A Part of My Nature, a star trek: 2009 fanfic

Title: "A Part of My Nature"

Author: SpockLikesCats

Pairing: Spock/Uhura; Spock/OC

Rating: R

Type: Romance.

Warnings: Sexytimes, S/U and S/OC, with arty and not-so-arty descriptions. Cadet Spock/older woman.

A/N: Thanks to my Beta, Spockside, and my early version Beta, Slippery Stone.

Dedication: to all "ladies of a certain age" who have loved Spock through many years – to both Leonard Nimoy's and Zachary Quinto's equally hmmm … stirring incarnations of Our Hero – and to all the readers who've enjoyed and commented on my work.

Disclaimers: As far as I know this work is not derivative of any other work, except "Star Trek" © CBS/Paramount Pictures, and some characters and situations thereof.

"A Part of My Nature"

By SpockLikesCats

As she left the Starfleet Academy campus for dinner one night, Cadet 2/c Nyota Uhura decided it was time to ask "the burning question" of Commander Spock. Well, Spock. That was his given name, after all, and … well … they'd been on a "first-name basis" for some time – several months now, in fact – and their relationship had deepened from one of mutual admiration and sexual attraction into a love affair that looked like it might just last a lifetime. She felt she must ask. Because she was curious, for one, and because she wanted to armor herself against any future disappointments that could be engendered by a strict reading of Academy Regs, or by the assignment of one CDR Spock to a starship.

"Why did you, the most by-the-book Starfleet officer in living memory, ever begin an affair with me?" She wasn't sure she wanted to bring it up – she didn't want Spock to have second thoughts about their relationship – but for her it was an important query, and she needed an answer. She got to Spock's place and took the indoor stairway up to the living room door, coded the entry and stepped inside.

Asking him that question might get her "the eyebrow" – and not the cute one, either. It could be the Eyebrow of Loving Exasperation. Oh, well. She'd have to take her chances.

Floorboards creaked gently as she stepped in. She loved the polished wood floor and its beautiful carpets that Spock had got from Vulcan. The carpets reminded her of kilim rugs but instead of wool, they were woven of durable, soft plant fibers from Vulcan's deserts. The colors were warm; oranges, reds, browns and golds, and at either end, instead of fringe, they had borders of very decorative glyphs expressing the sayings of Surak in ancient Golic script.

Walking through his living room to the small kitchen of his apartment Uhura saw Spock, still in his black flex-wear leggings and T-shirt (and just back from his Suus-Mahna workout) putting some root veggies in the broiler unit. He turned to greet her with a pleased expression and a kiss. Her arms slid around his waist. His body was not rock-hard, as you might expect from his strength; no, Spock was supple, and when she held him this way she felt the softness of him, and she could put her arms all the way round him and squeeze a little, really hug him. The faintly metallic odor of his perspiration came to her.

"I can make the salad while you take a shower," she smiled up, leaning back from their embrace. "Although I do … love the sight of you in those tight clothes." She half-closed her eyes like a contented cat and lowered a hand to curve it around his behind.

As he raised a hand to cup her jaw she saw his biceps moving and got swoony inside. Immediately she flashed to him, naked beneath her, his long arms and lovely muscles on display, eyes closed and concentrating on ecstasy … She stopped that line of thought lest they never get around to dinner. Looking into his dark eyes, which nearly seemed to twinkle, she raised up on her toes and gave him a long kiss. "Mmmm," she could not help but say. Spock shuttered his eyes modestly, the left corner of his mouth going up a bit.

"Permit me to turn off the broiler …" he did so. "And please leave the salad items in the stasis unit … and join me."

So much for dinner, at least for a while.

He stripped off his workout clothes (her eyes hungrily traveled his body, from his long legs, up to his loins and the bushy black hair and the slowly rising lok resting there, up from his abdominals to his beautifully cut pectorals, and to the base of his throat, with its rapid pulse. His eyes, always concentrated on the task at hand. She loved to watch him – how deftly he folded his clothes – his slender, muscled limbs – his grace as he moved).

He came, pressed his lips to hers and began to undress her. He always took his time doing so, and lingered over details like a long row of buttons down the front of her dress (which was why she bought such things to wear, because he seemed to enjoy them even more than she did). And she thought perhaps he always stripped first so she could enjoy the sight of him as he undid her buttons or boots. Somehow the long anticipation made ensuing events more enjoyable. By the time they entered the shower her feelings were at a fever pitch.

Nevertheless, he drew things out, making her enjoyment the greater, smoothing a lotion soap over her skin with his hands and massaging it in with his palms and fingers; she did the same in shampooing his hair, slowly circling her fingertips over his scalp (he dipped his head as she did so, reminding her of the dormitory cat, Mr. Spats), then, with two fingers, gently laving his ears, taking time with the points – "r-r-r-r-RRRR-r-r-r," said Spock – and slowly stroked lather over his long muscles.

While they were both soapy he held her close to him and they slid against each other as they hotly then profoundly kissed; she wanted him so much, and his eyes were smoldering when they met hers. He got more foam and filled his hands, massaging her breasts until they were positively engorged with blood and stiff with excitement, then moved to make flat circles on her lower stomach and worked round her hips to her buttocks. She was nearly shuddering, but stepped back and soaped his torso in turn, her flattened hands circling his nipples, then lowered to lather his fully erect lok, gently working her hand from his now- frothy bush to olive green root to emerald-bright glans and back again.

A purr began in his chest, eventually turning into a pleased open-mouthed rur-r-r-r-r, and he rinsed himself, turning immediately to pick her up, slippery with lather, and holding her hips and ass at the perfect angle, drove his lok into her ko-tik, rested her back against the wall, foamed her breasts again so slowly as to drive her mad, and pinched the tips, all the while thrusting faster and more deeply.

He turned with her in his arms and she put her head back, letting the water pound onto her throat and clavicles, running over her sensitized skin, and Spock suckled her breasts, flicking the nipples with the tip of his tongue. He again placed her back to the wall. Behind him her hand slipped over to the lather dispenser; she coated her fingers, and moved them up and down the cleft of his buttocks, sliding a long finger in and out of him when she felt close to coming, and he gasped with pleasure, then growled as he drove faster into her so their pelvises slapped together in the wet, and she groaned, ascending to a cry as her soul and his took flight.

They rinsed off; Nyota moved to turn on the sonic dryer and he stilled her hand, leading her out dripping wet to grab two large, thick towels, wrapping her in one and donning the other, walking into the bedroom. Playfully she rolled her eyes. "Do we get dinner soon?"

"I heard an interesting old saying today," he told her, eyes a-gleam. "'Life is short – eat dessert first.'"

"Hmm," she said, pretending to consider. "Okay."

Later, her head cradled on his shoulder, she said, languidly smiling, "You're very talented with your mouth and hands."

"And you, ashayam, are also quite adept."

"Hungry, too. For dinner."

Spock got up from the bed, and as she appreciated once again his lovely, lean body, he got her silky robe and his own, and they "dressed" for supper.

"May I ask a question, mpenzi?" she said as they finished and nothing remained of dinner but two candles still a-glow and her glass of wine. (Spock drank wine with dinner, but only to enjoy its complex flavors with the taste of food; alcohol did not affect him in the least.)

