A/N No, I really don't know why I had to write this now. Especially since there must be countless fics about that famous ole Night of Seven Times out there already, in ratings that go all through the alphabet and also in innumerable variations of closeness or distance to the canon, and of course each and every one written with their author's heart-blood, so it's only to be expected that all you readers out there must be pretty tired of it by now. And yet, and yet … This is something that should have been included in my first fanfic "Still on London Time in New York" (somewhere around the second chapter), if I had wanted to or even been able to write it at that time. I guess I had also been too impatient back then to get on with the story to dwell too much on that fateful night, and also didn't have that much practice of writing smut under my belt yet, so I just dealt with it in chapter 2 through Monica's POV only and called it good. But lately I kept feeling that something was really missing there that still needed to be written, that Chandler's thoughts at that crucial point in his life could and should not be left out. So now, almost two years later, I finally got around to it. Not sure if it's some kind of addendum, or simply a stand-alone one-shot – I did try to stay as close as possible to chapter 2 of SOLTIN, but there are some places here where I got a little carried away, especially in the second half. But all that doesn't matter anyway as long as you like reading it as much as I had fun writing it.
And don't worry, the next chapter of SOLT is already under construction, and I've even started to inch my way towards the next chapter of AFHAF now. Not sure yet if I get it finished anytime soon, but that story will definitely come out of its hiatus again. That's a promise.
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And then, quite suddenly, while Chandler was still gazing at her and had in fact just opened his mouth to say something, she fell asleep. She was lying on her back close beside him, one arm lying loosely on her stomach and the other flung out with her hand grabbing at a pillow. They had kicked and shifted the covers down and away from them during their lovemaking until they had ended up crumpled and balled together below their knees, so he could now stare at her at his leisure, fill up on the sight of her all naked, still flushed and heated and sweaty, her nipples and all the other places he had licked and sucked still glistening, her breathing only now starting to even out, and her vagina probably still wet, sopping dripping wet and slippery from their juices - - he nearly groaned aloud at that thought. Barely ten minutes ago he had come into her, come so hard he thought he would faint with it, pass out under her while she was still riding it out on him, panting and screaming, digging her fingers into his shoulders, and now just the mere thought was enough already to make him harden again until his erection pressed against her hip and he had to shift a little to give it room.
Living it up in London, indeed. He glanced at his watch and did a double take. Only 10.45 p.m.?! Only one and a half hours since he had opened his hotel room door to her, and she still in that awesome red dress, her eyes still a little glassy with drink, still radiating hurt, frustration, belligerence, resignation, weariness, still retaining her usual sardonic humor as she commented on his pajamas, and still as always and ever so, so, sooooo hot. As always he had registered all of that at one glance, and as always had filed those impressions away in his mind under the heading 'Friendship Zone – not for dwelling on'. Of course he would go there anyway later, like he sometimes/often/always did when he was alone and it was safe and could be regarded as idle speculation and fantasy, nothing more. When there was absolutely no chance that any of it could become reality. A reality that could turn complicated and embarrassing at best, painful and disappointing at worst, and would never ever be really worth the trouble that pursuing it entailed. Or so he had thought, right up until that moment when she had jumped at him so hard he had stumbled back from the impact, for a split second wondering if there was some parallel universe now where he had crumpled and taken her to the floor with him in his fall, and if so whether they had continued to make out right there on the carpet if neither of them had sprained a wrist or something. But by some miracle he had remained upright in this actual universe, and, even more important, managed to steady her as she threw her arms around him and pressed her mouth on his. And oh my god her kiss, her hot lips, her scent – some perfume, a hint of shower gel, a slight whiff of sweat and a good deal of whisky - her body pressing against his, the feel of her skin under his hands, the smooth fabric of her dress, all of it pressing against him, her friend and neighbor, Chandler Bing, all decked out in his lucky pajamas. Those stupid pajamas that his mother had given him before he went to college and that he always had meant to wear someday, but never had until now, though he kept taking them with him whenever he got to sleep somewhere else, even putting them in the laundry after. Those blue rodeo pajamas that he always felt were silently reproaching him when he had once again failed to wear them. He couldn't remember just what had made him put them on this evening when he had returned to his room after seeing Monica safe and sound to hers. Somehow it had seemed to be the perfect opportunity to finally break them in, with the long lonely night before him with Joey busy with his bridesmaid and the bucket of strawberries, and nothing to do except watching TV (and hoping to luck on some porn channel – if they had porn channels in English TV that was), or maybe a little reading. Before going to bed he had even toyed with the idea of working out a little, putting in some push-ups or even sit-ups. (Though of course the latter could never be so much fun again as he'd had when Monica had made him do them, cajoling and prodding and finally even baiting him with the promise of flashing him for five more push-ups … oh those were such sweet memories now that his muscles had recovered from all the abuse.) But of course the first tentative effort at a push-up already convinced him that this was not a good idea.
