"Beyond Words"  NC-17
by Karen Rasch


In the words of one of our most gifted writers of XF erotica,
Kelli Rocherolle--This is mind candy.  Pure (well . . . maybe not 
*that* pure) and simple. :)  When I posted "Words On The Wire"
awhile back, I got e-mail saying, "Okay, the phone call was fine--
but I can't believe you didn't write about the dinner date!"  Far 
be it from me to upset a Phile.  So, here you go!  This is a 
continuation of the "Word" series.  It's slightly out of order as 
this takes place before the events in "The Gift Of Words," my 
Xmas XFstory.  In this series, Mulder & Scully are a couple, 
albeit early in their relationship.  I would categorize this as erotica 
and rate it NC-17, as it is chock full of innuendo and sprinkled 
with graphic descriptions of various and sundry sexual acts.  No
Season 3 spoilers.  No casefile.  Just Mulder & Scully in love/
lust.  If that is unpalatable to you, bail now.  You've been 
warned. <bg>  The earlier stories in this series are available
on the Gossamer archive.  You may want to read them to fully
understand how everything fits together.  If you're interested, 
please e-mail me for titles at krasch@delphi.com.  I would also 
love to hear comments, constructive and otherwise.  
Please drop me a line.  And finally--No, of course, these 
characters aren't mine!  Don't you read the credits?  <g>
They belong to the crew at 1013.  I'm merely borrowing them 
for a time.  I promise I'll return them in good shape.  Thanks 
this time to the Scully Power Rangers.  You know who you are. :)
And to Charlotte, who talked about getting it right. 

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	He should have known the moment he had seen her 
smile that something was up.  
	Not that Dana Scully didn't often smile.  On the 
contrary, the woman was capable of heart-stopping smiles; the 
kind that lit up a room; the sort that, when she unleashed one 
on him, always made him feel a bit light-headed, as if something 
had suddenly thinned all the oxygen available to him, making 
it difficult to breathe.
	But this wasn't one of those smiles.
	Instead, this was what Mulder always thought of as 
Scully's "dangerous" smile.  The actual curving of her lips was 
slight; just the corners raised.  It was the rest of her body 
language that gave the look its unsettling impact.  She would 
duck her head, sometimes turning it slightly, a fall of auburn 
hair sliding forward to caress her cheek, and look up at him 
through her lashes; her blue eyes intelligent, alive with humor 
and just a suggestion of challenge.  That gaze, when coupled 
with the soft promise of her lips never failed to reduce him to 
the relative sophistication of a twelve year old.  It was a 
distinctly sensual smile that communicated, "I know something 
you don't, Mulder.  And I'm only going to share it with you 
when I'm good and ready."  A smile that for him brought to 
mind warm silky curves, the whisper of skin gliding over crisp 
cotton sheets, the scent of bodies yearning against each other.
	It made him uneasy.
	It made him hot.
	It made him very glad that this particular woman had 
chosen to aim it at him.
	And so she had, just before she had climbed into his 
car outside Washington D.C.'s Criminal Courthouse.
	"Hi."
	"Hi yourself.  How'd it go?"
	"Well, I thought," she said with a smile, this one safer, 
less loaded with undercurrents.  "Of course, the trial will probably 
drag into next week, so we won't know the verdict for awhile.  But, 
all things considered, I think I helped rather than hindered the 
prosecution's case."
	He nodded, then pulled away into traffic. Once they had 
successfully merged, he ventured a glance over at her.  She was 
buckling herself in, her eyes averted from his.  She certainly 
looked the part of the "expert witness," he thought with approval.  
The weather was mild for early December, and she had left her 
trench coat uncinched.  She wore a dark gray suit; slim skirt, waist 
length blazer, and a deep red, almost wine colored blouse beneath 
it.  Judging by its sheen, he thought it might be silk.  Black hose 
and those damn three inch heels that he could never figure out 
how the hell she navigated in completed the package.  The jury 
would have seen an agent who radiated poise, confidence, 
polish, and professionalism.
	But all he saw was the woman who had forty-eight hours 
earlier sat astride him, naked to the waist.  The one who had 
looked deep into his eyes and urged him to "take her."
	That image setting up residence in his mind's eye, 
Mulder punched the gas, and began maneuvering his Bureau 
motor pool sedan more aggressively through traffic.  Noting 
her partner's apparent haste with a combination of puzzlement 
and wry good humor, Scully steadied herself with her hand 
against the dashboard.
	"Mulder, where are we going?"
	"I'm not sure.  I'll let you know when we get there."
	One slim auburn brow arching, she said nothing more, 
choosing instead to simply hang on.
	And so they drove, silent, not even the radio on for 
company, weaving in and out of downtown D.C.'s rush hour 
traffic.  As Scully had suspected, she hadn't been called to 
the stand until mid-afternoon.  By the time the defense was 
through with her, the workday was nearly done.  Consequently, 
Mulder hadn't picked her up until after five.  By that time, 
evening had fallen over the capital.  Velvety.  Still, despite the 
competing rush of autos and pedestrians.  Blue-black in color.  
Streetlights and headlights vying to outshine each other in 
their efforts to illuminate the way home.
	Suddenly, without warning, Mulder turned the car 
sharply into a long narrow alley dividing an apartment building 
from a neighborhood drugstore.  Driving to nearly smack dab 
in the middle of the concrete passageway, he cut the engine.  
And turned to direct his gaze to the woman beside him.
	"What's this, Mulder--an impromptu stakeout?" Scully 
asked mildly.
	Mulder said nothing, instead he merely looked at her, 
the car's shadowed interior hiding his eyes from her view.  
Then, slowly he shook his head.
	After a beat, she dipped hers in acknowledgment.
	"Okay . . . " she drawled, eyebrows raised, a beam of 
light from a nearby street lamp angling through the car window 
to land on her hair, igniting its color.  "Are we just going to sit 
here all night, or do you plan on telling me what this is all about?"
	"Sorry, Scully," he murmured as, with one motion, he 
loosed himself from his seatbelt and leaned towards her, his 
hand coming up to wrap itself possessively around her nape.  
"But words escape me at this moment."  
	Before Scully could also free herself from the safety 
restraints holding her so securely in her seat, Mulder's mouth 
descended upon hers.  She gasped.  There was no greeting in 
the kiss.  No introduction.  Instead, it was as if he were rejoining 
a seduction that was already well underway.  And in truth, 
perhaps he was.  Their lips ground urgently against each other; 
the pressure bruising, needy.  Without preamble, his tongue 
slipped easily into her mouth, searching for hers.  She met him 
without hesitation, and stroked along him beseechingly.  He 
growled low in his throat, and answered her silent demand, 
grasping her tightly around the waist with his other hand, his 
mouth intent on sucking every last drop of sweetness from her 
lips.  For several long, drugging minutes, neither spoke.  The 
rustle of fabric; the wet slide of their lips as they clung and 
released, then clung once more; and the muted rush of their 
mingled, ragged breath the only sounds echoing within the 
car's cabin.
	"I have been wanting to do this all day," Mulder 
muttered heatedly against her mouth when he finally mustered 
the restraint to pull away from her criminally inviting lips.
	"What took you so long?" she whispered, breathless, 
her eyes dreamy.
	He chuckled.  She liked when he laughed, and just had 
to kiss him once more as a token of her approval.  "Just trying 
to hold up my end of the bargain, Scully.  We both decided we 
had to keep this secret to make it work.  The best way to 
accomplish that is =not= to ravish you in a no-parking zone."
	Her lips quirked as she teased.  "I don't know, Mulder--
this has got to be the longest, narrowest parking lot =I've= ever 
seen."
	Mulder nipped her ear in retaliation.  She squeaked in 
surprise.  He made it up to her by running his tongue over the 
curve.  She sighed with pleasure.  "=Secluded= no parking zones 
are a completely different matter.  And the best I could do on 
short notice."
	"I'm not complaining," she assured him, her hands 
running slowly up and down the arms that encircled her, her 
motion hindered by the strap criss-crossing her body.  
