<![CDATA[
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "Beyond Words" 1/3 NC-17
Date: Wed, 17 Jan 96 11:23:50 -0500
"Beyond Words" (1/3) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
In the words of one of our most gifted writers of XF erotica,
Kelli Rocherolle--This is mind candy. Pure (well . . . maybe not
*that* pure) and simple. :) When I posted "Words On The Wire"
awhile back, I got e-mail saying, "Okay, the phone call was fine--
but I can't believe you didn't write about the dinner date!" Far
be it from me to upset a Phile. So, here you go! This is a
continuation of the "Word" series. It's slightly out of order as
this takes place before the events in "The Gift Of Words," my
Xmas XFstory. In this series, Mulder & Scully are a couple,
albeit early in their relationship. I would categorize this as erotica
and rate it NC-17, as it is chock full of innuendo and sprinkled
with graphic descriptions of various and sundry sexual acts. No
Season 3 spoilers. No casefile. Just Mulder & Scully in love/
lust. If that is unpalatable to you, bail now. You've been
warned. <bg> The earlier stories in this series are available
on the Gossamer archive. You may want to read them to fully
understand how everything fits together. If you're interested,
please e-mail me for titles at krasch@delphi.com. I would also
love to hear comments, constructive and otherwise.
Please drop me a line. And finally--No, of course, these
characters aren't mine! Don't you read the credits? <g>
They belong to the crew at 1013. I'm merely borrowing them
for a time. I promise I'll return them in good shape. Thanks
this time to the Scully Power Rangers. You know who you are. :)
And to Charlotte, who talked about getting it right.
* * * * * * * *
He should have known the moment he had seen her
smile that something was up.
Not that Dana Scully didn't often smile. On the
contrary, the woman was capable of heart-stopping smiles; the
kind that lit up a room; the sort that, when she unleashed one
on him, always made him feel a bit light-headed, as if something
had suddenly thinned all the oxygen available to him, making
it difficult to breathe.
But this wasn't one of those smiles.
Instead, this was what Mulder always thought of as
Scully's "dangerous" smile. The actual curving of her lips was
slight; just the corners raised. It was the rest of her body
language that gave the look its unsettling impact. She would
duck her head, sometimes turning it slightly, a fall of auburn
hair sliding forward to caress her cheek, and look up at him
through her lashes; her blue eyes intelligent, alive with humor
and just a suggestion of challenge. That gaze, when coupled
with the soft promise of her lips never failed to reduce him to
the relative sophistication of a twelve year old. It was a
distinctly sensual smile that communicated, "I know something
you don't, Mulder. And I'm only going to share it with you
when I'm good and ready." A smile that for him brought to
mind warm silky curves, the whisper of skin gliding over crisp
cotton sheets, the scent of bodies yearning against each other.
It made him uneasy.
It made him hot.
It made him very glad that this particular woman had
chosen to aim it at him.
And so she had, just before she had climbed into his
car outside Washington D.C.'s Criminal Courthouse.
"Hi."
"Hi yourself. How'd it go?"
"Well, I thought," she said with a smile, this one safer,
less loaded with undercurrents. "Of course, the trial will probably
drag into next week, so we won't know the verdict for awhile. But,
all things considered, I think I helped rather than hindered the
prosecution's case."
He nodded, then pulled away into traffic. Once they had
successfully merged, he ventured a glance over at her. She was
buckling herself in, her eyes averted from his. She certainly
looked the part of the "expert witness," he thought with approval.
The weather was mild for early December, and she had left her
trench coat uncinched. She wore a dark gray suit; slim skirt, waist
length blazer, and a deep red, almost wine colored blouse beneath
it. Judging by its sheen, he thought it might be silk. Black hose
and those damn three inch heels that he could never figure out
how the hell she navigated in completed the package. The jury
would have seen an agent who radiated poise, confidence,
polish, and professionalism.
But all he saw was the woman who had forty-eight hours
earlier sat astride him, naked to the waist. The one who had
looked deep into his eyes and urged him to "take her."
That image setting up residence in his mind's eye,
Mulder punched the gas, and began maneuvering his Bureau
motor pool sedan more aggressively through traffic. Noting
her partner's apparent haste with a combination of puzzlement
and wry good humor, Scully steadied herself with her hand
against the dashboard.
"Mulder, where are we going?"
"I'm not sure. I'll let you know when we get there."
One slim auburn brow arching, she said nothing more,
choosing instead to simply hang on.
And so they drove, silent, not even the radio on for
company, weaving in and out of downtown D.C.'s rush hour
traffic. As Scully had suspected, she hadn't been called to
the stand until mid-afternoon. By the time the defense was
through with her, the workday was nearly done. Consequently,
Mulder hadn't picked her up until after five. By that time,
evening had fallen over the capital. Velvety. Still, despite the
competing rush of autos and pedestrians. Blue-black in color.
Streetlights and headlights vying to outshine each other in
their efforts to illuminate the way home.
Suddenly, without warning, Mulder turned the car
sharply into a long narrow alley dividing an apartment building
from a neighborhood drugstore. Driving to nearly smack dab
in the middle of the concrete passageway, he cut the engine.
And turned to direct his gaze to the woman beside him.
"What's this, Mulder--an impromptu stakeout?" Scully
asked mildly.
Mulder said nothing, instead he merely looked at her,
the car's shadowed interior hiding his eyes from her view.
Then, slowly he shook his head.
After a beat, she dipped hers in acknowledgment.
"Okay . . . " she drawled, eyebrows raised, a beam of
light from a nearby street lamp angling through the car window
to land on her hair, igniting its color. "Are we just going to sit
here all night, or do you plan on telling me what this is all about?"
"Sorry, Scully," he murmured as, with one motion, he
loosed himself from his seatbelt and leaned towards her, his
hand coming up to wrap itself possessively around her nape.
"But words escape me at this moment."
Before Scully could also free herself from the safety
restraints holding her so securely in her seat, Mulder's mouth
descended upon hers. She gasped. There was no greeting in
the kiss. No introduction. Instead, it was as if he were rejoining
a seduction that was already well underway. And in truth,
perhaps he was. Their lips ground urgently against each other;
the pressure bruising, needy. Without preamble, his tongue
slipped easily into her mouth, searching for hers. She met him
without hesitation, and stroked along him beseechingly. He
growled low in his throat, and answered her silent demand,
grasping her tightly around the waist with his other hand, his
mouth intent on sucking every last drop of sweetness from her
lips. For several long, drugging minutes, neither spoke. The
rustle of fabric; the wet slide of their lips as they clung and
released, then clung once more; and the muted rush of their
mingled, ragged breath the only sounds echoing within the
car's cabin.
"I have been wanting to do this all day," Mulder
muttered heatedly against her mouth when he finally mustered
the restraint to pull away from her criminally inviting lips.
"What took you so long?" she whispered, breathless,
her eyes dreamy.
He chuckled. She liked when he laughed, and just had
to kiss him once more as a token of her approval. "Just trying
to hold up my end of the bargain, Scully. We both decided we
had to keep this secret to make it work. The best way to
accomplish that is =not= to ravish you in a no-parking zone."
Her lips quirked as she teased. "I don't know, Mulder--
this has got to be the longest, narrowest parking lot =I've= ever
seen."
Mulder nipped her ear in retaliation. She squeaked in
surprise. He made it up to her by running his tongue over the
curve. She sighed with pleasure. "=Secluded= no parking zones
are a completely different matter. And the best I could do on
short notice."
"I'm not complaining," she assured him, her hands
running slowly up and down the arms that encircled her, her
motion hindered by the strap criss-crossing her body.
