cheating, semi-public sex, almost caught, vaginal sex
She always glows. Light radiates out of her when she smiles, when she laughs, when she meets his eyes. But on party nights, with her hair up and the lights all around her, she's like a beacon in the night and he can't help but gravitate towards her.
And then he stops, because V's arm is around her waist, holding her to his side like she's the only thing keeping him afloat, which Seven would fully believe. But it makes him shrink back, trying to blend into the crowd.
Only she won't let him. She turns to him and catches his eye. Her smile widens and warmth blooms in his chest, and when she winks at him it floods through him from head to toe.
He's already moving when she whispers in V's ear, disentangles herself from his side. They move parallel to each other through the crowd, catching glimpses of each other where it thins, until she slides through a partially-open door. He waits, counts to ten, and follows her.
The door leads to a small set of offices, and she's not in the main room when he enters. It's a game now, figuring out which one she's in, and he opens doors until he finds her sitting on a desk, the dim overhead light doing nothing to diminish the shine in her eyes.
She wraps her arms around his neck like she's welcoming him home, kisses him like it's the first time. Her hands worm their way under his suit jacket and his fingers slide up under the hem of her dress, pushing it higher and higher until she's laughing into his ear. She's not wearing tights and there's only a thin layer of fabric to cross before his fingers find her.
She's holding onto him now, letting her legs fall open on either side of him while he works her with his fingers, swallowing her whimpers and moans with his kiss. Curling his fingers inside of her until she trembles against him and buries her face in his neck.
He presses the flat of his palm against her just to feel the the little tremors that shoot through her as she recovers, catches her breath and looks up at him. Takes off his glasses and sets them in her own hair like a tiara. Her smile is a little harder to see now, but the warmth it sends through him is unmistakable.
He pulls away to fight with his belt buckle, and she pulls his shirttail out of his waistband to run her hands over the flat planes of his stomach. It makes him shiver, which makes her laugh.
Then she slides them back down to take hold of his cock, pulling it up out of his trousers, and his head falls forward with the sheer relief. He'd been hard the moment she winked at him in the ballroom, and her fingertips gliding across the head of his cock makes it jump in her hand.
She locks eyes with him as she shifts forward on the desk, guiding him towards her center - and then V's voice carries through the wall.
They both freeze. Her eyes dart over his shoulder at the door and then back at him. There's no way to arrange themselves in time to where this doesn't look like exactly what it is. Seven wonders if he cares. He wonders if she cares.
V calls her name again and anger shoots through Seven; he only gets her once a year, one night every three hundred and sixty-five days, and V has to try to ruin it? Can't be away from her for ten fucking minutes before he comes looking for her like a little lost sheep? She must see it in his eyes because hers widen, his name forming on her lips before he drives himself inside of her, V right outside the door.
Her teeth come down on her lip and her nails dig into his shoulders; a whimper dies in her throat. He's buried in her to the hilt and V is opening doors in the hallway, footsteps fading as he goes farther down. Seven slides out of her and presses back in, not quite all the way, trying to avoid the sound of flesh on flesh.
They don't usually go slow - they don't usually have time. He rolls his hips against hers, savoring the pull and drag of her against him, the sweet, slow build of fire at the base of his spine. She locks her ankles around his waist, pulling him in deeper, and he lets his breath out in a shaky sigh against her throat.
The footsteps are coming back. They can hear doors opening and closing, or else locked doorknobs rattling. She sucks her breath in sharp; he nips at her bottom lip and eases his way back into her. She clenches down hard around him and he has to bite his own lip now, stifling the noise that threatens to escape him. V's only a few doors down and her breath is coming in quick, sharp little pants that she tries to muffle.
A smarter man would stop, would recognize danger when he's staring it in the face, but Seven can't. She's radiant, chest heaving and face flushed, leaning back on one hand to stifle her own sounds of pleasure with the other. His cock throbs inside of her and he leans forward to bury his face in her neck, breathe in the scent of her.
The door to their office rattles and she buries her hand in his hair as she falls over the edge. She trembles against him as she rides it out on his cock with V five feet away, a thin press-board door and a shitty lock the only thing keeping him from finding them. From finding her, like this, with him. He grits his teeth as the spike of not-quite-fear snaps the coil in his belly and he spills over inside of her. Digging his fingers into the flesh of her thigh as if he can anchor himself here, in this moment, with just his skin against hers. V mutters something about being so sure he'd seen her come in here before the footsteps retreat, other doors opening and closing as he goes.
Seven slumps against her, bracing himself on the desk with his head on her shoulder. She hums contentedly, fingers running through his hair in apology for the way they'd pulled earlier. He peppers her neck with kisses, trailing up her throat to her jaw. She catches his own jaw in her hand, pulling his mouth to hers, and her kiss is no less sweet than the first time, or any time in between. He tries to speak through it, convey what he means without words, just in the language of his hands on her body and his lips against hers.
She pulls away, searching his eyes with her own. There's something there, too, something she's trying to say to him. Or else he's just imagining it, his own longing writing messages that aren't there.
She smiles, reaching up to tip his glasses down over her eyes. They're weirdly magnified behind the lenses and he can't fight a smile of his own, reaching up to push her hair back behind her ear. They'll have to part eventually, have to go back to their separate spheres, intersecting only in carefully engineered moments. He'll stay here as long as he can, drinking in as much of her light as he can hold, and hope it's enough to carry him through until next year.