"Although I have to admit, I wouldn't mind losing the seat 
belt."  With a wry twist of her lips, she looked down at the 
offending apparatus, then made to unfasten it.  Mulder halted 
her attempt.
	"Not so fast," he murmured near her ear before trailing 
his mouth along her hairline leaving kisses in its wake, his 
words sprinkled amongst them like raindrops.  "I think I like 
you where you are, Scully.  This way, you're at my mercy."
	She shifted sinuously in her seat as his hand drifted 
down from her waist to her hip.  "I'm perpetually at your mercy, 
Mulder.  Haven't you noticed that already?"
	"Are we speaking personally or professionally now?"  
His hand descended further still to land solidly on her knee.  
The sleek feel of nylon encased leg tantalized his fingertips, 
and he let them glide lingeringly as he recalled with sudden 
stunning clarity the way this woman's slim legs had cradled 
him when their bodies had come together for the first time.
	"Either," she answered in a low husky voice, having 
trouble remembering the question, her legs sliding apart just a 
bit, tacitly giving him permission.  "Both, when you touch me 
like that."
	"Like what?" Mulder asked innocently, his eyes 
smokey from the fire kindling within him, his hand daring to 
slip beneath her skirt.  "Like this?"
	Scully closed her teeth over her lower lip, her eyes 
fluttering in reaction to the soft tingle of her partner's fingertips 
drawing lazy little free form patterns on the inside of her leg, just 
above the knee.  "Oh yeah . . . exactly like that."
	God, he couldn't remember the last time he had done 
more than offer a date a good-bye kiss in the front seat of a car.  
But right now, if they both didn't watch it, this was going to end 
up like a stereotypical date at the drive-in.  And he was entirely 
too old to do battle with a steering wheel for leg room.  Still, it 
was awfully hard to call it quits when Scully sat there watching 
him with such wide, slumberous eyes; her lips parted, moist, 
swollen from their kisses; her hand gently combing through the 
hair at his temple.  Just another minute, and we'll get out of here, 
he silently promised.  We better.  Before someone decides to 
take out their garbage.
	Deciding to make the most out of the little time afforded 
them in their current location, he again brought his lips to hers, 
and moved the hand still busy beneath her skirt a bit higher.
	Where he encountered skin.
	"What the--" he murmured, pulling his mouth away 
from hers.  He shifted his fingertips more towards the center of 
her leg.  This can't be what I think this is, he mused.  But, no.  
It was.  A thin lacy piece of cloth covered elastic.  His hand 
roamed further over still, towards the outside edge of her thigh.  
Another ribbon of fabric and lace.
	Garters.
	He looked up at Scully, questions poised on his lips.
	Only to see that she was wearing that damn smile again.
	Well, now it looked as if they were never going to 
leave this alley, he thought ruefully, as he doubted his lower 
body would be willing to cooperate with any reasonable 
demands for a very, very long time.
	"Do you purposefully set out to drive me out of my 
mind?" he muttered dryly, his breath suddenly racing beyond 
his control, his hand braced against the back of her seat.  "Or 
is this just some sort of gift with you."
	"You were the one who put in lingerie requests, Mulder," 
she purred, fingering his tie, her smile now positively lethal.  "I 
thought you'd be pleased. . . . They're black."
	I'm going to ruin this whole thing if I laugh, she thought, 
her eyes twinkling with mischief.  But it was hard not to when 
Mulder, who already looked as if every nerve ending he 
possessed was throbbing, gulped with enough force to swallow 
a head of lettuce whole.
	"Do you want to see?" she asked with mock innocence, 
her hand dropping to the hem of her skirt.
	Mulder swiftly withdrew his hand from beneath her 
clothing and landed it with a light slap on hers.  She stilled her 
hand and waited.  Ridiculously proud that his wasn't shaking from 
the anticipation he felt coursing through his veins like some sort 
of designer drug, Mulder grasped the thin wool weave and inched 
slowly it up her leg.  Up and up it slid, revealing more black 
sheathed thigh, and still more again.  Until finally, the stocking 
came to an end.  A band of lace marked the finish of midnight 
tinted nylon and the start of pale soft skin.  Bridging those two 
extremes were two tiny strips of inky fabric, each trimmed with lace 
and a petal pink rose.  Wondering if perhaps he might 
instantaneously burst into flame what with the way his blood was 
pounding at his temples, the air around him positively refused to 
enter his lungs through either his mouth or nose, and his throat 
suddenly felt as if a truckload of silt had been poured down it, he 
brushed his forefinger over the little floral adornment, and grasped 
wildly for control.
	"I was given these when I stood up in my cousin's 
wedding a couple of years ago," Scully explained lightly, trying 
hard to sit still even though the heat of Mulder's hand felt as 
if it was close to burning her naked thigh.  "She gave them to all 
her bridesmaids as a sort of gag gift--you know, the bride and 
her garter . . . .  Anyway, she said that just because she was no 
longer a 'single on the prowl' there was no reason why we 
shouldn't carry on.  I guess she thought these might help."
	Good lord in heaven, her slim pale thigh absolutely 
gleamed in the harsh white light leaking into the car from the 
streetlamp above.  And those stockings . . . all he could think 
of were the drawings of artists like Toulouse-Lautrec or those 
naughty Victorian postcards that nowadays were collected in 
books and passed off as a sort of high brow pornography.  
Both featured women wearing dark colored hose against milky 
white skin.  Not exactly the sort of image normally promoted 
by a culture where millions applied that nasty instant tan goop 
year 'round.  Still, it suited Scully.
	And that suited him.
	"So these are what--?" he queried softly, amusement 
coloring his question, his fingertip having slipped beneath the 
object of his current obsession so it was sandwiched between 
garter and skin, comparing the texture of both as it trailed lightly 
between them.  "Weapons in the War Between The Sexes?"
	Scully shrugged, her eyes shining with a heady mix of 
humor and arousal.  "That may have been the way my cousin 
saw it.  I've always been a pacifist myself."
	"Make love not war," he murmured, bending his head 
towards hers as prologue to that very act.  
	She tangled her fingers in his hair, and urged him to her, 
her tongue slipping out to playfully flick at his lips.  "Have I ever 
told you how much I love the way your mind works?"
	He smiled, a whisper from her mouth.  Just before he 
crossed that scant distance, his lips moved once more.  She 
thought she felt the word "liar" vibrate against her mouth.   A 
second later, all speculation ceased being relevant.
	But they had only enjoyed the reunion of their lips a 
few breathless moments when a flood of bright white light 
poured through the car's rear window.  It appeared their 
interlude in the alley was at an end.
	Mulder sighed, and ran a hand distractedly through his 
hair.  The shock of the other car's headlights intruding upon their 
little sanctuary had jolted his body enough that he thought he 
might actually be able to get them home without plunging the 
automobile into the Potomac by mistake.  Now, the question 
remained--whose home should it be?
	He turned the key in the ignition.  The engine roared 
to life.  "At the risk of sounding like I should be wearing a 
leisure suit and discussing astrological signs--your place or 
mine?"
	Scully just sat there, her skirt smoothed back down to 
its proper demure position on her knee, every auburn hair in 
place, slowly shaking her head.
	And smiling that smile.
	The car behind them flashed its brights.
	Mulder blinked at her.  "What--?"
	"You promised me food, Mulder."
	"Huh?"
	"You said, 'How about if I pick you up from the 
courthouse, and we get something to eat.'"
	"Well, yeah . . . but--"  Mulder couldn't help himself.  
He was reduced to sputtering.
	"So feed me, Mulder."
	He stared at her blankly for a moment.  Then, the 
realization dawned.  She had every intention of making him wait.
	A pained smile surfaced on his lips.  "Is this some sort 
of punishment ?"  he asked dryly, his eyes narrowing as he took 
in the amusement aglow in hers.  "I mean--I haven't forgotten 
your birthday or something, have I?"
	The driver of the car in back of them was at the end of 
his patience, and laid on the horn.
	Scully looked over her shoulder, then grinned at her 
companion.  "The only one who may be doling out punishment 
is that guy, if we don't get out of his way."
