notabricklayer | (no subject)

He lets his head tip back, his groan rumbling deep in his chest. He would happily let her do that all day long, even when she edges into areas the bone-deep bruises haven't yet surfaced. Luckily his hands don't need his eyes' direction to explore the delicious softness of her breasts, his hands unconsciously matching the rhythm of her tongue.

She doesn't ask this time, just pulls the energy from the air around them and smooths it into his skin, turning time forward to speed the healing. Her hands massage away the tension, slow and steady.

Her body rocks forward into his touch, but she doesn't break contact. She has all day, and she lets him tell her exactly what he wants, letting him lead the dance this time, curious to see where he'll take them.

He recognizes the warmth, the sudden flush easing away the pain. It makes his already complicated feelings for her even more so, but he cannot find it in him to complain. Far from it - he wasn't looking forward to the days of guilty looks he was going to get from his captain.

What he wants from her... what he doesn't want would be a shorter list, but he's patient. Her body is intoxicating, doing away with regular, rational thought. He rocks back against her, eventually pushing her back against the blankets, his eyes dark.

Does she have any idea, the affect she has on him?

She yields with a soft sigh, welcoming the weight of his body, welcoming the rising urgency in his touch. Grey eyes study his face, trying to read the subtle lines, to ken the deeper pull she feels beneath the surface heat.

It's been so long since she's been with anyone other than Gesar, longer still since she's had a repeat performance.

Her hands smooth down his back, and on the return trip, he can feel the light pressure of her nails. Oh she has an idea, all right. Still, she has the patience of the hunter, watching, listening, learning everything there is to know about him. Her lips part and her chin tips back, her body aligning with his, just so.

He honestly cannot help the whine that escapes him - if he could stop to think about it, he would have no idea how she could already know him so well, how she can get his body to respond so strongly.

Of course, if he could stop to think about it, he would not be here, arching his back and dropping his head down to lap at that hollow between her breasts hungrily.

Her eyes fall closed, and her fingers rake through his hair, urging him on. Each pass of his lips draws a soft, shuddering cry from her. She shifts beneath him, restless, trying to keep still and failing utterly.

She breathes him in, drifting on a slow wave of sensation, keenly aware of every place he's touching her, pinning her to the earth and painting her skin with the heat of his mouth and his hands.

He loves those sounds. He truly does, his answering smile curling against her skin. He steadily refuses to hurry, languidly savoring the taste of her skin, her scent drowning him. He shifts his weight to one arm, reaching down the length of her body with the other, smoothing the palm of his hand against her, pushing firm against the soft, worn cloth of her trousers.

She feels that sweet pressure and bites her lower lip to stifle the groan that rises. Her grip in his hair tightens and her hips rise off the blankets, grinding against the heel of his hand.

She's trying to stay quiet, knowing that they could be heard by anyone down below. Somehow that knowledge makes this all the more arousing. She laughs, low under her breath, and whispers,

"Let me take off my boots."

His smile turns into a shameless shit-eating grin, before he rolls up and off of her.

"Let me instead?" The question is asked with that same grin, as he trails a hand slowly down the outside of her closer leg.

Her eyes narrow a bit, but that pleased little smirk still ghosts across her features. She sits up on her elbows and lets him lift her foot.

"Such a gentleman."

He eases the first boot off, after being vaguely jealous of the way her boots don't have the evil StarFleet-issue laces. The socks on that foot quickly follow, and he has evidently decided the next big important thing to do is a bit of a massage.

Call it therapy. He's certainly putting a little know-how behind it.

She's still not sure how to take this kind of attention, and it shows in the way she takes a few moments to relent to his touch.

But his hands are strong and warm, and oh that feels good. At first, only her eyes drift shut, and then her lips part with a soft exhalation. A few more moments, and she can't help but melt back into the blankets, one arm draped across her eyes.

Now that is a gorgeous sight, if he does say so himself. Once he has done about as much good he thinks he can with that foot, he repeats the process on the other, taking his own sweet time about it too.

There's something marvelous about how he knows he's not about to be interrupted by the communicator's persistent chirp. It's an almost illicit pleasure for a senior ship's officer.

"There now, that's a fair sight better."

She hums her agreement with that sentiment, watching him watch her. Such blue eyes, her unthinking fingers twitch a ward against evil in a habit ingrained hundreds of years ago. She can't help but mirror that smile back to him, unconsciously licking her lips as the sole of her foot runs up his thigh and her toes trace along that telltale curve.

