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