TITLE: WORDS 6: EARLY MORNING WORDS AUTHOR: KAREN RASCH E-MAIL: krasch@delphi.com RATING: NC-17 Hey! This piece was written as a birthday present for my good friend, Connie, a fan of NC-17stories and fan fic in general. As she is a sweetheart, Con has been kind enough to give her permission for me to post this. After all, it =is= her story. :) The disclaimer is your usual rock and roll. I don't own either of these characters. CC, 1013 and Fox do. No money is being made. This is fun. Nothing more. Erotica warning ahead. No plot. (I think "No Greater Love" cured me of that urge for awhile.) Enjoy! Comments appreciated at the above address. Those of you who wrote regarding "NGL", please be patient. I'm digging out from under an overloaded mailbox. Thanks. :) ================================================= Dana Scully awoke to find a man's hand on her breast. Now, like any young woman who lived alone, she might have found this turn of events a trifle alarming, especially given the recent state of her love life. But not the *current* state of her love life. Not for the past several months. Not since she and her partner had decided to finally do something about the attraction each of them had sensed simmering just below the surface of their professional relationship. Had, in fact, been maddeningly aware of ever since the first moment they had met. When Fox Mulder had looked up from his desktop full of slides upon her initial entrance into his basement sanctuary, taken her outstretched hand in greeting, given her his very best mocking smile and murmured, "Well, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded." Isn't it nice, indeed? She stirred ever so slightly, arching her back, offering herself up to the hand that continued to glide teasingly over her. Circling. Fingertips tracing her gently rounded curves with a frankly proprietary relish. Warming her through the cotton jersey she had pulled on the night before in deference to the slight draft that had prevailed, the shirt that now lay bunched on the swell of her hip. The one that bore the insignia of Mulder's beloved Knicks. The one she had donned because it belonged to him, smelled of him, and settled over her as softly as did his arms, his hands. They were lying in her bed, she and Mulder, on their sides, her back to his chest, his arm tossed possessively over her slender form, indulging in a bit of the taboo. Mulder had spent the night. With her. For the first time since they had consummated their relationship. Now, for most couples this would not be considered particularly unusual, let alone daring. And yet, for them, it was both. After all, they were not supposed to be doing this. Any of it. They were partners. Their profession strictly prohibited any sort of fraternization. Especially of the sort in which she and the man who was at present pressing soft wet kisses in a line from just below her ear to the juncture of her neck and shoulder were reveling. Not only did they risk the displeasure of their superiors, and the very real danger of separation. But, should their liaison be made known, they both faced the threat of having each of them used against the other. To control them. To distract them from their work, their respective quests. As someone somewhere had tried to do when they had ripped her from Mulder's side for all those long, lonely months, nearly killing her. And him. If the shadowy forces they struggled against had opted to be that cruel, that heartless when they had believed she and Mulder to be merely good friends, what more would they dare if they knew she and the man who laid curled around her, his breath blowing warmly and evenly through her tousled hair, to be intimately involved? The question sent a shiver shimmering through her. Not the pleasant kind. The wonderfully thrilling kind. The kind Mulder could induce with merely a long lingering look and the promise of passion shining heatedly in his hazel eyes. No. This sort brought to mind the old saying "Someone just walked across my grave." Not something she particularly wanted to contemplate right at the moment. Not when it was early on a Saturday morning in March, and she lie wrapped in her lover's arms, lazy and replete after a night spent pleasing and being pleased. And knowing with almost smug satisfaction, that should she so desire, they could spend the entire day in just this fashion. In bed. Together. Refusing to be lured away from their cozy haven by anything so mundane as what the world might have to offer. Knowing that all they were looking for, all that they really needed was right there beside them. Considering that delicious and decidedly decadent proposition, Scully sighed. Low. A whisper of a moan rumbling beneath the sound, adding