, 'I got so turned on, I physically can't compute anymore'?

Who takes that seriously? How will Robby ever take your seriously if he finds out?

It highlights your age — your immaturity. It makes you feel small. Like a scolded teenager that can't control their sexual impulses. Not a woman in her twenties who has been in the healthiest relationship of her life, having sex with the same man for the last three months. No, you have to be an adult about this. You can't let Robby know. You have to hide this side of yourself, cover it back up. It shouldn't be so hard; you've only just found it out yourself.

After cleaning up, as much as you can, and creating a makeshift pad out of paper to keep your now-dry pussy from dampening your underwear ago, you head out. You go back to work. You return to your patients. You avoid where you last saw Robby. You push the idea of his glasses out of your mind. The risk is disgustingly sordid, and even if you feel amazing, you have to lock it away.

While it keeps happening at The Pitt, working often side-by-side with Robby, the next time you find it's bad for you is two days later. After another gruelling shift, of skimming past Robby — dangling yourself in front of him like piece of meat, sneaking secrets touches, getting more touchy-feely when you come across him, going against not just the rules of the PMTC but the boundaries you've both put in place to remain professional — you've gone for a shower. You want to wash off the urges you're having. It's the fifth pair of underwear you've ruined in just a couple of days. You peel every pair off of you now, already pre-empting them doused in your juices. By the end of the week, you might have to put on a load of washing on just for the panties you'd soaked through from those glasses if this continues. It scares you into finding a pair you don't particularly care for tonight. After your shower, after you're lotion-ed up, you tug them up over you and then a shirt over your head.

Your stomach distracts you from it, however, and you welcome the change in thought. Something delicious is cooking. Nothing is better than sweetened white onions caramelising in a pan with garlic and a ton of good olive oil. It's the base to every pasta recipe Robby knows and spoils you with. If you aren't already moaning to be fed well after a long shift, you let one slip on entering the poxy kitchen of your apartment, finally here again after telling Robby you have to spend more time there if you’re paying rent. But now, you wish you are alone. The sight you see is enough to wish you’d say you wanted a night alone.

Robby is in his glasses. Again.

And you're doomed.

Yes, it's bad enough at work when he's entirely competent and brilliant. When he's the smartest, most experienced in the room. But, it hits your vagina more in a domestic setting, in your home this time. It's a dull, wanting, wetting ache to spot the frames slip casually down his nose, falling while he checks the recipe in grandmother's homemade, hand-stitched recipe book. It's perfect bliss. A relaxed Robby, freshly showered and shed of The Pitt, in a t-shirt and loose, cotton shorts that he keeps are your place in a drawer. The image is a softer, lovable version of your boyfriend, and you want to bone him more because of it.

Carefully, you slink in behind Robby. Your arms weave around his front, closing him in so your chest pressed to his back. He barely flinches at the new addition of your touch. Instead, Robby huffs a tender chuckle; a smile twinkling at his face. He's gentle with you, lifting one of your hands to be able to kiss the back of it.

"There you are," he says like he's been expecting you, expecting this. "Nice shower?"

You hum. The side of your side nestles against the fabric of his shirt and you breathe in deep. He smells of the coconut crème bodywash of yours mixed with his standard scent, and you bury your face in it. When you moan, Robby chuckles again.

"You good?"

To the centre of his back, then, to the blade of his right shoulder, you put kisses. "I'm fine," you murmur. "Just, want you."

His mouth twitches up happily. "Let me finish cooking dinner and after we eat, you can have me," Robby promises. "All to yourself."

An annoyed groan is stuck in your throat, he doesn't get it. "No, Robby," you say, "I want you. I..."

Where your hands are resting, around his stomach, gives you the perfect access for your next move. One of them travels south, from Robby's soft tummy to the waistband of his shorts. You slip under it, biting your lips when your hand meets the furry, little happy-tail that leads you down to the base of his dick. You grip at him, delighting as Robby's hips jut forward, into your touch, with a surprised 'Ah-haa."

"Want you," you repeat, lower, your voice more lustful and dangerous. "Need you now."

Robby turns his head. He glances back at you, eyes blown wide lewdly, under those readers, at your crude confidence. His mouth parts with another groan, caused by you palming at his dick. His hisses when your hold wraps around his length and tugs. "Oh, fuck," he cursed. "Sweetheart, not right now."

"Please," you whimper pathetically. "I'm so wet, Michael. So wet for you."

Proving your point is simple. You remove your hand from where it's been working at getting Robby hard; it’s now in a half-stiff state. You back off. Your warmth leaves Robby's, and your back collides with the counter behind you. This time, your hand disappears to get at your own centre. Robby watches down the bridge of his now, over the frame of his rounded glasses; pupils dilating in his hungry stare. Your hand sinks into your panties. The neat, cute bow at the top of their hem is an affront to your false innocence. Your fingers easily, smoothly gliding between your folds. A pretty, little gasp escapes you at the circle you stroke around your clit while Robby, seeing your wickedness better in his glasses, eats you with his eyes.

When you retract your hand, you reveal your glistening digits. They shimmer with your arousal, and you, like an angel turning to devilishly ways, raise them to your lips. You bring them to your slight agar mouth and suck your fingers into it. Tasting yourself, under Robby's agonising scrutiny, has never been hotter. Around them, you hum, eyes half-lidded as your relish in the pleasure and in how Robby looks at you, caving, in those those glasses.

You offer your saliva-covered fingers out. "Do you wanna—?"

The teasing questions is devoured up. It's yelped from you. In a flash, Robby has stormed at you. He charges. His hands are bruising, gripping at your waist harshly. His mouth is on yours in a messy collision. His tongue plunges into it and laps at your own to be able to taste what you've just cleaned from yourself.

It's not enough.

A desperate, starved man is who you have made your boyfriend into. Fifty-three years of age and he's never experienced need the way he does with you.

Robby's incessant, one after the after kisses tingle. They make your lips swollen from how you crave to chase them, to keep up. Then, when they leave you, they're planted greedily to the corner of your mouth; then your cheek, chin, jaw and neck. There's a path he follows. Teeth grazing your skin while his beard burns and scratches at it, too. You suck in a sharp inhale as Robby yanks at your wrist. He holds your lovesick gaze, through the lenses, and, unflinchingly, Robby puts those same fingers of yours, smothered in your own slobber and the remnants of your wetness, into his mouth.

The tongue that's just been battling yours is flat against the underside of your two fingers. It splits them apart in Robby's warm, wet mouth. That skilled tongue of his running between them and around them until you're moaning at the sight. It makes a nice home as he tightens his grasp around your wrist to continue in aiding in how he sucks them clean for you. Everything about the action is within his control. You start this, and yet, Robby is determined to finish it. Or, at least, get you there.

When he is done, when your fingers are covered in his slobber, and they come out of his mouth with an audible smack, his eyes are still holding yours. They're locked on you, bearing down at you through his slightly fogged glasses. Desires binds you together. It magnetises him to you; and you to him. And, before you know it, Robby is kissing you while his hands are at your waist again. They're gripping you even harder now. His fingertips dig into the supple flesh at your hips. It's pinching. You're in heaven.

Robby uses it to grab at your more and grab at the delicate cotton of your panties as well. He's yanking them down as one of his knees nudges yours apart. Your underwear catches mid-thigh, and Robby slaps the side of them. It's a signal you've had before, but Robby makes it clear what he wants from you.

"Up," he directs breathlessly, into your mouth that parts with a moan.

Quickly, you obey. You don't risk not following his instructions. Your hands curl around the edge of the island and, with Robby's help, you hop on up. It allows Robby the chance to strip you completely of your panties, dragging them all the way down past your ankles and pocketing them swiftly into his shorts. Your core is drenched by the action, for him. You pull Robby closer, between your spread legs. You've put yourself on a plate for him, for an entirely ravenous man. You purr at the expectation of your steamy fantasy finally coming true: Robby eating you out while wearing his new reading glasses.

