notabricklayer | (no subject)

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.

Her blunt nails bite into the skin of his shoulders, barely deep enough to leave a mark, but enough to telegraph her rising need. Tighter and tighter, she twists, feeling his pace quicken, feeling the sweet tension draw her out to a single point of sensation.

Grey eyes search out his bright blue gaze, her lips parted, her breath hitching with each hard stroke. A hard shudder takes her and she keens under her breath, rocking up to meet him with all her strength, never breaking his gaze.

He breaks, groaning, his arms sliding under her shoulders to pull her closer, taking the open invitation of those beautiful lips.

If every bad day can end like this, he will never complain about a bad day ever again.

At least, not loudly.

She melts against his delicious mouth, shivering and shaking through to the very end, rippling beneath him as the nerve endings keep firing. All the while, her hips continue to rock, wringing every last bit of pleasure from him.

The kiss lasts far longer than the aftershocks.

Far longer.

He has no complaints about that, though he feels he may have to spend more time in the gym working on arm strength - he can feel his muscles shaking as he pulls back for air.

She rolls with him as he falls to the side, a soft, disappointed sound in the back of her throat as the kiss breaks.

She moulds herself along his side, her head tucked under his chin, her lips painting his shoulder with tiny, soft kisses, her thigh draped over his.

"Lyonya."

The word is quiet, and still, rich with emotion.

"Darlin'" His fingers tease through her hair, gently untangling the loose strands. He is severely disinclined to move from here, in the languid warmth of this barn loft, in the arms of this gorgeous woman.

Eventually, she does sit up to look down into his face, that Mona Lisa smile back in place. Her hand comes up to touch his face, that small intimacy feeling like an impossible luxury. Maybe he can see that touch of awe around her eyes.

"I need a cigarette. Possibly something to eat."