depth to it. Complexity. Like a pinch of spice being added to an already tasty sauce. Mulder heard the languid rush of air. And the longing fueling it. Almost as if in silent answer to her plea, he slipped one arm beneath her, between the mattress and her waist, and pulled her closer. The hand on that arm continued the enjoyable work begun by Mulder's other hand. The complete and utter seduction of her breast. Seemingly discontent to merely lavish attention on one portion of her body, he tugged Scully's nightshirt away from her shoulder, allowing him to nibble carefully there on the newly revealed ridge of muscle. Nipping, than laving the soft skin with his tongue. Restlessly, her legs rubbed slowly against each other, over each other, like a cricket's. His longer limbs tangled with hers, his knee slipping between her thighs, opening her to him, the coarse hair on his legs tickling just a bit. Not wanting to be outdone, she took the back of her foot and glided it along his calf. Almost instantaneously, she heard his breath change. Catch. Then, unravel. And smiled with the knowledge. Even as she slowly roused, she kept her eyes closed, not quite ready to wholly relinquish sleep. The potent mingling of slumber and Mulder's gentle caresses having woven a spell, a lovely sort of never-never land she found difficult to leave. Besides, she couldn't really see him from their current positions anyway. And with her sight disengaged she was able to concentrate more fully on her other senses. On the muted musky smell of him. Sweet and familiar. The scent of them. Of what they had done together in that bed not so many hours before. On the sound of his lips as they met her skin. The faint moist smack as they pressed against her, shielding his teeth as they went about their infinitely pleasurable endeavor. And his touch. Most of all his touch. Easy. Light, yet sure. Flowing with the speed of molasses over a body so attuned to the sweep of his fingers, so yearning for that quicksilver flash of arousal only he could spark, that even upon first contact, her nipples had instantly hardened, her core liquefied. Grown hot. Engorged. Needy. As if her very physical being had somehow become addicted to him. As if once she had tasted him, his lips, his chest. The strong planes of his back. The tender column of his throat. That part of his anatomy that was so very different from her own decidedly feminine form. Buried inside her. Filling the void there. Moving. Slowly at first. The tempo building. A sheen of sweat misting over them. Their pulses pounding one after the other, like a drum roll. Until she and Mulder were racing each other for oblivion. . . . Oh yes, she was definitely hooked. And the funny thing was, it was almost as if he knew. Recognized the power he held over her. Because as cautious as he was about expressing feelings of affection or need, even from the beginning Mulder had never been afraid to physically reach out to her. And always, right from the start, the sensation of his hands on her body had wrought a kind of magic. A wizardry that stole from her all her formidable restraint, her reason, and at times it seemed, her very identity. The man she loved had without knowing it changed her. Not for better or for worse. Just . . . different. Had challenged her. Made her view the world and herself in a new and, without question, more expansive way. Had urged her to lay everything--her trust, her beliefs, her safety, her sanity, her heart--in his capable hands. He had won these concessions from her not by force or coercion. But by offering to her the very same thing. Everything he was. Knowing that she wouldn't laugh or scoff or regard the gift cheaply. But instead treasure it, guarding it like gold. Being given that kind of responsibility, that sort of sway, was a heady venture. And a duty Dana Scully did not take lightly. She understood that Mulder had made her the custodian of his heart, its caretaker. And she promised herself and him that she would strive to be worthy of the honor. That she would always be the one he could depend upon for comfort, for support, for laughter. And--be it physical or emotional--for love. "Make love to me, Mulder," she whispered, nuzzling her cheek against his; her voice, a breathy rendition of its usual husky alto. He answered her by capturing her ear with his teeth and tugging on it, before ultimately closing his lips over its lobe and suckling. She gasped, her hips twitching in response. Continuing his silence, Mulder tenderly brushed her rumpled hair back from her face, away from her ear so as to give him better access. Carefully, he traced its intricate whorls, his breath igniting the moisture left behind by his tongue, setting off a string of tiny