TITLE: Swinging From the Drain AUTHOR: Skylarking EMAIL: kirstenpatrick@hotmail.com DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere! RATING: NC-17, pretty much PWP with a little angst throw in SPOILERS: Wouldn't that require a plot? SUMMARY: Ambush DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended. ********************************************************************** "Quickly," she hissed, as she pulled him into the closet. "Scully, what's going..." He never had a chance to finish that query. Her tongue forcefully sent it back to the synapses it came from, then proceeded to dance 'round his teeth. Hungrily, her mouth jumped his, smacking, sliding, tasting, probing. Her hands worked rapidly, too, attacking his trousers and commandeering his rising cock with a frantic urgency that didn't allow him to think. Like most people, he could go from zero to horny in an instant, but usually he was expecting it, or at least saw a warning signal or two first. She was quick and determined. Her mouth covered his, simultaneously preventing any questions and exciting riots of pleasure on his lips. Her chest, her whole body, pressed against him, trying to conform to his. Her hands stroked his ramrod hardness, then squeezed, then circled, all driving his pulse to quicken, his breath to come in gasps. Abruptly she pulled away. Her hands left his body, her eyes glanced above. She jumped slightly, grabbing an overhead pipe as she swung her coltish legs around his waist. Her skirt was up, and he immediately felt her steamy wetness. She swung ever so slightly from the pipe, enough to slide his cock against her engorged velvet lips. The feeling was exquisite - hot, wet, inviting, driving him wild. Slowly, slowly back and forth, or maybe that was a trick of time and spacial relations. WIthout warning, she flexed, and he was on his way inside. "Uh, Scully, this isn't..." was all Mulder managed to get out before her mouth quieted him again. Her arms were busy suspending her from the pipe, so her legs drew him closer, sending him deep within her in one quick, clean stroke. Any protests, rationalizations, or surprise would have to wait until later. "Shh shhh shhh Mulder," she hissed. "We don't want to be heard." Her lips left his to make exploratory trails across his cheek, discovering his earlobe, making shivers of delight sprint through his spine. "Um, a little help here?" She breathed into his ear, and he realized how much strain must be on her delicate arms. He encircled her waist with his arms and leaned against the back of the closet to support both their weight. * Hey, this makes thrusting easier! * he thought. One of her hands left the overhead pipe and tousled his hair, then pulled his head back strategically so her teeth and access to his neck, the tender, delicate, erogenous sweet spot below and in front of his ear. She nipped him there while squeezing him internally. Again she said, "Quickly!" then circled her head back with a long, low, withering moan. That one hushed word, that single long moan, and he was at his peak. As she opened her eyes wider than he could ever imagine possible, he realized she was on the brink of orgasm, too. Her direct, intense gaze stunned him, invaded him, and he had to turn away. She was coming, writhing frantically, dropping on him as she let go of the pipe to wrap both arms around his shoulders. He needed no further encouragement and let all his pre-orgasmic tensions flow from him in a great burst accompanied by a cry...relief? desire? animalistic release? He clenched her close, hoping to calm his heartbeat, vague thoughts reforming in his brain. Why? What had he missed? What drove her to do this? Were they heard? Purposefully, she drew away from him, straightened her skirt, ran her hand through his hair as if smoothing it, and left the awkward closet without saying a word. Less than five minutes had passed, and he was reeling from the shock of what happened, the surprise of her behavior, and post-orgasmic vertigo. Slowly, he redressed, what little he needed to do. He retucked his shirt and fastened his trousers. He didn't even have to redo his tie, just straighten it. A stray though occurred to him * Wasn't she wearing any pantyhose? * He emerged from the closet and walked down the long hallway of the old theater to the stage, where the murder investigation was wrapping up. The victims had been outlined, the evidence all tagged and bagged. His glazed eyes searched the scene for her. She was across the stage, talking to a deputy, like nothing had just happened. Mulder realized another officer was speaking to him, and he snapped back to the business at hand. ********************************************************************** That evening, alone in his apartment Mulder replayed the scene in his mind. Scully had acted normally all morning, as far as he could remember. THe call came in about the cult-like murders nearby, and they had dutifully went to check it out. They had been to plenty of crime scenes together, and this one was no worse than some of the others. Could it be the bad B-movie voodoo squiggles spooked her somehow? Well, if there was a symbol that would cause her to jump his bones in a semipublic place, he wanted to know about it, pronto. He longed to be with her, to smell her hair and feel her sharp teeth again. He rubbed the spot on his neck where she had left a mark. He hadn't found that until back at the office, but no one else had noticed it either. Or at least they had been to polite to mention it. They had left the theater together and come back to the office together, in silence except for a few speculations and comments about the case. He had checked out her legs for the presence of hose, and decided they must be the thigh-high kind. He definitely thought he would have noticed a garter belt. He had tried to talk to her, but never made it past "Hey Scully, about this afternoon..." Her expression had been so blank, so clinical, so unromantic he hadn't proceeded. Now he wished he had. He grabbed the phone, hoping she was home, and equally relieved and hesitant when she answered after two rings. "Scully." "It's me, Mulder. I really need to talk to you." And touch your skin, and lick you knees. * Geez, where did that come from? * "I'm listening, Mulder. Is it about the case today, or that other disappearance last week?" He sighed. She was all business, and the tone in her voice didn't give any indication of her letting up. Perhaps the direct approach would work. "Scully, why did you pull me in the closet and give me the most intense quickie of my life?" "Ahh, Mulder, did you hit the wrong speed dial button? This is Scully, from the FBI, not the hot, horny, housewives line." Damn! His mind reeled. He had envisioned many responses, but never expected flat-out denial. "Scully, why did you make love to me? Why did you fuck me like there was no tomorrow? And why the closet? Why not dinner, dancing, and the magic fingers bed at the No-Tell Motel?" "Mulder, are you okay? Because the things you are saying are not making sense. I'm going to hang up now, and if you have a coherent, actual thought, you can speak with me tomorrow. At work." Click. Mulder held the phone to his ear, his mind baffled, a tear on his cheek. He could smell her on his body, dammit, so why didn't she want him now? ********************************************************************** Scully stared at the phone, unbelieving. Mulder had sounded so pained, so vulnerable, so needy. He had directly brought up sex, sex with her, and what had she done? She had lied. She had thrown all caution to the wind, she had pounced on him unannounced and unexpected, she had done the nasty in a kinky vertical way, and now she was denying it. Everything she had done today had gone against her rational personality. The sex *don'tthinkaboutthesexhowgooditwashowmuchyouwantedneededit* and the lying. Dana couldn't even begin to imagine trying to explain it to Mulder. She hadn't figured it out for herself yet. She just simply wasn't the type to seduce her partner. Well, seduce was stretching the definition a bit. Ambush was more to the point. A stray thought popped in her head. * When can I do that again. * Slowly, she smiled.