"Although I have to admit, I wouldn't mind losing the seat
belt." With a wry twist of her lips, she looked down at the
offending apparatus, then made to unfasten it. Mulder halted
her attempt.
"Not so fast," he murmured near her ear before trailing
his mouth along her hairline leaving kisses in its wake, his
words sprinkled amongst them like raindrops. "I think I like
you where you are, Scully. This way, you're at my mercy."
She shifted sinuously in her seat as his hand drifted
down from her waist to her hip. "I'm perpetually at your mercy,
Mulder. Haven't you noticed that already?"
"Are we speaking personally or professionally now?"
His hand descended further still to land solidly on her knee.
The sleek feel of nylon encased leg tantalized his fingertips,
and he let them glide lingeringly as he recalled with sudden
stunning clarity the way this woman's slim legs had cradled
him when their bodies had come together for the first time.
"Either," she answered in a low husky voice, having
trouble remembering the question, her legs sliding apart just a
bit, tacitly giving him permission. "Both, when you touch me
like that."
"Like what?" Mulder asked innocently, his eyes
smokey from the fire kindling within him, his hand daring to
slip beneath her skirt. "Like this?"
Scully closed her teeth over her lower lip, her eyes
fluttering in reaction to the soft tingle of her partner's fingertips
drawing lazy little free form patterns on the inside of her leg, just
above the knee. "Oh yeah . . . exactly like that."
God, he couldn't remember the last time he had done
more than offer a date a good-bye kiss in the front seat of a car.
But right now, if they both didn't watch it, this was going to end
up like a stereotypical date at the drive-in. And he was entirely
too old to do battle with a steering wheel for leg room. Still, it
was awfully hard to call it quits when Scully sat there watching
him with such wide, slumberous eyes; her lips parted, moist,
swollen from their kisses; her hand gently combing through the
hair at his temple. Just another minute, and we'll get out of here,
he silently promised. We better. Before someone decides to
take out their garbage.
Deciding to make the most out of the little time afforded
them in their current location, he again brought his lips to hers,
and moved the hand still busy beneath her skirt a bit higher.
Where he encountered skin.
"What the--" he murmured, pulling his mouth away
from hers. He shifted his fingertips more towards the center of
her leg. This can't be what I think this is, he mused. But, no.
It was. A thin lacy piece of cloth covered elastic. His hand
roamed further over still, towards the outside edge of her thigh.
Another ribbon of fabric and lace.
Garters.
He looked up at Scully, questions poised on his lips.
Only to see that she was wearing that damn smile again.
Well, now it looked as if they were never going to
leave this alley, he thought ruefully, as he doubted his lower
body would be willing to cooperate with any reasonable
demands for a very, very long time.
"Do you purposefully set out to drive me out of my
mind?" he muttered dryly, his breath suddenly racing beyond
his control, his hand braced against the back of her seat. "Or
is this just some sort of gift with you."
"You were the one who put in lingerie requests, Mulder,"
she purred, fingering his tie, her smile now positively lethal. "I
thought you'd be pleased. . . . They're black."
I'm going to ruin this whole thing if I laugh, she thought,
her eyes twinkling with mischief. But it was hard not to when
Mulder, who already looked as if every nerve ending he
possessed was throbbing, gulped with enough force to swallow
a head of lettuce whole.
"Do you want to see?" she asked with mock innocence,
her hand dropping to the hem of her skirt.
Mulder swiftly withdrew his hand from beneath her
clothing and landed it with a light slap on hers. She stilled her
hand and waited. Ridiculously proud that his wasn't shaking from
the anticipation he felt coursing through his veins like some sort
of designer drug, Mulder grasped the thin wool weave and inched
slowly it up her leg. Up and up it slid, revealing more black
sheathed thigh, and still more again. Until finally, the stocking
came to an end. A band of lace marked the finish of midnight
tinted nylon and the start of pale soft skin. Bridging those two
extremes were two tiny strips of inky fabric, each trimmed with lace
and a petal pink rose. Wondering if perhaps he might
instantaneously burst into flame what with the way his blood was
pounding at his temples, the air around him positively refused to
enter his lungs through either his mouth or nose, and his throat
suddenly felt as if a truckload of silt had been poured down it, he
brushed his forefinger over the little floral adornment, and grasped
wildly for control.
"I was given these when I stood up in my cousin's
wedding a couple of years ago," Scully explained lightly, trying
hard to sit still even though the heat of Mulder's hand felt as
if it was close to burning her naked thigh. "She gave them to all
her bridesmaids as a sort of gag gift--you know, the bride and
her garter . . . . Anyway, she said that just because she was no
longer a 'single on the prowl' there was no reason why we
shouldn't carry on. I guess she thought these might help."
Good lord in heaven, her slim pale thigh absolutely
gleamed in the harsh white light leaking into the car from the
streetlamp above. And those stockings . . . all he could think
of were the drawings of artists like Toulouse-Lautrec or those
naughty Victorian postcards that nowadays were collected in
books and passed off as a sort of high brow pornography.
Both featured women wearing dark colored hose against milky
white skin. Not exactly the sort of image normally promoted
by a culture where millions applied that nasty instant tan goop
year 'round. Still, it suited Scully.
And that suited him.
"So these are what--?" he queried softly, amusement
coloring his question, his fingertip having slipped beneath the
object of his current obsession so it was sandwiched between
garter and skin, comparing the texture of both as it trailed lightly
between them. "Weapons in the War Between The Sexes?"
Scully shrugged, her eyes shining with a heady mix of
humor and arousal. "That may have been the way my cousin
saw it. I've always been a pacifist myself."
"Make love not war," he murmured, bending his head
towards hers as prologue to that very act.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, and urged him to her,
her tongue slipping out to playfully flick at his lips. "Have I ever
told you how much I love the way your mind works?"
He smiled, a whisper from her mouth. Just before he
crossed that scant distance, his lips moved once more. She
thought she felt the word "liar" vibrate against her mouth. A
second later, all speculation ceased being relevant.
But they had only enjoyed the reunion of their lips a
few breathless moments when a flood of bright white light
poured through the car's rear window. It appeared their
interlude in the alley was at an end.
Mulder sighed, and ran a hand distractedly through his
hair. The shock of the other car's headlights intruding upon their
little sanctuary had jolted his body enough that he thought he
might actually be able to get them home without plunging the
automobile into the Potomac by mistake. Now, the question
remained--whose home should it be?
He turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared
to life. "At the risk of sounding like I should be wearing a
leisure suit and discussing astrological signs--your place or
mine?"
Scully just sat there, her skirt smoothed back down to
its proper demure position on her knee, every auburn hair in
place, slowly shaking her head.
And smiling that smile.
The car behind them flashed its brights.
Mulder blinked at her. "What--?"
"You promised me food, Mulder."
"Huh?"
"You said, 'How about if I pick you up from the
courthouse, and we get something to eat.'"
"Well, yeah . . . but--" Mulder couldn't help himself.
He was reduced to sputtering.
"So feed me, Mulder."
He stared at her blankly for a moment. Then, the
realization dawned. She had every intention of making him wait.
A pained smile surfaced on his lips. "Is this some sort
of punishment ?" he asked dryly, his eyes narrowing as he took
in the amusement aglow in hers. "I mean--I haven't forgotten
your birthday or something, have I?"
The driver of the car in back of them was at the end of
his patience, and laid on the horn.
Scully looked over her shoulder, then grinned at her
companion. "The only one who may be doling out punishment
is that guy, if we don't get out of his way."
