Characters: Endeavour Morse, Monica Hicks

Rating: M for mature (age 18+).

Warnings: Sexuality, mature themes, social and political realities. One-shot drabble.

Note: For the purposes of this story, Monica is Afro-Caribbean; specifically, Jamaican (for more information, search on the term 'Windrush Generation'). She uses the nickname 'Dev' with Morse.

…

Reveal

"You're fond of Saint-Saëns?" Music spilled forth from the phonograph speaker in the small flat. Endeavour Morse's hands were still, no longer fidgeting.

Monica interpreted Morse's reaction as surprise, and it stung a little. Why Dev, of all people – I like him! His question reminded Monica of certain people she encountered at work who seemed astonished to learn that she'd visited the British Museum, recognized the Mona Lisa, enjoyed reading Dickens – or indeed, any books more challenging than Enid Blyton's – and that she could identify Indira Gandhi or Lyndon Johnson in a newspaper. If they trusted her to work with chemicals, sharp objects and patients' bodies in a hospital, shouldn't they trust her to think about the outside world as well?

Perhaps like many English people, Morse rarely thought about how closely linked to the 'Old World' other people from former colonies remained. The bonds would likely always be strong despite independence movements and changing politics. Monica sighed. After work she'd washed, combed her hair, changed into a casual dress and come over to spend a cozy evening with Morse as had become their habit. Too much trust, too soon?

Monica looked down at the pincushion in her lap and spoke cautiously. "The nuns at my school in Kingston taught 'Music Appreciation'; we did more than sing Anglican hymns. Also, my family listened to the BBC at home before and after we moved to Britain." Monica tried to keep her voice relaxed as she looked over at him. "On my days off, I go to the library or sometimes to public concerts in Oxford, just as other people do. I'm part of the Great British Public now that I live here…or at least, that's the idea."

Too late, Morse understood, his eyes wide. Blushing, he stepped away from the phonograph and sat down in the chair nearest hers. "Iam sorry. I didn't mean to imply…" Long fingers curved around hers, pulling them away from the pincushion. "Please, Monica. You're an intelligent woman, I know that. I didn't mean that you wouldn't appreciate - forgive me, I'm not explaining this properly."

The apology was sincere, but she knew that he wouldn't let the matter drop until she replied. "Dev...the way certain people speak to me, it's as though they've forgotten how the Commonwealth functions, or that I'm human with feelings. They just say what they think. I suppose I'm more of a workhorse than a person to them." Monica looked at him closely. "You truly were asking my opinion about music, weren't you? How do you manage day by day, being so honest?"

"Aren't the police supposed to be honest?" A cynical half-smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

"No, I mean as a person, not a detective. You don't tell me very much about your work, but you say enough for me to know that your honesty gets you crawled into trouble." Monica saw him smile at her use of the colloquial phrase. "So. I believe you; you really wanted to talk about music."

Morse leaned closer. His fingertips traced slow, tantalizing loops over the back of her hand. "I enjoy your company. I want to know what you think."

The last man Monica dated showed little curiosity about her, only pausing long enough in his discussion of himself and his opinions to ask her if she worked in the morning. He'd actually had the cheek to look disappointed when she hadn't invited him up to her flat.

This man waited, listening.

"Right, then. Yes, I am fond of Saint-Saëns. Not only Carnival of the Animals. Other music too." She inhaled traces of his light aftershave and listened to the piano and orchestra, the notes moving across the room like a comet through the night sky. "Sometimes when I visit my family in London, my friends take me to parties where people dance to ska, rocksteady, and American blues and soul. Music is for everyone in the world, and I like to hear all kinds."

Morse blinked. "Rocksteady?"

"Jamaican music." Monica smiled. "I'll buy some 45s on my next visit and we can play them on your phonograph. Maybe I'll even give you a dance lesson."

His bashful smile was adorable. "Dancing is not among my strongest skills. Will you teach me a slow dance first, m'lady?"

Monica's felt her face grow warm as she blushed. M'lady: an endearment, or teasing? "Fine, if you like."

"With you teaching? I'd like it very much. I'll follow your lead." Some seriousness showed in his expression, making Monica think he played word games again, speaking of something not physical.

The music coming from the phonograph had changed several minutes ago. "Tell me what we're hearing now? It's familiar, but I forget exactly..."

Morse blushed again. "Africa, Fantasy in G Minor, Opus 89."

"Imagine that!" Monica smiled at the irony of the timing. Morse smiled back, the tension easing away.