	Mulder grimaced at the absurdity of the situation, and 
threw the car into drive.  They hadn't inched more than a few 
feet forward when Scully reached over and placed her hand 
lightly on his thigh.   Thankfully, the car in back of them hadn't 
been tailgating, as Mulder slammed on the brakes in reaction.
	"I'm not doing this to hurt you, you know," she 
whispered in that low intimate tone of voice she had that was 
always guaranteed to melt the veneer of cool he so desperately 
clung to in her presence.  "I'm just having a little fun."
	"You're teasing me, Scully," he growled, the humor he 
couldn't quite rid from his eyes telling her he was actually 
handling her surprise better than he was letting on.
	"I'm teasing both of us," she whispered, her blue eyes 
huge and warm.
	He took her hand from his leg and kissed the back of it.  
The driver behind them began serenading them with his horn 
once more.  Mulder lifted his foot from the brake and took out his 
frustrations on the gas pedal.  The car proved to have good pick 
up, and zipped obediently along the alley's narrow lane towards 
the street beyond.
	"I don't suppose you'd consider the drive-up window--?"
	"Just drive, Mulder.  Just drive."
	"You know you really have no one to blame for this 
but yourself."
	"And you call some of =my= theories farfetched?"
	They were eating Thai.  Mulder had left the choice up 
to Scully and she had directed them to a little storefront Thai 
restaurant that he had actually introduced her to months before.  
With it being early on a Monday evening, they had the place 
nearly to themselves, and were sequestered in a cheery red 
upholstered booth against the establishment's back brick wall.
	"It's true," she insisted, punctuating her statement with 
her fork as she spoke.  "I wasn't even planning on telling you 
about the garters until over dinner.  It's your own fault you 
found out about them early."
	Mulder's face took on that sulky schoolboy quality that, 
to Scully's continued dismay, consistently had the ability to 
disarm her.  "I don't care what you say, Scully.  I still contend 
I had some help.  Or, at the very least, encouragement."  He 
leaned over the table towards her, his voice lowering in tone 
and volume.  "I mean, correct me if I'm wrong--but as I recall, 
you *were* kissing me back."
	She arched a brow.  "You noticed that, did you?"
	The corner of his mouth turned up.  "Yeah . . . well, 
not much gets past me."
	She smiled.
	This was fun.  As banal as she knew that statement 
might sound to some, it blazed in neon letters across a marquee 
in her mind.
	She was having fun.  
	God, it had been so long since she had actually 
permitted herself to relax, to enjoy herself.  To not worry about 
work, or her family.  To just allow herself to be a normal woman.  
To flirt with a handsome man who told her with every glance, 
every subtle gesture, that he found her equally attractive.
	Hell, with the year she had been having, it was a 
miracle that she was even still able to =identify= fun.
	But, thankfully, that skill hadn't completely deserted 
her.  
	The happiness bubbling up inside her like an 
artesian spring was unmistakable as well.  How long has it 
been, Dana, since you cruised through a day feeling this good, 
this unburdened, she asked herself as she watched Mulder 
push around his food on his plate like a little kid who knows 
he has to eat his vegetables before he gets dessert.  When 
was the last time you did something as silly as wearing 
provocative lingerie beneath a tailored suit to excite a man?  
And as reckless as denying that same man the very thing you 
had hoped to make him crave.
	She thoughtfully chewed a forkful of tung tag as she 
considered with a touch of astonishment her recent behavior.  
No, this wasn't like her.  Not her usual self; the everyday Dana 
Katherine Scully.  And yet, the possibility--albeit, *extreme* 
possibility--of such actions remained a constant within her.  
True, the bedrock of her personality was her calm, rational take 
on the world.  Her belief that truth in all its myriad shapes and 
sizes was knowable and ultimately understandable.  Her 
methodical way of approaching any situation, any problem as 
if it were simply a knot to be untied. 
	But, somewhere, in the far reaches of her soul dwelt 
another aspect of herself.  This one was tiny, composing only 
the most minute portion of who she was.  And yet, every once 
in awhile this little something would peek around a corner, and 
beckon to her, its very essence glowing with such intensity as 
to eclipse her other more logical self.  This was the part of her 
personality that had driven her to join the Bureau right out of 
medical school, despite the reservations of her family and 
friends.  The part that had urged her to laugh with Mulder in 
a rainstorm when they were knee deep in mud, and it looked 
as if the first nemesis they were facing as a team came from 
outer space.  The part that had prompted her when on a case 
in Florida to act as if she had just popped a live cricket into 
her mouth, the only reason for doing so being her desire to 
see the look on her partner's face.  Had she been asked, she 
wouldn't be able to identify it, this strange yet often 
compelling impulse.  It wasn't bravery, although that was 
certainly a component of it.  No.  Instead, it was more the 
need to test boundaries.  Both within herself and the world 
around her.  To experience that rush, that surge of satisfaction 
that came from knowing that she had just redefined herself, if 
only for an instant.
	Her eyes strayed again to the man sitting across from 
her.  She found him watching her intently, as he had throughout 
the meal, his hazel eyes telling her he was hungrier for her than 
he had ever been for the food laid out before him.  How do you 
see me, Mulder, she wondered without words.  When people ask 
you what your partner is like, what do you tell them?
	As if Fox Mulder would ever be so forthcoming as to 
express his true views on the subject to an outside party.  She 
lifted her eyebrows at the thought, and returned her gaze to her 
plate.  That's not fair, Dana, she silently chided a moment later.  
After all, how do you answer when people ask about Mulder?   
	He's an excellent investigator.  
	He has a gift for putting things together.  
	We make a good team.
	All true.  All utterly absurd.
	As if such safe, simple sentences could ever truly give 
the listener an accurate picture of who this man was.
	"Are you going to eat that?" Mulder asked, interrupting 
her reverie with a tiny quirk of his lips, a dip of his head referring 
to her half-filled plate, the contents of which she was now toying 
with.
	"You haven't even finished your own," she countered 
with an answering smile and a slight blush at getting caught 
daydreaming.
	"I don't want your food, Scully.  I was only hoping 
you'd say no, so I'd have a reason to ask for the check."
	She chuckled, and shook her head.  His humor.  She 
liked it.  No.  She more than liked it.  She found it a turn-on.  
Especially now that she realized just how often it was used to 
deflect those around him from bigger issues.  How frequently 
her partner slipped into the role of the wry court jester in order 
to camouflage the deeper, more telling emotions swirling 
around inside him.
	But that ploy didn't work with her.  Not anymore.  
She was wise to him.
	All she had to do was look in his eyes.
	She did so then, meeting his gaze.  Unflinching.  He 
had beautiful eyes.  Even for so handsome a man, they easily 
stood out as his best feature.  She doubted it was just their 
changing color which attracted her, although she had to admit 
that the deep bottle green orbs presently staring back at her 
were as arresting a hue as she had ever seen.  But rather, she 
suspected that what truly drew her to them was something 
beyond mere physicality.  Certainly it was child's play to name 
the flashes of emotion that would register in them during the 
course of a normal work day:  amusement at some goofy piece 
of e-mail the Lone Gunmen had sent his way, impatience at yet 
another round of bureaucratic red tape, warmth when they 
would wander in her direction, horror when forced to take in a 
scene of criminal brutality.  But these reactions to outside 
stimuli were temporal, and would pass like clouds before the 
sun.  What had taken her longer to learn, to identify, was the 
constant that shone from them.  The essence of this man before 
her.  
	She didn't delude herself.  Even though she loved him, 
she recognized he wasn't a saint.  He had his moments of 
blindness, obstinacy, selfishness, and yes, even cruelty.  But 
she knew, could see in those eyes, that even those instances 
of less than exemplary behavior came from a gut level need to 
make things right--to bring Samantha home, to combat the lies, 
to protect those who were unable to do so themselves, to look 
after her.  To try to do better.  To *be* better.  He might believe 
he was operating on guilt.  Was doing what he did because he 
had let Samantha down.  Had let her down.  But Scully didn't 
think so.  Not at all.  Although she understood that he had 
suffered because of his perceived inadequacies, she felt 
certain that even if his life had followed a smoother path, one 
less riddled with heartache and loss, Mulder would still be 
searching.  Still be attempting to fix things.  Himself.  His 
loved ones.  The world around him.  The means would 
undoubtedly be different, but the goal would remain the same.  