Only, at the very last second, right before Robby sinks down on his creaky knees for you, that's snatched from you. Robby takes them off and sets them down carelessly aside of you, on the counter. As he spreads your legs wider, making room for himself, you try to brush them. Regrettably, they're just out of your reach, and you moan just as Robby takes his first taste from the source.

"Ahh, yes," you mewl.

His index lightly parts your labia, your folds soaked by how turned on your are, while his tongue rolls around your peaking bud. He sucks it in, causing you to make a pitched moan. Your Robby is a man of little words when he enjoys his favourite meal, but is one of incredibly skilled actions. The singular digit becomes two. They dips down into your hole, testing, teasing. He probes your entrance, only sinking in to his first knuckles but enough to gather up your slick. Robby pulls them out, much to your chagrin, to turn them in the opposite direction — upside down while he now curls them into you again. He aims for that sweet spot, the one he's trained himself to catch with every thrust.

"Oh, my fuck, yes," you pant, hands threading in his hair. While you squirm, you tug; and Robby pistons his fingers in and out of you. "That feels... Oh, shit. You're so fucking good at that."

The praise emboldens him, making certain that Robby picks up the pace. He smiles around your clit, his tongue rigorously flicking back and forth over it. What he does feels amazing. You can't get any better. You're so lost in the moment, you have forgotten why you got so wet in the first place.

Now you're grinding against his long face, hands pinned either side of it as you run after the high. The only thing keeping you from falling off the edge —both your orgasm and the counter — is Robby. You're too selfish, too needy, to care about safety. Your hips move with a life of their own, frantic. It's feeding some insatiable part of you to have Robby's fingers curls and, then, tap that spongy spot.

"Ah-hhh!" you cry out.

With it, your back arches. Robby gets furious with the pace he plunges his fingers in and out of you. The sopping sound of your pussy smacks with each thrust drives him crazy. He's determined now. He can sense you're close when you're unable to say anything other than, "yes, yes, yes" over and over. Throwing your head back, the tip of his tongue circling your overly sensitive bud, drawing it into his mouth with an unquenchable fierceness, you sob. It rips from your throat and, as an orgasm tears through you gloriously, your hips snap forward.

"Fuck, Michael— Michael!"

His unwavering grip on your allows you to ride your high out. While he rinses you of it, you're grappling to get back to your senses. But they're trembling, unsteady. You're lucky that Robby has a hold on you. He keeps your upright and safe.

Heavy pants are heaved out of you. The way you run after them is erratic and embarrassingly eager. Robby slurps it up — you up. It's his last act before he's rising from his knees with a grunt. His face is wet, but you don't mind. He kisses you again with your juices drenching into his beard. It smears against your chin and face. The tangy taste of you is dominated into your mouth once more, better because it's accompanied by his tongue. It makes you cling to him more. You two ravage each other until the afterglow is stolen away.

Bitterness fills the air. The kitchen floods with it. The smell of burning startled you both from staying in your spent. "Fuck," Robby damns himself more than you, even if you are the distraction and cause.

Unwillingly, he tears away from where you're haggardly perched to turn the stove off. The onions and garlic are charred to the bottom of the pot. He snatches up a cloth, wraps into around the handle, which is searing hot, and dumps it into the sink. Swiping on the tap, Robby lets the water fill, exhaling in relief that the smoke alarm hasn't gone off. His gaze lifts. It meets your frame — panting, weak, legs apart displaying your shiny, pulsating, ruined core, and a stare that doesn't conceal your fucked-out state. It makes him grin, eyes swelling with glee. The show of it has you laughing. It has him doing the same. Then, Robby is coming towards you again.

He cups your face. He plants a long, hard kiss on your lips. Another is placed to your hot cheek and a third to your sweaty hairline. There, Robby hoarsely says, "I'll order in."

Work is grating on you. Not the ache in the balls of your feet from being on them for fifteen hours straight. Not from how each ill person chips away at the softness you start the day with until you’re raw. It's Robby and those damn reading glasses. His reluctance to make them his friend has since vanished. He's realised they're helping; that they're making him a better, more efficient doctor, so is wearing them often when overlooking results and charting at the computer. The reaction it evokes out of you is surely inhuman. It must be animalistic, linking back to basic primal instincts, because you're goddamn feral. How nobody has figured out why is beyond you.

You're drawing closer when the glasses are on. You're snaking on up to him; fluttering your lashes more when you want his approval on a patient; sipping at his lukewarm coffee you claim tastes better when you share while you maintain direct eye-contact with him; manoeuvring around him by planting your hand on the small of his back; brushing your behind against his front as your skilfully complete your tasks in a trauma room. More than once it's gotten you a weird look from whoever's unluckily witnesses it and are later reprimanded by Robby, as chief attending and not your boyfriend. You're sure to remind him how much he prefers being the latter when you're sneaking kisses between clearing rooms after a discharge.

It seems Robby has made your work unbearable. Everywhere you turn, there Robby is. He's either wearing the glasses, going to wear them, sliding them off or you're wishing he is doing any of the above. You especially like it when he pulls them out from where he keeps them, puts them on barely, scans over a chart someone's given him, drags them over his face when removing them and then tucks them back into the top pocket of his scrubs. You want to be tucked into the same pocket. The more he wears them, the more turned on you're getting. It makes you get handsy with him: palms lovingly rubbing up and down his arms, squeezes or sweet pats delivered to his shoulders, even a daring peck when you find him on a break. Robby doesn’t pick up on why; he's not going to risk losing the extra good mood you're in especially when it carries on when you both get to his.

It consumes you at The Pitt, but home gets to be your escape. Or it should be. There's not many reasons to why Robby will be wearing his reading glasses as often as he does at work. Home is the only place you can conserve your sanity, where you can exercise control. Halfway through your calm evening that shifts. Robby has other plans for you, and you're a mess just as you are at work.

The television plays your nightly fix. By the end of the day, your brain is mush and all it can manage is dumb, predictable reality tv. As you tiredly fawn over complete strangers falling in love through a screen, in a 'pod', without ever seeing the other person, Robby has your feet in his lap. Lazily, he massages them and has been for the last forty minutes. The pressure of his thumbs is sensational. At one point, at a particularly tender knot he rubs out, you moan like you might in the middle of sex, which gets a lift of Robby’s smile and brows. It's all very adorable: your feet in his lap, your guilty-pleasure show on, and him making you laugh every so often with a dry, sarcastic comment towards how ridiculous it is that people propose to someone they’re never met.

What disturbs your sanctuary is the pinging of his phone. Robby mumbles out, "Sorry," to you as he busies his hands with it instead of your now. He sees the notification and dispels a sigh.

"What?" you ask, nosily and interested in what's taken your solace with him away; your boyfriend's slice of evening bliss.

"Email from Gloria," he answers.

You roll your eyes for him and mention, "You don't have to reply, you know. You're not on-shift, you're not paid to answer emails in your free time."

Despite you being right, Robby can't let this pass. His duty sounds like a blaring siren in his head. The control he has isn't fleeting, but Robby treats it as such. He digs his heels in, pretending he hates how the PMTC can't manage without him, without it leaching on every ounce of his life, and yet, Robby simultaneously banks his usefulness on it. Too much of him leaks into his work. Sometimes Robby doesn't know where it ends and he begins — like now.

"Just one reply," he promises, as if you'll buy it. You don't, and you pull your feet away and cross your legs to give him the space he needs.

What you're not expecting is how Robby reached aside of him again, for the side-table, and collects up his reading glasses. You suck in a thready breath, already having that desire wash over you. As Robby puts on the frames, beautifully settling them on his face, you chew at your bottom lip. You can't sit the way you are anymore. You have to bring them up and to your chest, desperately trying not to be reminded of how painful and all-corrupting your crush on your boss is.

Your boyfriend, your brain corrects and it's still not enough. With the power he had over you, you'll like to be more — something so plain and replaceable as a 'girlfriend' can be. God, you can't believe a sensible pair of rounded, reading glasses has to thinking of being Mrs Robinavitch. It's pure insanity. You’ve been dating for three months, having been hooking up for seven weeks prior; you can’t be thinking of marriage. But you are.