"I believe you just did," he smirked at the still-common instructors' joke.

"Honestly, sometimes you enjoy old Human jokes a little too much."

He looked up and into the distance. "Very well. I am now assuming my serious mien." When he met her eyes his facial expression was completely Vulcan.

"Hmm … I've been wondering … you have such a reputation for strict adherence to the Code of Conduct and Academy Regulations. How did you … how did you ever rationalize a romantic relationship with me?" she finished in a rush.

"I minutely examined the regulations regarding fraternization. Did you not do so?"

"Well … of course, but I don't think we reached the same conclusions …."

He reached his hand across the small table, took hers, raised it and kissed it warmly.

"Nyota, may I tell you a story? I must tell you that another woman features largely in it."

"You mean you … and another woman?"

He nodded, looking very seriously into her eyes. "It happened several years ago."

"Well, I didn't think you fell out of the cherry basket yesterday. So yeah, it's all right."

"Fell out …?" He shook his head. "Cadet cant for losing one's virginity?"

"You're very astute at languages, did you know that?" she said sweetly.

"And you are, at times, somewhat exasperating," said Spock, raising his eyebrow. Lovingly. Moving into the kitchen, he made them each a mug of rich hot chocolate, and brought the cups and the candles from the table out to the table before the couch. In the golden glow she snuggled into his arms, one ear on his chest, and he began.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

Spock folded his dark blue coat over the back of an antique parlor chair, sat, and positioned his lyrette. After briefly tuning it he began playing some traditional Vulcan music. Dressed in a formal black Vulcan suit for the occasion, he was appearing at this Language Faculty dinner because a respected professor of his had asked him to come and play. As the music flowed, he considered the possible reasons for Professor Brunetti's invitation.

Perhaps it was because Spock had no social life to speak of, other than participating in Academy concerts, attending civilian concerts, going to museums alone, or taking long solitary walks or hikes. His professor had sometimes accompanied him on these excursions – lately more than usual.

Perhaps the dottoressa liked the idea of inviting him to a sumptuous dinner with intriguing academic company and the promise of fascinating conversation, or thought Spock would bring his … conversational skills to the table. He was a bit hesitant to believe this. Even after years of listening to his mother speak Standard to him, and hearing his father communicate in this language with her and with interplanetary diplomatic colleagues, Spock still did not understand certain expressions and new colloquialisms. His lack in this regard greatly amused his Human classmates.

He was not quite serene in this environment. He had lately been having mental and physical reactions to his professor that clearly indicated attraction on his part. Inwardly he sighed. He thought he'd had more than sufficient experience with sexual attraction in his interactions with Leila Kalomi last year.

Spock was in his second year at Starfleet Academy, but several instructors had indicated that his academic accomplishments warranted his participation in the Academy's accelerated courses. These were normally offered to graduate students. He was already taking graduate-level courses at a nearby university in addition to his Academy classes. For a person of his age, Spock's academic training exceeded that of his Human contemporaries – and his comparatively strict upbringing had already taught him the restraint and professionalism that had to be inculcated in most other students.

Several days before this evening, his Phonology professor, Dr. Angela Brunetti, had paged him to her office. As Spock was her Teaching Assistant in Vulcan, Indo-European Languages, and "Standard as a Second Language," this was not unusual.

Professoressa Brunetti was a dark-haired, green-eyed, light-skinned Human originally from the Adriatic region of Italy in the European States, whose low voice still had a lilt under her Standard that lent it a charming musicality. Her eyes and their orbital muscles almost always held a trace of humor. She was a Starfleet Reserve Commander, but did not wear a uniform to any Academy functions except awards ceremonies because, she said, "I have hips too large to gracefully wear that uniform unless I absolutely must."

She had been looking out her office window at the Golden Gate. Always, she looked at the water, she had told Spock. It calmed her and reminded her of Venezia, her childhood home. Other than such general references, they did not speak much of their respective histories.

They spoke more often about the illogic of American English, which had morphed into "Standard" as it included more and more words and phrases from other languages. English had always been an absorbent language, but now it had become the lingua franca of Starfleet and most Federation members. Standard provided a plethora of opportunities for unintentional gaffes and embarrassments, and in his first few months at the Academy, Spock had fallen victim to more than a few, despite being reared by a North American-born linguist and partner in the Universal Translator project.

Today as Spock entered her office, Dr. Brunetti remained with her back to the door. Wipes, folded and crumpled from use, lay all over her desk, as yet unrecycled; such untidiness was unusual for her. Spock moved to clear them away and put them in the re-processor, but she caught his movement out of the corner of her eye and said, "Don't bother with that now. Come stand by me."

He went to the window, frowning. When he saw her face, he was able to interpret her mood. Deep melancholy, he surmised. Her slumping shoulders, reddened eyes, the wipes, and the muffled sound of her voice were obviously a result of weeping and its attendant swelling of the mucosal membranes.

Involuntarily, he leaned forward. "Is there anything I can do?" Chivalry. A Human impulse. But not, perhaps, unwarranted. And, perhaps … in accord with his recent thoughts of her.

"I need your help this Friday evening, Spock," she said. "I have been very stupid." She raised a wipe to her beautiful, aquiline nose and blew softly, then dabbed tears from her eyes.

(Spock's mother had always encouraged him to keep his gaze "open." Amanda told him she felt he was more approachable that way. "Otherwise, conversing with my family is like trying to speak to basilisks." His nasty young schoolmates, of course, denigrated this openness as "Human eyes." After some harsh exchanges with those classmates young Spock had trained himself to keep his facial expression – and reactions – completely neutral as was the Vulcan way, but with his mother, or other people he trusted, he allowed expressiveness into his eyes; he did so now.)

"I do not understand."

"I scheduled a dinner for 1800 hours this Friday at my home and invited a few friends from the Department of Languages. You'll be one of my honored guests. Captain Pike is also going to be there – he's on shore leave and I know he'll share some wonderful stories. He told me he wants to ask you about a science mission. Anyway …" she sighed, "I'll need your assistance during the gathering, if you would be so kind." She looked up at him and her green eyes held a plea.

"How may I help?"

"I'd appreciate it so much if you would play music before and after dinner. I admire your piano playing, and would love to hear you play your lyrette too. I'd appreciate your talents greatly. Conversation will be so very difficult for me."

He allowed a very subtle humor to permeate his expression. "Of course I will play. However, I have not known you to be deficient with words, Dottoressa …"

She smiled sadly in response. "You know I'm not … normally. But after I set the date for the dinner I realized it will be exactly five years since Krystian died, and I simply cannot get through the day without music. Spock, let me tell you a little about my late husband. Will you have some espresso or tea?" She offered him a seat by her desk and swept the wipes into the recycler, cleaning her face and hands with a fresh one.

He produced a tea packet from inside his uniform jacket; he never traveled without f'canth tea and was actually feeling the need of his soothing blend just now. He was sensing an odd protective urge in himself for his professor, something one usually felt for one's bondmate, not for a mentor and senior officer. "Just some hot water, if you please."