The man possessed a sense of purpose, a nobility that went 
unheralded, unseen by most.  But not by her.  She embraced it 
as she did the man.  Knowing each was intrinsically wrapped 
up in the other.  
	"You're awfully quiet, Scully," Mulder ventured finally 
with a gentle smile.  "Thinking up new and exciting ways to 
torment me?"
	She shook her head, wondering at the tears she felt 
gathering in back of her eyes and willing them to remain there, 
hidden from view.
	"Why?" she asked softly, deliberately crossing her 
legs beneath the table to disguise the emotions still percolating 
near the surface of her calm facade, the resulting sound, 
insinuating and low within the hushed restaurant.  "Isn't the 
old way working anymore?"
	Desire flared in Mulder's gaze.  "As if I even need to 
answer that question."
	"What's the matter, Mulder?" she sweetly taunted, 
now feeling more in possession of herself, of the emotions that 
still had the tendency to turn dangerously tender where he was 
concerned.  "Do you find this . . ."  She slowly drew one calf 
along the other.  "Distracting?"
	The slithery, slinky sound of nylon against nylon 
again reverberated within their secluded booth.  The man 
across from her looked as if at any moment he might need to 
grab hold of the tablecloth with both fists for control.
	"I guess you could say that," he gritted out, his 
elbows resting on the table, his eyes deepening in color by 
the second.
	"Good.  Because they've been distracting the hell out 
of me all day."
	His eyebrow quirked.  "You wore those all day?"
	"Mm-hmm," she said while sipping her wine, her eyes 
twinkling with amusement as she remembered.  "All day.  It was 
all I could do to focus on the defense attorney's questions."
	"Oooh . . . I wonder how ol' Alan would feel about that 
if he only knew."
	Scully narrowed her eyes at him in mock annoyance.  
Mulder held up his hands in a defensive posture that silently 
pled--sorry, couldn't help myself.
	"What Alan doesn't know won't hurt him," she 
assured her partner with a half-smile, leaning forward now as 
well so that they nearly met at the table's center.  "Besides, I 
wore these for you, Mulder.  Only you."
	The air crackled with that now familiar electricity.
	"That right?"
	"That's right."
	"Then I suppose that means that I get to decide 
whether to have you leave them on . . . or take them off.  Later."
	Scully nearly choked on the mouthful of wine she was 
swallowing.  That damn man could turn tables faster than a 
busboy on speed.
	Mulder saw her discomfiture, and pressed his 
advantage, his smile wicked, his tone conversational, as if he 
were discussing which color suit to buy.  "Either way has its 
advantages and disadvantages.  On the one hand, it's nice 
not to have anything getting in the way of . . . us.  My 
touching you.  You . . . , well I think you get the picture.  
And, of course, even though I promise I'd be . . . gentle, we'd 
still run the risk of ripping them in the heat of the moment."
	She scrambled to regain her equilibrium.  "You 
anticipate heat, Mulder?"
	The corner of his mouth raised at her riposte.  "I 
always anticipate heat where you're concerned, Scully."
	She felt a rush of it rising from her chest to stain her 
face.
	"On the other hand," he continued, his voice low, 
comprised of equal parts promise and need.  "There is 
something to be said for leaving them on.  I told you how I 
feel about your skin . . . and what it looks like next to black.  
You glow, Scully.  And the way you look at me when you want 
me . . . "
	"How do I look at you?" she asked, her mouth suddenly 
so dry that she wished she hadn't drained what had remained of 
her wine only moments before.
	"Like this," he said softly, daring her to deny it.  "Like 
now."	
	He said nothing more.  Instead, his eyes fell away from 
hers and landed on her hand, which rested on the table, near his 
own.  She followed the direction of his gaze as if mesmerized.  
For a brief instant, she thought he might actually do something 
as sentimental as link hands with her in public.  But she should 
have known better.  That wasn't Mulder's style.  Instead, he 
took his thumb and ran it with a light touch, an excruciatingly 
light touch, over the tender skin on the underside of her wrist, 
tracing the tiny network of blue veins that lay just below the skin.  
	Slowly continuing the caress, he raised his eyes once 
more.
	"You know what I learned about you tonight, Scully?"
	"What?"
	"You like being teased."
	She felt something plunge from her heart to the 
juncture of her legs.
	"How do you figure that?"
	He smiled ever so slightly.  "I'm a psychologist, 
remember?  A trained professional."
	She smiled back at him now, despite the restlessness 
that fueled the blood in her veins, making it sing.  "Are you 
analyzing me, Doctor?"
	"No, Doctor.  Just observing."
	"And what do you see?"
	"People usually choose to seduce their partners with 
that which seduces them," he told her lightly, self-directed 
amusement shining in his eyes over his carefully worded 
explanation.
	"So are you suggesting that I get turned on by my 
own lingerie?" she inquired dryly, an eyebrow arched in 
signature fashion.
	"I don't know.  Do you?"
	She moistened her lips as she considered the question.  
Her inherent honesty reluctantly recognizing a kernel of truth in 
his theory.
	"But more to the point," he resumed, his thumb now 
gliding with almost phantom pressure over her palm, her 
fingertips, his eyes watching his hand's activity.  "I came to the
conclusion that--whether you know it or not--you set up this 
evening, this whole . . . tease . . . as much for you as for me.  
Not that I have a problem with that, mind you.  I recognize the
 . . . advantages . . . of anticipation.  And besides, I've always 
wanted to know just what exactly aroused you."
	"What if I did?" she said in a husky voice, her blue 
eyes simmering, challenging the man who knew her too well 
to come clean himself.  "Any complaints?"
	"None," he told her succinctly, his hand closing over 
her wrist, his eyes meeting hers.  "Only thanks."  
	"Thank me later," Scully instructed him, her lips flirting 
as much with a smile as with him.  "When you're sure I deserve
it."
	They both looked at each other, a parity having been 
achieved.
	"Are you almost finished?" Mulder asked quietly, his 
gaze nearly blinding her with its intensity.
	She nodded, the faintest suggestion of a smile lingering 
still.
	"You realize that if you order dessert, I won't be held 
accountable for my actions."
  	That coaxed a true smile out of her.  "Good thing I've 
never been that crazy about fortune cookies."
	Mulder raised his brow in a fair imitation of hers.  "You 
won't need one."  He signaled their waiter for the check.  "If you 
have any questions about what you'll be doing in the near 
future, just talk to me.  I've had a vision."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	They spoke only six words between the restaurant and 
her apartment.  
	They paid the bill and walked out to the car, the crisp 
evening air doing nothing to cool what sizzled between them.  
Mulder went around to her side of the automobile first, and 
unlocked her door.  Scully started to slip past him, to reach out 
for the door handle and open it as she had hundreds, maybe 
thousands of times before, only to find herself snagged by her 
partner's strong right arm.  He wrapped it around her waist with 
almost crushing force, pulling her body flush against his, and 
bent his head, his lips covering hers for a quick, hard, hot kiss.
	"Who's closer?" he muttered against her mouth.
	"I am," she whispered, knowing instinctively that his 
question referred to which apartment they were nearest.
	"Let's go."
	Her legs suddenly feeling as if someone had surgically 
removed their bones, she climbed inside the car and, unable in 
her current state to deal with the intricacies of the seatbelt, 
instead watched Mulder start up the sedan as if she had never 
seen him do so before.  Her eyes lingered on the strong line of 
his jaw; the mole that decorated the curve of his cheek; his lower 
lip, which glistened in the light lent the car's cabin by the 
street lamp a few doors down.  He noted her regard, felt the 
power of it, the almost tangible pull of her sapphire eyes, and 
turned to look at her, his gaze melting her will, her sense of self.  
She knew with an almost painful sort of awareness, that if he 
chose to take her, right there, in that car, on a city street, during 
the family viewing hour, she would let him.  Hell, she would 
welcome it.
