For an apartment, it was surprisingly spacious, well-furnished; walking further on, into the living room, she could see that it was the sort of place she would have loved to wake up in, back before John, back before she could wake up a different house every night if she, or the men in the club she’d visit, wanted to. A dark red sofa, black cabinet next to it... television placed a good distance away from it... carpet soft, almost fluffy under her feet... an armchair, end table, with a multitude of white rings from a coffee mug, next to it... a kind of spicy, not-entirely-unpleasant smell seemed to just hang in the air.
“Nice place you have here, Mark.” Strahm ran a hand over an arm of the sofa, brushing against the material. Damn, that fabric feels good...
Hoffman’s lips twitched at the smile the feeling of his sofa brought to the federal agent. Every material in the room had been specially chosen, for a little post-sex comfort, for her to lie there without complaining about the hard wood of the floor, or about how her skin stuck to the couch’s material, for any bruises to not hurt as much as they lay together on the soft, plushy fabric. And, he had to admit, it did feel good to just fall asleep on it, just come home, lie down, and snooze.
“Are we going to, you know, do anything yet, Peter?” Amanda sighed, giving a quick roll of her eyes. “Or am I going to have to fuck Mark on his own?”
Strahm smirked as he slipped his arms around Amanda, pulling her closer to him. They stared at each other’s eyes for a moment, Strahm admiring the dark, wildness of them, Amanda noting how blue his were, so like Hoffman’s, who was now stepping, ever so slowly, to Strahm’s back. With a short, harsh intake of breath, getting on her toes to do so, she crushed her lips against his, feeling his hands grip her waist. Her mouth moved to his lower lip, nibbling on the soft flesh. Feeling his hands clench as she did so, nails nearly digging through her clothes, she began to bite harder, tasting the sharp flavor of his blood in her mouth, sucking the flesh for more, more of him in her.
Hoffman took another step forward, placing his own pair of hands on Strahm’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the flesh under the shirt and skin, as the agent leaned in to have his bottom lip shredded. Eyes fixed on Amanda, her own pair closed in ecstasy, concentrating solely on chewing, running her tongue over the ruins of his lower lip, Hoffman worked his arms around Strahm’s waist, running his left hand around the rim of Strahm’s slacks. With just a hint of ceremony, his hand plunged in, through the elastic waistband of his boxers, gripping the stiffening flesh.
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