Every time before this there had always been something that had made him put the pajamas back whenever he did think of putting them on – usually a vague fear of looking too old or too childish in them, too conservative or just plain ridiculous, maybe even too cuddly – but this time he actually had put them on regardless. And though he usually mistrusted all regular sleepwear, just as he never wore slippers, it had been alright. They still fitted and also felt quite comfy, almost surprisingly so. And turned out to be lucky on top of that even though he had only actually worn them for about ten minutes straight. Ten crucial minutes during which he had gotten kissed by Monica, held her tight and kissed her back, and then faced her while debating with himself the wisdom of continuing down that road with all its risks and dangers against her obvious need of him. The need he saw in her eyes, heard in her voice, felt in her kiss, a need that was so urgent, so all-encompassing and so desperate that in turn his fierce compulsion to help her satisfy it had swept everything else aside – his scruples about their friendship, his fear that he was taking advantage of her vulnerability, and his worries about somehow falling short of her expectations or even turning out to be unable to give her what she needed. Like at that fateful time on the beach in Montauk when she had been in such pain from the sting of the jellyfish and Joey had hit on that awful remedy of peeing on it. He still remembered every embarrassing and painful second of it – Monica screaming and writhing in pain, Joey grinning desperately as he chickened out and he himself almost torn apart between his revulsion and his desperate wish to help. In the end he had grimly forced himself to go through with it, and yet only succeeded after kneeling over her legs with his back to her and closing his eyes after he had finally got the flow going. That Monica had jerked out from under him almost immediately after and then very nearly had been sick hadn't made him feel any better. And the analogy wasn't really great either, except that then as now she had been in need and he was ready and willing to help. Especially since this kind of help she had needed now had been so much easier to give, almost weirdly so, just like she had remarked on it – it was really weird how it hadn't felt weird at all between them. Not when they had kissed, and kissed again and how it had all gone down after that this time (times actually, three times, he had made her come three times, and all in one go – he still had trouble believing it). No sir, not weird at all. But so deeply exciting, thrilling, arousing, intoxicating and hot, so incredibly, wonderfully, smoking hot.