She ordered a large mug of hot water from the office food processor, then got her cup of espresso, stirring it, inhaling its fragrance, and sipping delicately. Eyes still on her tiny cup, she said, "Krystian – Ohlsson - was a concert pianist, you see." As she looked up to meet his eyes, he raised an eyebrow in recognition of her husband's name. Spock had known nothing of the famous musician's connection to his professor.

"We met when I was twenty-eight years old. He was my language student when I still worked as a personal instructor in the civilian world; he was about to begin his first world tour. He didn't start going off-world until about eight years later. This Friday" – her eyes filled up again – "it will be exactly five years since he was killed in a transporter accident on his way home from Rigel. We were married for almost fourteen years."

"I grieve with thee," Spock said in Vulcan.

"Grazie." Dottoressa Brunetti reached out, and, taking Spock by surprise, covering his hand with hers. Spock breathed deeply to center himself. Then, concentrating, he relaxed, allowing his warmth to radiate to her cold hand.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

Later that day, Spock left the Academy campus for the University of California at Berkeley for one of his postgraduate Science classes. He took the local rail transport, and, while it traversed the tunnel under San Francisco Bay, took some time away from his usual scholarly concentration to consider Professor Brunetti. For some time he had been curious about her life outside the Academy, and he'd been accumulating data. She intrigued him.

He had lately reached this conclusion about his professor: she had become a friend. Dottoressa Brunetti invited him to concerts and dinners and went on long walks and hikes with him not only because she was lonely, but because she intuited his loneliness as well. A highly intelligent woman, she had this afternoon exhibited an emotionalism that reminded him of his mother. And of Leila Kalomi, although at times Leila had more frequently exhibited emotionalism than she did her innate intelligence.

Part of the attraction he felt was because of her wisdom. This was apparently rare in young human females; it seemed more common in older women. Spock did not make much of age. He was attracted to women who were well able to accumulate and defend scientific knowledge, hungry to know more, and enthusiastic to experience or disseminate learning.

Having crossed the Bay and arrived aboveground, the transport stopped and Spock alit on Telegraph Avenue. He walked through the dusk with the people, young and old, alien and Human, who thronged around him. He smelled the cafes and old bookshops and heard many tongues, but these registered only in the back of his mind. Tomorrow, if someone asked him whom he had passed, what places he had seen, or what he'd heard, he would be able to answer in detail, but at the moment he paid no attention to anything but his thoughts.

Spock was also attracted by the Dottoressa's appreciation and knowledge of culture and the arts, including those of his home planet. It was pleasing to discuss these with her. Her free expressions relating the thoughts and emotions elicited by particular artists or composers also fascinated him. She always solicited the opinions of others as well, so Spock had got an understanding of the reactions of various people to certain types of art. Her understanding had been evident during his occasional visits to her home during the dinners she held to honor her highest-achieving students.

He'd even played her husband's piano, not knowing that a famous concert pianist's hands had spent many hours on the same keys. Dr. Brunetti's delight at his playing had pleased him also. Perhaps this 'stroked' his human ego; perhaps it was a perfectly acceptable appreciation of his skill. He had meditated on that issue, and upon his warm inner response to her happy facial expression, her beauty radiating as much as her smile.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

Dr. Angela Brunetti left the Academy for home, walking briskly at first, impatient with herself. It had been culturally inept, grasping Spock's hand that way, and she regretted her inconsiderate act. His hand had been so warm, so comforting, and oddly, he had allowed her to hold it for a minute or two, a great kindness from one of his naturally reserved race. She hoped she had not done any damage to their tenuous friendship.

As she walked farther, cutting through the Presidio, she slowed to a stroll, inhaling deeply of the cool, misty air with its fresh menthol scent of eucalyptus trees. She watched people enjoying the park, walking dogs, cats, and the occasional extraterrestrial pet. Some held children up to touch the leaves of trees, or carried laughing kids "piggyback"; others sat on the grass, heads close together, talking seriously. Young couples teased each other or smiled, sharing amusing stories of the day. She felt happy for them, yet distant from their sort of happiness.

Angela thought of the early days of her marriage. She and Krystian had been fortunate to recognize each other as "the one" almost instantly when they met, but their search for a home took a long time. At last settling into a battered old Victorian house here in San Francisco, they worked together to restore the house to its former glory, room by room. For certain parts of the project they used old-style methods; Krystian wore special flex-support gloves to do almost every project, because he had to keep finger flexibility to practice concert pieces every day.

At the end of each day, they'd take a hot shower and massage each other's aching bodies and hands, falling into bed happily exhausted from their labors.

Indoors, Angela and Krystian combined a mixture of new, antique and inherited furniture with old woolen or silk carpets and art that gave their home the same warmth and verve they exhibited as a couple. The kitchen was large (Angela loved to cook), as was the dining room. Her office was a quiet refuge – antique books, a couple of comfortable chairs, her desk – with a window overlooking the wildflower garden.

In the large parlor Krystian's concert grand piano stood near three windows that formed an outward bow. The wood floor was varnished to a high sheen, and low cabinets containing sheet music, cushions across the tops, were under the tall bay windows. Adjacent to the dining room, the parlor was large enough for him to hold master classes, or for a quartet to play for an audience of around twelve people, and had been a frequent focal point for their entertaining. Occasionally, old friends of Krystian's still came for dinner or brunch when they were in town, and they'd drink wine and reminisce, and sometimes they'd bring instruments and play for fun. It wasn't the same as the old days, but it was nice.

Out back, Live Oaks and Eucalyptus trees grew in the small yard. Her home nurtured her, from its creaky wood floors and its high ceilings to its naturally beautiful surroundings, and she planned to stay there till the end of her life, to remember Krystian, to stay grounded, to feel permanence. But her home lacked arms to hold her, skin to touch her own, a voice to gentle her fears or make her bubble up in laughter.

Arriving home, the professor shut the oak front door with its stained-glass window and caught the special scents that meant home, old wood and beeswax from the parlor, a drift of garlic and rosemary from the kitchen. As she hung up her sweater, her graceful grey cat, Paris, came to greet her with a small high-pitched meow. "Ah, my little angel-voice." She picked him up, hugging him gently, toed off her shoes and headed into the warm, western-facing kitchen for a glass of wine. She got some cat food from the processor, put it down for Paris and watched him eat with his usual gusto. She opened a bottle of Syrah, enjoying the little pop of the cork as she eased it out.

Sipping the deep red wine, appreciating the varietal's dry and berry flavors, Angela sat in the window seat overlooking the back yard. Paris leapt neatly to the other end of the cushion and she watched him watching the birds hopping about, listening to their different voices. Squirrels bounded from tree limb to trunk and froze, barking in territorial declaration. Evening fog crept through the trees and she was glad to be in her cozy spot.

Such beauty. A beautiful day, and except for missing Krystian, a beautiful life, overall. Before pouring a second glass of wine, she gazed outdoors, letting her mind drift. She loved teaching and researching; she especially enjoyed her students: their spirited debates in class, their happy discovery of that crazy colloquial language, Standard, all their different styles of learning. Some had to work very hard to memorize information, and these were her experts in locating and using resources. Once they had words, pronunciation, and Standard's peculiar grammar, they retained them for ages. Others easily learned, absorbing this information like sponges. Some held on to what they'd learned long past the tests but others – well, "data in, data out, data-recalled-in-a-pinch."