For a couple minutes, you allow yourself to watch. Your show is forgotten. It's boring in comparison. You're too enthralled by the sexiness exuded from Robby in his simplest, cosiest form. He types away with his thumbs, illuminated by the white light of his screen, and you're squeezing around nothing, around utter emptiness. The room is suddenly too hot. You're sweating through the vest-top you've got on and you're certain your underwear is ruined again with more of your slick. What is this now, your seventh pair sodden from how much you want to fuck Robby in his glasses? You've lost count. All because Robby's readers have struck gold in your horniness. Now, you're sloppy and light-headed and begging for attention under those heightened lenses.

While you press your legs together, you feel how wet you're growing; how it's spreading through and around your vulva. Everything minor move is slippery and easily made. You know that with a little care, maybe a few peppered kisses and light petting, you'll sink right down on Robby's dick with near to none resistance. It's honestly so pathetically weak of you, and that's not considering how pliant you already are for Robby.

You hum around nothing, stifling a moan dead in your throat. Briskly, you dart your eyes to the tv when it cracks Robby's concentration. You're pretending the noise is at something you agree — or, hell, disagree — with in your show. You don't care. His survey of you, checking, is brief, then, he goes back to finishing up his email. Again, you shift. You sweep your longer stare up and over to Robby, at the other side of the loveseat. You have to bite down hard when you see the tense, little frown to his brow from the stress. The screen casts shadows on his face, more prevalent because of the glasses.

Another tiny, coarse moan leaves you. Is this desperation? Is this what he feels like to Robby when you're in a nice dress or those jeans that hug your ass so snugly he has to put hands on you? If it is, you believe he's got the patience of a saint. Because you? You're barely holding on.

Less than a minute later, Robby is putting his phone aside with a gruff sigh. "Okay, that's all done. I'm all your again, swe—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentiment: his dear return to you. There's nothing 'dear' you want to do now. The moment he sets his device down, you're pouncing. In swift haste, you're surging up from your prior position and throwing yourself into his lap. You land with a firm thud, a moan rolling out of you while you put your lips eagerly to his. A surprised Robby takes a second to adjust after another grunt at the impact — at your keen behaviour. Hands of yours already pawing at him, desperately seeking more of Robby. As much as you can possibly get. It's like he's air to you now and you need him to breathe.

Your knees, either side of his thighs, are working well. They're still loose at your young age, still able to support your weight without fail. No clicking or seizing up like Robby's can. When you're rising up and on down on them, you're seeking reprieve. You're peer out of your eyes, fluttering lashes sometime blocking your view, but you can see him. You can see Robby. And those damn glasses. You grind yourself down on him, back and forth, rocking in their instinctive practice. The kissing you're doing, lips faster than this, stalls as his bottom lip gets caught between your teeth. You nibble, tease and pull at it, delighting with a grin as Robby moans for you.

A harsh slap is delivered to your backside. The sting hit your left cheek and you gasp loudly. Your mouth drops open. Robby's palms roam the exposed skin, sneaking up the hem of your shorts to feel more of you. His digs into the meaty flesh of your ass; one of his pinkies is just short of the thin bit of material that's bunching up between your cheeks. He uses that hold on you, firmer now, as guidance; as a handle. He gets to control the force and the drive of your rolling hips. He pushes you down further, craving the friction of your covered sex grinding over his. Yours is slippery, you know, and it's shielded by both your panties and thin cotton shorts. Your heat preens to be dragged over the stiffening length of Robby's penis. Its thick girth parts your lips, already adapted to fit between your slit while you mould around him.

"Oh, my god."

"Fuck, sweetheart," Robby says roughly. "Just like that. Keep going."

Your hips splutter. Hazy eyes manage to peel open and set on Robby again; his are filled with crude suggestions of you, of what he can do to you if you're as yielding as he thinks you are right now. He's looking up at you, stare blowing wide, exacerbated by the reading glasses that magnify him and you. They're tipped back, knocking against the sides of his nose, and you let out a needy whine.

His voice is wrecked while Robby tracks heated, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. "What's gotten into you, huh? So obsessed with me lately." His observation comes with another sharp slap. It connects with your ass and you hiss with your head falling back. Your hands grip at the back of Robby's head, the only leverage you have while you continue to rock over him. The sickening sensation of your sodden underwear — and shorts —forming to Robby's throbbing, erect member. You're dragged over it again and once more over that. It makes you wetter. You can feel it leak out of you, through them and onto him. Robby feels it, too.

"Jesus, you're so wet, sweetheart," Robby comments, and you think you might burst with happiness; and if you're waiting any longer. "What's brought all this on?"

"You," you whimper. "You — I'm so wet for you, Michael."

His mouth attacks your throat still. He kissed down to and around your pulse point, sucking at your skin. It's not enough to bruise, but just to make your skin pucker and feel sore so Robby knows he was — is —there. The only problem, when Robby tries to take it further, his glasses knock against your collarbone. They jolt back at his face, jabbing the sides of his nose in a cruel way. Robby now sees them as an obstruction to you — to this pleasure and heat you've got swirling around you tonight — he takes them off. He doesn’t realise how your soft whines aren't in neediness anymore, but in a momentary lapse of disappointment. And you forget when he bucks up into you and you remember that sex has always been this good without the glasses, too.

His hands guide you, placed at home on your hips. Robby tugs at the short length of your dress, pulling it down the half-an-inch the tightness allows and it rises every time you have to walk again. It's the past-time he has when he's out with you in that dress — short, smug, low-cut and with big, draping sleeves. He's not sure yet if his favourite or if it makes him crazed, especially when he walks the couple steps behind you as you're taken to your table. Robby tries to keep his eyes ahead, but they dip. They lower, landing on your backside as it jiggles, even more so while you're clipping along in your heels.

Date-night is a non-negotiable. Once weekly, you and Robby have a commitment to each other. You go out for dinner, getting all dressed up and excited for the night ahead, to end up at a restaurant that's struck either yours or his fancy during the space between the last date-night. You enjoy the ritual of it. You like how you always part ways after work — you going to your place for the first time in maybe four days to get ready and dolled up — then, Robby picks you up and takes you out. Getting wined and dined until you, no doubt, go home with him and don't see your apartment for another four days again.

Your smile is large and radiant as you send it over to the waiter. "Thank you so much!"

Robby gets this uneasy twist in his gut to see it aimed at anybody that isn't him. Still, he knows this is who you are: polite, kind to service workers, smiling when you're on a date with him. And Robby accepts it with a pressed, thin smile of his own and thanks the waiter just as you have. His hand comes to your behind again, covering your modesty as you slip through the gap between the tables into the rich, leather booth seat that runs along the wall. It's a table set for two: you opposite Robby giving him his most perfect view.

Yours arrives shortly after.

The glossy menu is pried open and your eyes are already hungrily scanning the items. What they don't take notice of is the price: that's not a worry tonight. There is not a single date-night that Robby allows you to pay for. Coffee, a sandwich, a drink in a bar —sure. But dinner? Date-night dinner at a nice, expensive restaurant? That's Robby's role. It'll be an issue if you test it — if you take this from him — and, after years of being treated poorly by past dates and bad relationships, you're happy to be spoiled. You welcome it. Nothing feels better than being proudly independent but having a man who wants to take care of you, too. The option is there, you just don't choose it.

"See anything you like?" asks Robby, genuinely interested in what you're thinking.

Lifting your head, you have an answer ready, although, it gets lost. It falls from you, slipping right away, when you clock what's happened while you're distracted. Robby has put his readers on. Within seconds, you know you're doomed. Your legs cross: your left over your right, and you can feel it start to happen. The warmth blooms below, pools in your pelvis. You don't have to be a genius to know your choice of underwear is wrong. It's a pitiful excuse; practically string. Your thong stands no chance in surviving dinner.