And pretty much unbelievable. Even in his wildest, wettest dreams he had never even begun to imagine something like this. Oh, he had entertained some hopes and little fantasies about what this London trip could hold for him before they started out. At the very least a change of scenery, new surroundings where nobody knew him and he could at least try to relax and enjoy himself a little. And maybe on top of that, if it wasn't too much to ask, some nice new acquaintances, encounters, talks, maybe even flirts – he was open to everything of course. Hence that box of condoms which he had brought and which he'd almost despaired of ever using. Yes, bringing them had been rather too optimistic – almost ridiculously so – and he might have known that Joey would remember them and come back to grab them just when through the most incredible turn of events they would have come in handy after all. Because by this time, with quite a bit of more luck and sheer craziness he had made it successfully into bed with Monica after all, butt naked too and ready to go. She had been naked too, and one single look at her naked body had been enough to set him on fire, make him forget everything – the awkwardness of dealing with something so huge and intimidating, his concerns about the consequences this could have, the doubts that kept nagging at the back of his mind. Until they were thoroughly quenched or even obliterated by the sight of her, the determined desire in her eyes, the way her nipples had hardened to dark little knobs on her perfect breasts, the way she reached out for him, for all the world like someone literally starving would grab at food that had suddenly appeared in front of them. Starving indeed, just as he saw her eyes widening at the sight of his arousal he suddenly remembered that as far as he knew she'd not had sex in a long time. Longer than him, and that thought fueled his desire even more if that had been possible. Someone as hot as Monica starving for sex was enough to shut out all rational thought. If Joey had arrived even half a minute later they would have been at it already, screaming and panting, thumping against the headboard and rattling the bed – it didn't bear thinking really. But again his luck had held, or maybe his lucky pajamas had somehow continued to help him even from where they were lying on the floor after he'd ripped them off and flung them away so hurriedly. Getting rid of Joey had been embarrassing enough even so, especially with him so worried about Monica, how she was faring under the covers, if she got enough air, and of course, if all this would make her change her mind, come to her senses and turn her off. But he had pulled it off somehow, and Monica had not been turned off by it all, quite on the contrary. They hadn't even needed that one condom he had managed to retain, because Monica had come prepared – something that should have been obvious to him from the start. Leave it to Monica to provide for every circumstance possible, even half-drunk and horny as a rabbit. Even for having sex in London with her neighbor from across the hall who happened to be there at the right time and place for once. Who for once in his life, in that one crucial moment, got everything to work out for him at last.
Work out for him indeed. To his dying day he would never ever forget that very first time, that wondrous magical moment when Monica had pressed against him, hooking one leg over his waist and urging him to her, over her, and he'd suddenly felt her fingers on his penis, guiding him inside, indeed almost sucking him in, and how it had felt to him as if he was losing himself completely in their hot blind desire. Oh my god, the feel of her under him, her pumping hips, her legs pressing against him, holding him, her frantic hands on his back and butt cheeks, her heels drumming against the back of his thighs, her mouth on his. Monica's mouth, Monica's body, her smell, her feel – it was all so unbelievably wonderful and terrifying at the same time. But best of all was the feeling, the deep inner certainty that this was right, just as it should be, that they were right for each other, perfectly suited. Her body, as lithe and slender as it was still seemed so ready for him, taking him inside her without any discernible effort, just as if they were made for each other.
And to think that after that glorious start, this unbelievable erotic explosion he had come so close to screwing up again. There had been that moment on the brink, as he sensed Monica's climax rolling over her, making her arch under him and go nearly rigid, when all he wanted to do was let go together with her, ride out his own orgasm and then collapse over her. It would have been over so quickly, but oh so intense, so overwhelmingly unbearably wonderful … yet in other words, not that much different from all the other times with all the other women, where it had always been over too fast, no matter how good it had been. But this just wouldn't do here. No sir, not this time and especially not with Monica. It had been Monica after all who had given him that one amazing lesson that had gotten him to reconsider and completely turn around his attitude to sex and how he went about it - as soon as the shock of seeing her turn herself on so effortlessly had worn off - and he would be forever in her debt for it. And if this crazy, unbelievable turn of events actually gave him a chance to pay her back he would do everything in his power to really get it right. For once.
So at the very last moment, really in the nick of time, he had made a desperate effort to hold back, grasping at control with all his strength, not sure if had managed it until he had and then almost lost it again in his profound relief. It had taken him a while until he had himself enough under control to go on, but Monica hadn't minded, hadn't even seemed to notice. He'd waited until both their breaths had calmed a little again, their hammering hearts slowed just enough to let their senses clear, and then slowly and carefully started to go down on her, deliberately taking his own sweet time and ignoring her protests and frantic efforts to make him go on and only concentrated on the task he'd set himself, to make her come again. And again, and again … And it had worked like a charm, oh my god how it had worked, she had responded to him as if he had set fire under her sweet hot ass, bucking and squirming under him until he had to forcibly hold her down, panting and screaming at him, and when he had sucked her nipples and rubbed her clit at the same time she had even scratched him in her throes, dug her nails into his back so hard it had almost thrown him off. Then, when she had been so horrified and apologetic about it, it had been even more gratifying to shrug it off and pick up where he had left off as if nothing had happened, arduous and determined until he had her where he'd wanted her all along, tensing, arching her back and coming so hard, coming out of her ears, as if he was killing her over and over again. It had almost been enough to make him come himself – almost. He didn't know how he had still managed to hold back and didn't really want to know. Oh, that overwhelming feeling of pride he had felt then, that glorious sense of achievement filling him up until he thought he would burst from it. He had done it, he had made Monica come, had satisfied her need to the very best of his ability. He would have liked to dance and sing, stand on the roof of the hotel and shout it out all over London how he, Chandler Bing, had done it right, had done Monica proud.
