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the hospitality suite

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“You’re fucking worthless,” Gerri hisses at him from above, and his hips jerk uselessly up into her. She gives him a look that suggests she would have been better off with a fucktoy and an empty room, but also like she’s kind of enjoying this. 

Roman nods, whimpers a little, his nose scrunching up. 

He is fucking worthless. He isn’t CEO because he isn’t ready, and he was only ever a contender because Connor is the biggest fuckhead to have walked the Earth since the Neanderthals did. He probably won’t ever be CEO, maybe because Kendall will take over the whole goddamn empire and won’t go out on a coke binge before he’s 50. If he does, Shiv will take over, and by the time she keels over he’ll be demented. That’s fine. He can convince himself he doesn’t really want to be CEO. He wants it because he hasn’t ever known anything else, never bothered to pick up a passion or whatever. He wants it for the adrenaline. He wants it because he’d be fucking good at it, because he’s paid his dues more than Shiv and Kendall, who kiss up to Daddy and get spoon fed before he gets the slop. Anyway, he’d wanted it for Gerri, mostly because he can tell she wants it, knows she cares, knows she likes the adrenaline too. 

Besides, he thinks the whole “dynamic duo” thing is still in the cards, maybe depending on how bad he fucks up this whole putting-his-dick-in-the-CEO-of-Waystar thing. 

He has his dick in the CEO of Waystar. That’s kind of fucking cool. 

“I know, I know, yeah, I’m worthless,” he agrees, trying to turn his desperate hip-thrashing into at least a semi-decent fucking rhythm. 

His shirt is open, undershirt bunched up on his abdomen. Her nails, when she’s getting in close, scrape up in sharp paths up his navel. She might be mean enough to make him fucking bleed. She does it again, the nails thing. He whimpers again. 

“This is pitiful, Roman,” she reminds him, and Roman whines while she rolls her hips. His face is flushed, vein in his forehead bulging. Her voice is that same steady, cold, gentle-if-it-wasn’t-so-fucking-mean timbre. But she’s kind of smiling at him, definitely with her eyes. He’s never seen her face while they confer like this. Is she always smiling? Fuck, he’s been missing out. Shit. 

His hands push up underneath her hiked-up skirt, grabbing tightly to her thighs. “Yeah,” he agrees, thrusting up with all the vigor of a Teen Fucks MILF porno star, only decidedly less smooth and much redder. He’s going to come. Shit. His dick should have deflated ten minutes ago. He should be woefully soft. Instead, he’s about to come like he’s fucking fourteen. “I’m pitiful and, and what else.” 

A couple seconds later, he adds: “Will you get me a cock ring for my birthday?” 

She pinches his nipple with well-manicured nails. Even through his shirt, it stings. He’s going to come. 

“You’re practically a virgin,” she tells him, watches him nod frantically in agreement — begging her to keep going. “Getting his little dick wet for the first time. You can’t get it up for anyone else because there’s something seriously wrong with you, and I’m only doing it because I feel bad for you. Poor Roman.”

Then he does actually come, and the orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train, gut clenching and hips pushing relentlessly up and face tightened into a scowl. 

He very nearly blacks out — or maybe he does, because by the time his eyes have opened again she’s lifting herself off of him gingerly and he’s tempted to beg her to just, like, sit there for another minute. Most of his dignity fucked off years ago, so. 

But she reclines gingerly against the headboard, pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Out of respect, Roman only groans a little and rolls toward her. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t — did you — ?” he asks, not even beginning to look remotely hopeful before she laughs at him. 

“Gerri,” he adds, almost whining, because it’s way too fucking soon but even that made his dick twitch. It’s sensitive.

Then she starts touching herself. 

Skirt repositioned, one leg propped and bent at the knee, her hand presses up and fingers start rubbing in delicate circles. “When’s the last time you made a woman come, Roman?” she asks him. Everything’s mostly the same about her voice, only a little breathier. Her head is tilted back a little. 

“Uh,” he says. His dick twitches again. He stares. 

“Have you ever actually made a woman come?” Definitely breathier this time. And her cheeks are flushed.

“Uh. I can change?” He would like very much to make her come. He isn’t confident he could, but. 

She doesn’t say much else after that, and he has to listen hard to hear the hitches in her breath, the soft noises of pleasure. Has this woman lost a shred of composure in the past fifty years? he thinks.

He stares. At her neck, at her face, at the hand between her legs. He’s worried his dick is going to actually get hard again, and he’s going to have to hump the bed this time. Significant downgrade. 

When she comes, finally, it’s sort of soft. She tenses, jerks her hips a little. Mostly she just sighs, her wrist wavers, her thighs tremble minutely. It’s the same face she makes when she gets good news, that they fucked somebody they hate. He’s going to have the worst fucking relationship with his dick from here on out. Maybe he’ll ask for a fucking cock cage for Christmas. 

Finally, she blisses out, her leg relaxing back into the bed and watching him amusedly. She looks smug, Roman decides. It’s hot. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asks him. “You’re going to start humping me like a sick puppy every time we’re in a room together?” 

“No,” he says, and he’s very obviously lying. It was a bad idea to give him what he wants. It’s the equivalent of giving the snot-nosed kid permission to stick his hand in the cookie jar whenever the hell he feels like it. “I’ll be a very good little boy. I’ll be a fucking — champ. Gold star worthy behavior from me.” 

“Well, I meant what I said before,” she says, choosing very artfully to ignore his little routine. She stands, then, leaving him stretched out on the bed. “This is incredibly unprofessional,” she continues, straightening her blouse and skirt and heading across the room for her phone. If she’s missed calls, it’s going to look like she had a fucking anyeurism. That isn’t a good look. “So you’re going to keep it under wraps.” 

Sure enough. “I have work to do,” she says, picking up the phone. “Clean up your own jizz like a big kid?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and beams at her across the room.