Most of her students were very special young people who brought great enthusiasm to their studies, whether they had to work very hard or not. And while Cadet Spock did not himself openly evince enthusiasm, he brought it out in others with his understated encouragement. They seemed quite delighted when he simply nodded or raised an eyebrow to acknowledge their accomplishments.

Spock had arrived at SFA already very well educated. The son of a linguist, he picked up languages readily; his brain was made to speedily facilitate the absorption of new knowledge. She made him her Teaching Assistant immediately, because he had far more to give the first-year students than he had to learn from her. He was now in his second year as her TA because he was such a valuable asset.

Every Vulcan she had ever met was incredibly intelligent (although none were like Spock – they bore no traces of amusement, or sympathy, in their eyes). She'd been intrigued by Spock's abilities, and had briefly researched various Vulcan teaching styles.

In their very effective teaching of music or arts, the Vulcans used an apprentice/master system, which differed considerably from the style of their "regular" schooling. She'd been at first startled and rather put off by the "learning bowl" methods used for elementary and advanced general schooling – but amazingly, Vulcan children's plastic minds were able to absorb different streams of knowledge simultaneously. During the "middle school" and "high school" courses, the children also attended lecture, debate and discussion classes.

Once it'd been definitively proven that (without artificial enhancement) Humans were incapable of true multi-tasking, Vulcans were the acknowledged leaders in this skill. Even now Vulcan and other Federation scholars were working to find ways to naturally intensify Human learning abilities.

Angela silently toasted herself for getting through the day and sipped her second glass of wine, regretting her solitude, then feeling relieved by it. She had a "boatload" of papers to review this evening, and was fatigued by her emotions earlier today, and by what she was beginning to realize was a near obsession with her Vulcan assistant. After emptying her glass and slowly brushing Paris, who happily squinted his eyes – he adored being groomed – she decided to take a nap.

She went upstairs, stripped, and curled up in her too-big bed. She heard Paris thump lightly as he landed on the foot of the mattress. She didn't feel this horrible empty, aching feeling often anymore, but near each anniversary of Krystian's death, it was difficult getting through the nights. Paris slipped under the comforter, settled inside the curve of her body, purring, and she rested her hand on his vibrating side.

Curled toward the empty side of the bed, she felt tears well up again, missing the feel of Krystian's fingers gliding over her face, the feeling of smoothing his wavy silver hair with her hands, his kisses, the sound of his practicing while she had taken other naps. She had holos and she had memories, but some of his fleeting facial expressions not captured had disappeared from her memory.

The heat of him, his quick ways of moving, his funny, long-legged stalking when he was peeved … the scent of his neck … the particular rumble of his snoring, the deep resonance of his Scandinavian-accented voice: while she remembered these things, it was as if she told them in stories or replayed visions to herself. Sadly, they no longer had any reality. They amused or comforted her, yet often ached to think of because they only lived in her past.

The arguments they'd had! Usually they were over politics – Krystian, somewhat conservative, Angela, quite the opposite, waving her hands, shouting with emotion; he, responding at first as reasonably as he could (considering his crazy opinions, as Angela thought them), then stalking silently away to practice, either Bach, for its strict rhythmic discipline, or something that pounded and sounded loud.

If she'd been completely unreasonable she would go to him later and apologize, and he would pat her hand on his shoulder and say, "You are passionate for people to have happy lives, like ours. I cannot object to that, my dear." Or, if he had been the guilty party, he would tiptoe into her studio, waving one of his old-style, crisp white handkerchiefs in "surrender," and come to her, murmuring, "I am sorry, Angela. Our opinions differ, but I was wrong to condemn you for yours," and would bend to give her a conciliatory kiss.

Attending his concerts – standing proudly as he accepted the accolades of his admiring audience, watching him graciously accept the flowers they always gave him. Smiling into his laughing indigo-blue eyes, sharing the jokes that were theirs alone. Their mutual interests: shopping for functional and beautiful pottery and visiting galleries for the sculpture; attending concerts, operas, and the occasional jazz jam. Fun with Krystian's musician friends, watching and listening to them improvise together (in the classical or jazz genre) or give afternoon concerts in their home; cooking for them all, getting tipsy and laughing together until tears ran down their faces. Planning charity performances for assistance to refugees or other beings in need and meeting with wealthy patrons of the arts and Federation representatives to support those performances.

Eventually she dozed, hearing Krystian's voice in her mind, quoting Ben Jonson's "To Celia" – a poem he sometimes read to her before they went to bed, in lascivious tones – but his voice in her near-dream was not jesting now:

"Time will not be ours forever

He at length our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vain;

Suns that set may rise again …."

Deeply into his nap, Paris ceased purring just before Angela fell into a snug sleep. But she didn't dream of Krystian.

He is silent as he lithely steps into her office and she locks the door behind him. He stands so straight, he always does; she takes a long look at him. Their images reflect on the windows, dark with the evening. He wears black, a warm knitted turtleneck sweater and slender black trousers with boots, his favored attire in this cool climate.

His deep brown eyes focus on her face, that attentive, deep gaze she's always found so attractive.

She wears a sleeveless voile dress over which she has belted an ankle-length coatdress in deep green moire. Steadily eyeing him she unbelts it and lets it slip down her arms to the floor. She approaches him, deep liquid warmth in her loins, breasts tightening with the cool air and her own anticipation.

A touch, a kiss, begun by him or her? It does not matter … the grainy softness of his voice as he tells her how beautiful she is, and her demurral, and his brown eyes, black now with desire and sincerity, "you must believe me, you are a lovely woman … I am Vulcan; we never lie" … fingers lightly tracing the lines of her face, leaving trails of heat … his voice … "touch me here" … "may I …?" The scent of his skin that she has only detected occasionally, beautiful, alien, yet somehow like sandalwood and spices.

They are congruent, flowing into one another like notes in music, like a beautiful language spoken really well … a flow in her mind of words and intelligence and clarity and a view of things she has never conceived before … a feeling of being whirled up into Spock's thoughts and – emotions! … "you are emotional!" "We are …we simply do not … 'advertise'" …

And heat, enveloping heat, in her mind the colors of heat, the red and orange and yellow of flames, before her eyes the cool alabaster of his skin, limned with dark hair in places … ah, my treasure, my beautiful young man … There is heat on her skin, and heat deep inside her, and a lovely pressure, and the warmth, the heat of him is exquisite, and the sounds his voice is making are so different from his usual reserved tones … they are luxuriant groans, and deep growls, and sighs like she has never heard, echoing her own no longer futile sighs … her tears at a beautiful unity achieved at last after so long, being kissed away by lips so warm – and

Her comm rang; she came quite reluctantly to waking consciousness, inner thighs slippery, and picked it up, rasping, "Brunetti."

"Cadet Spock here," came the voice she had just heard in her dream, "inquiring as to whether you have yet seen Cadet Xian Mei's paper. She makes excellent points comparing and contrasting tonal meanings in her native Mandarin with the variable expressions of tone in Standard …."