That feeling alone would have been reward enough, but of course she couldn't accept that and had insisted on his getting his share too. Oh that exciting rush when she had suddenly rolled on top and straddled him, determinedly massaging and licking his penis until he had hardened enough again for her to take him inside her, thus reversing their roles so that she was now in control and he submitting to her guidance. In its own way it had been just as rewarding and fulfilling as his earlier efforts, maybe even more so since it was now his turn to come. How he had managed to hold back until she was ready he would never know. Just looking at her as she rode him, glistening with sweat, her color high, panting and moaning was like his wildest dream come true. Though in truth, even his wildest dreams seemed tame and pale now compared to this.
And now it was over and she was asleep, her body quite still, her breathing evening out and the expression of her face a little lost and almost detached. He longed to touch her, run his hands over her stomach and thighs, tease her nipples with his fingertips, trail kisses down her chest. He was almost sure she wouldn't mind, or most probably wouldn't even wake up from it, but still he held back, unable to overcome a sudden sense of shyness, mixed with awe. That she should be like this, so trusting, butt-naked and asleep beside him was still so unbelievable, so out of this world fantastic that it made him feel helpless somehow, almost stumped. Monica, his friend and neighbor, quirky, strong-willed, stubborn, bighearted, passionate, energetic, neat-freakish, compulsive, funny, lovable Monica, the woman who had driven him up the wall more often than he cared to remember and yet who he always found it so easy to be with, hang out with, talk to and laugh with; and also the same incredibly hot woman he had lusted after so often – though always in the strictest possible privacy and never allowing himself to go too far and cross the line, not even in his imagination. The sacred line of their friendship. Which now had been crossed after all, by both of them, in the most spectacular way possible and he couldn't even begin to contemplate the consequences. Or even feel any regret - quite on the contrary.
After some time watching her sleep also made him tired. He realized this only when he had to yawn suddenly and almost couldn't stop, his fatigue overtaking him like a dark wave. Groggily he pulled up the covers over both of them and then fumbled for the switch of the night lamp to turn it off. Snuggling as close to Monica as he dared he stretched out on his side and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard before sleep overtook him was her breathing, soft and even, and it made him smile blissfully. It had been so long since he'd last heard a woman breathe as she slept peacefully beside him, and he had almost forgotten how great it felt.
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When he woke again it was with a jolt that brought a split second of almost total confusion with it and nearly made him yell in surprise. But as soon as he started up he remembered again or rather had all kinds of memories rush into his head at once. London. The disaster of his speech. His fight with Joey. Monica drunk and frustrated – oh god, Monica! Right, and it must have been her moving on the bed that had woken him up. Was she trying to leave? Already? Not that he could blame her really – but no, from what he could make out in the faint light from the street lamp outside she was just getting back into bed, not out of it. And now he had startled her too.
"Shh. It's okay. Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep."
So probably just a bathroom trip. He glanced at his watch – okay, 3.30 a.m., still quite early - and lay back again, trying to get his thoughts lined up. But of course now she had triggered it, that particular bathroom labelled thought inevitably made him aware of the state of his own bladder. Even worse, the thought wouldn't let up and instead grew more insistent with every passing moment, until it couldn't be denied any more. He too had to go to the bathroom. And with her on the side of the bed nearest to it he would of course have to walk around the bed stark naked in order to get there, since he would never be able to locate his pajamas again any time soon in the dark. Not without a lot of fumbling and crawling around and probably falling over things … But then if she had managed to go to the bathroom all naked, he should be able to do so too. It was only fair.