Mulder grimaced at the absurdity of the situation, and
threw the car into drive. They hadn't inched more than a few
feet forward when Scully reached over and placed her hand
lightly on his thigh. Thankfully, the car in back of them hadn't
been tailgating, as Mulder slammed on the brakes in reaction.
"I'm not doing this to hurt you, you know," she
whispered in that low intimate tone of voice she had that was
always guaranteed to melt the veneer of cool he so desperately
clung to in her presence. "I'm just having a little fun."
"You're teasing me, Scully," he growled, the humor he
couldn't quite rid from his eyes telling her he was actually
handling her surprise better than he was letting on.
"I'm teasing both of us," she whispered, her blue eyes
huge and warm.
He took her hand from his leg and kissed the back of it.
The driver behind them began serenading them with his horn
once more. Mulder lifted his foot from the brake and took out his
frustrations on the gas pedal. The car proved to have good pick
up, and zipped obediently along the alley's narrow lane towards
the street beyond.
"I don't suppose you'd consider the drive-up window--?"
"Just drive, Mulder. Just drive."
* * * * * * * *
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "Beyond Words" 2/3 NC-17
Date: Wed, 17 Jan 96 11:24:43 -0500
For disclaimers and other trivia, please see Part I. For now, the
wait continues . . . .
Beyond Words (2/3) NC-17
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
"You know you really have no one to blame for this
but yourself."
"And you call some of =my= theories farfetched?"
They were eating Thai. Mulder had left the choice up
to Scully and she had directed them to a little storefront Thai
restaurant that he had actually introduced her to months before.
With it being early on a Monday evening, they had the place
nearly to themselves, and were sequestered in a cheery red
upholstered booth against the establishment's back brick wall.
"It's true," she insisted, punctuating her statement with
her fork as she spoke. "I wasn't even planning on telling you
about the garters until over dinner. It's your own fault you
found out about them early."
Mulder's face took on that sulky schoolboy quality that,
to Scully's continued dismay, consistently had the ability to
disarm her. "I don't care what you say, Scully. I still contend
I had some help. Or, at the very least, encouragement." He
leaned over the table towards her, his voice lowering in tone
and volume. "I mean, correct me if I'm wrong--but as I recall,
you *were* kissing me back."
She arched a brow. "You noticed that, did you?"
The corner of his mouth turned up. "Yeah . . . well,
not much gets past me."
She smiled.
This was fun. As banal as she knew that statement
might sound to some, it blazed in neon letters across a marquee
in her mind.
She was having fun.
God, it had been so long since she had actually
permitted herself to relax, to enjoy herself. To not worry about
work, or her family. To just allow herself to be a normal woman.
To flirt with a handsome man who told her with every glance,
every subtle gesture, that he found her equally attractive.
Hell, with the year she had been having, it was a
miracle that she was even still able to =identify= fun.
But, thankfully, that skill hadn't completely deserted
her.
The happiness bubbling up inside her like an
artesian spring was unmistakable as well. How long has it
been, Dana, since you cruised through a day feeling this good,
this unburdened, she asked herself as she watched Mulder
push around his food on his plate like a little kid who knows
he has to eat his vegetables before he gets dessert. When
was the last time you did something as silly as wearing
provocative lingerie beneath a tailored suit to excite a man?
And as reckless as denying that same man the very thing you
had hoped to make him crave.
She thoughtfully chewed a forkful of tung tag as she
considered with a touch of astonishment her recent behavior.
No, this wasn't like her. Not her usual self; the everyday Dana
Katherine Scully. And yet, the possibility--albeit, *extreme*
possibility--of such actions remained a constant within her.
True, the bedrock of her personality was her calm, rational take
on the world. Her belief that truth in all its myriad shapes and
sizes was knowable and ultimately understandable. Her
methodical way of approaching any situation, any problem as
if it were simply a knot to be untied.
But, somewhere, in the far reaches of her soul dwelt
another aspect of herself. This one was tiny, composing only
the most minute portion of who she was. And yet, every once
in awhile this little something would peek around a corner, and
beckon to her, its very essence glowing with such intensity as
to eclipse her other more logical self. This was the part of her
personality that had driven her to join the Bureau right out of
medical school, despite the reservations of her family and
friends. The part that had urged her to laugh with Mulder in
a rainstorm when they were knee deep in mud, and it looked
as if the first nemesis they were facing as a team came from
outer space. The part that had prompted her when on a case
in Florida to act as if she had just popped a live cricket into
her mouth, the only reason for doing so being her desire to
see the look on her partner's face. Had she been asked, she
wouldn't be able to identify it, this strange yet often
compelling impulse. It wasn't bravery, although that was
certainly a component of it. No. Instead, it was more the
need to test boundaries. Both within herself and the world
around her. To experience that rush, that surge of satisfaction
that came from knowing that she had just redefined herself, if
only for an instant.
Her eyes strayed again to the man sitting across from
her. She found him watching her intently, as he had throughout
the meal, his hazel eyes telling her he was hungrier for her than
he had ever been for the food laid out before him. How do you
see me, Mulder, she wondered without words. When people ask
you what your partner is like, what do you tell them?
As if Fox Mulder would ever be so forthcoming as to
express his true views on the subject to an outside party. She
lifted her eyebrows at the thought, and returned her gaze to her
plate. That's not fair, Dana, she silently chided a moment later.
After all, how do you answer when people ask about Mulder?
He's an excellent investigator.
He has a gift for putting things together.
We make a good team.
All true. All utterly absurd.
As if such safe, simple sentences could ever truly give
the listener an accurate picture of who this man was.
"Are you going to eat that?" Mulder asked, interrupting
her reverie with a tiny quirk of his lips, a dip of his head referring
to her half-filled plate, the contents of which she was now toying
with.
"You haven't even finished your own," she countered
with an answering smile and a slight blush at getting caught
daydreaming.
"I don't want your food, Scully. I was only hoping
you'd say no, so I'd have a reason to ask for the check."
She chuckled, and shook her head. His humor. She
liked it. No. She more than liked it. She found it a turn-on.
Especially now that she realized just how often it was used to
deflect those around him from bigger issues. How frequently
her partner slipped into the role of the wry court jester in order
to camouflage the deeper, more telling emotions swirling
around inside him.
But that ploy didn't work with her. Not anymore.
She was wise to him.
All she had to do was look in his eyes.
She did so then, meeting his gaze. Unflinching. He
had beautiful eyes. Even for so handsome a man, they easily
stood out as his best feature. She doubted it was just their
changing color which attracted her, although she had to admit
that the deep bottle green orbs presently staring back at her
were as arresting a hue as she had ever seen. But rather, she
suspected that what truly drew her to them was something
beyond mere physicality. Certainly it was child's play to name
the flashes of emotion that would register in them during the
course of a normal work day: amusement at some goofy piece
of e-mail the Lone Gunmen had sent his way, impatience at yet
another round of bureaucratic red tape, warmth when they
would wander in her direction, horror when forced to take in a
scene of criminal brutality. But these reactions to outside
stimuli were temporal, and would pass like clouds before the
sun. What had taken her longer to learn, to identify, was the
constant that shone from them. The essence of this man before
her.
She didn't delude herself. Even though she loved him,
she recognized he wasn't a saint. He had his moments of
blindness, obstinacy, selfishness, and yes, even cruelty. But
she knew, could see in those eyes, that even those instances
of less than exemplary behavior came from a gut level need to
make things right--to bring Samantha home, to combat the lies,
to protect those who were unable to do so themselves, to look
after her. To try to do better. To *be* better. He might believe
he was operating on guilt. Was doing what he did because he
had let Samantha down. Had let her down. But Scully didn't
think so. Not at all. Although she understood that he had
suffered because of his perceived inadequacies, she felt
certain that even if his life had followed a smoother path, one
less riddled with heartache and loss, Mulder would still be
searching. Still be attempting to fix things. Himself. His
loved ones. The world around him. The means would
undoubtedly be different, but the goal would remain the same.