Yes, your head is screaming. Yes, you see something you like. And it's him. Robby looks even more handsome tonight; well-rested and soft. The ironed shirt he wears is the perfect, snug fit. He has the sleeves neatly rolled up, folded just beneath his elbow, and enough buttons are undone to peak at his chest hair. God, you'll bury your head in right now if you can, if he'll allow it. Nuzzle your nose in it, inhaling his scent, which is more woody tonight thanks to his aftershave. His beard is groomed nicely, too. The clean shave to his neck makes you coo. In the next day or two, while the stubble pricks through is going to burn and irritate your skin, you're going to love it.

But those thoughts aren't appropriate here. Or anywhere that isn't in the privacy of his bedroom or yours. You're not even sure if they're too obsessive for Robby's ears. He gets pink whenever you call him 'handsome' or dare compliment him; you'll hate you think of the colour he'll go if you tell him of the seductive, sordid thoughts you have swimming in your mind because he’s gotten glasses to read better.

You swallow the dryness in your throat, the only place that manages to get that way. "Um, I think the chicken sounds good," you say.

"I thought you'd go for the linguini," he mentions, but you're not thinking about anything other than wanting to ride Robby's face while he keeps those glasses on. His lift to yours. "Or the grilled zucchini." When he doesn't get a response, just motionless stares back, Robby checks, "You good?"

"Yup," you reply, short but never clipped. "Yeah, I'm..." You're starting to writhe on your seat, feeling a little needy below. Your decision to be safe over sorry — and embarrass yourself terribly by smearing your arousal on the leather beneath you — is quick. "I just need the ladies."

You slide and stand. Your smile is pleasant, directed at the couple less than half a metre away from your table. For what you're about to do, you hope they'll forgive you. But you know that, once Robby's decided on what he wants, he'll remove the glasses like every time he's done before. You wiggle your dress further down, causing Robby's stare to snap down to your almost bare thighs. It's cheeky. You've done it for a reason: to rile Robby up the way you are.

And you do that successfully with your next move.

Leaning over, your hands cup Robby's beard-adorned jaw and cheeks. You dip and connect your lips with his. They slant over the top of his mouth, moving deliciously against Robby's greed to taste more of you. There's no mercy with how you slip your tongue into his mouth, daring him with a lick to engulf you back.

When you part, both your lips swollen from the brazenness of your kiss, you smirk to find your lipstick is smudged over him. You swipe the pad of your thumb over it, ridding him of it, and then you give him the smile he gets jealous if you send to anybody else. Proudly, you voice, "I'll have the chicken saltimbocca. Thanks, lovey."

You leave, whisking away quite merrily. Stunned, Robby is breathless from your kissing. Discomfort rises in both his chest and trousers, aware that he's in public. That you're with him: the very attractive, young thing that wears shorts dress with low-cut front and makes out with him before you go to the toilet. It's a jarring difference to the others couples, who gawk at what Robby has and what you've done. Robby nervously looks to the table next to his, at the same two that you've smiled at, and he does the same only his face is burning up. He's a brilliant red as he runs his sweaty palms down the length of his thighs. "It's a real nice place, right?" he says, trying to make light small-talk that he knows won't last. Robby states of your behaviour, "She's been wanting to try it for weeks."

It serves to get worse for Robby. You're really trying to test his patience — play on it more. Prodding and poking seems to be your method to get through dinner, like you're trying to find a bruise on his skin and press at it for a reaction; for proof it's sore. That you make him sensitive like he makes your overly so. Your hands slip around his shoulders, sweetly squeezing them on your return; you adoring gaze across from him while you free your foot from your heel and rub it up against Robby's calf, sometimes sneaking its way up the leg of his trousers to tease better; around your fork, you moan and then tell him it's just 'so good, Michael’ before offering him a taste.

The use of his real name should've been the first sign, but it's not. Robby is too busy going over the last week in his head. Lately, you've been all over him and he's yet to figure out what has made you so horny. Robby tracks your cycle, so he knows you're not ovulating. For certain, he knows you're not pregnant and there's no reason he can think that will make you more hormonal, practically begging and gagging for him. You're just so desperate for him this week. Every chance you've gotten to corner him, you take. He lets you. Robby has no arguments. He'll like to know why — if there's a specific reason — but he has neither the urge to ask in case it breaks the streak nor the opportunity.

Again, you're on him. It's not long after you leave the restaurant, after Robby's survived ninety whole minutes across the table from you in one of your particular deviant moods. When you exit the warmth into the crisp evening chill, Robby's blazer-jacket is thrown around your shoulders. Shockingly, it's longer than your dress, where it falls around your thighs. It has Robby laughing, playfully scolding you as he tugs it down once more. You kiss him for it, arms looping around his neck to plant a loud, smacking one on his mouth.

"Thank you for tonight, baby," you say. "I had a good time."

Under the blazer, on top of the stretchy material of your dress, Robby plants his hands. They're firmly on your ass, squeezing with his fingertips every couple of seconds as if to still check you're real and under his touch. His mouth descends on your neck. "How you going to repay me?"

With the kisses to your neck, you stretch it to be longer. You give Robby more of it — more of you. Your hands grip tighter at the hair at the base of his head. You thread your fingers through the short length and you feel less guilty for the tugging there because the hair is much thicker at the back. Yet, both of you know even a balding Robby won't stop you from tugging at the front when he's buried between your legs, making heaven out of your core.

You gasp out breathily as he sucks at that one spot that makes your eyes flutter shut, rolling back in pleasure. "I have my ways," you promise, and Robby knows too well that it's the honest-to-every-god truth.

Maybe it's selfish. But when the glasses are away, so is your motivation to greedily seek your own high. You still get it. You're still very keen to grasp at it —achieve it — but, while they're off, you're not so blinded by what you want. It's clear to you that, when Robby takes them off, he's not thinking the same twisted thoughts you are about them. He's not craving the same release through them. The glasses are for Robby, but they get you off — not him.

What gets Robby off is simple. It's you.

The elevator up to his apartment is an odd sensation. It slews your need, bringing it up to drop it, suddenly, to the pit of your stomach. The mirrored walls are cold to the touch. Robby has your back flush with it as he makes out with you. His mouth worships yours, tongues battling and then blending together while your leg is hoisted around his waist. Bent at the knee, you lock Robby into you. There's no discretion anymore. Your dress is completely scrunched up at your waist, serving more like a top than it is a dress. Your wet thong is getting sucked between your folds, eaten by your glistening labia. It stands absolutely no chance at surviving this encounter with Robby. You're creating a wet patch through the material that is scarcely covering your intimates and rolling it onto Robby's crotch.

You can feel how hard he is for you. It's pressing into you. The outline of his engorged, furious dick finds the warmth of your sex even through his trousers. He searches for it; finds a blissful, ravenous solace in it. Robby rocks into it and swallows every moan of yours with his mouth. He muffles their loudness. As one of his hands digs into the pillowy underside of your lifted thigh, that wraps around him, the other is planted beside of your head. His palm connects with the mirror, smearing his messy, sweaty prints while he uses it to close you in. Your space is his. He dominates into it, into you. Robby uses the solidness of the elevator to cage you in; to rock his clothed cock a giant your damp core.

"Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters into your mouth.

The elevator stills. It jolts to a stop, and it nudges Robby's budge further into you. "Ah-eekh," you whimper sensitively. You feel the floor beneath you cease its vibrating, jutting movements as it reaches its designation. It seems to signal to the both of you that you can't stay where you are, as much as you'll like to. If you ride the elevator down again, there's more of a chance that getting to Robby's floor will be the only interruption you'll have.

A ding is followed by the doors opening. Robby drags himself from you with a sloppy, searing kiss. His beard scratches at your chin, and you're certain any makeup on the bottom half of your face has been kissed off. After your legs slips from its hooked position around him, Robby is tugging your dress down again, but the job is harder when your legs tremble and shake from the close contract. From it, the clambering and being shoved up against a wall, roaming each other desperately, his blazer is found on the floor. It's just a casualty in the heat of the moment.