"Oh God. Okay. Ah, um .. could you…?"
"Bathroom?"
"Yeah ..."
"Sure." Dimly he saw her turning her head. Hoping that she had closed her eyes too and cursing himself for his awkwardness at the same time, he got out of bed determinedly before something could change his mind again and hurriedly padded to the bathroom. Half blinded by the much too bright light he set about peeing, all the while horribly conscious of the fact that she would hear every sound he made, the splashing most of all and then the flush, but it couldn't be helped. In his haste he only remembered at the very last moment, when he had already been reaching for the light switch that he had to wash his hands. This was Monica after all, if she wasn't freaked enough already by the whole business, his neglecting to wash his hands was sure to send her bolting out of bed, collect her things and leave. And he didn't want her to leave. Not like this. They needed to talk a little more, set them both at ease, get things into perspective … and yes, if she was up to it, maybe have a little more of that amazing mind-numbing utterly awesome sex. Because it had been so great of course, that it really would be a shame not to try for a bit more of that, since it had really been too good, too great to leave it like that.
He turned off the light and walked back to his side of the bed, getting under the covers and turning on his side towards her. She was lying very still, he could hardly hear her breathing, but he knew that she was looking at him in just the same way. Was she already having second thoughts about this? Was she thinking about leaving? But if she wanted to leave, she could have done so when he was in the bathroom. Maybe she hadn't been able to find her dress? But wouldn't she have said something to that – oh what the hell. It was still dark, she was still in his bed and if neither of them said something now, she was sure to freak out. So he cleared his throat.
"Sooo … um, did you want to leave it at 3:1?"
That almost had her bolt up indignantly and reach out for him.
"As if!"
"Ah okay."
And as soon as they drew near again, their arms wrapping around each other and their lips touching, hesitantly at first and then with growing alacrity, their bodies seemed to take over again, quite independent from their owners' qualms and worries, fitting into each other as if they were already used to it, had done this uncountable times already instead of just that one passionate skirmish only hours before. When their tongues met and caressed each other it sent a jolt through him that seemed to set him tingling and he pressed closer even more urgently. As if in answer to this she snaked her leg over his hip, moaning when he stroked the small of her back and her buttocks. When he released her mouth and started to kiss his way down her neck to her breasts, she held him back though, urging his head up again with her fingers in his hair.
"No… wait … could we, you know –"
"What? Differently? Sure." Anything of course. No problem. He would do it upside down with her, or hanging from the ceiling if she wanted it. What she had in mind though seemed much more manageable.
"Doggy? Okay, great!"
"Really?"
"Woof!" He added some reasonably enthusiastic panting with his tongue hanging out that made her laugh as she turned around. But just as he got on his knees behind her she hesitated.
"What?"
"I don't know … I wanted to try this – it's not quite doggy, more lying down, but, you know, propped –"
"Ah. Are two pillows enough? Oh, wait, let's take Joey's, he won't need them – there. That okay?"
"Yeah. Ooohh yeah …" And there she was, lying on her stomach on those pillows, already shivering and breathing hard with desire, her ass stuck out upwards invitingly, and spreading her legs too when he got closer, hovering over her. It was almost too much. Dimly he felt his erect penis straining upwards and twitching excitedly while he stroked and rubbed her back and sides with shaking hands, kissing and licking the small bumps of her vertebrae and ribs under her skin. When he slid his hands under her to cup and caress her breasts her breathing sped up until she was almost hissing with arousal, then she reached under herself with both hands, fingering herself and grabbing for his penis as he pushed it against her vulva obligingly. He continued to kiss her neck over her throat where her pulse hammered under the skin and rubbed his thumbs over the soft skin just under her armpits, grimly holding back with everything he could muster to not just let go and take her before she was completely ready. At last she raised herself up a little, pressing against his chest and he held her with one arm around her, cupping her vulva with his free hand and dipping the tips of his fingers into her while she continued to rub her clit almost frantically now.