The man possessed a sense of purpose, a nobility that went
unheralded, unseen by most. But not by her. She embraced it
as she did the man. Knowing each was intrinsically wrapped
up in the other.
"You're awfully quiet, Scully," Mulder ventured finally
with a gentle smile. "Thinking up new and exciting ways to
torment me?"
She shook her head, wondering at the tears she felt
gathering in back of her eyes and willing them to remain there,
hidden from view.
"Why?" she asked softly, deliberately crossing her
legs beneath the table to disguise the emotions still percolating
near the surface of her calm facade, the resulting sound,
insinuating and low within the hushed restaurant. "Isn't the
old way working anymore?"
Desire flared in Mulder's gaze. "As if I even need to
answer that question."
"What's the matter, Mulder?" she sweetly taunted,
now feeling more in possession of herself, of the emotions that
still had the tendency to turn dangerously tender where he was
concerned. "Do you find this . . ." She slowly drew one calf
along the other. "Distracting?"
The slithery, slinky sound of nylon against nylon
again reverberated within their secluded booth. The man
across from her looked as if at any moment he might need to
grab hold of the tablecloth with both fists for control.
"I guess you could say that," he gritted out, his
elbows resting on the table, his eyes deepening in color by
the second.
"Good. Because they've been distracting the hell out
of me all day."
His eyebrow quirked. "You wore those all day?"
"Mm-hmm," she said while sipping her wine, her eyes
twinkling with amusement as she remembered. "All day. It was
all I could do to focus on the defense attorney's questions."
"Oooh . . . I wonder how ol' Alan would feel about that
if he only knew."
Scully narrowed her eyes at him in mock annoyance.
Mulder held up his hands in a defensive posture that silently
pled--sorry, couldn't help myself.
"What Alan doesn't know won't hurt him," she
assured her partner with a half-smile, leaning forward now as
well so that they nearly met at the table's center. "Besides, I
wore these for you, Mulder. Only you."
The air crackled with that now familiar electricity.
"That right?"
"That's right."
"Then I suppose that means that I get to decide
whether to have you leave them on . . . or take them off. Later."
Scully nearly choked on the mouthful of wine she was
swallowing. That damn man could turn tables faster than a
busboy on speed.
Mulder saw her discomfiture, and pressed his
advantage, his smile wicked, his tone conversational, as if he
were discussing which color suit to buy. "Either way has its
advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, it's nice
not to have anything getting in the way of . . . us. My
touching you. You . . . , well I think you get the picture.
And, of course, even though I promise I'd be . . . gentle, we'd
still run the risk of ripping them in the heat of the moment."
She scrambled to regain her equilibrium. "You
anticipate heat, Mulder?"
The corner of his mouth raised at her riposte. "I
always anticipate heat where you're concerned, Scully."
She felt a rush of it rising from her chest to stain her
face.
"On the other hand," he continued, his voice low,
comprised of equal parts promise and need. "There is
something to be said for leaving them on. I told you how I
feel about your skin . . . and what it looks like next to black.
You glow, Scully. And the way you look at me when you want
me . . . "
"How do I look at you?" she asked, her mouth suddenly
so dry that she wished she hadn't drained what had remained of
her wine only moments before.
"Like this," he said softly, daring her to deny it. "Like
now."
He said nothing more. Instead, his eyes fell away from
hers and landed on her hand, which rested on the table, near his
own. She followed the direction of his gaze as if mesmerized.
For a brief instant, she thought he might actually do something
as sentimental as link hands with her in public. But she should
have known better. That wasn't Mulder's style. Instead, he
took his thumb and ran it with a light touch, an excruciatingly
light touch, over the tender skin on the underside of her wrist,
tracing the tiny network of blue veins that lay just below the skin.
Slowly continuing the caress, he raised his eyes once
more.
"You know what I learned about you tonight, Scully?"
"What?"
"You like being teased."
She felt something plunge from her heart to the
juncture of her legs.
"How do you figure that?"
He smiled ever so slightly. "I'm a psychologist,
remember? A trained professional."
She smiled back at him now, despite the restlessness
that fueled the blood in her veins, making it sing. "Are you
analyzing me, Doctor?"
"No, Doctor. Just observing."
"And what do you see?"
"People usually choose to seduce their partners with
that which seduces them," he told her lightly, self-directed
amusement shining in his eyes over his carefully worded
explanation.
"So are you suggesting that I get turned on by my
own lingerie?" she inquired dryly, an eyebrow arched in
signature fashion.
"I don't know. Do you?"
She moistened her lips as she considered the question.
Her inherent honesty reluctantly recognizing a kernel of truth in
his theory.
"But more to the point," he resumed, his thumb now
gliding with almost phantom pressure over her palm, her
fingertips, his eyes watching his hand's activity. "I came to the
conclusion that--whether you know it or not--you set up this
evening, this whole . . . tease . . . as much for you as for me.
Not that I have a problem with that, mind you. I recognize the
. . . advantages . . . of anticipation. And besides, I've always
wanted to know just what exactly aroused you."
"What if I did?" she said in a husky voice, her blue
eyes simmering, challenging the man who knew her too well
to come clean himself. "Any complaints?"
"None," he told her succinctly, his hand closing over
her wrist, his eyes meeting hers. "Only thanks."
"Thank me later," Scully instructed him, her lips flirting
as much with a smile as with him. "When you're sure I deserve
it."
They both looked at each other, a parity having been
achieved.
"Are you almost finished?" Mulder asked quietly, his
gaze nearly blinding her with its intensity.
She nodded, the faintest suggestion of a smile lingering
still.
"You realize that if you order dessert, I won't be held
accountable for my actions."
That coaxed a true smile out of her. "Good thing I've
never been that crazy about fortune cookies."
Mulder raised his brow in a fair imitation of hers. "You
won't need one." He signaled their waiter for the check. "If you
have any questions about what you'll be doing in the near
future, just talk to me. I've had a vision."
* * * * * * * *
They spoke only six words between the restaurant and
her apartment.
They paid the bill and walked out to the car, the crisp
evening air doing nothing to cool what sizzled between them.
Mulder went around to her side of the automobile first, and
unlocked her door. Scully started to slip past him, to reach out
for the door handle and open it as she had hundreds, maybe
thousands of times before, only to find herself snagged by her
partner's strong right arm. He wrapped it around her waist with
almost crushing force, pulling her body flush against his, and
bent his head, his lips covering hers for a quick, hard, hot kiss.
"Who's closer?" he muttered against her mouth.
"I am," she whispered, knowing instinctively that his
question referred to which apartment they were nearest.
"Let's go."
Her legs suddenly feeling as if someone had surgically
removed their bones, she climbed inside the car and, unable in
her current state to deal with the intricacies of the seatbelt,
instead watched Mulder start up the sedan as if she had never
seen him do so before. Her eyes lingered on the strong line of
his jaw; the mole that decorated the curve of his cheek; his lower
lip, which glistened in the light lent the car's cabin by the
street lamp a few doors down. He noted her regard, felt the
power of it, the almost tangible pull of her sapphire eyes, and
turned to look at her, his gaze melting her will, her sense of self.
She knew with an almost painful sort of awareness, that if he
chose to take her, right there, in that car, on a city street, during
the family viewing hour, she would let him. Hell, she would
welcome it.
