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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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.

Her lips part and she exhales, the tone almost subvocal, and thick with pleasure. She rises up a bit more, encouraging his hand to trail farther down. The shift is just enough to press her weight back, and her hips curl into his.

"Oh..."

His breath stutters, his hands freezing for just that half-second. With effort he continues, his hands tracing feather-light patterns over those tragically under-appreciated breasts. He does his best to make amends now, paying attention to everything he missed before.

She opens her eyes to look down into his face, shifting higher still, drawing up one knee and then the other, until her full weight is resting across his hips.

"Don't stop."

Her hands cover his, lightly, not directing him, just caressing. Following his lead.

He watches... staring, really, at his hands and her hands skating over her body, watching her react, watching the firelight play and cast shadows over her curves, noting how her skin flushes when aroused. He only lets his touch become firm enough to keep from tickling, but not any harder.

One should appreciate the gifts one is given.

He firms his touch and she rocks forward into it, watching the arousal on his face, mirroring it back to him ten fold. Her areolas ruck beneath his palms, drawing up into hard little points. Below, her hips move, subtle and slow, rocking against him.

"Yes..."

The word draws out in a long sigh.

His body slowly rouses, recognizing and openly welcoming her weight and warmth. The groan the friction of her movement elicits starts somewhere around his toes. Watching with even darker eyes, his grip becomes even more firm, almost possessive.

The look in her eyes becomes decidedly wicked as she moves and she licks her lips. She never breaks his gaze but slowly, oh so slowly, starts to bend backwards, taking certain parts of his anatomy with her as she lays back.

At first he just watches, his jaw slack in stunned, very happy amazement.

Somewhere shortly after zenith he starts swearing - softly at first, but with increasing volume and breathlessness. His hips rise helplessly, his head pressing back against the mat. Restlessly he still traces his hands over her thighs, cupping the curve of her ass, pressing her closer.

Her range of movement is very restricted like this, but that doesn't seem to matter. She can feel him growing harder by the moment, the strong curve of his cock pressing against her. She lets her head fall back, resting her weight on her elbows for a long span of heart beats. She's deliciously filled and exposed at the same time, like this.

She feels him start to relax, and she takes a deep breath and lets it out, consciously gripping him in slow, hard pulses.

She is very shortly rewarded with a sharp gasp that indicates that all of his neurons have exploded. Perhaps not literally, as that'd be horribly messy, but, he's blanking a bit at the moment.

The second reward comes a little while later, the thumb of his right hand settling firmly over her clit, and echoing each movement of hers with one of his own.

She shudders, a wanton groan rising in her throat at his touch. She wants to move again, wants to grind against his hand and his body, but she holds herself in check, forcing herself to enjoy this for the slow, sensual torture it is.

He touches her and she throbs, her quiet utterances telling him just how wrapped up she is. She's slick and hot under his thumb, that pearl of flesh standing up shamelessly for his attentions. This is the long slow tease, the marathon ascension. She's in no rush to the finish this time.

Her hands rise to cover her breasts, stroking and caressing where he can't reach, and below, just a slow circling of her hips, and that steady pulse, making sure to keep him stimulated.

She definitely has his full attention, his body focused on her teasing ministrations. He manages to half-hitch himself up on his free arm, just enough that he can watch her touch herself. Just that alone is enough to make him throb, his eyes nearly black with lust.

Her eyes have fallen closed, as she has other senses by which to feel him watching her. Her knees grip tight, keeping him close as he shifts, even though she wants nothing more than to spread herself wide open for him. Strong currents of tension shift through her body, her stomach muscles trembling, telegraphing the flutter of other, deeper pleasures.

And still she makes no attempt to strive, just lets the waves build, slow and steady, drunk on his touch, inhibitions completely left behind.

She sighs his name, the sound reverent and pleading.

Her name for him, almost softer than the crackles of the fire, very nearly breaks him. He is practically burning for her, desperate to have what she is teasingly offering. He lays, back, his hands settling firm over her hips.

"Olya." Pleading. Almost-demanding.

She hears and answers, one hand covering his at her hip, lacing her fingers with his as she slowly sits up. The shift in angle is delicious and makes her exhale with surprise. But the motion doesn't end with her settling on his hips.

"Lyonya, get up," she whispers, her tone urgent as she rises off him, shifting to her hands and knees beside him, guiding him to take his place behind her.

He goes gladly, his hands sliding over her hips, tracing the scars that run just above them as he presses into her, sliding again into her heat, firm and steady. His rhythm quickly becomes just as assured as he had been much earlier this evening, and his hands move to cup and warm and tease those breasts he just watched her fondle.

She groans as he slides home again, pushing back against him, meeting his steady pace with her own strength, her own urgency. She drops down to her elbows, her head falling forward, abandoning herself to the pure, decadence of this position. One hand moves to cover his at her breast and she guides his fingers down between her thighs, keening aloud as he brushes her clit again.

There is something primal and good about this he'd never be able to articulate without sounding at least partly like a cave man, so he probably never will. Her urgency spurs him on faster, harder, his breath short as he plows in deep.

That primal pulse is what's driving her now, her body making demands, her voice urging him on, begging him to hold nothing back from her.

She's never allowed herself to be quite so unrestrained around him, but this time is different, somehow. Maybe it's because she's more relaxed. Maybe it's the firelight and the fact that this isn't some faceless hotel room.

Maybe it's just that he's damned good at the basics, pounding her out of her senses, filling her up with white hot bliss until she can't see straight, can't do anything but hold on tight as he drives her up and over again. She goes rigid beneath him, still rocking back into him, and it takes an impossibly long few seconds for her climax to rise and spread and explode through her small frame.

If this place was still in San Francisco, it would be his neighbours filing the noise complaint.

He gasps desperately as her grip tightens around him, utterly erasing any ability to think, to do anything besides follow that blind need. Lost under her own cries, his own groan is low and breathless as he spills into her. Shaking in reaction, he bends over her, pressing kisses into the skin between neck and shoulder.

Her head tips back and she reaches for him, one hand brushing against his cheek, reaching up to weave in his hair. Her breath comes ragged and shallow, and she's trembling with exertion. His mouth finds her skin sheened with sweat, and she gasps as the last few aftershocks take her by surprise.

She lets slip a low curse in her native tongue, a sound as deeply appreciative as it is vulgar.