little fireworks that rippled through her. All the way down to her toes. He then found the row of buttons holding closed the oversized jersey that served as her night wear. Slowly yet steadily, he loosed each of them from their holes. One by one they slipped free, gradually exposing more of her chest to the bite of the cool morning air. Then, as smoothly as the little closures had eased free of their constraints, his hand, warm and slightly rough against her satiny skin, slipped inside the shirt to erase that chill. To cup her breast, almost as if weighing it in his palm, his index finger and thumb carefully restraining her swollen nipple between them. She cried out with the caress, her throaty sound of surrender a feeble expression of just how amazing it felt to be held so delicately, so beautifully in his hands. He squeezed carefully, exerting just the right pressure on the tiny nubbin. She writhed once more. Powerless. And yet, never feeling more alive, more utterly invincible than she did at moments such as these. When all the sometimes confusing, oftentimes frightening, and always overpowering emotions she had for the man beside her were distilled down to their essence. When all they felt for each other, all of it, every layer, every nuance was expressed through their bodies, much the same way that dancers use their craft to give life to their choreographer's vision or their composer's scope. Scully found she liked the idea of she and her partner as participants in a dance, even if their "steps" had decidedly less vertical range than say a Baryshnikov's or a Fonteyn's, and smiled yet again. As she did so, she tipped back her head so that the top of it rested against Mulder's shoulder, exposing her slender throat, like a cat begging to be petted there. He obliged her, nuzzling against her pale soft skin with the bridge of his nose, dragging his lips over the area as well, almost as if he couldn't bear to lift his mouth from her, couldn't stand even that smallest of separations. She understood his reluctance. And her teeth closed over her bottom lip to hold back yet another wordless groan. It escaped just the same, a broken, tortured-sounding murmur that she almost couldn't identify as belonging to her, as coming from her lips; the outburst sounding that foreign to her. With a kind of scarcely controlled vehemence, Mulder's hand slipped beneath the covers, and trembling, stroked the length of her thigh. It had gotten to the point where she was having difficulty keeping still. She thought to turn, to roll over into his embrace, to face him. But Mulder wasn't letting her. He kept her pinned against him, his hold gentle, yet implacable. And truth be known, she wasn't in all that big a hurry to alter their positions. She liked the feeling of being covered by him, of wearing him like an exotic sort of overcoat. She just wanted more. More of him. His caress. His kiss. Everything. Once again, with that strange intuitive sense they both shared, he reacted as if reading her mind. And after smoothing his hand a half dozen times softly down her leg and back again, he hooked his thumb over the waistband of the little wisp of bikinis she was wearing, and yanked them down and away. "You won't be needing these," he assured her in a sleep roughened voice from right at her ear, finally speaking his first words to her since waking. She felt the mattress shift, heard the scratchy whisper of cloth against cloth, and realized that he had also gotten rid of the boxers he had worn to bed. "And for some reason, these are feeling tight all of a sudden." He then reached down and carefully pulled her top leg up and over his hips, so that she rested more fully against him. And was suddenly far more available to him. Vulnerable to him. And his very talented fingers. She sucked in a quick harsh hiss of air when he found her, combing through the crisp curls where her legs met, and encountering incontrovertible evidence of just how badly she wanted him. Wanted this. He glided over the soft slick folds marking the entrance to her body, his gentleness devastating. His touch, slow. Lingering. Exploratory. As if they had all the time in the world. As if it wasn't already taking every last drop of her composure just to keep from flying apart at his touch. As if she wasn't ready to crawl across broken glass to feel him inside her. Stroking. His steel to her flint. Throwing sparks. Creating fire. As if he thought she could wait. As if he thought she actually would. But, Dana Scully had never been a pushover where Fox Mulder was concerned. And she wasn't about to start now. So she tilted her pelvis just a bit. Arched the small of her back. Nudged against the hard, yet velvety soft length of him, where it lay