But, he didn't try. Didn't ask. Instead, he simply took
a deep breath, and wrapping the tattered remnants of his self-
control round him like a cape, pulled the car away from the curb
and into the night.
Don't look at me that way, Mulder silently urged the
woman beside him; the one splitting her attention between the
road before them and his profile, studying both with apparent
fascination. Don't sit there, Scully, with that hungry look in your
eye. The one I dreamed of for so long; the one I longed for like a
drowning man does land. Don't do that and expect me to be able
to think, to breathe, to drive. Don't expect me to function.
Not when every molecule I can call my own is urging me
to bury myself inside you. To lose myself in the sleek soft heat
of your body. To hold you in my arms, your cheek to my chest,
to secret us both away for a decade or two. Just until I gain the
upper hand over this need I have for you, this greedy desire that
frightens me as much as it turns me on. Turns me inside-out
He tried to slow his breathing. To clear his head. Good
thing he had to hold on to the steering wheel, had to keep his
hands braced against something. Otherwise the trembling he
could feel trickling through his body like a crumbling wall of
sand would expose him. Would announce just how close to the
edge he really was.
Oh, he felt pretty good about how he had handled himself
in the restaurant. He had even gotten a little of his own back.
Not that this was a competition between Scully and him. Not at
all. It was just that she had this uncanny knack for throwing him
on his ear. If it wasn't her fearless devotion to him and his work
that unnerved him, it was the lush sensuality she continued to
slowly reveal to him like Salome dropping her veils. He had
believed he had fallen in love with a woman who, while she was
without question lovely, was more a creature of intellect than of
the physical. He had found her sexually alluring, sure. But, he
had thought of that as his discovery, his little secret.
After all, Dana Katherine Scully was a nice Catholic girl
from a military family. She had two brothers and a career Navy
captain of a father to guard her virtue. Surely, that sort of
upbringing should have resulted in a woman possessing a sort
of innocence, a natural reticence towards the physical expression
of love.
But, that didn't seem to be the case. Well, not entirely.
True, no matter how carnal the embrace they shared, she always
retained a kind of purity. An innocence that had nothing at all to
do with inexperience, and everything to do with goodness. But,
that virtue that was so much a part of her in no way impeded her
sexuality. No. She came to him so freely, so beautifully that just
to think about it made his throat close and his eyes moisten. She
gave herself to him the same way she gave her trust, her friendship,
her support. Completely. Without reservation.
And then tonight . . .
After spending an entire day staring at her empty desk
from across their cluttered office, willing her to suddenly be there,
smiling at him, her red-gold hair lighting up the room; reliving in
vivid detail the stolen and far too limited time they had spent in
each other's arms, he had finally gotten what he had wished for.
What he had yearned for. She was there. With him. Her faint
perfume teasing his senses, the perfect sweep of her cheekbone
begging him to run his hand along it. Her lips tempting him
unmercifully to taste them once more, taunting him with the
memory of their sweetness.
And she had done it again.
She had given him what he had asked her for. That silly
playful little request he had made in a fit of whimsy the night before.
Black lingerie.
A garter belt and stockings.
Jesus, he hadn't even seen them. Well, not gotten a
good look anyway. And yet, just the knowledge they were there
had been enough to make him feel like he was suffering from a
bad case of vertigo. The world seemed just a little bit off-center,
a tad out of focus. Spinning with increasing speed, out of control.
And yet he hung on, striving mightily to maintain his
balance, to keep his grip.
Clinging by his fingernails.
But that wasn't going to be good enough. Not for her.
He had been serious when he had pointed out to her that her little
surprise had been designed as much for her own enjoyment as for
his. He believed that. Knew that while Scully had obviously been
acquiescing to his entreaty, she would never have done so had
the idea not appealed to her as well. That she would find such a
plan of action exciting came as no shock to him. Of course, this
woman would find the mental aspects of sex--the suggestion, the
tease, the anticipation--thrilling. Just as he did.
For all their differences, they always seemed to agree on
the important stuff.
Well, she had certainly succeeded in her effort to make
him think about their coming together. Their joining. She had
made him ache with it. Dwell on it to the point of madness. His
desire for her. And he intended to return the favor. He wasn't
quite sure how he would manage it, but he meant to make her as
out of her mind with longing as she made him. The question
would be: Which one of them would break first?
* * * * * * * *
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "Beyond Words" 3/3 NC-17
Date: Wed, 17 Jan 96 11:25:22 -0500
For all that technical stuff you've come to know and love,
please see Part I. This is where things heat up. So, hold on to
your garters . . . .
Beyond Word (3/3) NC-17
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
Scully fumbled in her purse for her key. Mulder stood at
her elbow like a taller version of her shadow. He had come around
to her side of the car before she had even emerged from the auto.
And with his arm draped protectively around her shoulder, had
tucked her against his side to shepherd her into her building.
While she had found his physical proximity comforting as always,
at the same time, his very urgency had made her aware, extremely
aware, that the time for play was at an end. They had danced this
particular dance until the band had packed up for the night and
called it quits.
And now it was time to go home with the guy who had
brought her.
She smiled a secret little smile at the thought, and
pushed open the door to her apartment Mulder followed only a
step behind, and swiftly shut the portal behind them, throwing
the deadbolt for good measure.
"Afraid we'll be interrupted?" she asked in what she
hoped passed for a wry tone, but feared instead came out more
like a croak.
He smiled dryly, his eyes nearly glowing in the muted
light filtering through her living room curtains. "Not willing to
take any chances."
She nodded, and started to cross to the table at the end
of the couch, intending to turn on a light to erase the shadows
that spilled on the room's walls and floor like pools of india ink.
"No."
Mulder was behind her again, his hand on her
uninjured shoulder, restraining her movement away from the
door and him.
"Leave it."
He was right. The room's darkness seemed to fit the
mood of the evening, the slightly dangerous air that had thus
far permeated their hours together. She nodded once more.
His hands swept lightly forward, closed around the
opening of her coat and eased it from her shoulders. Her suit
jacket followed. Both ended up tossed in a heap on the sofa,
as did his trench a moment later. Mulder then smoothed his
hands up and down the sleeves of her blouse, their heat
warming her through the delicate fabric, his breath stirring her
hair.
"Is this silk, Scully?" he asked at her temple only an
instant before pressing his lips there.
"Hmm," she hummed, hoping he realized the answer
was affirmative, but unable to be any clearer given her
distraction due to the way his tongue was tracing the whorls
of her ear.
"It's got nothing on your skin," he assured her in a
low voice, as he captured her lobe with his teeth, and nibbled
on it carefully.
She answered with a gasp and tilted back her head so
that it lay against his chest, silently encouraging him to continue
his seduction of her ear. He obliged her, his arm slipping around
her waist in reaction, holding her to him, almost as if he thought
she might need his support to continue standing. Not a second
later, when his other hand began to slowly, yet steadily pull her
blouse free from her skirt, she mused that with the way her knees
were trembling, she just might.
She felt him gently tip her head away from its resting
place, and tenderly brush the hair from her nape, much the way
he had during that awful case at the North Pole; the one where
she had betrayed his trust for the one and only time since they
had partnered, her lack of faith nearly costing him dearly.
Exposing the graceful arch of her neck to his curious lips, he
explored. Nuzzling her skin lightly, testing it with his teeth.
And delighting, when as a result, he felt a shiver overtake her.
"I want you crazy for me, Scully," he muttered into her
hair, his hands beneath her blouse now, their movement sure
and slow. "I want you beyond yourself. Beyond anything
you've ever felt before."
