You were busy—standing at the terminal, reviewing reports, your fingers quickly gliding over the holograms. The screen's light fell softly on the armor; everything was quiet, almost work-like.

Optimus simply watched at first.

Too long.

He came closer—you felt it not with your ears, but with your skin: a heavy, familiar energy behind you, a warm presence. His palms rested on either side of the terminal, trapping you between himself and the panel.

"You're too focused," — he said lowly, almost at the audio sensor.

You barely managed to turn your head before his fingers slowly touched the line of your neck—not caressing, but checking. His thumb slid up, causing you to involuntarily lift your chin.

"Optimus…" — you breathed out, still feigning preoccupation.

The first kiss was your answer—short, restrained, at the very base of your neck. Almost innocent. Almost.

The second—longer. Warmer. His lips lingered, the pressure became more noticeable, and you felt him deliberately taking his time.

"I want..." — his voice became lower, hoarser, — "...to kiss your neck."

He didn't wait for permission.

The kisses moved higher—from calm, almost meditative, to more confident. His hand tightened on your waist, holding you, preventing you from pulling away as he touched the sensitive spot beneath your helmet.

One of the kisses grew hungrier. His lips lingered longer, the pressure intensified, and you realized he wasn't just teasing anymore. He was leaving a mark.

"Optimus..." — your voice wavered.

He chuckled slightly against your neck, his breath hotter than it should have been.

"Tell me if I should stop."

But the next kiss was wetter, slower, his tongue sliding over your armor before he pressed his lips again—harder, deeper, causing you to involuntarily lean back against him.

His hand moved up to the back of your head, steadying you—not roughly, but firmly.

“You have no idea,” — he said quietly, — “how difficult it was to restrain myself.”