notabricklayer | (no subject)

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.

At his delicate touch, her eyes close and her words melt away, replaced by a low moan, more felt than heard. Her body ripples beneath him, her hips rising to press against his fingertips, slick and hot.

She lets him slip from between her grip, her hands skimming up his chest, winding around his neck. His clever hands make her shudder, drawing across her skin like a bow, making her whole body resonate with a pleasure so rich she can't think. But it's not enough. She wants more and she pulls him close for another slow, breathless kiss.

What the lady wants, the lady gets, as far as McCoy is concerned. It is hardly an onerous task in this case - gladly he surrenders to the heat of her mouth, and moments later to the heat of her as he sinks into her, slow, oh so slow.

Sometimes, it is very good to know that memory did not exaggerate.

This is what she wanted.

Her entire awareness folds down to the slip of skin against skin, that sweet aching fullness stealing her breath, one gentle stroke at a time. She pulls him closer still, rocking beneath him. Slow as the ocean this time, and just as inexorable.

Slow, like the steady thrum of the Enterprise's engines.

The world is simple here, down to a steady rhythm, her body gloriously tight around him, accepting and driving.

Slow, like a summer day in the heart of Georgia.

Mindful, distantly, of their surroundings, he gladly helps to avoid detection by muting her cries in a hungry kiss.

Slow, and glorious - nothing to prove, here, just to enjoy.

For someone who has been without for so long, just the weight of his body above her seems deliciously strange, and that he fits so well against her, like they were carved from a single branch of rowan, makes her forget all the reasons why she shouldn't be here, indulging. He's mortal, he's from another world.

He's giving himself so completely, taking just as thoroughly in return, she wonders how she lasted without something that feels like sustenance. He makes her feel human again, and the pleasure twisting tighter in her belly only just begins to rival that sensation.

Slow and steady, and strong, she rises, letting him take her there one heartbeat at a time.

Just begins? Now, McCoy won't argue that being human is a fine thing, but he'd certainly hope for better! He'd also tease her about it for months to come, so it's perhaps best he doesn't know.

Best of all, with no need for the challenge of making things 'better', he can focus instead on exploring the column of her neck and whispering fond encouragements and appreciations against her skin,

Her eyes fall closed and he can feel her respond, can feel the shivering lines of tension moving through her body. She draws long and slow shuddering breaths, trying to focus on the feel of his mouth or his hands or the delicious rolling press of his hips as he moves above her.

His teeth graze along the juncture of her shoulder and neck, and she moans, contracting around him. Her hands smooth down his back to his ass, pulling him deeper. If there's better than this, she can't imagine what it could possibly be.

He is always nagging at the command crew to use positive reinforcement to get the best performance out of the crew.

He gets the impression, distinctly, that she will never ever near to hear a lecture like that.

He bows his head, arching, to suckle at her breasts - slowly, thoughtfully, thoroughly as he would do any surgery.

Every brush of his tongue, of his teeth, draws her closer around him, hands and other places, warm and wet and tight. He can feel her muscles fluttering around him as the heat builds.

He shifts just so and she exhales in a sharp, sweet breath, her head tipping back hard. So quickly, he has brought her right to the razor's edge and she doesn't want to fall yet, not yet, not yet. She holds her breath, denying the inevitable for as long as she can.

"Shhh, let go." It's soft, and more than a little rough, but he can feel her tighten impossibly. Frankly, he can't stand it much longer without exploding. He tried to keep up the languid pace, but inexorably the drive to push harder, faster to lose himself in her takes over what's left functioning of his brain.