She stretched her arms upwards, her fingers searching
blindly for his face, his hair. Her body went taut. Her breasts
lifted, their weight suddenly more than before. Without fully
understanding the speed at which such a change could occur,
they felt fuller to her, swollen, and inexplicably tender. When
Mulder's hands gently closed over them, his palms covering her
softness, she couldn't stop the moan that flowed from her lips
like water overrunning a dam.
"I am," she whispered, her eyes falling shut, her breath
shallow and hurried, her back flush with his chest. "I am now."
His fingers lightly plucked at the nipples he found
tenting the satiny fabric of her bra, rolling them carefully
between his thumbs and forefingers when he felt the tiny
nubbins harden even more beneath his ministrations.
She arched her back, pushing her breasts into his hands,
her bottom against his groin.
He chuckled ruefully, rubbing his cheek against her hair.
"No. No, you're not. You're not even close."
He tucked his fingers into the lace trimmed cups of her
bra, pulling them down, releasing the soft mounds of her breasts
so that now only the gossamer light silk of her blouse concealed
them. They quivered gently, suspended there by the framework
of her lingerie. He wanted his mouth on them.
So did she.
But that pleasure was going to have to wait. As were
quite a few others, Mulder silently vowed, even as he wondered
if he was up to the task.
His hands retreated from beneath her clothing. One
finding the buttons running down the front of her blouse, and
slipping them free, one by one. The other taking hold of her
chin, and turning her face up and back, bringing her lips into
view, so that he could reach them with his own.
"No, you're not close, Scully," he murmured as he
sprinkled tiny little stinging kisses on her lips. "But, you will
be. . . . you will be. I'm going to make you beg."
She turned in his arms, her blouse now hanging open
from her shoulders, her breasts bobbing gently with the motion,
their pink tips dusky and hard. Twisting her fingers in the short,
silky hair low on the back of his head, she pulled him to her.
"I'm prepared to enjoy your best efforts, Mulder," she
told him, her breath caressing his lips, her voice hushed and
throaty. Holding back only until she saw the corners of his lips
turn up at her intrepid declaration, she kissed him, her mouth
soft and moist, and insistent against his own.
His mouth proved no less resolved. It solicited hers,
shaping her lips to his, coaxing them to open. It didn't take
much persuasion. Then, his tongue plunged into her mouth
and withdrew, daring her to follow his lead. She was up to the
challenge, and clung to him, her arms wrapped tightly around
his neck, her breasts flattened against his dress shirt, his tie,
the lapels of his suit coat, her lips battling his for control of the
kiss.
His hands didn't know where to touch first. Her hair,
her waist, her hips, her face. One part of her body was more
enticing than the next. Not waiting for a conscious decision
to be reached, he slipped once more beneath her blouse so he
could trace the supple flow of muscles in her back, her shoulders.
Sweeping down, he discovered the zipper to her skirt. The
sound it made as he lowered it seemed appallingly loud, nearly
raucous within the quiet confines of her apartment. His hands
beginning to tremble in anticipation, he shoved the skirt almost
roughly down and away. Scully stepped out of it, her heel
catching on its hem, then kicked it free.
His hands now ran lovingly over her bottom, the sweet
round curve of it filling them perfectly. He squeezed. She swayed.
Low, strangled whispers escaped both their mouths, one right
after the other, neither of them in any condition to identify who
instigated the sounds. He gripped the silky fabric of her slip
and rubbed it over her panties, relishing the way each slipped
and slid over the other, before pushing the skirt's liner to the
floor as well. His hands returned to the provocative portion of
her anatomy he had just so recently abandoned.
And encountered her garter belt.
"Come here, Scully."
Not quite sure just where he was leading her, Mulder
turned the woman in his arms, moving her with him, stumbling
over the items of her clothing he had just removed as they wove
unsteadily across her living room floor towards the wall her front
door was on. She followed him, offering no resistance, her lips
never losing contact with his, her arms locked around him for
balance. As luck, or perhaps kismet would have it, they ended
their awkward traveling embrace in a square of light provided
courtesy of the street lamp outside her window. Reluctantly
releasing her lips, he took in the sight of his partner framed by
this fortuitous source of illumination, and couldn't help but
mentally compare the glow to a spotlight on a stage. However,
he was hard pressed to come up with a title of a play featuring
a scene quite like this.
Breathing hard, he stepped back from the woman
before him, and looked at her. Just looked. She stood with
her back pressed against the wall, her hair wild from his fingers'
urgent forays through it. Her face flushed, her lips full and
glistening. Her soft round breasts framed by the scarlet curtain
that was her blouse, their weight resting on what would have
once been easily identifiable as an elegant black silk bra, but
now looked more like a sort of erotic ebony harness, the pink
tips crowning the breasts tightly aroused. Her ivory torso
gleamed, its pale complexion set off by the vivid color draped
around her shoulders, the combination highlighting her skin's
creamy translucent quality. And her legs. Oh dear god, her
legs. They were sheathed in the most sinfully seductive pair
of black hose he had ever seen. They covered her limbs from
toe to mid-thigh, accentuating the very attributes they hid.
And the only things that held them up, kept them in place,
were those deceptively fragile-looking bits of fabric. The
garters. Three on each leg, two in front, one in back. The six
of them attached to another narrow band of black, this one
the belt itself, which hung low and tight on her hips, just
above the trim triangle of her panties.
Strange how so very little could do so very much to
his piece of mind.
She stood there waiting, watching him, her eyes
languorous and dark, gazing up at him through her half lowered
lashes, teetering ever so slightly on those heels. Those black
pumps. The ones that had just never seemed quite that sexy
when paired with one of her typically staid business suits.
Drinking in the sight of what those three inches did for the
muscles in her calves, Mulder was beginning to understand
how some men found themselves obsessed by such items of
women's footwear.
"You're wearing too many clothes, Mulder," she
murmured from her place against the wall, her voice sounding
as if it took a great deal of effort to produce, her eyes never
leaving his.
Quickly, efficiently, he shrugged out of his jacket,
dropping it on the floor, not far from her skirt. His tie pooled
beside it a moment later, the top button of his shirt popping
free as well. That having been accomplished, he slowly
crossed the handful of steps towards her, negligently rolling
up his shirt sleeves as he walked. As soon as he was within
arm's reach, Scully stretched out her hand and grabbed hold
of his shirt in preparation for pulling it loose from his pants.
Mulder stopped her.
"Uh-uh."
She looked at him, puzzled, her small hand still tightly
gripping his once immaculate white dress shirt.
He smiled at her, half his mouth turned up, a tad
chagrined. "You're already too great temptation."
She raised a brow, her voice husky, it's low tone
doing truly evil things to his pulse rate. "And that's a bad
thing?"
He stepped closer still and gently but firmly removed
her hand from his shirt. He captured her other hand as well,
and held them both against the wall at waist level, restraining
her easily, and wishing he might have the same success with
some of his own more unruly impulses.
"I want this to last," he murmured against her brow.
"We stand a better chance of that if one of us keeps some clothes
on."
She strained ever so slightly against his hold, wanting
to touch him when he stood so close, to feel his body's long
solid length warming her naked skin, and yet unable to do more
than nuzzle her face against his in their current positions.
"It doesn't have to," she whispered, entreating him
sweetly, brushing her lips against his cheek to plead her case.
"Not this time."
He chuckled, tracing her brow with the bridge of his
nose, the sound escaping his lips ragged, dark. "Is that begging
I hear, Scully?"
She caught his bottom lip with her teeth and tugged.
"Is this the best you can do, Mulder?"
A short, harsh bark of laughter echoed against her
cheek as his lips slipped lower, to her mouth, her chin, her neck.