But Robby collects it up now. He lowers himself, trailing his hands from the hem of your dress down the back of your thighs and calves. His touch is feather-light, enticing, just enough to have you arching your back off of the wall to have more of it. Robby grins up at you, eyes staring in awe of how your head tips back and your teeth chew down into your bottom lip; head so fucked with how he'll next shape your body to his. Kisses are distant and placed up the front of your legs now. Those hands grip your dress again. He tugs when he's eye-level with your needy pussy, just the slit and your hole concealed from him; the colour of your thong changed darker because of how wet you are. When you're covered again, your careless dignity shielded away, Robby cheekily kisses your mound through your dress.

A shaky, extremely unsteady breath leaves you ragged. Your chest rises and falls frantically. It's all trapped up in your ribs, burning from desire. As Robby stands up fully, over you again, you say while your pussy is crying, "You're evil."

"Sue me," Robby huskily says, that condescending encouragement to his tone making your legs weaker. "Better yet, I'll ask my landlord for the footage from that camera," he half-threatens, crowding you as his head makes towards the black dome in the corner of the box with its little, blinking red light. His hand aims for yours, more so curling around your wrist to pull you out of the elevator finally. He walks with you, pliantly moving you along with him. "—And I'll let you use it in court, show everyone just how evil I am to you, sweetheart. Might have trouble getting anything but a hung jury."

You lull over his words. The very, not real threat he gives you that makes your thighs run together, more than already do. The skin there is starting to irritate you. While the dress has been a phenomenal idea, it tortures you now like Robby does. You won't feel as bad if it's a beard-burn between your legs instead, but it's not, and you want the control now. You don't like in the space of you forcing a huge, needy kiss on Robby in the restaurant has turned you inside out and made you a pathetic, weepy mess for him. He's not even wearing the glasses anymore; you shouldn't be so bendable to him.

He gets his door open, keys jangling in his hands, and you delight with the idea of regaining the power. Maybe it's childish. Maybe it's not a good enough reason, that you have to prove to yourself you're not as easily-gotten, weakened to Robby. That you also can make him the same.

This time, it's your hands on his waist. From behind, your fingers dig beneath the leather of his belt. You push your chest, your heaving breasts, flush to his back, and against him, you whisper, "Don't need a hung jury." You make your fingers walk around, following the band of his belt, until you reach the buckle. There, you slither your hand lower. "I have you."

Your heels clip torturously slow as your round him. Keeping your touch over this erection, caged by his trousers, you send your boyfriend a devilishly smirk. The door is barely shut when you start undoing the buckle of his belt, skilfully loosening it. "You..." Once you're free to continue, your fingers pull the zip down. "... Are..." Your hand slips into his trousers, under the waistband of his briefs. That smile of yours grows as your palm connects with his dick, wrapping around his fat girth; your thumb swipes across its leaking head. "... Plenty," you finish.

Robby is whimpering at your touch, whining as his hip jut forward to get more. Out of his mouth comes a small plea, "Don't tease. Be good to me."

You nip at his throat. "That's what this is, baby. Always good to you."

With that, you sink down. Robby's back knocks into the door. It's shut, not locked; the peep-hole is visible to the left of his head. He stumbles while you get down on your knees. You don't complain. You don't groan. What you give is a soft, tiny whine when you yank at the opening of his trousers, further exposing him. His dick slaps up against the bottom of his stomach — angry, pulsating, needing attention from you. You touch it again, hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, and Robby thinks he might die if he doesn't feel you soon.

A strangle moan leaves him, and you swipe your thumb over the head again, down the very sensitive slit. You peck at the same spot. "Hmm, so pretty, Robby," you hum. Your lips are soft against his raging penis, planting more kisses on it, on him, tracking all the way down to where your hand grips him.

"Fuck me." His head collides with wood, hard, and Robby has to lift his his fist to his mouth to muffle his grunts. He bites at his knuckles just as you lick back up, all over the undersize of his dick, over the largest vein that protrudes violently from how much blood is rushing through his penis currently. "You're the liar," he hisses at you, "you're a fucking t—tease."

Giving his tip another kiss, you look up at Robby. You flash him a perfectly faux-innocent look extenuated by batting your lashes. "Don't know what you're talking 'bout, just wanna treat you nice, Robby," you say. "Take care of you like you do me."

"That's not— Oh, fuck!" Robby's rebuttal twists into another moan, louder than the previous ones. "Shit." He feels your tongue swirl over his tip, flattening to lick up the pre-cum leaking out of it. "Shit, you're..." His hand shoots down to your head, weaving his fingers through your hair, as you take him into your mouth. It's so warm and wet inside of it that Robby can't do anything but wince and whimper on finding something godly, on earth, kneeling down in front of him. "You're so perfect, so g—good to me."

Aching yourself, you run your free, non-dominate hand down your own body. It finds a place between your legs, spread, and you move your thong aside, exposing yourself to cool air to Robby's apartment. The wetness drips out of you, smothering every inch, and it's the most erotic, self-indulgent lubricant you have on offer. As your tongue circles around the bulbous head of Robby's, sucking a little, that hand of your gather up your creamy, obscene wetness. You rub your clit while it's down there, moaning around Robby's, sending electrifying shockwaves of pleasure up him.

"Come on, sweetheart, need more," he says, instructive until he senses you're hot and distracted. His eyes look down, at you. He relishes in the sight of you on your knees for him, the tip of his dick looks so at home in your mouth, but Robby sees your other hand is busy. You're playing with yourself, and Robby gets jealous. His palm curves to the shape of your skull and there, with your roots clutched between his fingers, Robby tightens his grip. He retches you back. His dick slips from your mouth with a sloppy pop. "What are you doing down there, huh?"

Your head is angled up at him. Your swollen lips part realising how Robby can easily move you with his grasp on your hair. It's because of the experience. Because he know how not to pull on your hair by its length. Robby goes for the roots, clawing them into a locked fist, as to have total control over where you go; which direction; left or right; up or down. Right now, he does it to get answers. He bears down at you, greedily wanting to know how making him feel good turned into you making yourself feel good when he likes to do that.

You clench when what you say comes out as a pathetic plea, "It's for you." You withdraw your hand from between your thighs and reveal how it glistens with your arousal. "Me for you, Michael," you softly say, wrapping that sopping hand of yours around his dick. Now, when you move your hand up and down, it does it with ease. It glides, no tugging whatsoever, and you smile at the loud moan he lets out. "Wanna make you feel real good, baby, let me make you feel good."

The sight of your smearing more of you all over him, working him up, has Robby groaning deeply. His grip on your hair slackens, letting you get on with what you want to do — how you want to treat him so kindly — his thoughts buzzing with why you've been wetter than ever; why it's like someone's unlocked a tap and you're just free-flowing now. You've never been crazier, more desperate for him. Robby feels he’s reliving the honeymoon period of the first month of your hookups where you were both insatiable for each other.

Your eagerness can't be disputed or denied. As you take him into your mouth, Robby's head initially tips backwards. It thumps into the wood of his front door. When you start to bob, as well as rotating your hand up and down his dick, Robby hisses. Like you do, his teeth plunge into his lip. He's trying to muffle how loud he can get with you, not because he wants to but because of the location. His front door isn't so thick, but the ropes of slobber you leave over him are.

His mouth drops open. Through your lashes, you look up at Robby, showing him just how much you love it; how much more of him you take down. Distinctively remembering to breathe through your nose — not to panic, enjoy this — you relax. Your head angles to the right, favouring it as you feel the pulsing tip of Robby's dick press into the cheek of your mouth. He can see it. The sight of how you smile, then, hum, and go to the centre again, both wicked and focused on making him come undone on your tongue.

"Oh, fuck me," Robby curses. His fingers are threaded in your hair again. "That's it, that's so good, honey. Keep going, keep doing what you are doing."