	But, he didn't try.  Didn't ask.  Instead, he simply took 
a deep breath, and wrapping the tattered remnants of his self-
control round him like a cape, pulled the car away from the curb 
and into the night.
	Don't look at me that way, Mulder silently urged the 
woman beside him; the one splitting her attention between the 
road before them and his profile, studying both with apparent 
fascination.  Don't sit there, Scully, with that hungry look in your 
eye.  The one I dreamed of for so long; the one I longed for like a 
drowning man does land.  Don't do that and expect me to be able 
to think, to breathe, to drive.  Don't expect me to function.
	Not when every molecule I can call my own is urging me 
to bury myself inside you.  To lose myself in the sleek soft heat 
of your body.  To hold you in my arms, your cheek to my chest, 
to secret us both away for a decade or two.  Just until I gain the 
upper hand over this need I have for you, this greedy desire that 
frightens me as much as it turns me on.  Turns me inside-out
	He tried to slow his breathing.  To clear his head.  Good 
thing he had to hold on to the steering wheel, had to keep his 
hands braced against something.  Otherwise the trembling he 
could feel trickling through his body like a crumbling wall of 
sand would expose him.  Would announce just how close to the 
edge he really was.
	Oh, he felt pretty good about how he had handled himself 
in the restaurant.  He had even gotten a little of his own back.  
Not that this was a competition between Scully and him.  Not at 
all.  It was just that she had this uncanny knack for throwing him 
on his ear.  If it wasn't her fearless devotion to him and his work 
that unnerved him, it was the lush sensuality she continued to 
slowly reveal to him like Salome dropping her veils.  He had 
believed he had fallen in love with a woman who, while she was 
without question lovely, was more a creature of intellect than of 
the physical.  He had found her sexually alluring, sure.  But, he 
had thought of that as his discovery, his little secret.  
	After all, Dana Katherine Scully was a nice Catholic girl 
from a military family.  She had two brothers and a career Navy 
captain of a father to guard her virtue.  Surely, that sort of 
upbringing should have resulted in a woman possessing a sort 
of innocence, a natural reticence towards the physical expression 
of love.
	But, that didn't seem to be the case.  Well, not entirely.  
True, no matter how carnal the embrace they shared, she always 
retained a kind of purity.  An innocence that had nothing at all to 
do with inexperience, and everything to do with goodness.  But, 
that virtue that was so much a part of her in no way impeded her 
sexuality.  No.  She came to him so freely, so beautifully that just 
to think about it made his throat close and his eyes moisten.  She 
gave herself to him the same way she gave her trust, her friendship, 
her support.  Completely.  Without reservation.
	And then tonight . . .  
	After spending an entire day staring at her empty desk 
from across their cluttered office, willing her to suddenly be there, 
smiling at him, her red-gold hair lighting up the room; reliving in 
vivid detail the stolen and far too limited time they had spent in 
each other's arms, he had finally gotten what he had wished for.  
What he had yearned for.  She was there.  With him.  Her faint 
perfume teasing his senses, the perfect sweep of her cheekbone 
begging him to run his hand along it.  Her lips tempting him 
unmercifully to taste them once more, taunting him with the 
memory of their sweetness.
	And she had done it again.
	She had given him what he had asked her for.  That silly 
playful little request he had made in a fit of whimsy the night before.
	Black lingerie.
	A garter belt and stockings.
	Jesus, he hadn't even seen them.  Well, not gotten a 
good look anyway.  And yet, just the knowledge they were there 
had been enough to make him feel like he was suffering from a 
bad case of vertigo.  The world seemed just a little bit off-center, 
a tad out of focus.  Spinning with increasing speed, out of control.
	And yet he hung on, striving mightily to maintain his 
balance, to keep his grip.
	Clinging by his fingernails.
	But that wasn't going to be good enough.  Not for her.  
He had been serious when he had pointed out to her that her little 
surprise had been designed as much for her own enjoyment as for 
his.  He believed that.  Knew that while Scully had obviously been 
acquiescing to his entreaty, she would never have done so had 
the idea not appealed to her as well.  That she would find such a 
plan of action exciting came as no shock to him.  Of course, this 
woman would find the mental aspects of sex--the suggestion, the 
tease, the anticipation--thrilling.  Just as he did.
	For all their differences, they always seemed to agree on 
the important stuff.
	Well, she had certainly succeeded in her effort to make 
him think about their coming together.  Their joining.  She had 
made him ache with it.  Dwell on it to the point of madness.  His 
desire for her.  And he intended to return the favor.  He wasn't 
quite sure how he would manage it, but he meant to make her as 
out of her mind with longing as she made him.  The question 
would be:  Which one of them would break first?

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Scully fumbled in her purse for her key.  Mulder stood at 
her elbow like a taller version of her shadow.  He had come around 
to her side of the car before she had even emerged from the auto.  
And with his arm draped protectively around her shoulder, had 
tucked her against his side to shepherd her into her building.  
While she had found his physical proximity comforting as always, 
at the same time, his very urgency had made her aware, extremely 
aware, that the time for play was at an end.  They had danced this 
particular dance until the band had packed up for the night and 
called it quits.
	And now it was time to go home with the guy who had 
brought her.
	She smiled a secret little smile at the thought, and 
pushed open the door to her apartment  Mulder followed only a 
step behind, and swiftly shut the portal behind them, throwing 
the deadbolt for good measure.
	"Afraid we'll be interrupted?" she asked in what she 
hoped passed for a wry tone, but feared instead came out more 
like a croak.
	He smiled dryly, his eyes nearly glowing in the muted 
light filtering through her living room curtains.  "Not willing to 
take any chances."
	She nodded, and started to cross to the table at the end 
of the couch, intending to turn on a light to erase the shadows 
that spilled on the room's walls and floor like pools of india ink.
	"No."
	Mulder was behind her again, his hand on her 
uninjured shoulder, restraining her movement away from the 
door and him.
	"Leave it."
	He was right.  The room's darkness seemed to fit the 
mood of the evening, the slightly dangerous air that had thus 
far permeated their hours together.  She nodded once more.
	His hands swept lightly forward, closed around the 
opening of her coat and eased it from her shoulders.  Her suit 
jacket followed.  Both ended up tossed in a heap on the sofa, 
as did his trench a moment later.  Mulder then smoothed his 
hands up and down the sleeves of her blouse, their heat 
warming her through the delicate fabric, his breath stirring her 
hair.
	"Is this silk, Scully?" he asked at her temple only an 
instant before pressing his lips there.
	"Hmm," she hummed, hoping he realized the answer 
was affirmative, but unable to be any clearer given her 
distraction due to the way his tongue was tracing the whorls 
of her ear.
	"It's got nothing on your skin," he assured her in a 
low voice, as he captured her lobe with his teeth, and nibbled 
on it carefully.
	She answered with a gasp and tilted back her head so 
that it lay against his chest, silently encouraging him to continue 
his seduction of her ear.  He obliged her, his arm slipping around 
her waist in reaction, holding her to him, almost as if he thought 
she might need his support to continue standing.  Not a second 
later, when his other hand began to slowly, yet steadily pull her 
blouse free from her skirt, she mused that with the way her knees 
were trembling, she just might.  
	She felt him gently tip her head away from its resting 
place, and tenderly brush the hair from her nape, much the way 
he had during that awful case at the North Pole; the one where 
she had betrayed his trust for the one and only time since they 
had partnered, her lack of faith nearly costing him dearly.  
Exposing the graceful arch of her neck to his curious lips, he 
explored.  Nuzzling her skin lightly, testing it with his teeth.  
And delighting, when as a result, he felt a shiver overtake her.  
	"I want you crazy for me, Scully," he muttered into her 
hair, his hands beneath her blouse now, their movement sure 
and slow.  "I want you beyond yourself.  Beyond anything 
you've ever felt before."
	She stretched her arms upwards, her fingers searching 
blindly for his face, his hair.  Her body went taut.  Her breasts 
lifted, their weight suddenly more than before.  Without fully 
understanding the speed at which such a change could occur, 
they felt fuller to her, swollen, and inexplicably tender.  When 
Mulder's hands gently closed over them, his palms covering her 
softness, she couldn't stop the moan that flowed from her lips 
like water overrunning a dam.