She fell back onto her pillow, tired of her vain imaginings, watching Paris stretch and resettle in a curl, listening to Spock's voice, just listening to the professionalism and intelligence flowing through his words to her mind.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

He could not help but contact her. He had desired to hear her voice, and invented a reason he could call her as he'd reviewed cadet papers earlier that evening, right after his own class.

Something was asserting itself in him. It was not the simple but frustrated physical desire and friendship he had felt for Leila, or the mere sexual curiosity he and his female classmates felt about one another during the last years of his Vulcan schooling. It was something more – he suspected it was the thing Leila had hoped for from him, but he could not at the time give to her – an emotional connection with his professor that he was reluctant to admit to himself at first but was making itself more and more apparent by the day. It had in fact begun to feel urgent to him.

He soon got the conversation round from Cadet Xian to the music he would play for Friday's dinner, so he could listen to his mentor describe her favorite pieces, so he could listen to her talk about her husband's playing, so he could listen to her voice.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

"You have chosen lovely music, Cadet Spock; thank you for playing this evening," Professor Brunetti said as she swept by in her green ankle-length belted moire coatdress. Across the room, Spock watched her greet Dr. Eida'eDinn, Commander Kapoor, Captain Pike and his dinner companion, a striking brunette officer with ice-blue eyes called "Number One," who (according to whispers Spock had overheard in the Shuttle Piloting practicum) went by no other name. They all conversed briefly, the Dottoressa ensured they were enjoying their drinks and the company, and as she moved along, they were laughing about some recent Academy happening. She spoke briefly to another small group, three more professors, then took a seat where she could either join in the conversations (she didn't), or simply listen to Spock (she did). He nodded to her; she nodded back, raised her glass to him, and sipped.

"Ir is lovely music," said a bright-blonde woman with a very full glass of wine. "Is it Chinese?"

"Now why would a Vulcan play Chinese music?" asked the saturnine, bearded man seated beside her.

"He is obviously quite bright," the blonde said, gulping some wine. "I've heard Vulcans are very knowledgeable about other cultures. So he might know Chinese music. … Do you?" she asked Spock, who stopped playing.

"I do not. I have heard Vulcan music of the Early Modern period compared with ancient Chinese music by Earth musicologists; I make no distinctions. I play the music I have been taught."

"Oh-ho," said the saturnine man, smiling. "Suffered through music lessons as a child, did you?" He discreetly filled the blonde woman's wine glass again. Across the parlor Spock saw Brunetti roll her eyes.

"No," said Spock equably, "Even as a child, I considered music a very relaxing occupation after each day of my schooling. I also learned to play the piano."

"Cadet Spock has an incredible capacity for learning," his professor explained, arriving at his side. "His home planet has one of the Federation's most efficient educational systems for its children.

"Mr. Spock, I introduce to you Lieutenant Commander Jean LeBrun, professor of European History, and Dr. Maj Skol, Professor of Scandinavian Languages. Their spouses were not able to be here tonight."

Spock nodded at them respectfully, preparing to resume playing.

"I call her 'My-my,'" said LCDR LeBrun, stroking the blonde woman's hand, earning a quelling glance from Dottoressa Brunetti. Dr. Skol tapped his offending hand as if she, too, disapproved, but Spock thought perhaps she was "teasing" him.

Puzzled by their intimate-seeming behavior in this somewhat public context, he looked up to ask, "Professor Brunetti, do you wish me to continue playing?"

"Yes, please, for just a little longer. Now," she said to her colleagues, "I implore you, no more talking with Mr. Spock until dinner."

Professor Skol followed Dr. Brunetti across the room and Spock heard, " … incredibly sexy! What an attractive young man!" and Professor Brunetti's demurral that Vulcans were modest and preferred not to garner attention for their physical attributes or talents. There was a strange undertone in her voice.

Dottoressa Brunetti went to speak with her other guests, and Dr. Skol returned to sit and stare at Spock as he played. He did not mind overmuch; he was accustomed to being stared at and his music absorbed him quite a bit. It was her occasional sighs as he stretched his hands across the strings that he found annoying.

Dinner was brilliant: the guest of honor, Captain Christopher Pike, told stories resulting in a great deal of good-natured laughter; everyone enjoyed the Northern Italian food (Spock's specially prepared Italian vegetarian selections were quite delicious), and any remarks "winkled out of" Spock, as one guest put it, were regarded with due solemnity or a round of good-natured laughter, or genteel snorting, as normal for one of Dr. Eida'eDinn's race. Although Spock was, by now, acquainted with many things which amused Humans, occasionally he was unsure of why they laughed. He reviewed each instance and context so he could communicate with his mother later and ask her opinion.

"Angela," said LeBrun, "You are a genial – and genius! – host. Please pardon me for a few minutes." He left the table. Dr. Skoll made her excuses also.

The dishes were taken away and coffee and tea brought; by now, Spock needed his specially blended tea. He retrieved two packets from the pocket of his sweater and excused himself to find the kitchen.

LeBrun and Skol, married, but not to each other, were engaging in sexual congress in the pantry, out of sight of the hired wait staff. "Pardon me," Spock said coolly.

"Would you like to join us?" Maj asked.

"Not at this time," Spock said. He had discovered this was a much better-received response than the judgmental-sounding, Certainly not. "But do … carry on."

Ignoring their sighs and the noisily liquid sounds of their kissing, he quickly got hot water from the processor, plunked two packets of f'canth blend tea into a large artisinal mug, and left.

Back at the table, Spock waited just long enough for his tea to steep and drained half of it in three gulps.

He had seen something else in the kitchen that had unsettled him, a packet of a Vulcan herb used from ancient times to increase sexual desire. Originally domnu had been used for reluctant mates. Before Surak's philosophy taught that excessive emotional and sexual expression often found unhealthy outlets, Vulcans were very sexually passionate and forthright about it; domnu had come to be used rather liberally in any love or sex relationship to enhance the users' experience of sex.

Spock breathed, and sipped his tea, and knew he would feel calmer momentarily. Too many hours among Humans, with their energies and emotions working all about him, rubbing against each others' and creating new energies, often unnerved him, so his mother regularly sent him f'canth natural blend tea as a calmative. She claimed great faith in its efficacy – she had served it to Sarek for the first ten years of their marriage.

It was fortunate he had the tea to drink tonight, considering also his burgeoning and … complicated thoughts concerning Angela Brunetti.

Captain Pike's voice caught Spock's attention then. "The U.S.S. Enterprise is going to be our new flagship. They've framed her up in Iowa's Riverside Shipyard. They're finishing decks and systems installation starts in several months. I've been selected to captain her."

"Congratulations!" smiled Dr. Brunetti. "May I propose a toast – to the Enterprise and her captain!"

"Hear, hear!" said the others, raising and draining their wine glasses (Spock raised his water glass and drank).

Pike graciously acknowledged them, his eyes dancing. "Meanwhile, I'm heading up some scientific expeditions on the Hood." He eyed Spock for a moment. "You were accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy, correct, Mr. Spock?"

"Yes, sir. I declined their invitation and instead came to Starfleet Academy."

Pike's grey-blue eyes narrowed perceptively. "So maybe you'd be interested in field experience that being a teaching assistant can't give you?"

