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“Pet. Pet.”
Lucio’s impatient whine curls around your ear (and your second-to-last nerve) as he leans over your shoulder. He has been watching you work for hours now, books and paper and dried herbs spread across the table in the middle of the shop. You hadn’t asked him here—that he had achieved all on his own—but as each moment passes where you aren’t giving him the attention he so apparently deserves, you very much wish you could make him unask himself.
“I’m lonely,” he tells you, sighs to you. He rests his chin on your shoulder, watching as you scribble notes with your tongue between your teeth.
“You have an entire city of people whom you can convince or force into paying attention to you,” you murmur absently.
“But I don’t want their attention.”
“Then you’ll have to be patient.”
You place your pen down to flip a page in your book. Lucio shifts behind you, his arms a little more snug around your waist. He presses a kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, exposed from when he’d first arrived and sidled up to you. His body temperature always ran a little too hot for you, and in the stuffy summer night, you had to remove a layer despite knowing it would only give him more opportunities to tempt you.
“You know I’m not patient,” he murmurs, face now pressed into your neck. You tilt your head away from him, giving him a little more room, and you don’t manage to catch or correct the action before he grazes his teeth along the skin there. You shiver, and feel him smile in return. “See? You should stop this nonsense right now and give all your attention to me.”
“The nonsense is what pays my bills.”
“I could pay them. I would pay them, if you would let me.”
“I’m not letting you ‘sugar daddy’ me.”
He grumbles, even though it was one of the first arguments you shut down in the early stages of your relationship. It doesn’t shut down the rest of him, however, and he continues to bite and kiss and lick your bare shoulder and neck, murmuring to you, still trying to tempt you.
“Pet,” he groans, after a shockingly long stretch of his silence. He rocks his hips forward, and you feel the length of him press into your lower back. “I just want you. I want your attention, your love. You do the most wonderful things to me.”
You place your pen down to watch him in your periphery. He is watching you also, waiting to see if you will cave. He knows the two exact tells to look for when you do, and you are fighting so very hard to ensure they do not slip through.
“Will you?” He asks. His palms smooth around to your front, down the stretch of your stomach toward his next level of temptation, his plan B, though you doubt he has realised that is what it is—this man has never doubted anyone will say ‘yes’ to him, least of all you.
And of course, he is right. You sigh softly, a barely-audible escape of air as you turn on your stool. He immediately cages you with his arms, his eyes dropping to your lips as he waits for the twin grin to his own to show there.
“Will you do the thing?” He murmurs, his eyes raking you over. He leans in to kiss the tip of your nose.
“Yes, I will do the thing,” you answer him, finally letting your smile break through.
You part your thighs to allow him to step into them and he leans right into your body as he does, placing a kiss to the corner of your smiling lips before dropping to his knees.
The shop is his favourite place for this particular act, because the stool you have been perched upon while trying to do your work places you at the perfect height when he is kneeling before you.
His hands curl around your calves as he waits, and when you lift your hand and place it on his head, he sighs and places it down on your lap, You begin to pull your fingers through his soft hair, and with every lazy drag of their tips across his scalp, he snuggles a little further into you. His soft sighs and moans become so frequent they almost turn into a purr, and you can practically feel him vibrating against your thighs from the affection he is receiving.
“I love it so much when you do the thing,” he murmurs, his words a little slurred.
“I know you do,” you tell him softly.
And despite the fact that he will sit here for more than an hour, on his knees before you to receive the ministrations of your hands, to feel you pull your practised fingertips through his hair and not a lick more, you love it, too.