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"Just us this morning?" Karen asks tentatively after she’s opened her laptop and taken a few sips of her coffee. She rubs her hand over the base of her throat anxiously.
It’s morning at the new offices of Nelson, Murdock & Page, and Foggy hasn’t shown up yet.
“Hearing,” Matt says. “Foggy said he’ll be stuck at the courthouse all day.”
“Oh,” Karen says. She takes a gulp of her slightly-too-hot-for-that coffee and he catches the soft note of her pained regret. But no one else would have noticed, so he ignores it.
“Are you on a case today?” Matt asks, trying to sound casual. Sometimes Karen stays out of the office all day, tracking down evidence, conducting interviews.
“No, I absolutely have to catch up on reports and background checks today. Foggy’s going to need some of this really soon.”
“Oh,” Matt says.
The tension simmers. Matt wets his lips and wills himself to stay calm, bunching up and then relaxing all of his muscles, twisting his neck side to side.
Just a few weeks ago, they all agreed to a three-word business plan sketched on a napkin. And so far, things are going...OK.
Nelson's Meats offers the choicest cuts of beef and pork, but it isn't the choicest place for a law firm, despite its appeal for their finances. It smells like...well, a butcher shop. And keeping themselves penned into two small rooms upstairs means lots of opportunities for Matt to feel a little stifled.
He gets the sense sometimes that Foggy is mentally fitting him for a suit made of bubble wrap. Or maybe thinking about buying one of those fuzzy leashes that parents use on unruly children. Matt remembers getting tangled up in one of those in Times Square once — ugh, that place is hell.
Karen's questions can be sharp. Sometimes when she's worried, she pushes too far, enough to make him flinch. Enough to make him walk around the block so he doesn't say something he'll regret in answer.
He walks around the block for other reasons, too. He forgot, when he signed up for this, what it would mean to be so close to her again. Physically.
Or maybe he convinced himself that she wouldn't react that way around him anymore, despite what his own senses still whispered to him in the close confines of a crypt, in the taste of her mouth on his glass of whisky.
It’s all still there, and handling it is more difficult now than it was back in the old days of Nelson & Murdock. Matt feels raw around Karen now, exposed. All those walls he built to keep her at a distance are lying in ruins. And he did it himself. He chose to let her in. He doesn’t want to hide from her. But, damn, sometimes he needs to hide from her.
Most of the time it’s not a big deal, the subtle signals of her attraction a pleasant humming in the background of their interactions. It's sweet. Flattering. But sometimes it’s not as easy to handle. And when her hormones are running high, like now, her body responds from the moment she enters the makeshift office and keeps him on edge throughout the day.
Yesterday was tough. But at least Foggy was there to serve as a buffer. Another heartbeat, another set of smells up close. Today, alone together, it's been less than half an hour and they’re both already reaching a fever pitch. Her heat, her scent, her pulse are all calling to him. It’s going to be torture.
It’s obviously not anyone's fault. And he knows it doesn’t mean she still has actual romantic feelings for him. It’s...biological. They happen to be really compatible in the personal scents department—pheromones or something. That’s all.
But when it's this strong, the thrill of her arousal tantalizing him, the buzz of her desire vibrating through the office, it's going to be impossible for him to get any work done. It’s too much, the knowledge that some primal part of Karen wants to—
He has to pretend it doesn’t affect him. They’re still working on rebuilding their relationship. She’s still dealing with the fallout of everything he put her through. And when he first revealed his senses to her, she called it humiliating.
The last thing he needs is for her to feel even more uncomfortable around him. He has to at least try to respect her privacy.
After he runs his fingers over the same passage for the third time without actually understanding any of the words, he gets up to open the window, thinking that will be better. But the fresher spring air only changes the smell from butcher shop and Karen to the somewhat more pleasant mix of city and Karen, and that’s not helping at all. He closes the window.
“You OK?” Karen asks, concerned.
He bites his lip, trying to think of anything besides Karen crossing the room, claiming his mouth with her own, unbuttoning her blouse—fuck.
“Not really,” he says in a strangled voice. “I think I might be...coming down with something.”
She makes a sympathetic sound. “You do look a little feverish.”
He can almost feel it. Those long legs of hers wrapped around him, the rise and fall of her labored breathing, the way she would—
He needs to stop. She’s his colleague and they’re in the office and this is completely inappropriate.