The praise makes you take him deeper. You feel him enter the back of your throat and now you use your hands to grasp at Robby's jutting hips. He fucks his dick into your mouth, too. You meet them with your mouth, opening wider to accommodate his thrusts. They're growing harder, more forceful. You do your best to make yourself pleasurable for him. Your tongue flicks up and you rarely let most of his cock slip out of your mouth anymore. You keep your movements short, consistent, nearing on that happy-tail leading up from his shaft to navel. Your nose brushes it, and Robby's hold locks.

He hears you gag once, and his hips jerk forward. Robby holds you in place. His skill from before, his handle of your roots, returns. He guides you deeper, to take more of him. All of him. Your throat seizes when it feels Robby's dick protrude. Saliva slips out of the corners of your mouth, drooling down the length of him, pooling stickily in the hair that curls around his penis.

"Fuckkk— Fuck, feels so good," Robby groans, and he makes you gag around him for a second time. Your throat flutters. Robby thrusts harder, swallow jabs into your mouth, causing your eyes to fill. They're wide, teary and lustful. You're swarming with crude desire as Robby groans and lets a hand slip from you to hit the door behind him. "Fuck."

His loosening lets you withdraw. You're not choking on him anymore. You slip your horrendously wet mouth from the bottom to the very top. Your hand returns to his shaft. You grip tighter. Your touch locks around Robby's cock, so slippery, so magnificent as it looks furiously close to a release. You circle you tongue around him again while your hand works up and down, almost slipping from how soaked it is.

From above, Robby stares down lewdly. There's an uncontrollable hunger storming behind his eyes, scorching down at you. It burns you, but it has you continuing. Your stunningly wet mouth descends on him again, and a rough moan rolls out Robby. He thrusts into you again and fills with the idea he's corrupting the sweet, little sunshine that your fellow colleagues think butter can't melt for.

"Look—Look at me," Robby instructs you, having to catch his breath at the start of it. "Eyes up here. Hey, hey — on me, honey," he says, a couple light taps delivered to your cheek. Instantly, it gets your attention. Your eyes swim with large, juicy tears. They drench your lashes, black mascara smudging underneath making him coo. "Right here. Yeah, that's perfect. Shit," he lets out a sharper hiss, as he coaxes you to go deeper while you keep your wet, doe-eyed stare on him — locked on Robby.

That does it for Robby. His hips splutter. They jerk cruelly, irrationally. He loses the control he has as he feels himself release. With a louder, more guttural moan, twisting beautifully into a series of needy whimpers, Robby cums down your throat. Your mouth serves to catch it all. It fills as you pull back slightly, sucking fiercely around the tip to rinse him of all he has to give. The whole load. You take it, swallowing around him, bobbing your throat as you don't waste a drop. If any slips away from you, it's a miracle because you consume it all like you've not been fed for days, for weeks. You're a woman starved just like Robby is a man famished of any substance. You're his substance.

His head rocks back again. You hear another thump. This one is duller, relieved almost. Then, Robby lifts his head again. His gaze is foggy, blurred by his own tears of great, overwhelming satisfaction when it lands on you. You and your merry disposition for bending him to your will and giving him such an amazing release. To add to it, you stick your tongue out; let him see the remnant of his sticky, white ejaculation over it, smearing with your saliva. It's gross and sick and pulls that disgustingly, sex-mad part of his brain forward. He loves this side of you. He loves this side of him — that craves this. You. And when Robby sees you roll your tongue back into your mouth and swallow, your heels peeking out from behind you and your dress bunching up, Robby knows there isn't ever anything better.

Too many instances happen, all of them you lose out. Every time you get close, Robby gets rid of the glasses. While the sex has been crazy-good, hitting the right spots and satisfying you both massively, you can't help but think it unfortunate. By a slither, an inch, you miss out on your fantasy. You guess that's why it keeps happening — why you can't get over yourself and this specific want of yours eating away at your insides, stirring up messily. If you can just get the glasses to stay on, then maybe you won't be so needy; so silly at work to think you can soon drag off the chief attending to see to the sopping heat between your legs. If you get it out, if you can act it out, then you should be good.

That presents itself to you most amazingly the next night. You've just come out of the ensuite, after lotion-ing yourself all over, to spot Robby intently reading a medical journal. Like required, his glasses are on. Sitting up against the headboard, he looks so cosy and at peace. His chest is bare, hair-speckled and on show. As he reads, his glasses tip forward, but don't slip. To you, it's a beautiful sight.

And, lord, do you want to ruin it.

Do you want him to ruin you.

The attention he gives the essay is rightfully yours. The final straw to your self-restraint snaps. It reminds you of the pencil you broke and all the underwear you've soaked this week. It's not fair to yourself that you've burrowed down these strong, throbbing thoughts of how much you're attracted to your boyfriends. You can't keep denying yourself this — this version of him.

The glasses.

It happens swiftly. You're sliding off your cheetah-print panties before you have the chance to wreck another pair. You leave them where they drop and, not bothering to tread over to the side of the bed that's unofficially yours, you climb over Robby. Your straddle his thighs, your wet core skimming the happy-trail that peeks out from under the sheets. Whereas this is what you've done for the last handful of nights, the lack of a barrier between you makes Robby cock an eyebrow up at you.

"What did I do to deserve this?" asks Robby, half-genuine, half just wanting to get this sleep-cami of your off just like your underwear. He brushes your hair over your shoulder, pressing a kiss to where the trin strap to your top sits. His thumb drags it down, and Robby murmurs against your skin. "... Deserve you, huh."

His hand travels down to your upper waist, finding a comfortable place cupping the swell of your breast. That same thumb graces over your nipple. It perks under his touch, under the fabric of your cami. You bite down into your lip and roll your hips in a circle, telling Robby exactly what you want to happen next. What he'll want to happen next, too.

Robby knows what to expect after an entire week of this — of you pouncing and begging and making it feel good for the both of you. He's ready for this. Gearing up for his favourite source of entertainment — the best way to end the day — Robby puts his book aside. He goes to the same with his glasses, getting ready to place them in the same spot, but your hands are over his. You stop him, lean in and nip at his mouth.

“No.”

He's puzzled by the remark. “No?”

“No," you repeats. Your breath gets hotter, closer to pants as you direct them into his mouth, between the open-mouthed kisses you give him. “Keep them on. Please," you beg, "I want them to stay on.”

It dawns on him, then. Something clicks in his brain; a cog is positioned correctly and he can see it working right in front of him. When this started, how it's progressed, how brazen you're becoming by beginning this without underwear right now. “Wait, honey…" His eyes scan you over, "—is this…" He considers you more gently, less inclined to still be circling the pad of his thump over your nipple. His voice drops deeper when he asks, "Are these what have gotten you so worked up lately?”

You don't feel so shy, but it's still what you exude for him right now. “Hm-mm," you hum, nodding small before you draw yourself nearer. When you note how he looks at you through his glasses. It's palpable. Injected into your veins. You're crying below again. You think you might cry, too. “God, Robby, I’m so turned on by them," you confess like ripping off a bandaid to get it all out of you. "Every time I see you’re wearing them, I want to jump your bones.”

It shocks him. “Jesus," he says, and runs a hand over his beard while he shakes his head side to side. He soaks all this in as you soak the hair at his navel, where you're seated.

“They turn me on so bad," you sulk, a pathetic display while you're straddling him. "I have to walk away from you at work because I get so wet. I've got a whole load of washing to do this weekend just for underwear." Every complaint is a secretly concealed compliment to Robby's ear. When you say them, he's tinged pink. "Can’t you feel it now?" you asks, rolling your hips again, sliding your slick through his happy-tail and over his groin. "Can you feel how wet you make me?" Growing hotter, wetter, you take Robby's hand in yours and direct it towards where you crave him most. "Feel me, Robby. Touch me.”

