Title:     PLATONIC 2:  STOLEN MOMENTS
Author:    Blueswirl
Category:  MSR  [mindless smut, really]
Rating:    NC-17
Keyword:   Mulder/Scully
Spoilers:  None
Summary:     The dictionary may be back up on the shelf where it belongs, but
Mulder and Scully are still, um, testing the boundaries of their new
relationship.  
Distribution:     Exclusive submission to XAPEN.  Do not archive at Gossamer.
Anywhere else, please ask for permission first -- and please keep my name
attached!
Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead:  the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully
belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and I'm using them for
this story without permission.  So sue me.
Feedback:   If the mood hits -- I'd love it at Blueswirl@aol.com.
1/31/99
xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The ringing of the phone startles me.

It is a shrill blaring noise that jars me back to the firm ground of
consciousness.  Which isn't to say that I was sleeping;  on the contrary, I
was rifling through the pile of bills and letters that had collected on my
rarely used dining room table over the past several days.  My actions were
automatic, dividing the pay-nows from the pay-laters, separating the write-
backs from the throw-aways.  

It is a habit of mine after finishing a case to make my way through the
detritus of normal everyday life and restore order to the chaos.  Though my
hands were busy, my mind was a thousand miles away, occupied with its own
process of sorting and evaluating: truth from lies, action from reaction,
motive from consequence, wisdom from folly.  My brain was whirling in a
confused jumble and this is why I am so shocked by the plain, ordinary,
everyday sound of the phone.

I pick up the receiver on the second ring and bring it to my ear, speaking
into the mouthpiece by rote.  

"Scully."  

I can't remember a time when I answered the phone merely by saying "Hello".
In my life, that simple greeting no longer applies.

There is silence at the other end, a deep fathomless silence that compresses
eternity into the space of a single second.  And then a voice, his voice,
harsh bass notes that rocket across the wires.

"Take off your clothes," he says.  "I'm coming over."

The line clicks, leaving me listening to a whole lot of nothing.  Though a
part of me is dimly aware that this call had been preordained, I find myself
standing still, paralyzed by the flush that sweeps up from deep inside to
stain my fair skin a deep, violent red.

Somehow I manage to fumble the phone back into its cradle and toss the bill
that I'd been holding onto the table.  It is quiet enough in my apartment for
me to hear the beating of my heart, each pounding thud signifying the passing
of yet another second.  

I know how fast he drives.

I want to be ready.

I pick up the shoes I had kicked off upon walking in the door and the jacket
to my suit that I had tossed upon a chair.  True to my nature, inside my
bedroom I align the shoes neatly amongst the other pairs on the floor of my
closet and then hang the jacket on its hanger.  There is a mirror on the
inside of my closet door and I watch myself undo the buttons on the silk
blouse I am wearing, amazed at the change that seven short words has wrought
in my usually composed demeanor.  My fingers brush across the bare skin that
the open blouse reveals and I almost jump at the sensation.  My hands are cool
and damp with sweat, my body quivering with nervous anticipation.

I hate the fact that he can do this to me.

I revel in the fact that he can do this to me.

I toss the blouse into the laundry basket and then reach behind me to unfasten
the button to my skirt and pull the zipper down.  It slides easily over my
hips and pools on the floor at my feet.  Stepping out of it, I pick it up,
pluck a piece of lint from the navy wool, and then hang it in the closet
beside the jacket.  Though my hands are trembling, it only takes me a minute
to rid myself of my pantyhose, leaving my feet bare against the carpet.

I take another look at myself in the mirror, admiring the sheer lace bra and
panty set that I donned this morning in hopeful expectation.  We never speak
about the decision we made to redefine our relationship, we have never
formally drawn up any rules of conduct or behavior.  Like everything else
between us our actions are instinctive;  it is as though intuitively we know
exactly where the boundaries lie.  The office, the field, the X-Files -- that
is the neutral zone and we speak of nothing there but aliens and
investigations and government conspiracies.  Sometimes for days, sometimes for
weeks.

The nights are harder than the days.

