open post;

[choicely]

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open post for pic prompts, starters, and texts. f/f + f/m for shipping.
please link nsfw images.
compliant through season 4 of the witcher.

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[choicely]

The rest of the afternoon in the lead-up to the meeting passes by somewhat uneventfully, which suits Yennefer just fine; she has important notes she needs to review in advance, scrolling through her iPad while studiously attempting to ignore the very tall distraction lurking in the corner of the suite. She can't afford to let herself be waylaid, no matter how many muscles she can see bunching beneath Sweeney's well-tailored dress shirt out of the corner of her eye. Knowing that she'll have him positioned as a silent threat over her shoulder in the boardroom is one thing; being alone with him in a penthouse that boasts a bed more than big enough to fit two of them is another.

Despite her bodyguard occasionally pulling her attention, the meeting goes about as well as she could have hoped, but by the time it ends after some overlong negotiations, Yennefer's in desperate need of an opportunity to put her feet up and spends the last fifteen minutes trying to inwardly make up her mind about what she'll order from room service.

Understandably, by the time she and Sweeney are back in the elevator ascending to the penthouse, Yennefer doesn't waste time before slipping off her heels, kicking one shoe off and then the other as she trails down the hall in the general direction of the en suite attached to the master bedroom.

"I'm taking a bath," she declares, mostly for his benefit rather than her own, but before she can cross the threshold, she turns back, one hand deliberately moving to reach for her hair so she can sweep it forward over one shoulder, away from the zipper of her dress, below the nape of her neck. There's nothing in his assignment that prevents him from touching her, as he'd said, and the tick of her eyebrow is the equivalent of throwing down that gauntlet. "Give me a hand, would you?"

[madaboutit]

Sweeney keeps busy during her prep, mindful to give her plenty of space while still being occasionally present, should she need something. It seems like a reasonable compromise that doesn't make waves.

The meeting is easier. A LOT easier. The comfort of the familiar has him sliding into habit without active thought. Sure, his client was different, but the practice is the same. His eyes are mostly on everyone else, tracking them as they move around the room and looking them over for tell-tale bulges where weapons might be concealed. Cool. Professional. It brings Sweeney comfort that he doesn't want to particularly dwell on.

But all good things come to an end, and soon enough, they're back in the elevator, and he's doing what he can to think about anything other than her begging him to fuck her in the confined space. His throat bobs as he works to clear his head, and he's glad that his default stance leaves his hands crossed in front of him. Even so, there's a bit of discomfort, and as they near the correct floor, he has to shift his weigh to resettle his inseam, as best as he's able, to accommodate the extra blood that's unintentionally started to take up residence in his prick.

Luckily, reprieve is offered by the soft chime of the elevator, and then it's all about following her down the hall.

Surely, a bath would buy him some time to get everything sorted before he saw her again. In the meantime, he bends as he walks, scooping up each abandoned shoe, in turn.

Truth be told, Sweeney hadn't expected her to stop before she was shutting the door between them, so when she does, his eyes instinctively dart up; her shoe hanging from two fingers. His lips part; an expression that could easily be explained away by the upward tilt of his head; before he straightens fully. Sweeney blinks once and swallows to make sure his voice isn't riding on a dry throat.

"Uh," he breathes before shaking off the shift in task.

"Course, Miss."

Sweeney sets the shoes down more carefully than she had, before he turns his attention to the long line that guards the soft skin of her back. He lifts his hands, but they hover for a second, as if he's unsure if he's putting himself in harm's way. It's just a zipper. A favor. A reasonable one, at that. It's not like she's naked.

His touch is delicate as he draws the tab downward, careful not to touch her, but at some point, he has to, to make sure nothing catches or snags, given the way the dress is fitted so tightly to flatter her figure.

The finger of his other hand dips beneath the neckline as the opening reaches her shoulder blades. The goal is to keep the pad of it on the other size of the zipper, so there's a buffer between her and the parting teeth, as he works the rest of the way down.