notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

The lights of their apartment come up in the way he is used to lights coming on the way he is used to lights coming on - smoothing increasing from dark to light with barely a hitch inbetween. The apartment is the same as before - a naturally quirky Victorian that's slightly stark thanks to the driven surgeon who had made this his home once upon a time.

He always meant to take time off, decorate the place a little more elaborately, set it up to be more of a home than a place to collapse after long shifts. Maybe now's time.

But right now he can do something about these damned boots. Some day he is going to both fund and write a paper outlining the evils of these boots, and he'll stuff it down the throats of every lazy ass on the Starfleet Surgeon General's board.

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"Olya?" Utterly indefinably he feels unsettled, his equilibrium shifted and he can't easily set it right again. But now his confidence and the surety of his body's movements return, because this is a familiar fire that she sets burning in his flesh. After all of that, the ache to get closer is almost painful in its driving intensity.

"I'm here," she breathes, rocking against him. His hands settle on her hips and grip, pulling her in closer, and she gasps against him, her own body responding in kind. She rises up just enough to slip a hand between them, deft fingers catching his cock and guiding it into her body with a groan that sounds loud to her own ears.

He cries out, thrusting up and into her wantonly, his restraint long-ago eroded away. His hands stay firmly in place, and he pulls his legs up to provide the leverage needed to continue that pace.

"Olya. Olya darlin', ride me hard, please..." He grinds out, drowning in her heat.

She grins to hear him talk that way, loving it, loving the desperation in his voice. She feels it too, it's just been so long since she's felt it for someone who didn't want to use her for his own ends.

Well, other than the obvious. And that's all right.

She pushes up to a seated position, looking down into his face with that Mona Lisa smile. She catches his hands and interlaces her fingers with his. She lets her weight press him deeper still, taking him all the way to the hilt and pinning him there, grinding against him. This she can do, letting just a ribbon of her awareness spill down her spine and connect at the root of their bodies, molten heat that should feel almost natural in this position.

He thrusts up into her and she matches his pace, barely giving him any room at all to stroke. She wants him hard and deep, and right there. Her eyes close and her lips part, her chin tipping up to the ceiling. She can taste him behind her eyelids and pooling in the hollows of her collarbones, long since claimed by his mouth. She can taste him everywhere and he tastes like heaven.

His breath comes sharp and urgent, his body tightly wound to the point of breaking, his eyes devouring what he cannot touch - though he would happily do so later, if she was so inclined. She is so beautiful, so vibrant, such a rare creature. How did he get so lucky to be here?

A question for a later time. Right now he is losing himself entirely, disappearing under the flood of heat and glorious ecstacy.

She holds him there in that delicious tension, guiding his hands to her breasts and her waist, covering them with her own hands. A fine sheen of sweat covers her skin from the exertion, and her breath comes in throaty gasps and sweet, descending cries.

She rides him long and hard, using her position to great and delicious advantage. She's not one given to ecstatic states, but he's showing her how its done. The disparate threads of her awareness begin to sing and she ascends towards that point of no return, all her attention focused on him.

He urges her on, his hands coaxing and encouraging - he knows her body well enough by now that he has a good memory of where and how she likes to be touched.

His only worry, as much as he can be worried, that he won't last. Her movements are destroying him entirely.

She curls into him, melting down to rest her head on his shoulder, her breath ragged and harsh against his skin. Her hands are hot against his chest and still she rides him.

He can feel the hard clench of her body tightening around him, pulsing in time with his thrusts. She shudders above him, crying out his name against his shoulder, quaking with the force of her climax.

He slides his arms around her, tight, gasping desperately in response to her grip. It drags him under, and he spends himself in blind, erratic motion, buried deep within her, holding her safe and warm and good in his arms.

When he stills, he is very nearly boneless, exhausted and elated in the hazy aftermath.

She takes a long while to gentle against him, the sensual ripples moving through her body gently fading away over a long few minutes. She rests against him, comfortable in his embrace, making no move to shift away.

"All right?"

This is good, this is very good, because he's not particularly inclined to let her go just now. In fact, he's particularly anti letting-her-go. He wouldn't be able to tell anyone why, other than concluding with her warmth and the fire and the comfort of the mat there's very little reason to move.

And, of course, that not-quite-wrong, not-entirely-right feeling of being off balance hasn't gone away, but it's minor, a footnote in tiny text no one ever reads anyway.

"I don't think,", He muses, drawling lazily, "I want to move for a week. At least."

That suggestion sounds absolutely perfect to her, save for one thing: she's not quite done with him. She hums a contented little murmur against his skin, and slowly pushes herself up, claiming his mouth with her own.

Slow as molasses in January, and much, much sweeter.

He moans, his hands sliding up into her hair, across her shoulders - this plan he can approve of as well, whole-heartedly.

"Darlin'?" He queries, breathing hard once she pulls away.

It seems a crime to speak and break the stillness of the moment, but if he insists.

"Mmm?"

Her head falls back into the brush of his fingertips against her scalp, pushing against his touch like a cat seeking more attention.

He smiles, shaking his head. The moment is unreal, but he isn't about to argue. Taking the hint, he massages her scalp, his fingers drawing tight circles over her skin.

She is insatiable. And this is not at all a bad thing.

She's not necessarily insatiable. She just didn't get to enjoy a slow buildup this time, and the kissing is very important, she feels. It's a shame to neglect such an enjoyable part of the dance.

And if he's not going to be asking questions with that mouth, then she has another use for it. She smiles against his skin, her nose brushing the apple of his cheek.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing at all, darlin'." He assures her, content with her weight on top of him, her breath on his skin. "Just don't want to leave you unsatisfied."

Edited 2010-11-05 06:27 (UTC)

She sits up a bit to look down into his face, a bit perplexed at this revelation.

"I am not unsatisfied. But... am I allowed only the once?"

The question is only half-serious.

He laughs, softly, his hands sliding down her back to trace idle meaningless patterns over her spine.

"Heavens no, darlin', but you'll have to give me a minute. Whatever that was knocked the starch right out of me." He admits, frankly, unashamed that she's pretty much taken him down.

Her lips twitch and she rests her chin on the heel of her hand, the fine lines around her eyes deepening with her smile.

"I would apologise, but -- you seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"I was. God help me, I was." He assures her, sincerely. "I don't think I'd ever be able to explain it, but that was amazing."

Her grin mirrors his in intensity, but she drops her eyes to his chest.

"Good," she murmurs, dropping her head to kiss his chest again.

"Next time, we'll do a little more, perhaps."

"I'd like that." One hand slides back up against her scalp, teasing gently. He might not be recovered, but there's time enough for that.

Her eyes fall closed, and she shivers. He can feel it all along her body, can feel it where they're still connected, a gentle shuddering of muscles.

Recovery isn't necessarily the first stop on this tour. There are many, many more places to explore along the way.

She tips her chin back, sighing as he teases her, every motion slow and deliberate.

He moans softly, bringing his other hand up to join the first. Never let it be said he can't take a hint, especially one so blatant as that. But he cannot resist the curve of her neck, oh-so-lightly running the fingers of one hand up the exposed skin.