	"I am," she whispered, her eyes falling shut, her breath 
shallow and hurried, her back flush with his chest.  "I am now."
	His fingers lightly plucked at the nipples he found 
tenting the satiny fabric of her bra, rolling them carefully 
between his thumbs and forefingers when he felt the tiny 
nubbins harden even more beneath his ministrations.
	She arched her back, pushing her breasts into his hands, 
her bottom against his groin.
	He chuckled ruefully, rubbing his cheek against her hair.  
"No.  No, you're not.  You're not even close."
	He tucked his fingers into the lace trimmed cups of her 
bra, pulling them down, releasing the soft mounds of her breasts 
so that now only the gossamer light silk of her blouse concealed 
them.  They quivered gently, suspended there by the framework 
of her lingerie.  He wanted his mouth on them.
	So did she.
	But that pleasure was going to have to wait.  As were 
quite a few others, Mulder silently vowed, even as he wondered 
if he was up to the task.
	His hands retreated from beneath her clothing.  One 
finding the buttons running down the front of her blouse, and 
slipping them free, one by one.  The other taking hold of her 
chin, and turning her face up and back, bringing her lips into 
view, so that he could reach them with his own.
	"No, you're not close, Scully," he murmured as he 
sprinkled tiny little stinging kisses on her lips.  "But, you will 
be. . . . you will be.  I'm going to make you beg."
	She turned in his arms, her blouse now hanging open 
from her shoulders, her breasts bobbing gently with the motion, 
their pink tips dusky and hard.  Twisting her fingers in the short, 
silky hair low on the back of his head, she pulled him to her.
	"I'm prepared to enjoy your best efforts, Mulder," she 
told him, her breath caressing his lips, her voice hushed and 
throaty.  Holding back only until she saw the corners of his lips 
turn up at her intrepid declaration, she kissed him, her mouth 
soft and moist, and insistent against his own.
	His mouth proved no less resolved.  It solicited hers, 
shaping her lips to his, coaxing them to open.  It didn't take 
much persuasion.  Then, his tongue plunged into her mouth 
and withdrew, daring her to follow his lead.  She was up to the 
challenge, and clung to him, her arms wrapped tightly around 
his neck, her breasts flattened against his dress shirt, his tie, 
the lapels of his suit coat, her lips battling his for control of the 
kiss.  
	His hands didn't know where to touch first.  Her hair, 
her waist, her hips, her face.  One part of her body was more 
enticing than the next.  Not waiting for a conscious decision 
to be reached, he slipped once more beneath her blouse so he 
could trace the supple flow of muscles in her back, her shoulders.  
Sweeping down, he discovered the zipper to her skirt.  The 
sound it made as he lowered it seemed appallingly loud, nearly 
raucous within the quiet confines of her apartment.  His hands 
beginning to tremble in anticipation, he shoved the skirt almost 
roughly down and away.  Scully stepped out of it, her heel 
catching on its hem, then kicked it free.
	His hands now ran lovingly over her bottom, the sweet 
round curve of it filling them perfectly.  He squeezed.  She swayed.  
Low, strangled whispers escaped both their mouths, one right 
after the other, neither of them in any condition to identify who 
instigated the sounds.  He gripped the silky fabric of her slip 
and rubbed it over her panties, relishing the way each slipped 
and slid over the other, before pushing the skirt's liner to the 
floor as well.  His hands returned to the provocative portion of 
her anatomy he had just so recently abandoned.
	And encountered her garter belt.
	"Come here, Scully."
	Not quite sure just where he was leading her, Mulder 
turned the woman in his arms, moving her with him, stumbling 
over the items of her clothing he had just removed as they wove 
unsteadily across her living room floor towards the wall her front 
door was on.  She followed him, offering no resistance, her lips 
never losing contact with his, her arms locked around him for 
balance.  As luck, or perhaps kismet would have it, they ended 
their awkward traveling embrace in a square of light provided 
courtesy of the street lamp outside her window.  Reluctantly 
releasing her lips, he took in the sight of his partner framed by 
this fortuitous source of illumination, and couldn't help but 
mentally compare the glow to a spotlight on a stage.  However, 
he was hard pressed to come up with a title of a play featuring 
a scene quite like this.
	Breathing hard, he stepped back from the woman 
before him, and looked at her.  Just looked.  She stood with 
her back pressed against the wall, her hair wild from his fingers' 
urgent forays through it.  Her face flushed, her lips full and 
glistening.  Her soft round breasts framed by the scarlet curtain 
that was her blouse,  their weight resting on what would have 
once been easily identifiable as an elegant black silk bra, but 
now looked more like a sort of erotic ebony harness, the pink 
tips crowning the breasts tightly aroused.  Her ivory torso 
gleamed, its pale complexion set off by the vivid color draped 
around her shoulders, the combination highlighting her skin's 
creamy translucent quality.  And her legs.  Oh dear god, her 
legs.  They were sheathed in the most sinfully seductive pair 
of black hose he had ever seen.  They covered her limbs from 
toe to mid-thigh, accentuating the very attributes they hid.  
And the only things that held them up, kept them in place, 
were those deceptively fragile-looking bits of fabric.  The 
garters.  Three on each leg, two in front, one in back.  The six 
of them attached to another narrow band of black, this one 
the belt itself, which hung low and tight on her hips, just 
above the trim triangle of her panties.
	Strange how so very little could do so very much to 
his piece of mind.
	She stood there waiting, watching him, her eyes 
languorous and dark, gazing up at him through her half lowered 
lashes, teetering ever so slightly on those heels.  Those black 
pumps.  The ones that had just never seemed quite that sexy 
when paired with one of her typically staid business suits.  
Drinking in the sight of what those three inches did for the 
muscles in her calves, Mulder was beginning to understand 
how some men found themselves obsessed by such items of 
women's footwear.
	"You're wearing too many clothes, Mulder," she 
murmured from her place against the wall, her voice sounding 
as if it took a great deal of effort to produce, her eyes never 
leaving his.
	Quickly, efficiently, he shrugged out of his jacket, 
dropping it on the floor, not far from her skirt. His tie pooled 
beside it a moment later, the top button of his shirt popping 
free as well.  That having been accomplished, he slowly 
crossed the handful of steps towards her, negligently rolling 
up his shirt sleeves as he walked.  As soon as he was within 
arm's reach, Scully stretched out her hand and grabbed hold 
of his shirt in preparation for pulling it loose from his pants.  
Mulder stopped her.
	"Uh-uh."
	She looked at him, puzzled, her small hand still tightly 
gripping his once immaculate white dress shirt.
	He smiled at her, half his mouth turned up, a tad 
chagrined.  "You're already too great temptation."
	She raised a brow, her voice husky, it's low tone 
doing truly evil things to his pulse rate.  "And that's a bad 
thing?"
	He stepped closer still and gently but firmly removed 
her hand from his shirt.  He captured her other hand as well, 
and held them both against the wall at waist level, restraining 
her easily, and wishing he might have the same success with 
some of his own more unruly impulses.
	"I want this to last," he murmured against her brow.  
"We stand a better chance of that if one of us keeps some clothes 
on."
	She strained ever so slightly against his hold, wanting 
to touch him when he stood so close, to feel his body's long 
solid length warming her naked skin, and yet unable to do more 
than nuzzle her face against his in their current positions.
	"It doesn't have to," she whispered, entreating him 
sweetly, brushing her lips against his cheek to plead her case.  
"Not this time."
	He chuckled, tracing her brow with the bridge of his 
nose, the sound escaping his lips ragged, dark.  "Is that begging 
I hear, Scully?"
	She caught his bottom lip with her teeth and tugged.  
"Is this the best you can do, Mulder?"
	A short, harsh bark of laughter echoed against her 
cheek as his lips slipped lower, to her mouth, her chin, her neck.  