"Indeed, Captain. I joined Starfleet to explore and gain knowledge of the many aspects of science."

"Dr. Brunetti told me you've been taking graduate-level Science courses at the University of California at Berkeley?"

Spock had learned that acknowledging his own accomplishments often excited envy rather than appreciation in Humans; however, with respect to the captain's rank, he nodded.

In contrast to most of his fellow cadets, the professors smiled or raised their glasses to him in approval of his thirst for learning.

"Beware, though, my young Vulcan friend," said Professor LeBrun, having just returned to the table, "too much work can make Spock a dull boy."

Captain Pike glanced at Professor Skoll, who was just sitting back down, then raised an eyebrow at LeBrun, whose deeply tanned face took on a ruddy glow.

"Let's meet for lunch tomorrow to discuss your qualifications," Pike said to Spock. "Your record shows your admirable accomplishments as a scholar and scientist. I'm taking Hood out on a field expedition next month, and if you'd like to get your feet wet – er, get some experience, you're welcome to be part of my crew. I'll fill you in."

"I would be honored, sir."

"Ahh," said Professor Brunetti, looking down. "And here is my cat, Paris, who's come to acquaint himself with all of you. He is named for Paris, where Krystian and I found him."

The cat moved past most of the guests, paused by Number One, looked at her and slowly blinked; she warmly returned the look. Paris moved on to Spock, and jumped up into his lap, a skillful maneuver as Spock was still seated at the table. The cat soon began to purr, because he was being softly pet in long, peace-inducing strokes.

Conversation flowed, and at length their hostess rose from her seat at the table. "Mister Spock, when you finish your tea, would you play the piano for us?" Professor Brunetti asked.

"I will be pleased to do so. What music would you like to hear?" He swept his gaze over the guests.

Spock sipped his tea (and petted the cat – it had very soft fur), listening to the opinions of the others, hearing the names of some of his mother's – and Dr. Brunetti's – favorite composers: Bach, Schubert, Chopin, Brahms, Schumann, T'Pem, and MhSzouk, but decided he would play a Strauss waltz first so that the guests might dance, then selections to claim their attention, first, and later, to relax them so they would be ready to head home. After a full day, no meditation, and too many disorderly Human thoughts and actions around him, Spock knew it would be a relief to again concentrate his mind on skillfully rendering music.

"I now formally present my Teaching Assistant, Cadet Third/class Spock of Vulcan, now our most distinguished student at Starfleet Academy," said Dr. Brunetti. "I'd like all of you to know that Dr. Chatterjee – Department of Sciences – and I are recommending to the Board that Spock advance into Starfleet Academy's doctoral program. He has already earned the equivalents of doctorates in Computer Sciences and Exobiology, and a Master's in Astrophysics. I invite those of you who've instructed Mr. Spock in Languages to share your opinions with me via communication tomorrow; Dr. Chatterjee and I will be going before the Board later this week. I would value your input."

Certain thoughts of Spock's collided then went very still, but he moved to the piano and began to play. (He suddenly remembered another Third/class cadet teaching assistant, Shajila Tumanei, complaining that "TA" stood for "tits and ass – the only things my professor wants my assistance with". She had successfully filed a sexual harassment complaint with the SFA Board.)

He began with Chopin's "Revolutionary Etude" because he felt the need to release an excess of energy in his arms. The dramatic music definitely caught the guests' attention and most of them settled in quietly to listen. He then played Strauss, the "Morning Papers" waltz, and people got up to dance. Ms. Skoll and Professor LeBrun had returned to each other from separate sides of the room, and now moved sensuously together, while others genuinely waltzed. Captain Pike and Number One made a graceful pair.

On to one of Bach's "Four-Part Inventions" and "Six Little Preludes" (as intended, everyone sat down to listen or conduct quiet conversations). He moved on to Schumann, and some T'Pem, then again Chopin: several Preludes and contemplative Etudes followed; then he played Two Meditations by MhSzouk, and ended with the gently rocking rhythms of Chopin's "Berceuse" (which Amanda had played to Spock when he was young and had trouble sleeping).

He moved on very quietly to Bach again, instrumental adaptations of vocal selections, "Bist Du Bei Mir," and "Sheep May Safely Graze," and the guests began to say their farewells and linger on the porch of the old-style house. Softly, to relax, he played an adagio from a Mozart Sonata – and at last, all the guests had gone.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

Spock donned his coat and put his lyrette into its case, making ready to depart. He felt a need to escape, to be alone, to meditate and calm the … yes, the thoughts – roiling within him.

Professor Brunetti leaned against the inside of her front door and said, "I am very grateful to you – it was a bit difficult for me to host this evening and the music helped me get through it – you played so beautifully."

"Thank you," Spock said tonelessly.

"You and Christopher Pike saved my life tonight. Thank god they're all gone. Although I have to say I find Maj quite amusing. She just says whatever she thinks."

Spock stood up straight from closing his instrument case. "Along with Professor LeBrun she also appears to readily indulge her appetites. Were you planning to do so yourself?"

She looked at him narrowly, her attractive eyes crinkling at the corners. "I beg your pardon?"

"The phrase 'singing for one's supper' has occurred. Although I suppose 'playing' is more applicable in my case. Does it also apply to my being considered for the Academy's doctoral program?"

Her mouth opened a little in disbelief. "Oh, Spock, I didn't think you were one to stand on pride like this! My approbation has nothing to do with your playing here, although I greatly appreciate your help tonight. I hoped you'd be as pleased to accept my recommendation for the graduate program as I am to give it. You contribute so much to the intellectual tone of every classroom discussion; you're a stalwart at grading time, I greatly value your presence in my classes –"

"—Do you not also value my autonomy?" Spock interrupted, holding something up.

The professor looked at the domnu packet in his hand and drew herself up to full height, her green eyes flashing. "Did you think I was about to use that tonight? That I was going to give that to you without your permission?"

"I fail to understand why you have this herb at all."

"Well, I doubt I can discuss my reasons with you now." She moved swiftly as if to open the door for him to leave. Her next words came in a torrent. "I will, of course, recommend you for the doctoral program, regardless of your … disapproval of personal decisions and actions you could not possibly understand." Her voice had risen, but still sounded authoritative, sonorous. "My recommendation did not hinge upon your 'singing for your supper – playing this evening – or doing anything else! I am very sorry that there appears to be a connection. Mi dispiace!"

Taking her hand away from the door but gesturing at it – You may go – she met his eyes, her face furiously ablush. She took a moment to compose her expression, and moved impatiently to grab the packet Spock had put on top of the piano, quickly walked into the kitchen and threw it into the recycler.

Curious, Spock followed her. She turned to look at him, her mouth set in a straight line. "I thought you were leaving," she said roughly, eyes glittering.

Spock shook his head, once.

Then, sighing, she rolled her eyes, her hands gesturing impatiently as a tear escaped. "Dio mio. I may as well … confess. I am not angry with you so much as with myself. Lately my judgement has been quite clouded. I've – been relying too much upon you for your company. As a professor I … I should not allow myself to feel such attraction —" She turned away, fumbling for something in her pocket, then wiped her nose. "Ohhh, I am a damned fool to have begun making assumptions I had no business making."