Her thighs clenching, her nails scratching down his back—
“I think I should go home,” he says, grabbing his briefcase and cane and rushing down the stairs.
“Um, OK,” he hears her say to the empty room when he hits the street below. “Feel better soon?”
By the time he gets home, he feels like he's choking, like his clothes have shrunk over the course of the morning. He rips off his tie and tosses it on the bed, pulling open his collar. But that's still not enough. His shirt, his pants, all of it has to go.
There's only one thing he can think of that might help.
He goes into the bathroom and turns the shower on. Cold. A shiver runs through him as he contemplates getting in. But he should. It would be wrong to—it wouldn't be a good idea—but who would it hurt, really? She never has to know. And it's not like it would be the first time. Far from it.
Fuck it.
He adjusts the temperature until the water is warm and inviting. Even under the spray, he plays a little mind game at first, soaping up his body carefully like that’s his aim. Like maybe he actually needs this shower. He doesn’t. He took one a couple of hours ago, and all that’s gotten dirty since then are his thoughts.
Oh, God, those thoughts. Fuck, the way she smelled. The quickest flash of memory is enough to finally bring his hand where he really wants it, the relief sliding through him as surely as the water sluicing down from the faucet. He tenses with need as he strokes himself, imagining her hands on him, imagining her close enough to kiss, to unwrap like a gift.
He’s tasted her in the air, musky and honeyed on his tongue. He thinks about tasting her for real, gorging on her sweetness. He thinks about her mouth on his skin. The sounds she would make for him. He loves her voice when she’s talking about office equipment and accounting software, even when she’s telling him that he’s an asshole. He can hardly imagine how beautiful it would sound moaning his name, sighing in bliss, telling him not to stop, never stop, that she’s close, so close, that she loves him.
And that’s what makes him explode — imagining Karen hot and wet and shuddering all around him, “I love yous” falling from her lips.
He leans his hand against the cool tile to brace himself as he comes, groaning in rapture. When he's spent, he can't help but smile. Even the fantasy of Karen is better than a lot of the actual sexual experiences he’s had.
And he finally feels like he's cleared enough space in his head to get some work done.
He buries himself in a complicated case that requires all of his attention. He’s at it for hours, barely pausing for lunch, so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice Karen coming until she’s on the stairs.
He starts guiltily, like she’s somehow developed masturbation radar and she’s going to chew him out for being a creep.
And then he feels even more guilty when he realizes why she’s really here.
"I brought you soup,” she says once he’s opened the door and invited her in.
“Thank you,” he says, surprised that he’s hungry. He feels his watch. The afternoon is long gone. She’s on her way home. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“Not a big deal,” she says, setting it down on his table.
At least he knows he looks the part. He’s in proper sick wear — a t-shirt and sweats. The latter of which may or may not be embarrassingly tucked into his thick wool socks.
"If you don’t mind me asking, is it injury-related or..?" Her voice is hesitant. "I can run to the drugstore for you."
"Oh, uh, you don’t need to do that.” He’s such a jerk. Of course, Karen and her big heart were worrying about him. “Mostly I just needed to—to focus."
He can hear her confusion in the way she breathes. "And you couldn’t in the office? With—with me?"
He can’t answer. He can’t even come up with a convincing lie. His mind is blank with panic, in a way that is completely unlike him.
"Matt, tell me what’s going on.”
He can feel himself turning red. "You, uh...you smelled so..." He trails off, breathing shakily, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips.
"Bad?" she says, sounding horrified.
"No, no. Um...excited."
"Oh! Oh." She flushes. "And that...bothers you?"
"Yeah," he murmurs through his embarrassment. "Because...it makes me want..."
She’s moved closer to him during his fumblings, and she reaches up to touch his face, finally understanding. “It makes you want to fuck me?”
“Yes,” he says, breathless, his cock immediately responding to her words, her touch.
“Oh, god, Matt,” she sighs. “Please fuck me.” And she captures his mouth in a blistering kiss.
“But you’re still mad at me,” he pants. He can hardly believe this is happening — Karen slipping her hand into his hair, Karen arching her body into his.
“I’m willing to set that aside.” Her hands keep moving, over his shoulders, his chest, as her mouth slants hot over his own.
“I hurt you,” he protests between kisses.
Now her hands are creeping up under his shirt.
“So make it up to me,” she says, pulling the shirt up over his head.
He chuckles, finishing the work to strip it off completely. She lets out a breathy “ohhhh” of approval and her lips dip to press quick kisses across his chest.
