notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

McCoy has fallen into a rhythm in the bar - waking up late (for him), coming down eventually to see if anything particularly interesting is going on, pick up something for lunch, trade in a stack of videos for a brand new stack of videos, and go back upstairs.

This morning, he is downstairs much earlier.

He is in uniform for the first time in a week.

And he doesn't detour at the Bar, striding straight to the door, no pauses, no stops, just a quick trip to the front door, which hisses open obligingly, dragging him back aboard his shipboard life.

If he were to stop, he'd never make it through that door.

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She sits back a bit, but doesn't relinquish her grip. There's a mischief in her eyes that is only ever there for him. If he described that look to anyone else who knew her, they would call him mad.

"You want I should stop?"

"Never." He might regret being so unequivocal at some later date, but right now? If she stops, he's not sure he can take it. His body is already acutely tuned to her, desperate for any touch.

"Why did you chase me, darlin'? He asks, while his brain is relatively unfogged. "Are things alright, back at the Bar?"

Her eyes flash and her hands begin the very slow, very meticulous job of disrobing him, inch by teasing inch.

"I was curious, merely. And..." She leans in close and draws his scent into her lungs. "I missed you."

"Oh, love." He smiles, but he's not laughing at her. He hasn't been missed... well. Not since he was much younger, and his marriage hadn't had time to go south. He's forgotten how good it is to hear.

It is a wonderful thing to have someone feel you're worthy to be missed.

"I'm here, Olya."

She smirks up at him. "I know. I have you right where I want you."

She presses a kiss just below his navel, her hands urging his trousers over his hips, urging him to come a little closer so she can, yes, just like that, nuzzle and kiss and lick.

What clarity of mind he had is fast dissolving. He groans as his body reminds him, firmly, just how long, in hours, minutes, seconds it has been since she last did this.

Like has been noted before - he couldn't tell anyone about her anyway - he'd have to admit to what she does to his self-control along with the deal.

Oh she likes him like this, all anticipation and that little shuddering breath that's almost a whimper as her lips hover over his heated skin. He gets so hard with barely a touch, and she makes him wait just a little longer, her hands kneading his thighs, until she can't stand it anymore and she has to taste his skin.

She has no shame when it comes to pleasing him, so the breath he feels feathering over the very base of his cock turns into one, long, slow, firm, wet lick right up the keel of him. Right up to the crown, which disappears over her lips with a hard suckling kiss.

Can she blame him? His body has learned her touch brings pleasure, and has come to crave it.

"Olya!" Her name comes at the end of a gasp, the heat of her mouth driving him closer to madness. "God, darlin'..." He doesn't even know what to ask for, in particular, other than 'for the love of all things sacred don't stop'.

She catches his hands and brings them to her head, letting him know it's okay to hold on, to tell her exactly what he wants: harder, softer, faster, slower, she's listening. She's also enjoying herself, moaning softly as she devours him, reminding herself not to reach down into his nervous system and twist him higher. She can do this the old fashioned way, and make it just as good.

Taking the invitation (and, once again, wondering just how he got to be such a lucky son-of-a-gun), he sets a steady pace - not driving, not desperate (not yet), but not at all lazy. He needs her like air in this moment, but he fully intends on enjoying the ride. And a damn fine ride it is - her moans bring a whole new wave of pleasure, and watching her...

Lucky, lucky son-of-a-gun.

Warm, strong, clever hands to give him something to thrust against, and she keeps him close, her mouth hot and tight around him. She closes her eyes and gives him all her attention, basking in the waves of his pleasure rolling down over her.

And such wonderful attention it is too - he is utterly caught up in what she's doing to him. Blissfully he rocks against her, the slick warmth pulling at his nerves.
"Olya! oh... love, oh please. Please, p...lease... oh, love...

Coherency is overrated.

He pleads and she looks up at him, gently slowing to a stop. She presses a kiss into the hollow of his hip, and stands, her hands moving to take off her coat, letting it fall to the floor.

"Have your attention now, do I?"

Her wicked smirk tells him she knows precisely what she's doing to him.

"All of it." He assures her huskily, smoothing his hands over her shoulders, pulling her closer. His eyes are nearly black with his desire. But it behooves him, now, to make sure she knows how much he means it. His hands slip down to the hem of her shirt and underneath it, sliding over her skin possessively.

She lets him strip her tunic off, toeing her boots off with ease. Her hands settle around his neck, and she nips at his jaw, nuzzling beneath, kissing every inch of his skin she can reach.

"Think they'll let us alone long enough?"

"With luck, darlin'." He can't promise anything here - some days, weeks go by without any surprises at all... but there are days and weeks it seems he doesn't get five minutes to himself.

This does not, in any way, mean he wants to stop. Nimble fingers undo the catch on her bra, pulling it loose and letting it fall disregarded on the floor.
"I think you can rise to the challenge."

She grins, purring against the hollow of his throat.

"Think you can, beloved?"

She guides his hands to her hips and the last of her clothing, recapturing his mouth with a gentle, hungry kiss, her hands skimming up his arms.

"I promise not to break you this time."

"Something to look forward to next time."

He obeys her orders with alacrity, helping her out of those trousers so he can better appreciate her ass. There is, of course, only one problem.

He, unlike she, cannot easily toe off his boots. Don't believe he isn't jealous.

She laughs at him under her breath, guiding him over to the bed and sitting beside him, hands roaming everywhere, kissing and biting at his shoulder as he bends to remove them.

"You have no quilts on your bed. How do you sleep here?"

For a woman who has no trouble sleeping in a refrigerator box, she can be particular about some of the strangest things.

He looks up, midway through undoing the second boot.

"No quilts?" He asks, confused. "I don't remember this coming up before." Thiiiis would be because his apartment in San Francisco had quilts. The Bar made a very very good replica.

"You have quilts, at the other place. They're wonderful and warm. This? What is this?"

She pauses in her sensual assault on him and plucks at the shimmery bit of fabric that is the blanket on his bed.

"It's a blanket." It's designed to keep anyone caught asleep when the environmental controls fail warm long enough for rescue to come, or someone to fix said controls. It is not stylish, tragically.
"It does the job."

She pulls him closer, giving a mock shiver as her legs tangle with his.

"Well, I'm lucky I have you here to keep me warm then, hmm?"

"Very lucky. And so am I." He agrees, managing to get that boot free, and twists to pin her back against that blanket she dislikes so much. He'll have to see if he can change her mind through experience. Determined, he laves attention along the line of her jaw, dropping fierce kisses down her neck.

She ripples beneath him, his reward a soft exhalation of breath that morphs into a quiet moan.

Her hands encircle his neck, and she arches beneath him. There's too much air between them, and maybe those goosebumps rising under his tongue are from the chill.

Then again, maybe not.