"Ah, ah, oh god, oh god, almost – oh god – almost there, almost – AAAAHHH …!"
"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay – I've got it, it's okay - -"
"Yes! Yes! OH godohgodohgod –"
This time her orgasm had her screaming and shuddering uncontrollably in his arms. Unable to hold back any longer he gently pushed her downwards until she was lying on the pillows again and then entered her, carefully nudging and inching forward while he trembled and shook all over with the sheer lust and excitement of it, groping for her hands that were clenching and clawing at the sheets, and closing his own over them. They started to rock to and fro on the pillows with his thrusts and her pumping back, gently at first and with a good deal of groaning and gasping, then slowly picking up speed until it seemed to him that his insane pounding would surely crack the bed in half and have them end up on the floor quite soon. His orgasm came upon him as if out of nowhere and he couldn't hold it back no matter how hard he tried. When he heard Monica moaning under him almost plaintively he pushed one hand under her to feel for her clit. Just then she suddenly tightened around him, making him yell in surprise, only to relax again immediately and repeat the process a few times. It felt indescribably wonderful and utterly terrifying at the same time. By the time she finally shuddered and stiffened into her climax he felt as if she had drawn out the last of his strength out of him, even the will to draw a breath and yet he couldn't but endure and keep going, clinging to her as if for dear life.
When it was over he felt quite unable to move at first and just kept on his knees half lying over her. Even withdrawing seemed to call for too much effort until his penis had gone completely limp and slowly slid out of her all by itself.
"Woooww … oh my god … hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah … a bit squashed maybe …"
"Oh – sorry … There, is that better?" When she sank to the side he took up the pillows to toss them back on Joey's bed, and then flopped on his back beside her.
"Whew. That was - - whew. Incidentally, was that what you had in mind?"
She laughed. "I guess so. No, seriously, that was so – oh my god."
That brought him up again on his elbows in spite of his near total fatigue. "Really? Like Oh-My-God–really?!"
She chuckled weakly. "Oh yeah."
"Wow!"
"I know!"
That had them laugh together breathlessly and she turned on her side and reached out for him, trailing her fingers through his chest-hair down to his navel. He put his own hand on hers to raise it to his lips and kiss her knuckles, dimly aware that his breathing was slowly calming down again.
"Five times" she said wondrously. "I can't believe I came five times. You?"
"Twice. Two times."
"What? Just two?"
"Mon, we've been over this …"
"Still, it seems so unfair!"
"But twice is good. Great actually. More than enough. Do you realize you've already upped my average by a hundred per cent? I think any more would kill - um, hey, wait a moment, what – argh, what are you doing?"
"Shut up and hold still."
"Wait, you can't- - oh god. Oh god! Ah, uh, OH-OH MY G-" and then he was writhing helplessly under her, flailing his arms and legs while she was straddling his legs and licking and kneading his penis almost forcefully until it came to life again seemingly in spite of itself. When he realized that further resistance was indeed futile he lay still for a moment, gathering his strength and then heaved himself upward into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around her. She let go of him, albeit reluctantly and then they wriggled and twisted together until she had taken him inside herself again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if this was the position they called 'Rocking Chair' and decided he didn't care. It felt great, that was all that mattered. Even though by any right he should have been dead tired, completely unable to even get it up and go through with this, yet he had and he did, and it felt so unearthly amazing again. Earth-moving and angels-singing kind of wonderful in fact. And Monica seemed already to be drifting into her next orgasm, if he wasn't mistaken, and what was it now, the sixth? Six orgasms, he had made her come six times in one night, how was this even possible? The most he had managed before were two, maybe an unconfirmed three times. But this was Monica after all, if anyone could make that happen, inspire him to hitherto unknown feats, it was her, and she wouldn't even stop at six … Right. She wouldn't.
So when he sensed her orgasm rush through her he drew up his legs and rocked forward on his feet until he toppled over forward, ending up with her on her back and he on top. Of course she protested loudly, kicking and clinging to him when his penis was pulled out of her by the maneuver until he clamped down her hands with his and tried to shut her up with his kiss. At last she relaxed, but still glared at him.
