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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Perhaps, but why risk it? Considerate, he lowers down to her, sharing body warmth, pressing her against the bulk of the bed.
"Tell me what you want, Olya." He murmurs against her skin as he dips lower, drawing patterns over her breasts with lips and tongue.

Again, she exhales, the touch of his mouth drawing soft sounds from her that he's only heard perhaps a few times, in the dead of night, when his hands are moving on her skin.

"More," she breathes, her fingers combing through his dark hair, her body trembling as he catalogues her weak spots with his mouth.

She asks, and he gives, shifting so he can slide one hand down her ribs, down the smooth plane of her stomach, over her belly, to tangle in her soft curls, teasing and stroking, dipping into her slick heat.

She keeps one hand on the back of that straying hand, lightly, shivering as he begins to explore.

He dips deeper and she swears softly in Russian, her head pressing back into the pillows, her other hand keeping his mouth close to her skin.

Here he can hear the Russian, without the Bar's ever-present translating field to change it into words he knows, and he finds he likes it very much indeed. The foreign invective makes him smile against her skin, and he continues to exploit every sensitive spot he knows of, mercilessly teasing and ravaging where he has been given leave to play.

Sure, they might be a bit short on time, but there is no reason to not be creative.

Her hand fists in his hair, and she gasps, dragging his mouth back to hers for a searing kiss, her hips grinding against his hand now. But only for a few more moments. She twists his hand away and shifts, rolling him under her. She straddles him, her mouth finding the side of his neck in a heart beat, growling out her desire against his jugular.

The pulse under her lips is fast and bounding, firm demanding hands pulling her down firmly against his erection, grinding up against her in an answer to her growl.

She grins against his skin, her hips angling to catch him, one hand reaching between to guide him home. Her breath hisses over her teeth as he fills her, and she begins to move, taking him inch by inch until he's buried to the hilt.

Quick and hard, she rides, taking her pleasure from him, giving it back as best she can.

Now it is his turn to arch back, moaning helplessly at the heat, the velvet tightness of her. His hands trail up her thighs, feeling the muscles shifting under her skin - he knows their names, but it's hers he's focused on. Then further up, over ass and back and ribs to settle, to fondle, over the perfect handfuls of her breasts.

Her teeth graze along his collarbone, and her hands rest on his chest, eventually slipping down to the bed so she can lift her torso to his touch. Her eyes fall closed and she undulates against him, long rolling strokes that take the full length of him, and she shows no mercy, using the strength of her thighs to anchor her. She slows her pace, wanting to watch his face as they move, grinning down at him.

His expression is a study of surrender and joy - he would not take any mercy if she offered it, wanting all she can inflict on him and loving every breath-stealing moment. At this moment she is gorgeous, her wild beauty framed by these now unfamiliar, familiar surroundings. He smiles back at her, rubbing rough circles into her sweat-slicked skin.