His tongue slowly traced the thin red scars he found there before 
kissing them as well.  She sighed and tilted her head back, baring 
her throat in surrender.  He released her hands, and slid her 
blouse down her shoulders, kissing each inch of her skin as it 
came into view until he came in contact with her half healed 
injury.  He hesitated only an instant.  But, it was enough for 
Scully to raise her hand to his cheek in concern.
	"Leave the blouse on."
	"Are you getting shy with me all of a sudden, Scully?"
	She smiled softly and shook her head.  "No.  I just 
don't want you thinking about it.  =I= don't want to think about 
it."
	He considered for a moment, his eyes boring into hers, 
then nodded.  "All right."
	She smiled once more, her lips curving gently.  "Good."
	Mulder answered her smile, his a touch more 
provocative.  "Now then, where were we?"
	Ah, yes.  He had been running his lips down her body.  
And had stopped just north of her breasts.
	Scully saw the anticipation gleaming in his gaze as it 
studied her chest, and nearly had to close her own eyes with 
the force of the thrill skittering through her.  Oh god, he always 
touched this particular part of her body so beautifully, his 
hands sensitive and warm against her full soft curves.  Lifting 
them, kneading, sweeping his fingertips over them.  Avoiding 
her nipples.  Making her wait.  Teasing her.  Forcing her to 
twist her torso, silently demanding what he had taught her to 
crave.  His fingers on the tips of her breasts.
	"Yes," she hissed softly when she achieved her goal, 
when his thumbs rubbed tight little circles over her rosy nipples.
	"Does that feel good?" he muttered roughly as his lips 
began a slow tortuous descent down the front of her, from her 
collarbone to the valley between her breasts.
	"Yes," she repeated mindlessly, wondering where the 
rest of her vocabulary had gone, her fingers tunneled in his 
hair, holding him to her.
	"Good,"  he said quietly, the word pressing like a brand 
against her tender skin, his hands cupping her breasts, tilting 
them towards his mouth, rubbing his cheek against them lightly.  
"Because that's how you feel to me."
	Then he covered her nipple with his mouth.  She cried 
out and dug her fingers into his shoulders for balance.  He 
played with her, nudging her with his tongue, suckling, nibbling.  
Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking with a slow 
restless motion she couldn't control.  He moved to her other 
breast, capturing its nipple between his lips, running his tongue 
over it as well, and softly suckling.  She took her hand and 
placed it on his cheek, feeling his jaw move rhythmically as it 
worked her.  She laid her head back against the wall, her neck 
suddenly having problems supporting it, her quick frantic intake 
of breath driving her breasts to bob and sway beneath her 
partner's mouth and hands.
	He could feel her resistance weakening, her need 
building, like kindling being added piece by piece to a single 
match.  He dropped to his knees before her, his mouth open 
and avid against her skin, his hands still tantalizing her breasts.  
Trailing his lips along her belly's soft flesh, he felt her muscles 
jump and twitch beneath his mouth, and with a stroke of 
inspiration, decided to nibble the slightly rounded curve just 
below her navel to heighten her torment.  She was moaning now, 
soft, low, helpless.  And he thought he just might be able to hold 
on after all.
	If only to hear her make that sound again.
	And again.
	He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, his 
hands running slowly up and down the back of her legs.  She 
gazed down, her eyes glittering with the force of her arousal, her 
hands resting atop his head.
	"These," he murmured, taking his hand and slipping a 
forefinger in the waistband of her panties, rubbing it softly from 
side to side.  "Are in my way."
	She just watched him, beyond words.  Her continuing 
struggle to tame her breath, her pulse, her racing heartbeat 
stealing every last bit of energy she owned.
	Mulder bent his head and kissed the center of her 
right thigh, directly between two of the garters.  Then, he 
pressed his palm to her stomach, its weight, its heat, heavy 
against her delicate skin, and looked up at her.
	"Don't move."
	Once he was certain she would follow his softly 
spoken instruction, he lowered his eyes and slowly, carefully 
unfastened the garters.  One at a time.  The stockings stayed 
put, their elastic holding them in place for the time being.  As 
soon as the garters hung free, he eased his hands inside her 
panties, and pushed them down.  Past the garters, her thighs, 
the hose.  To the floor.  Scully stood there docilely, something 
Mulder didn't see everyday, as if incapable of  movement.  Her 
eyes were huge, liquid.  Gently, he lifted first one of her legs, 
then the other, freeing the panties, and tossing them aside.  
He kissed her left thigh.
	"On the other hand, these," he began, running one 
of the dangling garters between his thumb and forefinger, 
tugging on it gently, circling the tiny pink rosette adorning it 
with his fingertip, studying the flimsy bit of lingerie with a 
connoisseur's eye, "should definitely remain on."
	And so he refastened the stockings, taking his time, 
caressing her thighs every now and again while he worked as 
if to remind her he was there.  Between her legs.  When he was 
finished, he sat back once more and admired his handiwork.
	"You," he murmured, his hand low on her stomach, 
his fingers spread wide as if he were trying to touch as much 
of her pale silky skin as possible, "are so ridiculously beautiful, 
Scully."
	That coaxed a chuckle from her, feeble though it was.
	"You don't have to sweet talk me, Mulder."
	He smiled up at her, his head level with her hips.  "I 
don't?"
	Slowly, she shook her head so that it lolled against 
the wall behind her, her eyes heavy-lidded, her voice more 
breath than sound.  "No.  I thought you knew.  I'm already yours."
	His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening as if trying to 
decide whether to release the words that clamored to be set free.  
In the end, he simply swept his hands around behind her, 
cupping her buttocks, and pressed his mouth to her, finding her 
through the coarse nest of curls where her thighs met.
	"Oh . . . ."  Her body arched sharply, jumping as if it 
were the lash that touched her and not his tongue, her palms 
pressed against the wall for support.  He nuzzled her gently, 
rubbing the flat of his tongue over her, tracing along the soft 
folds hidden there, searching for the spot that served as the 
center of her pleasure, the tiny cluster of nerves that controlled 
her reaction to him, to this.  When he found it, he pulled it into 
his mouth, and suckled.
	She cried out once more, her hands flying to his hair, 
her hips pushing shamelessly forward.  Mulder gripped, then 
released her buttocks, kneading them as he had her breasts 
earlier, his head bobbing slowly as he incited her to higher, 
more dangerous levels of arousal, pulling her into a kind of 
dizzying vortex where all that existed was that painfully 
sensitive bud between her legs and the feel of his mouth, his 
tongue, playing over it.
	And then, just when it felt as if she really couldn't 
take any more.  Couldn't stand the assault on her senses a 
minute longer.  Just had to shatter beneath his lips, and hope 
that he would be there to catch her, to gather up the pieces . . .
	He stopped.
	And went back to merely nuzzling her center.  Playing 
with her garter belt with his teeth, kissing the tender flesh of 
her belly, nibbling along it.  Running his tongue over her thighs' 
pale skin, pressing his lips there as well.
	But nothing more.
	Not what she wanted.  Needed.  Had to have with a 
desperation, a violence that shocked her.
	She looked down at him, words of entreaty jockeying 
with her half-formed questions for expression.
	He returned her regard, his face so tantalizingly 
close to where she wanted it.
	And yet not nearly close enough.
	He pressed his lips to her for an instant as if he 
sensed that thought, his nose buried in her crisp curls.  Her 
eyes slid shut in reaction.
	"Mulder . . ." she moaned, the word marbled with just 
the slightest hint of demand.
	He pulled back again.  But kept his hand on her, her 
fingertips, sliding lightly, teasingly over the swollen opening to 
her body, his touch a constant reminder of just how close she 
was to release.
	"You want something, Scully?" he murmured, his 
voice rumbling out of his chest.
	She somehow managed to arch a brow at him.  He 
smiled at the familiar expression.
	"All you have to do is ask me," he whispered, his 
breath hot against her thigh, his fingers continuing their 
bewitching glide.
	Her mouth opened in a silent laugh.  Bastard, she 
thought without any true rancor.  As dearly as she craved her 
release, she wouldn't give in that easily, and shook her head, 
her fingers clenching in his hair.