"This album is something of a sampler. The next piece is…" He closed his eyes for a moment, then returned his gaze to her as a flute played sinuous notes over a lush bed of orchestral sound. "Romance in D-Flat Major." He moved closer and kissed her.

They listened, kissing, moving apart, and rejoining. Monica felt as though she and Morse floated inside a cloud of music. Only the heat of his mouth and the light caress of his fingers along her arm tied her to the realities of Earth, with all of its pleasures and worries.

When Morse turned her wrist over and pressed his lips to the sensitive, tender skin over her veins, she moaned. The pincushion rolled down across her knee and bounced on the floor once before rolling to a stop beneath the green-topped table, where it sat like a prickly red indictment of her willingness to surrender herself to her own sensuality. Monica leaned forward to pick it up. Morse touched the tip of his tongue to the palm of her hand in darting movements that reminded her of an entirely different action. She let the pincushion stay.

The music changed again as Morse left the chair and sank to his knees before her, his hands gliding up her legs. The orchestra played a concerto: number one or number three? With his senses reeling he couldn't remember and it hardly mattered. Nylon slid beneath his fingertips; deliberately, he paused at the hem of her skirt. Above him, Monica's eyelids fluttered and she bit her lip as though trying to control her emotions. Her rounded bosom raised and lowered with each breath. His quickened inhalations made his voice sound husky to his own ears.

"May I?"

She nodded, inhaling deeply as though the effect of his touch made it difficult for her to speak. Good. Clearly, he was learning enough about Monica to know how to please her – at least physically. This wasn't the first time Morse had knelt before a woman; he hoped that it wouldn't be the only time he did so for Monica.

Monica watched his slim, warm fingers disappear under her skirt. In the golden light of the nearby lamp his face looked vulnerable, so full of fascinated yearning that a corresponding wave of desire surged through her; she liked being wanted. Would he be horrified or pleased if she tried to undress him? Nice girls didn't do that, she suspected. Endeavour Morse was different to other men; he might even be delighted by her enthusiasm. But she couldn't risk shocking him and seeing him turn cruel and dismissive. Patience was a virtue, perhaps the only one she could claim in this situation. She'd wait.

Slowly Morse opened the tabs of her garters on each side of her right thigh; he'd learned long ago that even middle-class women saved up money to buy good quality stockings and care was required to prevent damage. He had no particular erotic attachment to women's underclothes; what he liked most about them was taking them off.

The color of the nylon stocking was noticeably lighter than Monica's deep brown, velvety smooth skin. Perhaps Oxford's shops didn't fully consider the economic advantages of serving a broader variety of customers. How and where did Monica fit in here? No matter; Monica fit in with him.

Rolling the stocking down, Morse bent forward and teased Monica's bared skin with kisses. Her full lips parted and she clutched the sides of the chair.

"Hold on to me instead." Morse licked the top of her bare thigh, then lifted her knee just high enough so that he could stroke the soft place behind her knee with his fingers. "I won't mind."

The wordless sound she made fell between a moan and a sob. Her fingers threaded through his hair, stroking his scalp while Morse reached for the garter on her left leg. The thin carpet over the hard, slightly uneven floor barely cushioned his knees, but Morse enjoyed Monica's responses to him too much to stop and search for some kind of padding. In one smooth movement he pulled the remaining stocking away and pressed kisses along her leg; up, up, up...

Their gazes met and held. Monica had one hand inside his open shirt collar, her fingers spread over the base of his neck and his shoulder. Morse turned his head and gently bit the inside of her thigh. She gasped at the sensation and her thigh flexed, making the chair rock and squeak.

"Hurt?"

Almost panting, she shook her head: no.

Morse smiled. "I'll do it again, just so we can be sure."

She giggled, then keened a sultry note – perhaps she'd make a nice alto singer, Morse thought – while he caught her skin between his teeth in a series of little bites, soothing each bite with a kiss. His other hand caressed, stroked.

Her thighs quivering, Monica fought to control the sounds she made, but soon gave in. Even his simplest touches felt powerful. Endeavour's fingertips felt warm through the cotton of her high-waisted knickers, a style long on practicality but short on glamour. At the moment, however, the modest underthings seemed designed to tantalize and tease, if only because a seducer had to work so hard to get them off. Coaxing her out of such fortress-like lingerie was quite an accomplishment even for someone as clever and appealing as Morse.

She felt his fingers curl over the top of the elastic waistband, then go still as he looked up at her.

"Monica, please...would you like me to...? Because I want to."

…

Thank you for reading!