Eventually, as with the investigation we just completed, our work finishes
with a closed file and a report delivered to AD Skinner.  X-Files don't
usually end with a lot of clarity, but there's still a point at which it's
okay to declare that the case is over, at least for the moment.  Which is what
we did this morning, delivering our analysis of the events that had occurred
in our usual style, his rambling hypothetical conjecture counterbalanced by my
succinct scientific rationalization.

Riding in the elevator back down to our basement office, it would have
appeared to a casual observer that he and I are merely two colleagues,
partners in only the most platonic sense of the word.  But I know better, and
I caught the look in his eyes as he glanced down at me.  For just an instant
his hazel eyes flashed molten fire, an unmistakable signal that the waiting
was once again about to come to an end.  His gaze unwavering, intensifying
with each blink of his lashes.  

Desire.

Want.

Need.

At that moment, I was foolishly glad that I had chosen to wear his favorite
underwear.

I smile ruefully at the woman in the mirror, both frustrated and pleased that
my planning has come to naught.  I reach behind and unhook my bra, allowing
the straps to slide down off my shoulders.  I pull it off and then grasp the
waistband of my panties and tug them off as well.  Though I have been nude
within the confines of my apartment a million times, somehow I suddenly feel
more naked than I ever have before.

A nervous chuckle escapes my lips and I shut the closet door, glancing over at
my neatly made bed with approval.  A bit of secret vanity leads me into the
bathroom where I run a brush through my auburn hair, teasing it just a little
with my fingers.  I think for a moment about putting on some lipstick, but
decide against it.  My face is flushed enough to make any additional color
unnecessary.  

Suddenly there is a knock on the door.  Not just a knock, but three raps in
quick succession.  I wonder idly why he hasn't just used his key and then
realize that it is all a part of a game.

His game.

A game that I have chosen to play.

Taking a deep breath, I head out of the bedroom and down the hall.  My bedroom
is the only room in the house that's carpeted;  there's tile in the bathroom
and kitchen, and there are hardwood floors everywhere else.  The wood is cold
against my bare feet as I move through the dining room and into the entry
hall.  The knocks sound again, another series of three, and I pause in front
of the door, waiting.  Though it might be my ears playing tricks on me, I
swear I hear him breathing.

Then he speaks, and I know I heard him for sure.  "Open the door," he demands.
"I know you're there."

My hand is shaking as I draw back the deadbolt and then twist the knob,
pulling open the door.  I hold it open wide, revealing myself to him
completely, not caring that at any moment one of my neighbors might pass by.  

"Mulder," I say, the word escaping as a hushed whisper.

He stands there dressed in the sharp gray wool suit that he wore to the office
and a white shirt that still looks surprisingly crisp.  His tie, in a pattern
that for him is fairly discreet, just brushes the buckle of his belt.  Though
his hair is slightly mussed, one stubborn strand having fallen across his
forehead, he looks every inch the consummate government agent.

Except for his eyes.

His eyes glitter with a dangerous combination of hungry lust and passionate
intensity.  The look is tangible enough to touch me, palpable enough to
frighten me.  

With casual insouciance, he braces his hands against the doorframe, his jacket
opening to reveal the gun in its holster at his side.  Leaning in towards me,
he allows his eyes to rake over every single inch of my body, branding me with
the voracious ardor of his gaze.  

"Scully," he breathes, turning the syllables of my name into a whispered
promise.

I let him look at me for as long as I can stand it, conscious of the hardness
of my nipples and the dampness between my legs, until I know that I will
surely die if I don't feel his hands on me.  And soon.

"Come inside," I tell him.   

He doesn't move, though his lips quirk in a hint of a smile, which irritates
me as much as it arouses me.

"I told you to come inside."  Taking his tie firmly in my grasp I tug on it,
lightly at first and then harder, coaxing him over the threshold.   I back
into the room and he follows me obediently, kicking the door shut behind him,
his eyes never leaving my own.

"It's been a long time," he says, still keeping his distance.

I shrug, not releasing my grasp of his tie.  It stretches between us like an
exotic silk leash.  "It was a long case," I remind him.

"Things change over time," he remarks, his hands clenched loosely at his
sides.  "Are you sure you're still interested?"