"I do not believe you are a fool, Dottoressa, 'damned' or otherwise. As to your … assumptions, I have concluded that I am attracted to you also."

He folded his hands behind his back, centering himself. "However, I must tell you …" he found himself at a loss for words and paused to order his thoughts. "I am … promised – you might use the word 'engaged' – to a young woman. Our parents arranged the match when were seven years of age."

"So are you saying you cannot be with me in any case?" Her voice sounded unnaturally high, the sound indicating tightness in her throat. At the end of Spock's friendship with Leila, her voice had had that sound. "That you feel attracted, but that is the end of it?"

"No … but I think it is important to inform you of my 'engagement.' Dottoressa, I am promised to T'Pring, but have never experienced a true … connection with her."

"She has a lovely name."

"She is quite … beautiful. Her appearance has been remarked even in our society. But where T'Pring and I would exchange information concerning our accomplishments and interests, I have received none from her. I hear of her from my parents. When I contact her she is … polite but perfunctory in conversation, and often refers to Stonn, one of my classmates … in sum, she appears indifferent to me."

He saw her close her eyes. "I cannot imagine being indifferent to you, Spock. Does her behavior pain you?"

"I have grown used to it in the last twelve years. When our marriage was arranged our initial contact was … minimal, and at this time I am not sure if our relationship will ever improve. That is why I am willing to – why I remained here tonight, instead of leaving with the other guests."

She inhaled deeply. "And this arranged marriage is why you have never expressed any interest in me in a … in a personal way?"

"I have also been concerned about the regulations regarding fraternization."

Hesitantly, she glanced over her shoulder at him. Her facial expression of sadness eased, and her tone of voice became clearer. "You display eminent good sense at being concerned about it. But after careful reading of the regulations, might we have reached the same conclusion?"

Spock folded his hands behind his back and quoted, " 'Coercion is absolutely forbidden, as is the exchange of favors for consideration.' (That … was why I … 'jumped to a conclusion' earlier).

" 'However mutual attractions will undeniably occur, and will be permitted absent the first two conditions. It is essential, however, for any such mutually attracted individuals to refrain from the public display of affection (PDA) or other appearance of impropriety.'

"… Regardless, Dottoressa, I remain curious about your possession of domnu."

"I've had some insecurity about relating to you in the way I want to …"

"You should not."

"So …" she said, still a bit discomfited, "You're truly attracted to me, considering my … age? I didn't need the domnu after all?"

"You need only rely on your intelligence, your charm, your wit, and our mutual enjoyment of culture to attract me, Doctor. Your age is immaterial to me," said Spock quietly.

"Are you consenting to … be with me? If you are I must hear you say it, so it's clear between us that I'm not coercing you."

He stepped close to her and wiped away one of her tears with a gentle finger. "Yes, Dottoressa, I do consent."

There was a long pause between them.

Eventually she said, "Please call me Angela when we are alone."

Now he breathed for a moment, raising his innermost mental shields, so he would not be emotionally overwhelmed. "Angela. I am concerned about your state of mind this evening, considering your … the anniversary you referred to a few days ago."

She dropped her gaze, her body still turned partly away from him, folding her arms as if to keep herself warm. "I feel very lonely, Spock. It has been a long time. I will always love my husband – my memories of him, happy and sad, are a part of my consciousness. But–" and here she looked up, into his face, "I miss being touched. I miss being held and cared for … loved. If you're not prepared to do that, it's all right; I'm used to being alone, but—"

"There is no need for you to be alone."

"Do you know how much a human can long for touch …?"

"Yes." He took a step closer to her, allowing his gaze to grow warm, intense. "My mother was demonstrative when I was very young." He reached out a hand to stroke some long tendrils of hair curling over the nape of her neck and, like a cat, she leaned into his touch.

"When I chose the Vulcan way of life, she had to give up her affectionate behavior, and … I perceived her feelings of loss for many years, and in fact … sensed the loss myself." He paused, his hand stilled on her neck. "To be embraced and caressed in the Human way may be … a part of my nature." Moving behind her Spock slipped his arms around her. "I would welcome the opportunity to exchange these gifts, to be intimate with you." He leaned his head slightly forward to whisper in her ear: "And I will enjoy your company perfectly well without domnu."

Angela turned, watching his eyes, and met his mouth with hers. He at first drew back, hesitant, and dryly, briefly, touched his lips to her mouth. She smiled. "Let me show you." She kissed him lightly multiple times, then his upper lip, and his lower lip, very slowly making her kisses moister and firmer. Spock proceeded gingerly with the Human physical expression, but her gentle kisses soon coaxed his lips to perform some most satisfying osculations. Spock's nerve endings came alive; he had never been so aware of kissing's sensuality and now he felt deeply stirred. He began adding little licks, to her upper lip at first, then her eyebrows, then her ears and neck, eliciting moans of pleasure from her.

She was touching her hands to his face and neck, leading him to make an instinctual, mild telepathic connection. He read loneliness, a gratitude for companionship, desire; all things he had sensed in himself.

Moving her head to lean on his shoulder, she stroked his jaw with her fingers, smiling. "I am rather at loose ends tonight … would you be willing to stay with me?" she murmured into his ear, in her lilting low voice. Her moist breath and the vibrations exciting his hearing mechanism produced a trembling sensation deep within him. He felt unloosed, flying, soaring free.

His lok was rousing, and his hands lowered to her lovely derriere to pull her hips up and close to his own so she would know his desire, and feel the rumbling purr beginning in his chest.

"Indeed, yes, Angela." His voice was hoarse. "I believe we may have many more evenings of being 'at loose ends' to come."

Picking her up in his arms and gracefully stepping over the cat, he carried her up the stairs.

She lets the green moiré coatdress drop to the floor. In her sleeveless voile dress she is slightly chilled but anticipates his touch; her skin tightens and she inhales, taking a step toward him on the cool wooden floor.

As she nears him his pupils widen and his nostrils flare. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. She smells him, too; a woody, spicy scent overlaid with a slight musk of sexual desire. Hands at the neck of his formal deep-blue coat, he removes it in one swift motion, revealing again his formal black silken high-necked tunic. He unfastens it, loosing the wide flap crossing his front, attached by a button and loop at his left collarbone. The shirt looks very dark against his paleness, accentuating the black hair at his pectorals. Then he reaches out his long-fingered hands to stroke his fingertips over her nipples, and she inhales sharply, her eyes going back to his. His gaze taking hers in, he knows her desire.

One hand travels down her torso to her pubic mound and he presses his fingers into her folds, the voile between them soaking instantly and adding a delightful irritant as he strokes her through the material. His other hand traces the contours of her face, fingertips grazing her cheeks gently, gently until his fingers stroke back over her neck to her nape and hold her as he moves his mouth to hers.

A tentative kiss, his lips on hers heating them. Teasingly, her teeth nip his Cupid's bow mouth, the near plumpness of his bottom lip. His lips, at first warm and dry, moisten as their contact deepens to slippery open-mouthed kisses, then intermittent tender touches of lips to skin. The tip of Spock's tongue runs gently over her throat, up to her neck; he stretches his own neck so he can tongue her nape, then up to her ear, to exhale gently, all the time scenting her, as though memorizing her scent. Her hands sweep slowly up his torso to ruffle the hair revealed on his chest – he breathes in deeply, trying to control the shiver that takes him as her fingertips flick his nipples and trail down to his abdomen, inside the waistband of his trousers; she runs her nails through the black bush around his lok, which her fingers then embrace; she pets its silkiness, then holds it, tightening and loosening her grasp with his breath.