nestled in the crease of her buttocks. Reached back with her hand to hold his hips to her while she repeated the motion, the caress. Until they were both moaning with it. Finally, Mulder gasped. Then, chuckled. The sound shaky. Rueful. "God, Scully," he groaned, his voice vibrating roughly in the back of his throat. "What are you trying to do--kill me?" "You're the one taking your own sweet time," she retorted lightly, the words little more than a whisper, her eyes still tightly shut, her hips undulating slowly in response to his continued fondling. His fingers eased into her body and out again, the leisurely rhythm utterly bewitching her . "Ah, Scully, you never should rush the good stuff," Mulder murmured as he pressed a kiss to the corner of her eye. "And believe me, this. . . . you . . . . as much as I want it--all of it-- I'm in no hurry for any of it to end." She had more to say to him. Arguments regarding need and the potency of desire. But just then, his two fingers slipped slowly out of her, and drifting, glanced over the small knot of nerves which lie hidden in her body's nether region. Damp from their foray inside her, they circled over her. God. . . . ! She jerked. Crying out. Her hips suddenly pumping with more urgency, reaching for that thing, that promise of ecstasy. That shattering rush he had granted her so many times before. And as he moved to finally sheathe himself inside her, she knew with a kind of giddy joy, it was a rush that she would soon share with him again. Carefully, he pushed inside her. Past the initial resistance of her body, and into its hot, wet confines. Mulder's hand spread wide on her pelvic bone, pressing her to him, controlling their joining. His other hand still played over her breasts, tracing their peaks, kneading the soft mounds, squeezing the exquisitely sensitive flesh with finely measured force. At last, he was embedded in her. Buried to his hilt. "Yes," he groaned into her hair. And then slowly began to move. Scully couldn't get any leverage, not from where she lie sideways on her hip. She had to allow Mulder to take the lead, to decide at just what pace their passion was to unfold. Judging by the speed at which he was currently driving into her, his groin meeting her buttocks, he was still disinclined to rush. He thrust at her gently from behind, his hand splayed low on her belly, holding her to him. Coaxing her to rock with him. Urging her closer. His breath fanned her hair, hot and harsh. With all his concentration centered on the lower half of his body--their bodies--on the increasingly demanding way in which his hips came into contact with hers, his hand had ceased its movement on her breasts. It was almost as if the split in focus was too much for him. As if everything he had was being poured into their actual union. And so the best he could do was to merely place his palm over her one breast, lifting it slightly, cradling it carefully. In a manner that encouraged Scully to whimsically muse that Mulder was, at that moment, somehow guarding her heart. "I love this," he muttered heatedly from near her ear, need stripping his voice of its accustomed tenderness. Instead, leaving it raw. "I love the way you want me. . . . How you respond to me. Those little gasps you make when I move inside of you. The feel of you taking me in, holding me . . . ." "I love you," she told him simply, softly. One hand grabbing hold of his hair, the other running slowly up his flank, reveling in the play of muscle there. He groaned once more. "Oh God, Dana . . . my God . . ." The hand that had rested below her navel, its fingers pointing downward, inched towards where their bodies were joined. With an unerring sort of surety, it searched for that most sensitive point of her anatomy. That tiny little bud that when manipulated by this man had the power to turn her into a mindless creature. One consumed by sensation. Divested of thought, language, reason, and pride. A woman who craved release like a wild thing. And who hungered with a kind of desperation for that same mind-blowing conclusion for her partner. He found her. His fingers, slicked with her own body's moisture, gliding over her. Swirling. Sliding. Upping her need. Driving her to that place where she felt she simply had to split right through her skin. Her physical body incapable of containing all the tumult, the nearly violent desire roiling around inside her. Patiently, Mulder continued his loving assault. The pressure he exerted over her feverishly tender skin never bruising or frightening. Merely relentless. Her head twisted fitfully on the pillow, her hair tangling over her face, tickling her nose, catching in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes remained squeezed shut. "Let