Even though I know the question is mainly rhetorical, there is an underpinning
of truth to it.  I have no doubt of Mulder's love for me;  I knew it existed
long before he ever proved it to me with specific words or deeds.  Yet despite
my constant reassurances that my obsession for him is equally great, he is
still afraid that I will leave him.  That I don't want him, that he doesn't
deserve me.  Though I'm not the psychologist in this partnership, I know
enough about how life experiences can shape a person's psyche, and I know that
Mulder's has been twisted in ways that are too horrible for me to imagine.  

I do love him.  I do want him, and need him, and I will never leave him.  

And if he needs me to prove that to him every once in awhile, that's fine by
me.

A smile spreads across my face as I assure him, "I am most definitely still
interested."  

I use his tie to pull his head down towards me, rising up on my toes to meet
him halfway.  Our lips brush hesitantly just once and then he brings his mouth
down to claim mine, his tongue slipping into my mouth with practiced ease.  He
tastes so good, so familiar, the feel of his lips against mine the most
welcome sort of homecoming I could ever imagine.

When he has kissed me so thoroughly that I think I might faint, he moves his
mouth away, trailing his lips along my cheek and jaw before nibbling at my
neck.  A moan escapes me as he suckles the sensitive patch of skin just below
my ear and I release my grasp of his tie as my knees start to buckle.  His
arms snakes around my back, holding me up and pulling me close.   I bring my
arms up and wrap them over his shoulders, my fingers just brushing the soft
strands of his hair.  He tightens his grasp of me then, crushing my breasts
against the starched cotton of his shirt.  I feel the buckle of his belt
pressing into my stomach and his erection rubbing against me through the
scratchy wool of his pants.   

"Love you," he murmurs, one of his hands coming up to cup my head, twining his
fingers in my hair as he nibbles at my ear.  "I love you..."

"I love you," I answer as my eyes flutter shut.  "I missed you..."

He shifts against me in response, nudging his leg against my thigh, sliding
his knee between my legs as though staking a claim.  I groan at the wildly
erotic sensation of being held by him like this, his clothes rough and cool
against my bare skin.  

He brings his lips back to mine as his other hand makes its way down my back,
tracing the curve of my spine and coming to rest against my ass.  He clenches
and squeezes my ass in an impromptu rhythm that matches the dance of his
tongue in my mouth and all I can do is whimper with pleasure.

I pull back from him to catch my breath and notice the dazed expression on his
face with no small satisfaction.  There is nothing in the world quite like
knowing that the person that you want most in the world wants you just as
badly.

I slip my hand beneath his jacket and pull his gun from its holster, and he
gives me a gentle nod of approval as I set it carefully down on the coffee
table.  Buoyed with confidence, I use my hands to slide his jacket off of his
shoulders and down his arms, watching him watch me.  When the jacket hits the
floor, I reach up to loosen his tie only to be stunned when quick as lightning
he seizes my wrists in his hands, trapping them at the level of my shoulders.
The action is swift enough and his grip rough enough to make me gasp in
surprise.  

"Not so fast," he warns me, that quixotic smile again dancing across his lips.
"Not yet."

It's hard to sound authoritative when you're naked as a jaybird but I give it
my best shot.  "Mind if I ask why not?"

"Because I said so," he declares, keeping hold of my wrists as he leans in to
kiss me again.  I twist in his grip a little, more to revel in the strength of
his hands than out of any desire to get free.  I know he would release me in
an instant if I asked him to.  I also know that he knows how much I like to be
teased.

When he breaks off the kiss I mutter, "Have it your way."

"Oh," he assures me, "I will."

He loosens his hold on me then, but keeps his hands on my wrists.  He pulls my
arms behind me and places my hands so that I am basically cupping my own ass.
My elbows are bent and my back slightly arched, a position that lifts my
breasts and pushes them directly towards him.  He taps my thigh gently and I
obey the unspoken command, altering my stance so that my legs are spread
apart.  

"Hold still," he tells me, keeping his eyes on mine until I respond with a
tiny nod.  

I feel slightly ridiculous, as though I am posing for a sculptor eager to
capture my shape in marble, or a painter anxious to preserve my visage on
canvas.  If Mulder's the artist, then tonight I am his muse.  A smile crosses
my face at the thought, and he catches the glimmer of amusement.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"I feel silly," I reply.

