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In the morning, Riza will find a way to blame it on the alcohol.
She’s only had one drink, and she’s always been able to hold her liquor better than most men she knows, but Roy Mustang’s lips are trailing the way down indecently exposed skin, and after so many years of resistance, she can’t help but think it’s the drink that finally did her in. His kisses almost match her slow but labored breaths, the way her chest rises and falls faster as he makes his way downward.
They’ve come back to her apartment because it is closer to campaign headquarters, and though it is nearly two in the morning now, she can still hear the radio in her kitchen repeating the headline: Former General Roy Mustang becomes the first President of the Democratic nation of Amestris since 1855! Wins by a margin of 5%....supporters say this is the first giant leap forward since the events of 1915…Mustang’s team says ‘changes to be made swiftly’…
In their haste to get back to the bedroom, Riza has forgotten to turn the radio off, but the words barely register anyway.
Roy’s hands are buried in the crumpled fabric of her skirt, which has ridden high up her thighs. A few of his fingers brush the bare skin of her leg as his mouth reaches her belly, and Riza feels his touch like a lick of flame. His breath fans out over her skin, causing her hips to twitch slightly upward. She feels his grin against her more than she sees it.
“We shouldn’t have left so early,” she breathes after a moment, to keep him from teasing her.
He hums and lifts his head. “Early? We stayed for two hours after they announced the election results. I doubt anyone even noticed.”
“Of course they noticed. They’re your political party.”
“Do you honestly care right now?” Roy asks, sliding both of his hands against the sides of her upper thighs. “The last thing I’m thinking about right now is the election party.”
She sighs, adjusting her head against the pillow. He’s right; she’s foolish for prolonging this moment. It’s taken them fifteen years to even get this far.
He waits for her to speak again, and when she doesn’t, he cocks an eyebrow. “Are you finished?”
Riza smacks at his hand. “Get to work, General.”
“President, now,” he reminds her cheekily, but he does as she asks anyway, his hands moving from her thighs to pull at the soft cotton covering her beneath the skirt. She sucks in her breath as he tugs them down her legs and lets them crumple in his palm. For a moment, Riza almost thinks he’s going to do something like put them in his pocket, but instead he throws them over his shoulder and dives right back to where he was.
Roy’s eyes flick back to hers as his lowers his mouth, his breath ghosting hot over her. There are more words on her lips, something along the lines of you’re not my commanding officer anymore but everyone knows you were and this isn’t something I want to rush after all these years, but the only word that comes out is, “Yes.”
He’s leaning in before it’s even out of her mouth.
The first touch of his tongue is almost too much, and Riza’s entire body seems to become heavy, like it’s filling up with water. She struggles to keep her head up, to watch him down there between her legs, but eventually it falls back against her pillow and all she can do is gasp and shift restlessly against the bedsheets, her hips moving to the rhythm of his mouth. He’s good at charm and schmooze and motivation with that tongue of his, but she had forgotten that it was talented in other ways as well. Though she’d frequently thought back to the brief period after her father’s funeral when they had been all but glued to each other, her memory had forgotten the sensations. What it felt like to have him touch her, to have him breathe her, to forget that anything existed but the two of them on her bed.
When his fingers begin probing at her entrance, and he slips one and then another inside, the moan that tears itself out of her throat sounds choked. He stops for a moment, thinking he has hurt her, but she grabs his hair and pushes him back down. He chuckles, sending ripples of pleasure through her body, and when his fingers start to move in rhythm with his hand, Riza feels like she is hurtling towards an inferno. Roy groans against her, using his free hand to pull her closer by her ass. That hand stays there, his nails almost biting into her flesh, and she pulls harder on his hair.
It’s not much longer before she’s coming, her toes curling against his back, and after a long moment, his head reappears in her line of vision. He’s sucking on his fingers with a self-satisfied smirk, and she almost wants to hit him for it, but instead she pulls him by the shoulder down for a kiss. He meets her halfway, his mouth warm and open, and when his body settles along the lines of her, she wraps her legs around his waist to hold him there.
They fall asleep like that, his head pillowed against her breast and her ankles crossed low around his hips, the covers in a heap at the end of the bed.
In Riza’s kitchen, Hayate has been lying next to his dog bowl, just beneath the radio. It’s stopped broadcasting the election results and is now playing a soft, moody jazz song that was popular at the end of the Ishvalan War. Tired of waiting for his master to turn off the jumbling noise, Hayate gets up and trots into the bedroom. It’s quiet there, and there’s something in the air that relaxes him. He jumps up on the foot of Riza’s bed, where he usually curls halfway through the night, and makes himself comfortable on the discarded blankets, his tail swishing against Roy’s foot.
The radio plays slow, crooning ballads until morning.