His lips are suddenly, unaccountably dry, and he gulps convulsively, his calm shattered. He takes a moment to shuck off both scrub top and the underlying half of the body suit, shivering faintly as he shucks it aside. Natural air is, and always will be, just that little bit better, if sometimes more uncomfortable, than recycled ship air.

Now he leans forward, nimble fingers doing away with the catch of her trousers.

She watches him work, biting her lower lip. There's a breathless laugh on her lips when he reaches bare skin, her stomach fluttering under his hands. She's well-muscled, but there's still a swell to her lower belly, and her hips are those of a woman, not some malnourished girl. Her skin is pale and smooth, save for ruddy lines of centuries old scars.

Grey green eyes smile up at him, and he can see the flush of heat in her cheeks, the fullness of her lips. Her hands reach for him, brushing through his hair, not to pull him down or guide him, simply to touch him for the sheer joy of it.

It is just as well that she is a woman, not a girl - McCoy has a girl of his own, somewhere back in Georgia. He may not get to see her often, but he does love her dearly, and a resemblance here would make a quick end to things.

As it is he's enjoying re-learning the curves of her body, which he learned first in darkness.
"Tell me, darlin'," He drawls softly against the inside of her thighs as he pulls those dratted trousers off, "How is a proper greeting best continued? Wouldn't want to make the same mistake twice, would I?"

Her eyes drift closed, her smile growing broader by the moment. She lifts her hips and shimmies a bit to help him get them off, her knees rising as she frees her feet. Dropping her legs around him, she sits up in one smooth motion, hands reaching for the strange seams on his own trousers. This brings her face to face with him again, and she purrs against the corner of his mouth.

"You like it when I tell you what I want, hmm?"

He helps her get the last of his clothing off, a kick sending it somewhere over there where it's no longer his problem, leaving him kneeling between her legs, naked as a jaybird and happy as a lark.

"Very much so." McCoy's voice rumbles, his hands gently framing her face before tangling in her hair.

She grins up at him, eyes shining as her hands playing down his torso, palms flat against his skin. Her thumbs tease along his hip bones as she marks the muscles of his thighs, down the outsides, back along the inner planes.

"A proper greeting. Starts with a kiss."

She nuzzles against his hands, brushing a soft kiss across the inside of his wrist. Her hands are small, warm, her touch confident, and nothing less than reverent.

He pushes against her teasing hands, but he complies with her wishes

(She is going to kill him. Marvelously.)

and tilts his head to capture her lips, putting all of his longing and need and frank lust into that plundering kiss. He's always been a proponent of starting as you intend to continue - no call to change that now.

She arches her back, sitting up straight to return that kiss with equal fervour, equal need. Her hands curl around his cock, taking him in a firm grip, moaning against his mouth when she feels how hard he is. The scent of him, the sound of his voice, the feel of him flows over her like the sweetest mead, like the darkest hashish smoke. Heady and intoxicating.

His answering groan is guttural, and utterly unconscious - her hands are making his brain short-circuit in an alarming fashion. Swirling abstract and abstracted patterns into her skin, his hands drift lower, over her shoulders and down her spine, gently urging her back.

She falls back slowly, drawing him down with her in one smooth motion, keeping him close. The feel of his fingertips raises goosebumps over her shoulders, and all the way down her back. Her heels hook behind his knees, and her hands never cease their exploration, stroking him, trying to discover just how it is he likes to be touched.

She breathes his breath, whispering to him, sweet and sultry promises, and even though he doesn't speak the language, his body does, somehow. Her hands seem to be translating her intentions quite effectively.

Oh, and he definitely likes to be touched, Russian quickly becoming a new favorite language if she's going to go on using it like that. His breath becomes gasping and shudderingly deep by turns - his body is as responsive to her as a finely tuned fiddle, and there isn't a darned thing he could do to stop it.

As if he would want to.

His only, barely-held-onto thought is to return the favor, to make this as shatteringly pleasurable as she's managing to do for him... though that's a bit of a tall order. The one good thing, at least here, of being a doctor... anatomy is never difficult. He doesn't need a fully functioning brain, thank goodness, for his fingers to slide, delicate and probing, to mimic against her clit the motions of her hands on him.