"You look beautiful," he says, softly, and the hungry look in his eyes
silences me.

He steps back just a bit as though to get a better view and his tongue darts
out to moisten his heavy bottom lip, making me want to kiss him again.  But I
fight the temptation to reach out and grab him, and instead stand still as
I've been bidden, knowing that the reward for my obedience will be well worth
it.

Taking his time, he runs both of his hands along the side of my face, kissing
me gently before drawing his hands down my neck and along my shoulderblades.
Using just the tips of his fingers, he traces the swell of my breasts, then
trails his thumb down the hollow between them, pressing hard enough to make me
moan.  He meets my eyes again briefly and then turns his attention back to my
chest, cupping my breasts in his hands, clenching and squeezing them with the
same firm pressure he has so recently applied to my ass.

"Mulder..."

He is too consumed by his task to pay any attention to me.  As he strokes my
breasts he moves his thumbs across my nipples, gently at first, and then
harder, taking them between his fingers and squeezing.  Ripples of pleasurable
pain spiral through me and I can't wait a moment longer.

"Mulder, please..."

"Please what, Scully?"  His voice is low and dark.  Dangerous.  "What do you
want?"

"You know what I want."  It is nearly a growl.

"Yes," he admits.  "I guess I do."  His eyes meet mine and I see the playful
glint in their hazel depths.  "But remember, the best things come to those who
wait."

Lowering his head, he leans forward to place a single kiss between my breasts,
his hands coming to rest on either side of my waist.  I watch, transfixed, as
he bends his knees and draws me closer.  The pressure of the kiss intensifies
as his lips slide down my chest and belly, his hands gliding down over my hips
and thighs.  He moves achingly slowly, his touch reverent as he traces the
contours of my body.  

My heart pounds as blood thunders through me like a runaway train.  My skin
flushes red with a heady mix of desire and embarrassment as he continues to
lavish me with caresses.  He's driving me crazy and I love him for it.  

He continues until he is kneeling on the wood floor in front of me, the
creases in his wool trousers nearly brushing my toes.  His hands grip my
thighs as his mouth stops just above the damp hair between my legs.  Only then
do his lips break contact with my skin as he raises his head to meet my eyes
once more.  The awe on his face tells me everything I need to know, rendering
the words he speaks unnecessary.  

"It kills me, Scully," he confesses.  "Being without you.  Not being able to
touch you like this, every day.  It kills me."

I feel unwanted tears gathering in the corners of my eyes.  "It kills me too.
I love you."

His head bobs slowly in the semblance of a nod as he takes in my statement, as
though filing it away for future reference.  Then without warning he presses
his mouth to my throbbing, aching flesh, his tongue slipping out to lick my
swollen clit.

"God!"  My knees buckle and I sway, my arms swinging instinctively forward in
an attempt to keep my balance.  My hands come to rest on his head and I tangle
my fingers in his hair, my head rocking back as a delicious shudder races up
my spine.  

His grip on my thighs tightens as he works me with his mouth, licking and
sucking and nibbling and I shamelessly keep him there, close to me, where he
belongs.  It feels so good and gets better and better and better until I am
weak with how unbelievably wonderful it is to have him love me like this.  I
abandon myself to the gleeful, giddy rush of pleasure and allow myself to spin
off into that sacred place where there is nothing and no one but us.

My body shakes and quivers as I come, and it isn't until the last of the
tremors has passed that I realize the tears I thought I banished have instead
spilled down my cheeks.   Mulder rises to his feet and cradles me in his arms
and uses his fingers to gently brush them away.   He kisses me, a deep,
scorching kiss that tastes of salt and sweat and sex and I feel the tide begin
to rise again.

"Mulder," I murmur as I break off the kiss, "if you don't take off those
clothes right now I'm going to rip them off."

"Be my guest," he grins, his lips still dangerously close to mine.

"On second thought, maybe you'd better just take them off."  I squirm out of
his embrace, wearing a teasing smile of my own.  "Because I really like that
suit."  

"Where are you going?" he asks as I move away from him.

"To bed."  I glance over my shoulder at him and raise an eyebrow in
invitation.  "You're welcome to join me if you'd like."


