Chapter Text
When the last person leaves the conference room, Feyre lets out a heavy sigh and brushes the fallen strands of hair behind her ear.
"What’s her deal?" She asks Rhysand, who’s on the other side of the room, still sitting in his original spot. He’s leaning back in his seat, looking gloriously bored yet smug at the same time. As always.
He gives her a small shrug. "We hooked up last week, now she’s aching for more and willing to do anything to catch my attention."
Feyre scoffs derisively. "Why? Because you’re the best fuck she’s ever had?"
She says it sarcastically, but the asshole has the audacity to nod. "In fact, those are the exact words she used."
Rolling her eyes, Feyre flips the lid of her tablet shut and stands up. "I’m sure she did."
At her tone, Rhys finally moves. He stands gracefully and gathers up the papers lying before him. "She also told me that I did more for her with a single finger than anyone before did with their whole body."
Ignoring the heat spiking in her blood at that comment, Feyre lets out another little snort and leans against the table to shoot him a glare. "I highly doubt that."
His body tenses and she knows that he’s heard the challenge loud and clear.
And she knows that he’s unable to walk away from a challenge.
Rhys’ hands wrap around the stack of papers, lifting them. He thumps them against the table twice to get them all neatly stacked and Feyre watches him do it.
She should be going back to her desk, but she’s transfixed and bolting out of the conference room feels a lot like admitting defeat in this new game they somehow started playing.
"Is that a challenge, darling?" Rhys’ tone is lower now, a hint of danger in it and Feyre tries to tell herself that the chill in her spine isn’t really there.
"Is it?" She replies, cocking her head.
Rhys drops the papers onto the table and then he’s closing the distance between them in three heavy strides. Feyre tilts her head back when he’s two steps away and looks into his face, raising her brow in question. Or a silent dare.
"Want me to demonstrate for you?" He purrs.
"I’m sure, I will be thoroughly underwhelmed after all that posturing." Feyre replies, praying that her voice doesn’t as sound as shaky as she feels.
Rhys keeps looking at her, smirking slightly when he places his hands right above her knees and roughly pushes her up on the table.
She has half a mind to brush him off, but the feeling of his fingers digging into her legs is enough for common sense to exit the room and leave her heart hammering in her chest.
Still, she knows the game.
And she won’t lose.
She steadies herself by placing her hands beside her on the table and lets him spread her legs wider. Then, she lets him push her skirt up. And when his hands slide up and between her legs, she lets him do that, too.
He takes a step closer, her now exposed thighs brushing against the soft fabric of his pants and she has to tilt her head back further to keep her eyes on his.
Somehow, it feels like they are playing two games at once.
Stop this and you loose.
Look away and you loose.
She’s intent on winning both.
The next time Feyre breathes, she gets a lungful of his scent and she almost looses one of their games.
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of her thighs and she can feel his callouses drag over her. The sensation is almost good enough for her to groan, but she forces her expression to remain unimpressed by his efforts.
Despite that, she can’t slow the heart beating wildly in her chest, neither can she hide the hitch in her breath when his fingers finally reach the apex of her thighs.
A triumphant half smirk plays on his lips when a knuckle softly brushes against the wet fabric covering her and she watches as his pupils grow impossibly wide.
Letting out a soft snarl, Feyre moves her knee against the bulge in his pants, silently telling him that he is just as turned on as she is and finding out that she’s wet and wanting isn’t a victory.
With his pupils blown wide like that, it mades his eyes look like a pair of black holes that are trying to pull her into their orbit until she’s unable to escape and he can devour her for the rest of eternity.
But Feyre isn’t some simpering bimbo to be completely dazed by a pair of pretty eyes on a pretty face atop a gorgeous body.
So, she raises one brow to remind him of the actual challenge and feels his lips quirk up further.
"Single finger." She reminds him when she can feel two of them pushing her underwear aside and he lets out a soft chuckle.
"Of course." He replies and it sounds like he too is out of breath, despite moving just his hands.
Indeed, she can only feel a single finger dipping beneath the elastic of her underwear and slip between her folds.
Their faces are so close together now that his forehead is pressed against hers. Yet, she doesn’t hear the soft curse he mutters, but feels it on her tongue.
His finger is soft and probing at fist. Exploring her wetness, collecting it and spreading it all over her. Her own hands slide forward to the edge of the table and grip them tightly.
Being the asshole that he is, he notes the movement and chuckles again. "Easy, darling. I barely even started."
She wants to bark at him. Tell him to shut up. But that would only make him think he’s winning.
"Oh, you started already? I hadn’t noticed." She manages to say, her lips brushing his and her tone a perfect mix of innocence and venom.
Her favourite combination when it comes to insulting Rhys.
He smiles at her wickedly and before she has time to wonder what it might mean, he pushes his finger into her, hard and fast. Her hands grip the table harder and a moan is torn from her throat.
"Sure you don’t want a second finger, darling?" Rhys asks, lips still brushing hers and sending her into a frenzy as that single finger curves inside her.
She swallows hard and shakes her head. "Admitting defeat already?"
His lips brush hers in a way that might be considered a kiss if it weren’t for the fact that they are Feyre and Rhysand. They don’t kiss. They just spew insults at each other from nine to five.
And then his finger is moving out of her again, straight through the middle of her and back to her clit. He presses down and begins drawing tight circles that send little shocks through her whole body and Feyre looses one of their games.
Her eyes fall shut as she lets out another moan.
"One down." Rhys mutters cockily, finger pressing harder into her, causing her to see stars behind her eyelids.
And she knows that he’s probably counting the seconds to tell her how long it took for her to come, but in that moment she doesn’t care.
That single finger isn’t enough, is enough, is too much and Feyre’s spine curves inward and her nails scratch the surface of the polished table as she breaks away from his face and throws her head back.
Her orgasm washes over her in waves, muscles pulling taut and relaxing again and again. And Rhys keeps that damned finger moving until she’s shaking and biting her lips to stop herself from screaming.
She comes again and once the fog clears, she hears his chuckle and it makes her blood boil for a different reason.
"Two in two minutes." Rhys says conversationally, though there’s sweat running down his temple and he’s a little breathless, too.
"Fuck you." Feyre bites back and shoves him away and smoothes her skirt back down. However, she doesn’t get off the table. She doesn’t trust herself to stand on her shaky legs, especially in those heels.
"I just did, darling." Rhys tells her and when he’s sure, she’s looking at him, slips that finger into his mouth and sucks on it. "Mmmh, delicious."
Feyre’s still panting, wide-eyed and filled with hatred and lust when Rhys turns his back to her and leaves the room.