He bends his head to her breast, tonguing her nipples through the voile until they ache; she says, "bite, bite" and his teeth lightly close around each aureole in turn, his tongue working the stiffened tips, making her breath come hard and raspy. Her fingers, now musky with his intimate scent, reach up to caress his pointed ears, eliciting a growl from down in his throat, and she kisses him there, feeling a vibration, more than merely his pulse. His head is back a bit, his throat fully exposed to her, and his fingers, moist with the wetness of her labia, now slip into her mouth, and he inhales deeply as her lips close around them, licking and tasting.

Now they are undressed, as suddenly as if they are in a dream – now he carries her to the bed – lying together, touching their hands to one another's bodies, flattening palms over thighs and hips; his skin is smooth, even smoother than hers, except for the hair down his front and on his arms and legs. She kisses his throat, feels the rapid fiery pulse there, thudding as quick as a cat's, the heat very like also.

Ah, the heat of him, against her skin; he lies back, inviting her to mount him, and she guides him between her folds, the thickness of his penis prodding at her deep inner fold to home in on her entrance, moving in and out again as she moves down and up, now lying upon him to rub her nipples in his chest hair, now sitting up to push him in and out, the liquid of her smoothing the way, her inside expanding eagerly to take him.

"A most gratifying sensation …" he begins, but says no more; she can see from his face that he is very involved – his expression is one of concentration, discernment of every physical sensation. His large hands grasp her lower waist to bring her down more closely to him and he begins moving his hips up to meet her firmly as she rides him, and he watches her intently, his pupils huge and black.

It is good and very good, and the few sounds he makes are gasps and growls of force, while she is vocal, not loud, but moaning low, and whimpering; they are swelling together, stroking with force and close, close to a spiritual unity – and joining, joining at last, their insides pulsing together in release and ecstasy. And tears, there are always tears, "It's my nature," she apologizes, and he wipes her tears away and tastes them, "Like your oceans," and he gathers her to him and they sleep together like baby cats.

The next morning, the sun kissed their bodies, and Angela woke to see Spock gazing down at her with much the same concentrated look Paris would give her. In fact she saw the cat's silver-grey form at Spock's feet.

Spock said those words Angela loved to hear after a night of love.

"What would you like for breakfast?"

~ /\ ~ ~ /\ ~ /\ ~ /\ ~ ~ /\ ~

Professor Angela Brunetti, Chief, European Languages Department at Starfleet Academy, chewed on the end of her stylus, sighed, and assigned a grade of 62%. She didn't want to do it, she didn't like to do it, but it was time to break the bad news to Cadet Depew that he suddenly seemed unable to adequately express himself in any language. He'd been brilliant last semester. Perhaps a medical event had recently occurred, or a physiological deficit revealed itself? She made a note to confer with his Physical Training instructors and Starfleet Medical to find out if that might be true.

She heard a brief knock at her door, and sensing a familiar presence in her mind, called, "Animo, per favore, Signore Spock!" (She did not like saying "Come!" or "Enter!" – they seemed so peremptory.) The door opened, and her old favorito walked in.

"My dear Commander Spock," she smiled broadly, standing and indicating he should sit. "Espresso? Tea?"

He took a seat, saying, "A glass of cold water would be sufficient, thank you, Dottoressa."

She got water for each of them and raised her glass to him. "It is wonderful to see you. Your instructor's uniform suits you very well."

His eyes took on a tiny spark of amusement. "I have heard that compliment more than a few times, but I am gratified that you find its appearance pleasing."

"Semplice!" Sitting back down behind her desk she grinned. "Of course I do, silly. Did I not always tell you that you are magnificente in dark colors?"

He quirked his mouth at the left corner, saying, "You did. In or out of them, I believe."

She laughed outright. "Ah! My friend. I have missed your sense of humor." She drank some water, then sat back in her chair. "So what brings you over this way, dear signore? I haven't seen you in quite a while." She leaned forward and said confidingly, "I have missed your friendship."

His left eyebrow ascended a bit. "You are keeping company with another musician, are you not, Professoressa?"

Beaming, she sat upright. "Ahh, yes – another in a long line, caro." She made an ebullient gesture. "First Krystian, then you – although you didn't make music a career, I still count you among my beloved musicians – and now Ernesto. He is one of Krystian's old friends who had been touring across the galaxy for a decade or more. You may know of him – Ernesto Carbajal?"

Spock nodded. "A most excellent classical guitarist. I attended his recent concert here, in fact."

"Oh! I saw you with that lovely young lady. I wish I'd been able to get your attention. I would have loved to introduce you both to Ernesto. In fact, I want to invite you and your dearestto dinner."

"You have … heard a rumor?"

"No – not a rumor – no need for concern. I have heard only of her assistantship to you because she has outstanding records in leadership and academics – and, speaking of excellent musicians, I heard her sing at the Spring concert. But I intuited the rest when I saw you two together at Peet's Coffee a couple of weeks later. You seemed quite occupied with each other, so I didn't introduce myself." She had a sly sparkle in her eyes. "My dear friend, you are following in a fine tradition!"

Their eyes met, and for a moment mutual and loving admiration glimmered between them. Again his mouth quirked and he bowed his head. "Indeed, Dottoressa. I learned from the very best."

~/\~ Fine ~/\~

Vocabulario:

Animo – enter [It.]

Ashayam – My love [Vulcan]

Caro – dear [It.]

Domnu – A Vulcan herb used to increase desire [I made this stuff up – ahh, fiction!]

Dottoressa – Doctor [PhD],fem.[It.]

F'Canth – a Vulcan herb brewed as tea; a calmative for Vulcans [made this up too]

Favorito - dear [It.]

Ko-tik – Someone at the VLD has a pawky sense of humor. Vagina [Vulcan]

Lok – I think we all know this one, but okayyy. Penis [Vulcan]

Magnificente – magnificent [It.]

Mpenzi – darling [Ki-Swahili]

Per favore – (if you) please [It.]

Professoressa – Professor,fem. [It.]

Semplice – silly [It.]

Venezia – Venice [It.]

A/N: This story is dedicated – to all "ladies of a certain age" who have loved Spock through many years – to both Leonard Nimoy's and Zachary Quinto's equally hmmm … stirring incarnations of Our Hero – and to my wonderful Betas, Spockside and Slippery Stone!

(In case some did not catch it, Spock accessed Dottoressa Brunetti's mind through a mind-meld later during their relationship [not shown here]. If you'd like to read another story about them, let me know!)

Comments about my Italian usage [Dottoressa, Professoressa, etc.] – From what I've read about the Italian usage of titles, I gathered that Professoressa is used for "Professor" and that Dottoressa may be also used in addressing a PhD. If you see things I did not get right, please PM me.

I hope you've enjoyed it - please tell me what you think. I truly appreciate thoughtful reviews.