	Mulder ducked his head to hide his own smile.  And 
waited.  With a patience that stunned him.  Keeping his hands 
on her.  His lips every once and awhile.  But otherwise, he held 
back, watching her.  Biding his time until he could feel her ardor 
slowly beginning to fade.
	And then he built the fire all over again.  One small 
piece of wood at a time.
	He must have repeated the cycle three times or more.  
Scully couldn't be sure.  Unfortunately, she had discovered she 
no longer could count that high.  Not right at the moment.  
Mulder had erased even that most basic of mental functions 
from her.  Had turned her into a woman consumed by sensation 
and nothing more.
	"Torture . . ." she whispered, her hands tugging at his 
hair, weaving the strands unthinkingly through her fingertips.  
Wanting to make him understand how sharp the tremors of 
pleasure rocking her really were, to share their potency.
	His hands slid from her hips to her waist.  His eyes 
shadowed a moment in concern.  "That bad?"
	She shook her head, attempting a smile that came out 
more like a grimace, her hips pulsing.  "That good."
	His thumbs spread her wide.  And he put his lips to 
her once more, his tongue circling.  She whimpered his name.
	As much as he loved seeing her like this, relished 
the sight of his usually unflappable partner swallowed up by 
the passion he induced within her, he was dangerously close 
to his own limits as well.  The part of his body that sought its 
release inside hers had grown painfully hard, straining the 
fabric of his trousers.  He knew he had to slip inside her, had 
to experience that hot wet feel of her closing around him, 
taking him in, cradling him.  Soon.  Had to.
	And so he redoubled his efforts.
	Who said hard work never paid off, he thought with 
satisfaction a few breathless moments later when he finally heard, 
ever so faintly, the word he had been waiting for.
	"Please . . . "
	The entreaty slipped from her lips so softly that for an 
instant, he thought he might have imagined it.  Then, she 
repeated it.
	"Please . . ."
	He looked up, his mouth continuing its light, 
tormenting dance over her. Her head turned fitfully from side 
to side against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut, her brow 
furrowed as she concentrated on the treacherous workings 
of her body, the elusive current of pleasure that promised so 
much and demanded that much more in return.  Her mouth was 
open, her face flushed and moist.  
	The word was moaned again.  And again.  The 
string of syllables metamorphosing into a chant.
	"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease . . ."
	He gripped her more tightly and increased the pressure 
of his lips and tongue.
	Her knees were bent, her hips arched forward, her 
hands now framing his face, holding him to her as if she feared 
he might change his mind.  Might leave her hanging there, 
endlessly teetering on the edge of oblivion.
	On and on, he stroked over her.  He could feel the 
blood roaring through his head.  Could feel the excitement 
that catapulted from the woman before him to land solidly 
at his core, his center.  Finally, his lips returned to that little 
nodule he had played with before, closed over it.  And pulled on 
it.  Hard.
	She screamed.  And went rigid.  Every muscle taut, 
her hips bucking wildly.  He gripped her buttocks and held on, 
riding out the storm with her.  Intent on milking every last 
sensation from her tired aching body.  
	At last, spent, her knees buckled.  He caught her in 
his arms and pulled her down to him with one arm twined 
tightly around her waist.  His other hand dropped to his lap, 
and trembling, freed himself from his pants, his boxers.  In 
one motion, he slid inside her, maneuvering the woman in 
his arms like a rag doll, her limbs limp and heavy.  She rested 
on her knees astride him, her face buried in the curve of his 
neck, her arms clinging around his shoulders.  He clutched 
her waist tightly and lifted her, pumping her on him.  Fast, 
furious.  Soft, heated grunts punctuating the motion.  It took 
no more than a half dozen such strokes.  Then, his body 
erupted as well.  His strangled shout of release echoing 
hoarsely in her ear.
	For a long silent collection of minutes, they rested 
against each other, Mulder trying to catch his breath, his hand 
slowly smoothing her hair.
	And, right on schedule, the doubts and self-
recriminations began to creep into his mind, like old friends 
who knew the way, who had a key.
	Why didn't she say anything, he wondered.  Sure, 
she was probably exhausted.  He thought detected a faint 
tremor in her limbs.  But still . . . What if this hadn't been as 
great a turn-on for her as he had hoped?  As it had proved for 
him?  What if she didn't get into the power games?  The 
sensation of having her passion displayed rather than 
shared?  And what the hell was that last part about?  Not 
much finesse in that.  His cramping thighs attested to that 
realization.  Didn't last long either.
	Sighing with a mixture of contentment and dread, he 
hugged her to him even more tightly, she returned the embrace, 
although the pressure seemed to him a tad less fierce than usual.  
That only fueled his concern.
	"I love you," he whispered, his lips touching her hair.
	She pulled back to look at him.  Her mascara was 
smeared beneath one eye, her lipstick completely erased.  But, 
her skin glowed, its color heightened.  He thought he had 
never seen her look more beautiful.
	She smiled her special smile.  Not the dangerous one.  
The other.
	"That was fun.  Can we do it again?"
	He groaned, and tumbled them both to the floor, 
their bodies tangled together, his pants hanging half-on, 
half-off his hips.  "I've created a monster."
	She giggled, nestling into his arms.  "Come on, 
Mulder," she cajoled, her fingers slipping the buttons free on 
his shirt so she could glide her fingertips over his chest.  "I'll 
ask nicely."  She nipped his ear.  "Or would you rather have me 
make you ask instead?"
	He chuckled weakly.  "Oooh.  That's tempting.  It 
really is," he said, taking her lightly caressing hand and kissing 
her palm   "Ask me again in about a week.  I might have 
recovered by then."
	She smiled sleepily and kissed him softly, laying her 
head upon his shoulder.  He hugged her close, running his 
hand up and down her small frame, unable to get his fill of 
touching her.
	"Oh . . . Sorry."
	His hand had strayed to her thigh, where his fingers 
trailed over a very obvious run in her much appreciated, 
and apparently over-taxed, stockings.
	"S'okay," she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow 
above his collarbone in a series of sweet kisses.  "I'll just buy 
another pair."
	"When's your birthday?"
	She chuckled.
	"Christmas is closer."
	"I don't know if Santa Clause delivers stockings.  I mean, 
having anything like this lying around the workshop would only 
distract the elves."
	She joined him in a drowsy chuckle, and kissed him once 
more.  Then scooting herself more fully against him, rested her 
head over his heart, and drifted off to sleep, her dreams set in a 
forest of Christmas trees.  Only instead of garland, all were 
covered with long silky stockings, garter belts taking the place 
of ornaments. 

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Somehow they made it to work the following morning; 
Mulder only a few minutes late as he had left her apartment near 
dawn to return to his own for a change of clothes, having 
decided he might as well shower and shave there too, rather 
than tying up her bathroom.
	They also got through their first work day together 
since returning from Chicago, their first 8-hour shift spent in 
their basement office as lovers who just happened to work as 
partners.  It wasn't as hard as Scully had thought it might be.  
After all, they were professionals, adults.  They knew their jobs 
and took pride in the work they did.  In fact, they managed to 
submerge the other part of their relationship so thoroughly, 
so successfully, that at times she almost believed that the 
hours spent the night before, first in her living room, then 
later on her bed, were just another one of her dreams, 
the kind she had indulged in from time to time before reality 
had obliterating their need.
	That thought, however, disappeared when she 
opened the door to her apartment and discovered a large, 
long white box on her coffee table; the kind that normally 
came from a florist, filled with roses.  She had no question 
who had left it there.  Mulder had left work early, muttering 
about an errand he had to run and promising to stop by her 
apartment later, a pizza in tow.  Dropping her purse on the 
couch, she crossed to the box and opened it, shaking her 
head in wonder at this new side of her partner as romantic.
	Well, not that romantic, at least not the sentimental 
kind.  And yet, she wouldn't have wanted him any other way.  
Inside, she found a single perfect pink rose, exactly like the 
ones decorating her garter belt the previous evening.  And 
serving as the backdrop for the flower were packages of thigh 
high hose.
	Eleven of them.
	In black.
	She threw back her head and laughed, realizing as she 
did so that she smelled pepperoni wafting from the direction of 
her kitchen.

THE END