End Part 1 of 2


PLATONIC 2:  STOLEN MOMENTS    (2/2)  NC-17
by Blueswirl@aol.com
1/31/99




I've never taken off my clothes faster in my life.  

You would think by now, as many nights that we have shared, as many rules as
we have broken, that I would be inured to the process.  That the idea of being
naked with Dana Scully would lose at least some of its allure.  And yet every
single moment that I'm with her in this kind of startlingly intimate and
provocative way remains exactly as spanking brand-new as the very first time.

Which is why I'm fairly positive that I've never taken off my clothes faster
in my life.

By the time I'm halfway down the hall that connects her living room to her
bedroom, I've already shed my tie and my shirt and my belt.  My trousers hang
low at my waist and my fingers are fumbling for the button and the zipper that
hold them closed by the time I reach the threshold of her room.

And there I stop, transfixed.  

I can't get enough of looking at her.  That's just a plain fact.  

I.  Can't.  Get.  Enough.  Of.  Looking.  At.  Her.  

She's leaning over the nightstand closest to the bed, lighting a candle that
rests in a silver holder.  The flare of the match burns bright, nearly searing
my corneas, but not bright enough to hide the subtle glow of her ivory skin as
she bends over the flame.  Her body is so perfectly soft, so rounded, so
supple, all lean sinewy muscles and taut firm flesh.  

I.  Can't.  Get.  Enough.  Of.  Looking.  At.  Her.  

She finishes lighting the candle and turns to catch me surveying her so
boldly.  A small smile blooms on her face and she puts the matchbook down next
to the candle.  She's been busy;  in the mere minute or so since she left my
side she's managed to light three of them.  One on each of the nightstands,
and one on the dresser on the far side.  The candles are white and smell like
gardenias, and the scent permeates the room.  

The shutters are down, but the blinds aren't fully closed, and little snippets
of moonlight slide through the exposed holes between the slats.  The moonlight
illuminates her, makes her skin shine like the finest silk, and just looking
at her makes me ache to touch her again, to hold her in my arms and chase away
the darkness of the past several weeks.

I wasn't kidding when I told her that it kills me to be unable to take her in
my arms every single night.  Usually I lie in bed for hours, thinking of how
it feels to touch her, taste her, own her.   Sometimes it's all that keeps me
going -- my memories of our nights together, brief as they may be.  I don't
dare imagine that the same is true for her;  if I thought that she pined for
me merely half as badly, there would be nothing stopping my driving crosstown
and saying X-Files be damned.  

Unfortunately, I know better.  I know that if They knew what it was we were up
to They would find a way to put a stop to it, and I'm certain that it wouldn't
be pleasant for either of us.  So I pay my respects to Their unspoken demand
and live with her in secret, during these stolen moments that I wish could
last forever.

"I thought I told you to get undressed."

She's looking at me now with a small, capricious smile, and my only response
is to shrug.

"I'm stripping as fast as I can."

"Well," she muses, "it seems like you need a little more practice then."

A grin slides over my face and I drop my trousers and boxers at once,
painfully aware that my erection is standing at full attention.  I can only
hope that my eagerness pleases her because there's absolutely nothing I can do
to hide it at this point.

If the expression on her face is any indication, she's more than pleased.  I
kick off my shoes and socks and drop the remainder of my clothing to the
floor, caring not at all about any wrinkles that may ensue.  Three steps and
I'm beside her, near the bed, drinking her in with every molecule in my body.
I want to commit her to memory, to treasure this stolen moment in the hopes
that it will get me through the long nights to come.

"Hold me," she murmurs, and I make haste to do just that, drawing her into my
arms and cradling her there, gently.  She's a petite woman but that's never
quite as clear to me as it is when I'm holding her against me.  She's nearly a
foot shorter than I am and considerably more slender, which is something I
rarely notice when we're working.  The force of her strong personality is
somehow muted when we're making love.  Muted may be the wrong word -- she's
equally as strong and forceful and decisive, yet at the same time she's
somehow more fragile and vulnerable which can't help but make her seem
smaller, as though she's someone I need to protect and watch over.

