Desire
(Takes place during chapter 7, "Stirred," of Crush III: Sostenuto.)
Two hearts fading, like a flower.
And all this waiting, for the power.
For some answer, to this fire.
Sinking slowly. The water's higher.
Desire…
They are on the dance floor at The Orb, when Data begins to… feel it… the need to breathe in the tropical-fruit scent of his partner's hair, the urge to caress her perpetually sun-tanned skin, the longing to kiss first her lips, and then her neck, especially the so-sensitive spot over her carotid artery.
The spot where sometimes, rarely, Zoe asks him to bite her.
He always complies, calculating the precise amount of pressure to apply with his teeth, accompanied by flicking motions with his tongue, to make her squirm without causing pain.
Her responses fascinate him. For every three he catalogues, he manages to elicit two more, and she – his partner, his lover, the woman he wants to marry – does the same for him.
They move together in the familiar patterns of a waltz, chatting about the conference they are attending. At the same time that he is noting her pulse-rate (If he rubs his thumb in circles on the back of her hand, her pulse will quicken, her focus will sharpen.), he diverts some of his attention away from this new sensation, this wanting, to listen to her speak.
"I ran into L'mura in the spa. She said I'd probably get more out of Whiskers's presentation than I did out of Maddox's, but I know it's likely to be too basic for you, so if you want to attend something else, we can just find each other at lunch."
"That would be acceptable," Data agrees, "if you are certain you are comfortable being alone."
Zoe's next words are meant to tease him, he knows. "Well, I am a little worried some hot female cyberneticist might steal you away from me. Especially the way you're dressed."
He is wearing his formal dress uniform, just as he was at the previous evening's cocktail party. Strictly speaking, it would have been equally appropriate to wear dressy civilian clothing to that event or this dinner, but as his partner has observed, being in uniform is much akin to wearing armor, and while Whiskers, Ch'm's, and L'mura are truly friends, Bruce Maddox causes him to be… uneasy.
As well, Data admits to himself, he has come to appreciate the way Zoe looks at him when he is dressed formally. Her dress, he notes, is a shade of red that he understands is called maroon, and that she has clearly selected as much because it complements his own attire as because it 'looks good' on her.
He cannot deny that it would 'look good' off her, as well.
"Then I must endeavor to reassure you that such a thing could never happen," he responds, playing along with her, and experiencing satisfaction when his words make her smile. He alters his inflection to one more suitable for flirtation, and suggests, "Perhaps we should cut the evening short and return to our room after dessert."
Zoe's expression alters into one he would describe as 'joyfully wicked,' and she matches his suggestive tone. "I like this plan."
"I suspected that you would."
The waltz ends, and they applaud the band. A new song begins, one that is slower, more sensual. Data recognizes that the other couples around them are moving into more intimate positions, and he is pleased when his lover does the same, sliding her hands over his chest, resting them upon his shoulders for a split-second (he chooses not to consciously note the exact length of time) and then clasping them behind his neck.
He feels her subtly teasing the nape of his neck, using her thumbs to tweak the ends of his hair. If he were human, the sensation would likely make him shiver. As it is, this new… awareness… he has acquired causes his breath to hitch ever so slightly.
In turn, Data moves his own hands down Zoe's sides, skimming her rib cage, then trailing them backwards to join at the small of her back.
"People are staring at us," his partner says.
He had already observed the same, had, in fact, expected as much. As the only (commonly known) sentient android in the Federation, and the only artificial lifeform who is also a commissioned Starfleet officer, he is accustomed to being treated as somewhat of a celebrity when he attends such conferences.
That he is here with a woman, one he has introduced in the local tongue, not as a mere girlfriend, but as his life-mate, only makes the crowd of robotics experts, cyberneticists, AI theorists, and philosophers more interested. It is, he reflects, very like – and at the same time, completely unlike – the sort of attention he and Zoe were subject to in San Francisco the previous summer.
Except the people here are more likely to submit academic treatises on AI/organic romantic couplings than tip off gossip columnists.
