Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS: New Orleans or its characters...
Author's Note: Honestly, updates for other stories are in progress, but you know, smut…
WARNING: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT
Popular opinion seemed to hold that it was rather vanilla, supposedly boring, but Christopher LaSalle believed that the missionary position might just be his favorite when it came to sexual encounters with this woman. Oh, they'd put a good number to the test so far, every one quite effective in its own way. But having her lying beneath him, pinning her hands beside her head, their fingers intertwined, her legs wrapped about him, holding him, and those gorgeous eyes of hers staring up at him... it really did it for him.
And it wasn't as much that he wanted to dominate her, to be the one in control, as the fact that it meant she'd willingly submitted to him, allowed him to lead. The first few times they spent the night together was more or less precisely as he'd imagined it would be, her need for control the primary showing as they began their 'casual' intimacy. And he wasn't so macho that he battled her to lead the dance, knew that she would never be comfortable with him unless he allowed her to slowly come to the realization that he wasn't going to try to control her, that he wanted to be with her because he respected and admired her as much as he was physically attracted to her.
So Merri Brody had initially led their dance, still determined the nature of the steps most of the time, and Chris was perfectly fine with that. He enjoyed having her on top of him, in all of its variations, setting the pace, following a path to her pleasure and taking him along for the ride. Yet, it was quite satisfying, a little surprising when she'd accepted him as a sexual partner she could trust, to release her need for control with him, allowed him to be the dominant partner, to take her. Equal parts give and take. So far, it'd been working quite well, their casual fling stretching on over the months, neither tiring of the other.
Maybe it was because he couldn't get enough of her. Not just her body, which suited him, his tastes, his needs, perfectly. But, if he had to admit it, it was her goddamned eyes, her unreasonably beautiful eyes, the way she stared into him when they had sex... Well, when they had sex in a position that allowed eye contact. Another reason he loved the position he had her in, the way she was staring into him with unwavering intensity, like she could penetrate the very soul of him as he penetrated her flesh.
She didn't close her eyes, even as he felt the climax building in her body, her lips parted, her breath quickening. They'd gotten into the addicting habit of staring into one another, almost as if it were a contest, to the very end. He wouldn't look away and neither would she, even though the urge to kiss her was nearly as desperate as his body's pleas for release. He would afterward, languorously, savoring the taste and warmth of her mouth. But he would not, could not leave her dark eyes. Their color was so rich that it was difficult to tell under normal circumstances where iris ended and pupil began, and in the dim light of her bedside lamp, he had no clue, but could only guess that her pupils had dilated wide as the stimulation to her flesh increased.
She was close, her body movements growing more fervent as they sought to meet his. Sometimes, he'd reach down between their bodies and touch her, just a gentle caress was generally all she needed to send her over the edge, but not this time. He liked the feel of her palms against his, of her hands gripping his. So instead, he shifted his hips slightly, angling his penetration to hit a spot inside of her he knew to be especially sensitive, the nerves somehow closer to the surface of her flesh or something. The first time he'd found it, she'd shouted for him to stop, and he had, confused until she'd explained with flushed cheeks that it was too much for her to handle. And so he'd avoided going straight there, instead worked his way up to it, until she was comfortable with stimulation, or already too wound up to notice.
Just a couple thrusts against that spot brought her pending orgasm to fruition, her hands gripping his own, painfully hard, her thighs quivering as her legs tensed, her back arched, a loud cry escaping her lips as her insides spasmed around him. His hips thrust more wildly, convulsively into her, beyond his control, drawing out her orgasm, earning loud cries of pleasure from her until he drove hard and deep, achieving his own climax with her name a cry on his lips, and using every ounce of his will to keep his eyes open and locked on hers.
As soon as the orgasmic tension left him, his muscles turned to jelly and he collapsed on top of her. He used to think it a rude thing to do, to crush the woman who'd just let him do intimate things to her, but honestly, with Merri Brody, he reveled in it. He yearned for those few extra minutes when he could lay satisfied and spent in her arms, feel her warm, simultaneously soft and firm body beneath him, feel her heart beating against his chest, bury his face in her neck, nuzzle the side of her face, shift slightly to kiss her delectable mouth, before once more burying his face against her skin, breathing in the sated scent of female musk and sweat. And best of all, she indulged him in the luxury of it, her legs still wrapped about him, cradling him, her hands stroking the nape of his neck and down his back along his spine, her soft lips kissing his temple, as they both made soft moans and whimpers of dissipating pleasure.
Finally, he forced himself to pull out and roll off from her onto his back, feeling the loss of the intimacy even though she almost instantly was curling up against his side, her hand resting on his chest, her head on his shoulder, a leg thrown possessively over him. They didn't discuss the cuddling, how it implicated there was more between them than a mutual desire for sexual release. Or the pillow talk, which covered any and every topic except for the fact of the pillow talk's existence. Or that no matter who's place they were staying at, neither of them ever left afterward, that they always spent the entire night together, and on weekends, sometimes the following days.
Chris supposed it meant he was a lover, not just a booty call, and he was fine with that, even if it meant he'd never be the boyfriend.
A/N: I know… pointless, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Probably a Brody-side to this as well… maybe with some explanation as to how they hooked up? Or maybe just more pointless smut.
A/N2: And now back to writing pieces with actual plot… sort of...