If I could, I'd arrange it so that my life involved nothing more than just
watching over her.  I'd orchestrate things so that the priority of my day
would be running my lips over her satiny smooth skin, kissing her lips and
toying with her nipples and slipping my hands between her legs.
Unfortunately, I've never been given the opportunity to make that choice on a
permanent basis, so I do my best to content myself with the here and now.

Right now we're pressed as closely together as we can possibly manage.  Her
breasts are smashed against my chest, her hips are rocking against mine, and
my erection is claiming space against the taut flat expanse of her stomach.
It's almost more than I can take, so I guide her gently towards the bed.

"Hey," she whispers.  "This is my room, remember?"

"That may be true," I answer softly.  "But right now, I'm in charge."

She doesn't protest, which I take as a good sign.  I lower her easily to the
bed, laying her atop the comforter that has not yet been pulled back.  The
sole part of my mind that isn't consumed with her softness and warmth wonders
idly if she cares about her bed linens becoming mussed.  Because if I have
anything to say about it, they'll be at the drycleaners for the next week.

She whimpers softly as I tear my mouth away from the sweetness of her lips and
kiss her neck and shoulders.  

I.  Can't.  Get.  Enough.  

I'm nuzzling her in every way I can think of, nipping and kissing and suckling
and licking, and each little moan and groan I elicit in response is like manna
from heaven.  I know it's cliched to think about making love to her in such
mundane terms, but touching my Scully is akin to flying and there's no other
way to put it into words.

She has words for me, however.  "Roll over," she says, giving me a little
push.

I obey, turning so that I'm laying with my head on the pillows, the comforter
soft and cool beneath my back.  She takes quick advantage, burying her head
beneath my chin for the briefest of moments before sliding down to caress my
chest.  Her lips find my nipples and kiss the flat buttons tenderly before her
tongue slides down my chest.  I know what she's doing, and I'm powerless to
stop her.  

"Oh, Scully..."

The moan that escapes me is almost embarrassing.  My need fills each of the
three syllables and draws them out to their fullest length.  But it feels so
good and I can't help but express that in words, even if they are nothing more
than a sigh and her name.

"You like that, do you?"  I can hear the smile, even though I can't quite see
her face.

"Yes..."

I can't help it.  I reach for her, grasp her hair, her cheeks.  I try to draw
her up towards me.  She acquiesces, but only for a moment, pulling away and
out of my grasp.

"You're not so good at following orders, are you?"

"What orders?"  I murmur.  I've slipped into a haze where words no longer
carry the meaning they should.

"It's my turn now," she declares.  "And it's time you understood that."

Before I know what's happening, she's risen from the bed and is moving away
from me.  I raise myself up, propping my body on trembling arms, but she
shakes her head.   

"Don't even think about moving," she tells me, and so I sink back down onto
the bed.  If she wants to be the boss, I'm not about to try and stop her.  

She slips out of the room like a wraith, her steps silent on the carpet.
She's gone for no more than a moment or two but it feels like hours as I try
to remember how to breathe.

When she returns, she's grasping something in her hands.  I squint to see by
the flickering candlelight but it's not until she speaks that I realize she's
clutching my tie.

"Men have such useful clothing," she says, a tricky little smile on her lips.
"Belts, and ties.  Handy stuff."

I have often found certain items of women's clothing to be equally practical,
scarves and stockings being high up on my favorites list, but I decide to file
that information away for the moment.  There will be time for that later.  And
right now I'm too captivated, watching her, to think about delivering lectures
on fashion.  

"Don't you agree?"  She's practically purring now, as she climbs back up on
the bed and straddles my body, her legs on either side of my chest.  She leans
forward and grasps my hands and I let her do it, let her twist the length of
my silk tie around my wrists.  She knots them together securely and then winds
the remaining portion of the tie around the headboard of the bed.  She has to
lean further forward to do it, her body stretching to reach her goal, bringing
her crotch dangerously close to my face.

I try to hold back, but I can't resist.  I raise my head from the pillows and
allow my tongue to slide between my lips, aiming for the promised land.   I
fall just short of my goal but my actions do not escape her notice.

"See something you like?"

"Oh, yeah," I groan.  "Definitely."

