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It’s early. Way early before anyone even contemplates of coming into the office, and yet they’re here because Finn had insisted on it.

‘This meeting with the Mayor is a big deal, Liz. If the Commissioner can pull this off, we’re looking at a good chance of greater funding from the Mayor’s Budget.’

Liz can’t argue with that. But…

‘A bigger deal is getting some fucking shuteye beforehand.’ She looks up at him, observes him intently. ‘You look like you’re being held up by duct tape and caffeine.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Finn, I’m serious.’ His heart skips a beat; she’s got that concerned look on her face which shouldn’t drive to distraction, but it does.

‘I’ll manage,’ he mutters. He lowers his voice. ‘Get your couch ready for tonight though.’ If he intended to make that sound sexy, he ruins the effect by stifling a yawn – unsuccessfully.

Her brow quirks. ‘What makes you think you’ll be welcome on my couch?’

‘I’ve yet to hear any objections from both the couch and its owner until now. Plus you let Boudie sit on it so –’

‘Yeah, but at least she doesn’t drag me out of bed at four in the morning!’

He grabs a pile of folders and shoves them under his arm. She gets the distinct feeling that it’s more decorative than anything else.

‘Fine, if you want me, I’ll be in the press room!’

‘As if anyone wants you at this hour. And you’ve forgotten your lanyard, flyboy!’ she calls after him. Turning, he finds her holding it up like a giant, blue exclamation mark. He snarls.

‘Thanks.’ Then snarls again when he nearly walks into the glass wall.


It isn’t even fifteen minutes later that Liz pushes open the door of the press room, coffee in hand. A snore rumbles through the silence.

Fucking Finn.

She isn’t sure if she actually says that out loud. What she is sure about is that he’s fallen asleep because he’s impervious to the sharpest point of her heel poking into his ankle.

To be fair, she’s vaguely impressed that the press room chairs can actually contain his tall frame. But it’s also only 7.30 and she’s already at peak “Pissed-off-with-Finn” levels.

She exhales; her sigh joining his snores. Removing the lid of her coffee cup, she hopes the scent will revive him, but he’s way out of it. She also learns – the hard way – that shoving coffee like smelling salts under anyone’s nose is not recommended unless your wardrobe has a death wish. Just as she tilts the cup away from Finn’s face, it splatters the front of her blouse. Her only consolation is that it’s lukewarm. Finn rolls away from her.

‘God damn it!’

She runs to the nearest bathroom, but the damage is done. Ugly brown splotches glare back at her through the mirror. Dabbing the stains with water helps, but isn’t great.

Minor wardrobe disaster though this is, she might have a spare blouse upstairs. And if she doesn’t, there should be time to nip over to her place, change, and get back. Just.

‘Fucking Finn.’ This time she really says it out loud.


 Liz eventually finds her blouse – behind a pile of boxes in a corner of Finn’s office, which is somewhat awkward. (She really needs to think about the worrying amount of workplace sex they clock in.)  

Just as she heads for the bathroom, her trench coat catches her eye.

She bites her lip at first, then takes it along with her.


It’s with a sense of déjà vu that she re-enters the press room, only this time it’s with a sense of firm purpose. And with far less clothing.

Finn is still asleep, but he’s inexplicably drawn himself upright so that he’s now sitting on a chair, long legs extended in front of him. All the easier for her, then.

‘Rise and fucking shine, motherfucker,’ she says, gritting her teeth.

She unceremoniously drops into his lap and starts grinding against him. Startled isn’t even close to the expression on his face when he finally wakes up. He hilariously jolts beneath her; she suspects that his reaction wouldn’t be much different had she put 10,000 volts through him.

‘Liz – oh Jesus,’ he says when realises that she’s isn’t wearing anything under her coat.

‘They’ll be here in twenty minutes.’ She shivers as his hands skim over her bare hips beneath the fabric. They forgo unbuckling his belt and go directly to unzipping him.

He nearly topples her over in his haste to get his straining cock out.

‘Steady there, big boy.’ She pauses. ‘I was talking to you, not your cock.’

He flashes an amused grin. ‘I thought you said no one would want me at this hour. Not so it seems.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. This was brought on by unadulterated rage at you spilling coffee on my blouse.’

‘You can’t pin that on me, I was asleep!’

‘Don’t care. You still owe me a blouse.’

Owe you a blouse? Says the person who wears my shirts nearly every – ah!’ He shudders when she rocks her hips hard against his.

‘Well, I’m open to –’ she adjusts her legs just so and fuck, the angle is amazing – ‘alternative repayment solutions.’

Although Finn’s brain is melting, he plays along. ‘Are we talking instalments – or a full-up payment?’ He accompanies this with gentle but pinpoint thrusts which have her grappling at his lapels for support.

‘As you say, there are time limitations –’ He looks at his watch and she moans softly at the loss of his hand on her waist. ‘And are we looking at deposits as well?’

‘I – the terms are –’ she pants, then crushes her mouth against his. ‘Just shut up and fuck me, Finn.’