"Chandler … I wanted you to –"
"Shsh. I will. I promise. But only when you get to seven."
"What?!"
"Seven times" he repeated, grinning goofily at her as he hovered over her, kneeling between her legs and sliding his hands under her. "Seven –" and he kissed her throat -"seven" – now both her armpits, nibbling and licking at the skin for good measure – "seven" – both her breasts, gently nibbling on the nipples – "seven" – licking her navel and lower belly – "seven" – the insides of her thighs, stroking them with his hands and bestowing good long licks on them too – "seven" – cupping and kneading her buttocks – "seven" and finally cradling her buttocks in his hands and lifting her up slightly so he could whisper the last "seven" into her vulva as he pressed his mouth against it and gently, oh so gently nipped at her swollen tender clit with his teeth, pushing his tongue into her at the same time as deep as it would go …
"Stop it, stopitstopitstopit, ah … oh god …" And she dug her fingers into his hair, pulling his head up again almost frantically, urging him up and over her. He lowered himself carefully on her and settled between her legs that she now clenched around his hips, letting her draw him into her almost as if by the forces of gravity and suction alone. At first he forced himself to move as little as possible, waiting until it felt as if their bodies had completely fused together, and then began to push into her very slowly, almost dreamily, drawing out each thrust as long as he could. He thought that she would protest and try to get him to speed up, but instead she seemed slowly to relax and fall into his rhythm, answering his languid rippling movements with slow undulating movements of her own. Even her breathing stilled to long deep breaths interspersed with small whimpers and moans whenever their lips met and fused. He felt his heart beat in his throat and the blood rush and hammer in his ears and grimly kept to the slow drawn out pace, never losing a beat. Seven, he wanted her to get to seven times, seven glorious times if it killed him. Seven times and then he could finally let go too and finish it, flop down like a fish on the beach and never get up again if he could help it …
When it happened at last he almost missed it. Monica's breath hitched a little and her fingers curled on his back, her nails digging into his skin for just a split second, not long enough to hurt. Then her head went back, falling to the side limply and her body under him relaxed again, seeming to become almost boneless. Chandler closed his eyes and set his teeth, silently concentrating on letting go. When he slumped over her at last with a deep heartfelt sigh, she held him tight, cradling him wordlessly and quickly kissing his sweaty shoulders and neck when he heaved himself up and away from her, only to flop beside her limply, utterly spent and immensely tired.
After that final time the rest of the night became a blur when even trying to stay awake proved too much of a strain. At some point soon after he had simply started to drift away into a heavy almost dreamless sleep, never noticing if she was still awake or had succumbed to her fatigue too. When he woke up again or rather, was rudely startled awake by Ross joyously barging into his room, everything seemed to happen too fast for his befuddled mind. The night was over, the magic was gone and all that was left was a horrible awkwardness and uneasiness. And a growing apprehension of what all this meant, what it would do to their friendship, the group, their lives even, that he just wasn't able to handle at that moment. Much later though, after Monica had left and he was standing in the shower, he started to regret that they hadn't even tried to talk it over or at least come to some sort of agreement how to handle what had happened. But there had seemed to be no time for this, all of it being used up by their passion and physical exertions. And quite possibly talking would have done little or no good at that point, could even have taken away the magic from it all, the miracle that had been worked from two friends wanting to help each other out and that had resulted in such immense physical pleasure with a good deal of embarrassment added later on. It would remain to be seen how they would come to terms with it eventually, sort it out – maybe by agreeing to treat it as a one-time thing that would never ever be mentioned again, and go on as before, or possibly - though less probable - to try to make something out of it, if only some sort of friends with benefits thing. Or pretend that nothing had happened at all, as if it had only been some kind of highly charged erotic dream.
He was quite sure though that no matter what would happen, how much more awkwardness and embarrassment they would have to endure and work through, if and how much it would change their friendship, affect their future, he at least would never be able to forget this night. When he had finally been living it up in London by experiencing what would surely forever be the most romantic night of his life - and not just because from now on it would forever and always be the Night of Seven Times.