Robby can already feel you as you moisturise the hair of his stomach and down past where the waistband of his bottoms are, gradually leaking further. Yet, when you extend on your knees and raise to give him more access, to hover about him, Robby feels just how drenched you are. You guide his fingers down between your thighs, sliding them in the slick that's spread over you, and you let him take the prerogative to draw his index around your clit.

“Oh, fuck. Sweetheart," he says, pitched deeper again when the affectionate nickname passing his lips. "Is this really all for me?”

“Uh-huh," you reply, nodding profusely. Your breathing heaves. Your chest carries them like there's a laboured struggle. You lean in and kiss his left cheek. "All…" his right, "for…" the corner of his mouth, "...you," finally you say with a kiss slanted to his actually mouth. You push your lips against his — bruising, pining, whining as you give up all your poured honey to him. "You and those glasses. Keep them on.”

The grin he has won't stop growing. There's mischief in his eyes, sparkling, teasing, full of want for you. "Oh, ho-ho," he utters out confidently. “The glasses stay on, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, afraid of getting too excited. “The whole time?”

“The whole time," Robby confirms, "if that’s what you want.”

Delicately, your fingers toy with the temples of his glasses. You push them further up his nose, then, you trace your pinkie down the bridge of his nose. “I do. I really, really do," you say. "I want you to fuck me wearing them, Robby." You lock your grip on him, more determined now he's going to give you what you want — what you've been craving. "I want to ride you while you look up at me through them. I want to go down on you and have you see how much of a mess you make me." As your arm loops around his neck, pulling both your chests flush with each other's, you tell him, "I want you to eat me out and I want you to see every twitch, every flutter, every bit of shine on me. I want you to see how turned on I am for you. I want you to see how I’m your girl.”

His stare is dilated, blown wide in aching hunger. His want for you sends a tremor through his voice, speaking it against the sweaty column of your throat. "My dirty, dirty girl," he says into your skin, inhaling you in, trapping you within his own arms.

As he nips at your neck, you whine, "Just for you."

"It sounds like it," bristles Robby, honestly honoured while he takes over your circular motions over your wildly beating bud. "It's what I wanna hear." He adds more pressure — works in rougher, faster flicks at your clit — and you let out a strangled yelp. You feel Robby's smirk against your collarbone, and he proudly proclaims, "So is that," before he drags his stare up at you, admiring you from your sternum.

It's enough for you to take charge again. This has all been about you. Your sick fantasy. Your seek for a very specific pleasure. Now you're getting it. Robby is his glasses. The readers are staying on because you've asked. You're requested. You've commanded. The least you can do for yourself is live out that in reality if not for yourself but for Robby. Those insecurities about him being old, about him aging, that's a distant memory of a man minutes ago; before he knows his young, hot, pliant-for-him girlfriend finds him sexier in them. That you're dripping for him in them without him ever being aware of the power.

Your hands pull at the sheets. You tug them down as Robby sits up more, propping up out of them. They gather underneath you, past his crotch, where you want to settle. But it's not time yet. Robby's using your lifted position to push his pyjama bottoms down. He can't kick them off like he would've liked, but it's not as if you're willing to let him do anything. You're on top for a reason.

His dick springs up in excitement. He's rock-hard for you, for the steamy confession you've offered up for him, and Robby watches through his lenses as you reach down. His hands have to move; he can't be rubbing pretty, little fast circles on your clit while you lower yourself down on him. His aching tip looks a nasty red, begging for attention, for a home in your warm walls. Yet, you don't give it to him straight away. Instead of giving in right away, you settle hovered above him even if Robby may be aching for you to do more immediately.

You tease him — and yourself first. Feeling your pussy already dripping, practically begging with every beat, gives you an unabashed confidence. There's not such thing as shy when you're locked on Robby, eyes full of crazy want for you — enlarged by those damn glasses. You bend your knees a little more; where Robby holds the base of his leaky shaft, your slickened folds just grace his tip.

"Oh, fuck."

It makes you smile to reduce such an intelligent, revered man to a whimpering, urgent mess beneath. Wanting more of it — more of his desperate need for you — you guide yourself a little lower. The head of dick parts your folds and is welcomed by your glossiness. You swipe yourself over him, pressing down lightly, slowly. You let out a sharp moan as the tip nudges against your clit, then, you slide it down to your entrance.

"Jesus Christ, sweetheart," he rasps, still so overly sensitive from the raging abundance of sex you've had daily throughout the week, often multiple times. Now, your teasing feels like torture.

You kiss Robby sweetly while there's nothing sweet remaining of you. "Don't stress, baby, it's not good for your heart," you says, jesting, as you straighten those readers on his face so he can see all of you better.

"Oh, and you are?"

As you easy yourself down on him, taking his dick inside of you inch and inch, you're holding back an obscenely loud moan. You bite your lip and tell him, "I'm the best damn thing for your heart." You feel your warm walls stretch to his large size, familiarising themselves to both his thick girth, size and that magnificent curve he has to his penis; it enables the head to curls up against the front of your vagina, hitting the deep spot that makes you preen and, then, catching the other, spongy one just hook inside of you when he pulls out. When he hits that, your pussy flexes. You feel gush floor out of you, soaking yourself and Robby further, and trickling all the way down to his heavy balls.

Both of you groan satisfyingly as you reach the hilt. Robby's eyes shut and his head is thrown back. His hands can leave his dick now you're taking care of it. They run up your thighs, relishing in how smooth your skin is; how hot you burn. A gasp escapes you just as you start to move. You find a good rhythm, slow and deliberate. Every lift, bounce, slide down on his dick is matched by the shift in your breath — the devastating roll of your pelvis and the occasional thrust up by Robby. Your body buzzes, feeling uncontrollable heat; nipples stiff in the air from where Robby retches down your top. As his hands find them, he squeezes and massages your breasts, thumbs often flicking across your nipples; and you think he's a man sick with lust. Robby looks up at you like he might've actually forgotten how to exist —breathe — if he isn't touching some part of your naked body. You watch him in hazy admiration, he watches you in complete awe you're real for him.

Your hips rock back and forth, riding down with a deep, hungry urge to get there faster; to peak most triumphantly. The slick grind of your pussy on Robby's dick gets more charged, confident and wetter. The sound of sopping slaps fill the bedroom, every time you bounce and land on Robby again. He ruts his own hips in sync with yours, each thrust filling you, driving you higher.

"Oh, my fucking god," you push out, breathless, begging. Your clench around him, close, nudging that far spot inside of you.

Robby can't have it end. He hadn't even been looking at you. His eyes have been shut in pure pleasure, until now. They snap open. He feels the glasses slip a touch. "Fuck, don’t—don’t do that already," he hisses. "I need you to help me last, honey. Go further with me," he says, and he makes it sound so pretty to your ears. So, you listen. You slow your pace and unclench your walls. There merely wrap around him now. “Oh, yeah, that’s better," praises Robby. "Let her go, let her relax. Just up and down, yeah, like that. So much better— ah!”

His moan sounds painful, trapped. Your need has grown and bests you. You've circled your pelvis down greedier. It's just too damn hard when Robby's stare is bearing up at you. You can physically see the want thread through all his handsome features, only more more delicious to you because of how his readers are knocked slightly sideways.

A palm comes keen to your right thigh. It stings, and you gasp, arching your spine as a result, tipping your own head back. "Patience," Robby cautions, but the scolding just makes you extra whiny.

“Robby, I can’t. I can’t, I’m just so— I’m so fucking hot for you right now." The confession isn't a secret, but you let it hastily rush out of you like it is. "I just wanna…” You can't help this either: your warm, wet walls hugs, they clench tighter.

At this, Robby sucks a ragged breath through his teeth, through a gritted jaw. He jerks up into you, and you roll down again more eagerly. To punish you, one of Robby's hands smacks your ass. You jolt forward. Your eyes are back on him, startled, then, smiling when he's holding your gaze back.