"Hmmm."  She doesn't say more, but she shifts position slightly, lowering
herself down on my face.  The honey-sweet smell of her envelops me and I
extend my tongue again, running it lightly over her swollen folds.  

She hisses a quick breath, drawn in over her teeth, and from my awkward
vantage point I see the muscles tense in her arms as her hands clutch the
headboard.  I lick her again, harder, and angle my tongue so that it brushes
her clit.  

"Oh, Mulder..."  The words blow forth on a sigh.  "I've really missed you."

"I've missed you too," I whisper, and then I lick her harder.  Her body tenses
again and then she moves away, sliding her ass down my chest and bringing her
lips to mine.  She kisses me, deeply, and I kiss her back with equal fervor.
This is all I want.  This is all I will ever want. 

I am aching to touch her now, to pull her closer, and I tell her so when we
stop to catch our breath.  "Untie me," I say.  "Game's over."

"Oh, no," she contradicts me.  "Game's just beginning."

I groan, my hands tugging at the silk that binds me, as she moves her mouth
away from mine and resumes her slow journey down my chest.  Her lips caress my
nipples again, briefly, and then follow her hands over my stomach and down to
my groin.  She cups my balls in one hand and gives them a little squeeze, and
I squirm with pleasure at the touch.  

"Good?" she asks, and I nod in answer, the power of speech suddenly beyond my
reach.  

The nod apparently suffices, for she continues her sweet torture, allowing one
hand to toy with my balls as the other slides its way along my shaft from root
to tip and then back again.  

"I love this," she tells me as she rubs me gently.  "I love touching you like
this.  I love knowing that you're mine.  All mine."

"All yours," I echo.  I feel deliciously helpless, utterly vulnerable, and I
can't remember the last time I felt so goddamn good.  

She smiles at me again, a mysteriously beckoning smile, and then lowers her
head and takes me in her mouth.

God!  This takes feeling good to a whole new dimension.  If I was hard before
she took me in her mouth, now I'm positively rock solid.  Her lips close over
my shaft and she takes me in, all the way, her tongue caressing me gently,
slowly.  Then she begins to suck, and all is lost.  

"God!"

I have never been with a woman who had the capacity to strip me of rational
thought the way that Scully can.  When I'm with her, there's nothing else
except the place where the ocean meets the sea and the tide inside me is
rising, rising, rising...

"Scully..."

I'm moaning now, and I don't even care, don't care about the fact that she's
reducing me to nothing more than a pile of nerves all focused on a single,
solitary goal.  I want to come, oh boy do I ever want to come, but I don't
want to come like this.  I need more, I need her, I need all of her, and
goddamn it, I'm going to have her.  I've got to.

"Scully, please..."

She stops her movements and pulls her mouth away, replacing its warm softness
with the gentle grip of her fingers.  "What, Mulder.  What do you want?"

"You," I plead, and by some miracle she understands.  I'm glad she does,
because I've totally run out of words.  

She releases her grasp of me entirely and moves so that she's hovering
directly above me, poised to plummet down exactly where I want her most.  Her
knees press into the bed on either side of my thighs, her hands come to rest
on my shoulders which have already begun to ache from the awkward position of
my arms.

"Are you ready?" she asks, but she doesn't need to.  I know that she can read
the answer in my eyes.  

Her lips part as she lowers herself down onto me, and as I slide inside her
hot, tight hole I hear her gasp with pleasure.  I want to hear her make that
noise again and so I raise my hips before she's fully settled, pushing into
her with all the strength that remains to me.  

She sighs, which isn't the same sound at all, but one that's even better, and
rocks against me, allowing me to fill her as deeply as I ever have.  "So
good," she murmurs, and I groan in response.  So good. 

Then we are moving, together.  She rises and falls, led by a secret, inner
rhythm, and allows me to share in her dance.  I pump and thrust against her,
yanking at the bonds that tether me, frustrated by my inability to service her
the way I so desperately want to.  I take solace in the grip of her hands on
my arms, the pressure of her fingers as they clutch my skin.  Her back arches
and her head falls back and she rides me with full and total abandon.   Her
eyes fall shut but mine remain open, taking in each and every frame of the
erotic movie we create together.