He’s tugging at her sweater and she straightens to help him, taking it off and making quick work of her blouse, too. He gets his mouth on her neck and trails his fingertips over her back. She’s velvety soft, and his touch sends shivers zipping through her. It all feels like a dream.
And then she’s kissing his mouth again, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing his ass. Her low “mmmm” vibrates against his lips and he’s pretty damn pleased with himself.
Until her hand glides around his hip to cup his dick and he instantly forgets his own name. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs as she rubs against him, and he can’t stop from pushing forward into her grasp. Even through two layers of clothing, she’s burning him up, and it’s affecting her, too. Her arousal blossoms until the air is thick with her. Every bit of his longing for her is now concentrated in this touch, this fiery ache.
And he needs to stop now, before—
“Karen.”
He stills her wrist and then walks her backward across the room, thanking her with grateful kisses, until her legs hit the arm of the couch. He unhooks her bra and strips it from her, and then he palms her breasts, massaging gently as she moans and clutches his shoulders. When he moves forward a little, crowding against her, she has no choice but to sit down.
He pushes further, laying her back onto the couch, loving the heat of her sprawled out below him. He trails his hand heavily in a line from her neck to her chest and up the slope of her abdomen toward her hips, still slightly elevated on the low arm. She arches sweetly for him, her chin tilting up as she soaks in his touch. It’s killing him, how much she wants this, how much she wants him.
When he reaches her waistband, he knows it’s long past time for her to be naked.
He tugs off her pants, her underwear — her shoes have already slipped from her feet. And then he kneels on the floor, spreading her thighs and dipping his head to lick deeply, savoring the knowledge that she definitely tastes as good as she smells. Better, even. She gasps and he does it again, hungry to please her. He settles in, giving her friction where she needs it, caught up in the taste of her and fully intending to bring her to climax using only his mouth.
But she stops him, like he did before—
"Matt."
He can hear the smile in her voice as she pulls backward to lay fully on the couch. "Come here."
He doesn't mind the change in plans — his knees were starting to complain about the hard floor. He takes the swiftest of detours, grabbing a condom before shedding the rest of his clothes and joining her on the couch.
She tugs him down on top of her, kissing him with fervor, as he revels in the feel of so much skin. He's imagined this, dreamed about it, but nothing compares to the real thing, just the two of them and nothing else — no clothes, no masks, no secrets.
He pulls back and puts on the condom, kneeling on the cushion between her spread legs. He can feel her watching him carefully as he readies himself for her, and his whole body throbs. He picks up her hips and lines himself up carefully at her entrance by feel, almost there, promising, promising. "Yes," she pants, but he stays still, feeding on the electricity of her need.
She squirms, trying to work him inside, but his grip is firm and she can’t. The desperate little noises she’s making are going to haunt his dreams for weeks. Months. Years.
She breathes his name as a frustrated flush creeps up her body, from her chest to her neck to her cheeks. She’s impossibly wet and the heat radiating from deep inside her is beckoning to him. But he’s craved this for so long — making her body sing with desire for him when he’s actually in a position to do something about it. He can’t help but play another chorus.
“Oh—just,” she says, panting. “Please. Matt.”
And he breaks then, at the pleading repetition of his name. He thrusts home before the syllable has fully left her lips and it turns into a cry, loud enough that he hears a neighbor grumble downstairs. He grins, taking it as a challenge. He wants to store up these sounds too, her voice rising like water and cresting like waves, washing over him, carrying him far out to sea. He wants to put down anchor, or better yet, be wrecked, capsized, lost forever in her depths.
He leans down over her, needing to be closer, needing to taste her skin, her mouth. He doesn't know how he lived so long without this, but now that he's felt it, he never wants to go back. He pants her name, he balances himself so he can move his fingers between them, over her clit, desperate for her to join him in this shattering flood of bliss.
And, oh, God, the sound she makes when she does.
He’ll never, ever forget.
"I assume that once was not enough to make it up to you,” he says later, once they’ve both caught their breath. He skims his fingers lazily, contentedly, over her collarbone, down the skin between her breasts. "So how many more opportunities do I get?"
She sighs happily. "I’d clear your calendar, Murdock. I think you’re going to be busy for the foreseeable future."
He laughs. And he wonders how much more time she’ll tack on when she realizes he’s not just going for “I forgive you.”
No, he’s going to get all the way to that “I love you.”