“What’d I say? What’d I just say?" Robby coos at you, his tone firmer, heavier with a perfect balance of lust and lecture. Both his hands now hold you by the pillowy fat of your ass. He digs into your cheeks with his fingers, using them as the handle to slow your circles. "Relax. Just, relax." Gently, Robby coaches you through your next motions, "Up and down like that, just like that. You’re such a good listener, so good at listening, honey." He directs every lift and sink of you on his dick, working himself further in you. "So good to me," he pants into your shoulder, burrowing his head into the crook of you neck, inhaling deep before he kisses the same place. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you," he bites into your skin. "Treating your old man so nicely.”

“Oh, god! Yes!" you moan, feeling the extra loving push of his fingertips on your ass. You shouldn't be so turned on, so stimulated, by your boyfriend referring to himself as your 'old man', but it sends your head in to a frenzy and twists up your pussy like it's the grossest, most erotic thing he's ever said. It turns you desperate. "Robby, please." You're rocking against him more, again. "Please, s’not fast enough. I need to go fast. Let me go faster. I wanna go faster, please.”

Your pleas sound too nice to ignore, and Robby kisses your breast before he gives you his answer. “Alright, honey. Go faster. Do what you have to do,” says Robby, as he starts to lower himself down on the bed. He lays flat while you’re seated on his cock. “I’m just going to watch you.”

For some reason, that makes you hotter. “Oh, my god. Oh, shit.” Relief rushes through you, and you immediately start to move up and down on Robby’s dick quicker. “Thank you, baby, thank you.”

The muscles in your legs ache with a twitch, but you work through the pain. Nothing stops you. You moan and moan, getting more frequent the more you chase that high. They float out softly: a jarring opposite to the slapping of skin, of the drenched plapping sounds that fills your ears, and makes you drive down more crazily. You want his mouth. You want to kiss him. You always love doing that when you're close; you like him to taste your mouth as you cum.

Confidence surges through you. Your drop down onto your hands, planting them either side of his head, under the pillow he rests on. You cage him under you, smothering him with your body as it roasts alive with desire. Burning bright, your skin hovers on top of his; you can feel the hair of his chest and groin rub against your supple bareness. With a breathy pant, you connect your lips with. You don't care that the frames of his glassed bump with your face while you eagerly domineer your tongue into his mouth. Again, you feel Robby buck under you, and your lips fall apart over his with a thrilled mewl.

The new angle hits you better. Robby's hands find your hips roughly. He holds you still; forced down on his cock to the hilt, until you're groaning from how it argues with the deepest part of you. You weep. Your pussy clamps him like a vice, milking him, tightening every time he forces the pressure harder. You hear Robby groan while his breath breaks, but he keeps your trembling, twitching frame down. Frantically, Robby starts fucking up, knowing you can't move away from him because he's gripping you to him. He's rutting up into you, hitting the spot that drains you over and over like he plans to bruise it and your hips.

You cry out over him, pouring all of it messily into your heavy kisses, and Robby keeps bullying you. With his powerful, shallow thrusts hammer at the same spot. The tips of his dick jams at it; fast, consistent. He doesn't relent, and your walls strangle him as a response. They flutter and clench with a fierce vengeance. You feel your high quickly approaching. It climbs from deep within you, pulled out by Robby and from hearing his half-swallowed grunts. Your lips still chase his. Your arms weaken as they still hold you up. Your hips roll flush with his. It thills Robby massively.

He's making it happen for you. Him in those glasses, lodging you down on him without escape, glued to him with your soaked slick. Even if you want to run away from this, you can't. Robby has you. And as he nears his own orgasm, seconds away thanks to your warmth sucking him in closer, you cry actual tears. At the edge, you feel water at your eyes, and you break.

It comes at you loud and sharp. A band in you snaps; your belly tightens and you lock up. For a final time, your hips rock and grind against Robby's, and you cum. You can barely keep your waning eyes open, but you do. You set them on Robby, face pressing to his, and hold his heated gaze as you let go. To see the fogged up lenses, your lip mark in the corner, the dents from where the frames have jabbed him — it's everything you sickly wanted.

But Robby doesn't stop. He yanks you down further. You scream out and wail against his cheek, writhing as he forces you to ride out your high brutally. As he splits you cruelly on his cock, Robby joins you. The last frantic fluttering of your pussy pushes him over. Your walls suffocate his dick in, and, with a pathetic thrust up, Robby spills into you. A hoarse moan hits your ears, and you might be the happiest woman alive to have your face over his already; eyes on him.

Hungrily, you commit his parted mouth; the tense furrow to his brow; the way his tongue swipes against nothing while he cums in you. You feel it fill you and you can't get enough of it when you purposefully squeeze your walls to get a second look at it; to suck up his spend out and up into you. And when you finally feel his grip on you relent, slacken as he comes down, you crash. You drop your arms and collapse to Robby's chest, laying flat over him. He's still in you and you can feel his heart pound out of his flesh. You're both breathing ragged, utterly wrecked by the other person, but incredibly happy for it.

Casting your half-closing eyes up at him, you pepper a couple pecks to his beard, at his jaw, and then, you smugly say, "Told you I found them hot."

The laughs he lets out is constricted by your weight over the top of him, but Robby won't ever complain. He loves the feeling of you resting your fucked-out frame on his. Robby replies, "You didn't tell me you wanted to drain me dry, sweetheart." His hand gives your bare ass a soft pat, over the cheek that still stings with the harsh smack from before. He splays his palm over it now, rubbing gently, savouring you. "They can stay on all the time if that's what it's like."

It get you to moan, acutely away that he's still buried inside of you. His dick is steadily softening and you're keeping him in like Robby's a plug to stop the cum from spilling out of you. "Maybe not all the time," you say. "I can't be thinking like this at work anymore, one week was bad enough for me."

"You think this'll help, scratch that urge of yours?" he asks, his chest rapidly rising and falling under you.

Coyly, you tell him, "You might have to fuck it out me a few more times before we're due back. But, honestly?" You don't have to consider how this has turned out for you; how any perverse thoughts you have are silenced, drowned out by how you're just buzzing from that high. "I don't care, I feel too good to care right now." You plant kisses to his sweaty, hair-covered chest. "I feel really, really, really good."

A grin breaks out over Robby's face, pride beaming from him, and he comments, "If only I could submit you for my patient satisfaction scores."

"I don't know, might be not suitable for work," you return, sending up a dazzling smile up at him.

Lovingly, Robby gazes down. He brushes your hair out of your face, dampened by sweat. He goes soft on you as he says, "Yeah, best keep this between you and me."

Yet, you're equally soft for Robby. You're pretty sure you're halfway to worshipping the man after tonight's performance. "I'd like that," you says.

There's a subtle shake of his head, disbelieving on all your actions and words for him. Robby feels this tight knot at his chest as if to tell him he doesn't deserve this; that he shouldn't get too attached. He already know it's happened for him. He's long gone, but it doesn't mean he's always so vulnerable with you. Sometimes he shrugs off tender moments with a joke, like now. "Besides," begins Robby, "I can't have everyone knowing my girlfriend gets turned on by reading glasses."

You try not to get upset by his minor withdrawal; the same insecurities that shone when he first came back with the glasses, a very physical representation of his age. You won't let it fester. When you cup his face, you guide Robby to look down at you and meet the sincerity in your eyes. "No, I get turned on by you in reading glasses. It's you — you're who I'm hot for."

And that knot is easy worked away. You've uncoiled it instantly with a warm smile, eyes full of admiration and an unmistakeable honesty in your voice. Robby hears enough lies at work; he sees what it's like to not see the full-picture and have to pick at it until you find the truth. But, with you, you give it without pressing, without any hesitation; and Robby thinks he loves you for it.

Very earnestly, Robby tells you, "You might actually be all my fifty-three years of birthday wishes rolled into one."

It excites you. That killer smile of yours is growing brazen, confident once more. A playful lilt honeys your tongue while you ask, "You wanna blow me out, Robby?"

"Yeah," he answers, fast, committed. Robby nods like you've just handed him yourself as a present for him to unwrap and, right before his mouth descends on your for another kiss, he vows, "Yeah, I do."

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