A slow journey, this.  A slow journey to a place beyond paradise.  Our
journey, together, and I want to travel this road with her to the bitter end.

Gradually her movements become more frantic, and I know that she's nearing the
edge.  I thrust into her harder, and then one of her hands pulls away from my
body and moves towards the spot where we are joined.  Her fingers brush
against her clit and I feel her body tremble in response.  Her hand moves and
I move in time with it and I watch as her skin blooms like a rose.  

"Mulder!"

It is my name on her lips when she finally succumbs, and I feel her internal
muscles clutch me even tighter as she rides out the wave of her pleasure.
That's enough to send me over the brink and before I know what's happened I've
come too, a rush of warmth inside of warmth that is the sweetest of luxuries. 

When we're both sated, having sailed past the point of ecstasy to the peaceful
bliss that follows, she collapses against me, her head coming to rest between
my neck and shoulder, her cheek smooth and soft against mine.  She cradles
herself against me in precisely the way that I would cradle her if I could.  

"Scully," I whisper.  "I want to hold you."

She stirs at my words, her hair brushing my skin as she sits up once more.  "I
know," she tells me.  "You will."

She raises herself up off of me, but it's not in order to grant my unspoken
request.  Instead, she gets up from the bed on shaky legs and backs away.
"Where are you going?"  I ask, feeling suddenly panicky.

"Shhhh," she says.  "Just wait a minute."

She walks out of the room and I watch her go, a hollow emptiness swelling up
in my chest.  Her absence, however brief, has already made me ache.

She's gone for the longest minute of my life but the mischievous expression on
her face when she returns is enough to erase the agony of waiting.  Her hands
are clasped behind her back and I can tell that she's holding something, but
my mind's too far gone to imagine what it might be. 

"Scully?"  My voice is thick.  "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she teases.  "A little celebration, that's all."

>From behind her back she produces a bottle.  Dark green glass, with a label
that I can't quite read.  She shakes it once and then again, and then her
fingers come up to fumble with the seal.  She removes a piece of metal with a
twist and then brings her thumbs to the bottle's neck, and suddenly it all
becomes clear.  

"Don't you dare --"

The words aren't even out of my mouth when the cork flies from the bottle and
clear bubbly liquid spews from its open, gaping mouth.  I gasp as the cold
champagne cascades across my overheated skin and she laughs, a pure, bright,
unfettered Dana Scully laugh.

"Oh!"  I wriggle against the bed, spilling more of the champagne off of my
chest and onto the comforter.  "You wicked, wicked woman."

"Just a little celebration," she repeats, her blue eyes dancing  "You're not
the only one who was waiting for tonight."

I want to scold her, but any angry thoughts I might have had vanish as she
crawls atop me again.  Her tongue slips from between her lips to lap up the
rivulets of liquid that are dripping across my torso.   Her mouth continues
its busy work as her hands raise up to blindly untie the knots that bind me to
her bed.

Once my hands are free, I waste no time.  I grab her tight and twist and roll
our bodies until she's laying beneath me, pinned between my legs.  "A
celebration, huh?"  I grab for the champagne bottle, abandoned by the side of
the bed, and pour a generous amount over her shoulders and breasts.  I put the
bottle back on the floor and lower my head to do some tasting of my own.  

"Good idea," I tell her, as I drink from the hollow between her breasts.
"Very good idea."

"I... thought so..." she murmurs, and pulls my head towards hers.  Our lips
collide, drenched in salty sweat and the sticky sweetness of Moet & Chandon's
finest.  A fleeting thought rushes through my head, a moment's regret about
the drycleaning bill that will no doubt ensue from this reckless treatment of
Scully's beautiful bed linens, but it vanishes almost immediately.  Right now
nothing else matters but the warm soft feeling of her body beneath mine.
Drycleaners be damned.  

Besides, we've still got nearly half a bottle of champagne left.


THE END  (2/2)


Thanks to Sharon for beta above and beyond the call.  :)

I guess I should get back to tackling my responsibilities now.  I hope this
little work break was as fun for you as it was for me!  ;)    If that's the
case, please let me know at Blueswirl@aol.com.    


Blueswirl
http://blueswirlscrashpad.simplenet.com