it happen," Mulder crooned in a hoarse whisper as he nuzzled her face, finding her temple, her cheek, through the coppery fringe surrounding them. His hand and his hips unceasing in their efforts to totally and utterly disassemble her. "Just let it come." She wanted to. God. Didn't he understand that? It was just that it was so much. What he was able to draw from her was often so overwhelming. She wondered sometimes if when she was caught in the wave of emotions she associated with this man, if when she was trapped in their surge like some overly confident surfer clinging to her board, she might not get washed away completely. If when the foam cleared, and the surf settled, she would cease to be altogether. Having been sucked down, swallowed into the bottomless ocean that was this man. Drowned by his needs, his demons, his desires. But, no. This was Mulder. A man who loved her more than his own life. A man who would invite any manner of heartache upon himself if it meant that she would be spared even the slightest discomfort or sorrow. Much as it pained her, she ruefully recognized this about her partner. Understood his tendency towards self- sacrifice. Especially where she was concerned. Certainly, he wanted her surrender. Wanted to watch as she tumbled headlong into rapture. But not to prove his power over her. Not to control or master her. But instead, by giving her such a gift, by placing her own pleasure, her own fulfillment before his, he hoped to prove to her and to himself that he was worthy of her. That in some bizarre way he deserved the happiness, the peace, the fragile sort of joy she knew without a doubt he had discovered as a result of their relationship. And with that as a motivation, how could she deny him? Her breath coming in frantic little gasps, she whispered, "Catch me, Mulder." And burst into flames. Her mouth opened on a cry. Her neck arched. One small hand tightened on his buttocks. Digging in to the resilient flesh there. The other tugged on Mulder's hair with a force she feared might injure him. Her hips shimmied helplessly as the convulsions cascaded through her. God. Dear God. The feeling was incandescent. She was soaring. Blazing across consciousness. Her skin flushed. Going hot, then surprisingly cold. She was vaguely aware that her body was now dewed with sweat. And, as if she had been hit with a bolt of lightning, the hair on her arms stood literally on end. For a moment, she couldn't catch her breath. Her chest heaved. Then, gradually, like a feather tossed on the wind, she floated down to earth. And into Mulder's arms. Safe. Secure. Cherished. They lay there. Still. Mulder's hand finally ceasing its gentle torment, and now just holding her to him, her buttocks nestled in the bend of his hips. She could sense the almost ferocious tension vibrating through the man beside her, the extent of the need he had yet to quench. She was more than aware of the hard hot length of him still buried inside her. Longing for release. And yet, he refrained from pumping into her. From bringing himself to that same sweet peak of pleasure he had shown her. He traced her hairline with his kisses. Trembling now. Like she was. "I love you, Dana Katherine Scully," he told her in a low ragged voice. "It's never been like this for me. Never." Licking her lips, she murmured, "Show me, Mulder. Show me how much you love me. . . . how much you want me. Share it with me. I want you to feel the way I do right now. I want to hear you moan with it. With me. Because of me." His arms tightened with nearly painful intensity around her. Then, tucking his head against the nape of her neck, he began to stroke in and out of her once more. This time, the finesse he had shown, the restraint, was sorely missing. It was simply beyond him at that point. He couldn't think, couldn't move, save to at long last strive for completion. His thrusts were short. Sharp. Desperate. And Scully wondered if despite the care he had taken with her, she might not be sore when all was said and done. Rapidly, Mulder picked up speed. He pounded into her urgently. His breath came in harsh little pants against her shoulder. His body threw heat like a bonfire. Both her arms were outstretched now, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair. She gave herself over to him, to be used for his enjoyment, his ease. He slapped against her, his arm keeping her tired legs spread, one still thrown over his hips. And she knew, with the sort of knowledge only longtime lovers had, that he wasn't going to last much longer. Then, he stiffened. "Christ!" His muffled shout dissolved into a deep, wrenching groan. Scully couldn't tell if Mulder meant the single word as a prayer or an oath. But the force of the