His tongue slowly traced the thin red scars he found there before
kissing them as well. She sighed and tilted her head back, baring
her throat in surrender. He released her hands, and slid her
blouse down her shoulders, kissing each inch of her skin as it
came into view until he came in contact with her half healed
injury. He hesitated only an instant. But, it was enough for
Scully to raise her hand to his cheek in concern.
"Leave the blouse on."
"Are you getting shy with me all of a sudden, Scully?"
She smiled softly and shook her head. "No. I just
don't want you thinking about it. =I= don't want to think about
it."
He considered for a moment, his eyes boring into hers,
then nodded. "All right."
She smiled once more, her lips curving gently. "Good."
Mulder answered her smile, his a touch more
provocative. "Now then, where were we?"
Ah, yes. He had been running his lips down her body.
And had stopped just north of her breasts.
Scully saw the anticipation gleaming in his gaze as it
studied her chest, and nearly had to close her own eyes with
the force of the thrill skittering through her. Oh god, he always
touched this particular part of her body so beautifully, his
hands sensitive and warm against her full soft curves. Lifting
them, kneading, sweeping his fingertips over them. Avoiding
her nipples. Making her wait. Teasing her. Forcing her to
twist her torso, silently demanding what he had taught her to
crave. His fingers on the tips of her breasts.
"Yes," she hissed softly when she achieved her goal,
when his thumbs rubbed tight little circles over her rosy nipples.
"Does that feel good?" he muttered roughly as his lips
began a slow tortuous descent down the front of her, from her
collarbone to the valley between her breasts.
"Yes," she repeated mindlessly, wondering where the
rest of her vocabulary had gone, her fingers tunneled in his
hair, holding him to her.
"Good," he said quietly, the word pressing like a brand
against her tender skin, his hands cupping her breasts, tilting
them towards his mouth, rubbing his cheek against them lightly.
"Because that's how you feel to me."
Then he covered her nipple with his mouth. She cried
out and dug her fingers into his shoulders for balance. He
played with her, nudging her with his tongue, suckling, nibbling.
Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking with a slow
restless motion she couldn't control. He moved to her other
breast, capturing its nipple between his lips, running his tongue
over it as well, and softly suckling. She took her hand and
placed it on his cheek, feeling his jaw move rhythmically as it
worked her. She laid her head back against the wall, her neck
suddenly having problems supporting it, her quick frantic intake
of breath driving her breasts to bob and sway beneath her
partner's mouth and hands.
He could feel her resistance weakening, her need
building, like kindling being added piece by piece to a single
match. He dropped to his knees before her, his mouth open
and avid against her skin, his hands still tantalizing her breasts.
Trailing his lips along her belly's soft flesh, he felt her muscles
jump and twitch beneath his mouth, and with a stroke of
inspiration, decided to nibble the slightly rounded curve just
below her navel to heighten her torment. She was moaning now,
soft, low, helpless. And he thought he just might be able to hold
on after all.
If only to hear her make that sound again.
And again.
He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, his
hands running slowly up and down the back of her legs. She
gazed down, her eyes glittering with the force of her arousal, her
hands resting atop his head.
"These," he murmured, taking his hand and slipping a
forefinger in the waistband of her panties, rubbing it softly from
side to side. "Are in my way."
She just watched him, beyond words. Her continuing
struggle to tame her breath, her pulse, her racing heartbeat
stealing every last bit of energy she owned.
Mulder bent his head and kissed the center of her
right thigh, directly between two of the garters. Then, he
pressed his palm to her stomach, its weight, its heat, heavy
against her delicate skin, and looked up at her.
"Don't move."
Once he was certain she would follow his softly
spoken instruction, he lowered his eyes and slowly, carefully
unfastened the garters. One at a time. The stockings stayed
put, their elastic holding them in place for the time being. As
soon as the garters hung free, he eased his hands inside her
panties, and pushed them down. Past the garters, her thighs,
the hose. To the floor. Scully stood there docilely, something
Mulder didn't see everyday, as if incapable of movement. Her
eyes were huge, liquid. Gently, he lifted first one of her legs,
then the other, freeing the panties, and tossing them aside.
He kissed her left thigh.
"On the other hand, these," he began, running one
of the dangling garters between his thumb and forefinger,
tugging on it gently, circling the tiny pink rosette adorning it
with his fingertip, studying the flimsy bit of lingerie with a
connoisseur's eye, "should definitely remain on."
And so he refastened the stockings, taking his time,
caressing her thighs every now and again while he worked as
if to remind her he was there. Between her legs. When he was
finished, he sat back once more and admired his handiwork.
"You," he murmured, his hand low on her stomach,
his fingers spread wide as if he were trying to touch as much
of her pale silky skin as possible, "are so ridiculously beautiful,
Scully."
That coaxed a chuckle from her, feeble though it was.
"You don't have to sweet talk me, Mulder."
He smiled up at her, his head level with her hips. "I
don't?"
Slowly, she shook her head so that it lolled against
the wall behind her, her eyes heavy-lidded, her voice more
breath than sound. "No. I thought you knew. I'm already yours."
His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening as if trying to
decide whether to release the words that clamored to be set free.
In the end, he simply swept his hands around behind her,
cupping her buttocks, and pressed his mouth to her, finding her
through the coarse nest of curls where her thighs met.
"Oh . . . ." Her body arched sharply, jumping as if it
were the lash that touched her and not his tongue, her palms
pressed against the wall for support. He nuzzled her gently,
rubbing the flat of his tongue over her, tracing along the soft
folds hidden there, searching for the spot that served as the
center of her pleasure, the tiny cluster of nerves that controlled
her reaction to him, to this. When he found it, he pulled it into
his mouth, and suckled.
She cried out once more, her hands flying to his hair,
her hips pushing shamelessly forward. Mulder gripped, then
released her buttocks, kneading them as he had her breasts
earlier, his head bobbing slowly as he incited her to higher,
more dangerous levels of arousal, pulling her into a kind of
dizzying vortex where all that existed was that painfully
sensitive bud between her legs and the feel of his mouth, his
tongue, playing over it.
And then, just when it felt as if she really couldn't
take any more. Couldn't stand the assault on her senses a
minute longer. Just had to shatter beneath his lips, and hope
that he would be there to catch her, to gather up the pieces . . .
He stopped.
And went back to merely nuzzling her center. Playing
with her garter belt with his teeth, kissing the tender flesh of
her belly, nibbling along it. Running his tongue over her thighs'
pale skin, pressing his lips there as well.
But nothing more.
Not what she wanted. Needed. Had to have with a
desperation, a violence that shocked her.
She looked down at him, words of entreaty jockeying
with her half-formed questions for expression.
He returned her regard, his face so tantalizingly
close to where she wanted it.
And yet not nearly close enough.
He pressed his lips to her for an instant as if he
sensed that thought, his nose buried in her crisp curls. Her
eyes slid shut in reaction.
"Mulder . . ." she moaned, the word marbled with just
the slightest hint of demand.
He pulled back again. But kept his hand on her, her
fingertips, sliding lightly, teasingly over the swollen opening to
her body, his touch a constant reminder of just how close she
was to release.
"You want something, Scully?" he murmured, his
voice rumbling out of his chest.
She somehow managed to arch a brow at him. He
smiled at the familiar expression.
"All you have to do is ask me," he whispered, his
breath hot against her thigh, his fingers continuing their
bewitching glide.
Her mouth opened in a silent laugh. Bastard, she
thought without any true rancor. As dearly as she craved her
release, she wouldn't give in that easily, and shook her head,
her fingers clenching in his hair.