emotion itself was without question. He quivered against her, his body emptying. His arms crushing her to him. The silence that followed proved almost deafening by contrast to what had come before. As if by tacit agreement, they each said nothing. Scully could hear her pulse pounding in her temple, could sense her heart's tempo downshifting, slowing as her excitement ebbed. Behind her, Mulder's uneven breath rustled her hair. His embrace continued with all its fierce might. Finally, he withdrew from her. And although he pulled from her with utmost gentleness she couldn't help but wince. Oh, yes. She was going to be doing an inspired John Wayne for the next several hours. Smiling at the absurdity of the thought, she rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes. And found her partner staring down at her, a shattering sort of vulnerability shining in his gaze. How odd, she realized with a start. She and Mulder had just shared the most fearsomely intimate of acts, and yet she had never once looked at him. Never born witness to the emotions swimming in those expressive hazel eyes. The ones that now poured over her, drenching her with their intensity. He lay sprawled half over her, his legs tangled with hers, his elbows planted on either side of her head, caging her with his body. For the longest time, he refrained from speech. Instead, he took his hand and lightly combed through her hair, lifting only a few of the silky strands at a time while he looked at her. Only looked. As if he hoped to catch a glimpse of something in her face. Some mystery he aspired to solve. Some truth only she held. "Do you have any idea what you mean to me?" he finally asked her, his voice hushed, his eyes intent. She reached up and traced his lips with her fingertip, lingering on the full curve of his lower one. After a time, she nodded, her own eyes glistening. "Everything," Mulder told her with the faintest of smiles and helpless sort of shrug. "Not everything, Mulder," she protested, her brow creasing just a bit, her palm resting now against his cheek. "Everything," he assured her. Then bent his head to press his lips to hers for a long lingering kiss, as if he thought to end the argument in just that way. How had they come to this point, she wondered with a touch of awe as his tongue softly explored her mouth. How had they gone from being two strangers, both distrustful. Each, miles apart in their views, their ambitions. To this. This mingling of two souls, two identities. When had it happened? When did that aggravating man she worked with become the heart that beat inside her? The air she needed to live. "Don't give me that kind of power, Mulder," she instructed quietly when their lips had parted, her fingers trailing over his brow. "I don't deserve it." He smiled down at her ruefully. "It's too late. You already have it. I can't do anything about it. It's out of my hands." She smiled wanly, still troubled just a tad by the notion. "Besides," Mulder murmured as he leaned down to sprinkle kisses on her nose, her cheek, her forehead, her chin. "If you don't deserve it, I don't know who does." "That's true," she murmured back, her tone dry, her eyes sliding shut once more as his lips got reacquainted with her features. "After all, who else would put up with you?" He stopped then. "Hey!" But, she only grinned. And, framing his face with her hands, she whispered, "Just know this, Agent Mulder--I am ready to put up with you for as long as you want me." "As long as all that?" he asked tenderly. She nodded solemnly. "As long as all that." He gathered her to him once more, cradling her against him. "Then you better be prepared for the long haul, Scully. Because I don't see any end to my wanting you." "Good," she said with a small sigh as she burrowed against him, a delicious variety of lassitude washing over her. "I'd hate for the guy I love to get tired of me." "Not a chance. Not any at all." She kissed him softly, just above his collarbone, in the hollow there. "Hmm. That's what I had hoped you'd say. 'Cause, to be honest, Mulder. . . . I'm just don't see how I could bear to let you go." "That a fact?" he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest, beneath her ear. "Mm-hmm," she told him a bit sleepily. "Don't forget . . . I shot you once, and I can do it again." "Ouch," he chuckled, kissing the top of her head as his hands smoothed over her shoulders, her back. "You've got me shaking now, Scully." "No, I don't," she said with a hint of mischief, as her fingers trailed lightly over his chest. "But give me a few minutes to recover, and I'll see what I can do." And as he hugged her tightly to him in response, she began to formulate a plan to accomplish just that. * * * * * * * * THE END