Mulder ducked his head to hide his own smile. And
waited. With a patience that stunned him. Keeping his hands
on her. His lips every once and awhile. But otherwise, he held
back, watching her. Biding his time until he could feel her ardor
slowly beginning to fade.
And then he built the fire all over again. One small
piece of wood at a time.
He must have repeated the cycle three times or more.
Scully couldn't be sure. Unfortunately, she had discovered she
no longer could count that high. Not right at the moment.
Mulder had erased even that most basic of mental functions
from her. Had turned her into a woman consumed by sensation
and nothing more.
"Torture . . ." she whispered, her hands tugging at his
hair, weaving the strands unthinkingly through her fingertips.
Wanting to make him understand how sharp the tremors of
pleasure rocking her really were, to share their potency.
His hands slid from her hips to her waist. His eyes
shadowed a moment in concern. "That bad?"
She shook her head, attempting a smile that came out
more like a grimace, her hips pulsing. "That good."
His thumbs spread her wide. And he put his lips to
her once more, his tongue circling. She whimpered his name.
As much as he loved seeing her like this, relished
the sight of his usually unflappable partner swallowed up by
the passion he induced within her, he was dangerously close
to his own limits as well. The part of his body that sought its
release inside hers had grown painfully hard, straining the
fabric of his trousers. He knew he had to slip inside her, had
to experience that hot wet feel of her closing around him,
taking him in, cradling him. Soon. Had to.
And so he redoubled his efforts.
Who said hard work never paid off, he thought with
satisfaction a few breathless moments later when he finally heard,
ever so faintly, the word he had been waiting for.
"Please . . . "
The entreaty slipped from her lips so softly that for an
instant, he thought he might have imagined it. Then, she
repeated it.
"Please . . ."
He looked up, his mouth continuing its light,
tormenting dance over her. Her head turned fitfully from side
to side against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut, her brow
furrowed as she concentrated on the treacherous workings
of her body, the elusive current of pleasure that promised so
much and demanded that much more in return. Her mouth was
open, her face flushed and moist.
The word was moaned again. And again. The
string of syllables metamorphosing into a chant.
"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease . . ."
He gripped her more tightly and increased the pressure
of his lips and tongue.
Her knees were bent, her hips arched forward, her
hands now framing his face, holding him to her as if she feared
he might change his mind. Might leave her hanging there,
endlessly teetering on the edge of oblivion.
On and on, he stroked over her. He could feel the
blood roaring through his head. Could feel the excitement
that catapulted from the woman before him to land solidly
at his core, his center. Finally, his lips returned to that little
nodule he had played with before, closed over it. And pulled on
it. Hard.
She screamed. And went rigid. Every muscle taut,
her hips bucking wildly. He gripped her buttocks and held on,
riding out the storm with her. Intent on milking every last
sensation from her tired aching body.
At last, spent, her knees buckled. He caught her in
his arms and pulled her down to him with one arm twined
tightly around her waist. His other hand dropped to his lap,
and trembling, freed himself from his pants, his boxers. In
one motion, he slid inside her, maneuvering the woman in
his arms like a rag doll, her limbs limp and heavy. She rested
on her knees astride him, her face buried in the curve of his
neck, her arms clinging around his shoulders. He clutched
her waist tightly and lifted her, pumping her on him. Fast,
furious. Soft, heated grunts punctuating the motion. It took
no more than a half dozen such strokes. Then, his body
erupted as well. His strangled shout of release echoing
hoarsely in her ear.
For a long silent collection of minutes, they rested
against each other, Mulder trying to catch his breath, his hand
slowly smoothing her hair.
And, right on schedule, the doubts and self-
recriminations began to creep into his mind, like old friends
who knew the way, who had a key.
Why didn't she say anything, he wondered. Sure,
she was probably exhausted. He thought detected a faint
tremor in her limbs. But still . . . What if this hadn't been as
great a turn-on for her as he had hoped? As it had proved for
him? What if she didn't get into the power games? The
sensation of having her passion displayed rather than
shared? And what the hell was that last part about? Not
much finesse in that. His cramping thighs attested to that
realization. Didn't last long either.
Sighing with a mixture of contentment and dread, he
hugged her to him even more tightly, she returned the embrace,
although the pressure seemed to him a tad less fierce than usual.
That only fueled his concern.
"I love you," he whispered, his lips touching her hair.
She pulled back to look at him. Her mascara was
smeared beneath one eye, her lipstick completely erased. But,
her skin glowed, its color heightened. He thought he had
never seen her look more beautiful.
She smiled her special smile. Not the dangerous one.
The other.
"That was fun. Can we do it again?"
He groaned, and tumbled them both to the floor,
their bodies tangled together, his pants hanging half-on,
half-off his hips. "I've created a monster."
She giggled, nestling into his arms. "Come on,
Mulder," she cajoled, her fingers slipping the buttons free on
his shirt so she could glide her fingertips over his chest. "I'll
ask nicely." She nipped his ear. "Or would you rather have me
make you ask instead?"
He chuckled weakly. "Oooh. That's tempting. It
really is," he said, taking her lightly caressing hand and kissing
her palm "Ask me again in about a week. I might have
recovered by then."
She smiled sleepily and kissed him softly, laying her
head upon his shoulder. He hugged her close, running his
hand up and down her small frame, unable to get his fill of
touching her.
"Oh . . . Sorry."
His hand had strayed to her thigh, where his fingers
trailed over a very obvious run in her much appreciated,
and apparently over-taxed, stockings.
"S'okay," she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow
above his collarbone in a series of sweet kisses. "I'll just buy
another pair."
"When's your birthday?"
She chuckled.
"Christmas is closer."
"I don't know if Santa Clause delivers stockings. I mean,
having anything like this lying around the workshop would only
distract the elves."
She joined him in a drowsy chuckle, and kissed him once
more. Then scooting herself more fully against him, rested her
head over his heart, and drifted off to sleep, her dreams set in a
forest of Christmas trees. Only instead of garland, all were
covered with long silky stockings, garter belts taking the place
of ornaments.
* * * * * * * *
Somehow they made it to work the following morning;
Mulder only a few minutes late as he had left her apartment near
dawn to return to his own for a change of clothes, having
decided he might as well shower and shave there too, rather
than tying up her bathroom.
They also got through their first work day together
since returning from Chicago, their first 8-hour shift spent in
their basement office as lovers who just happened to work as
partners. It wasn't as hard as Scully had thought it might be.
After all, they were professionals, adults. They knew their jobs
and took pride in the work they did. In fact, they managed to
submerge the other part of their relationship so thoroughly,
so successfully, that at times she almost believed that the
hours spent the night before, first in her living room, then
later on her bed, were just another one of her dreams,
the kind she had indulged in from time to time before reality
had obliterating their need.
That thought, however, disappeared when she
opened the door to her apartment and discovered a large,
long white box on her coffee table; the kind that normally
came from a florist, filled with roses. She had no question
who had left it there. Mulder had left work early, muttering
about an errand he had to run and promising to stop by her
apartment later, a pizza in tow. Dropping her purse on the
couch, she crossed to the box and opened it, shaking her
head in wonder at this new side of her partner as romantic.
Well, not that romantic, at least not the sentimental
kind. And yet, she wouldn't have wanted him any other way.
Inside, she found a single perfect pink rose, exactly like the
ones decorating her garter belt the previous evening. And
serving as the backdrop for the flower were packages of thigh
high hose.
Eleven of them.
In black.
She threw back her head and laughed, realizing as she
did so that she smelled pepperoni wafting from the direction of
her kitchen.
THE END
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