"People have stared at us before, Zoe, and I do not need to remind you that such behavior will likely follow us wherever we go. If you are bothered by it…"
"I'm not," she is quick to assure. "I just… Data, you're holding me so close and you look so handsome and I feel pretty – "
"You are beautiful."
He makes the statement with all the certainty he possesses. Not only is this woman beautiful to him, but, based on his observations of the other diners and dancers in this restaurant, the other conference attendees, and even fellow members of the Enterprise community, she is considered to possess classic 'girl next door' beauty. He believes this to mean that she is approachable, though no one has dared to approach.
"Thank you; but I wasn't fishing for compliments. If we were dancing like this on the Enterprise, even in formal dress, we'd have shared a kiss by now, and I can't help wondering if we're both holding back, not because we have an audience, but because of who the audience includes."
Zoe's dark eyes are luminous in the 'mood lighting' of the restaurant, her pupils large. Her heart-rate has increased markedly since they changed positions, and Data detects a missed breath as he guides her in a freeform dance that is neither a waltz nor mere swaying, but some combination of the two.
She licks her lips.
He forces himself not to bend his head the small amount it would take to meet them with hers, to taste the combination of sticky-sweet lip gloss and the remnants of sauce from the vegetarian meal they shared before they moved to the dance floor.
He wants to kiss her. No. That is inaccurate. He wants to assault her lips with his and invade her mouth with his tongue, challenging her to meet him, to match him.
He knows she would welcome it, but he refrains, partly because his own sense of decorum requires that any public displays of affection are relatively chaste, and partly because with this new wanting, this new urge, he does not believe he could stop with a mere kiss.
Because he does not like to disappoint her, Data confesses that he has, in fact, been holding back. Moreover, he explains why. He removes one hand from her back as he speaks, moving some of her hair off her face.
"Since when do you experience desire?" Zoe asks.
His answer is breathed into her ear, and he can practically see her pulse jump. "I am devoted to you. Should desire not be a component of that?"
Her hands leave his neck, and he notes that he dislikes the sudden drop in temperature now that they are gone. She stares into his face, as if searching for something. "It should be, yes, Data, but…"
He cannot help the information retrieval protocol that her question provokes, but it does not last long. He finishes the sentence for her, "But I should not be experiencing it. You are correct, Zoe. And yet, here on this dance floor, with you in my arms, I… want."
With no secrets. No obsession.
This time I'm speeding with no direction.
Without a reason. What is this fire?
Burning slowly. My one and only.
Desire…
By the time they reach their room in the hotel's east tower, Data is incapable of keeping his hands to himself. Before the door has closed completely, before the lock has engaged, his hands are working at the zipper of Zoe's dress. The… feeling… coursing through him has taken control.
He should be concerned.
He should be analyzing every aspect of this experience.
He should be running a self-diagnostic, to ensure that none of his files are corrupted.
He can tell that his lover is worried about him. More than that, he observes the signs that indicate Zoe's curiosity has been piqued.
Data wants to assure her that he is functioning at optimum efficiency, or, alternatively, that he is fine, but instead he repeats the words he whispered on the dance floor, this time with more… feeling. So much, in fact, that his voice quivers as he says, "Zoe, I… I want you."
Her dress hits the floor as he completes the last word, and she steps out of it, standing in front of him in a lace bra and panties that are nearly the same maroon of the dress now pooled near her feet.
She looks into his face again, and - there! There it is! Data can sense her arousal in her ever-quickening pulse, her increased rate of respiration, her fully dilated pupils, and the way she is licking her lips and clenching and unclenching her fists.
Unspoken is her agreement, her encouragement to simply let things happen.
Zoe reaches for his uniform jacket, undoing each fastening and then pushing it off his shoulders. He does not typically like to leave clothing on the floor, but expedience is the order of the evening. It falls, and he lets it stay there, because she is already tugging his t-shirt out of his trousers.
Data steps away from her in order to remove the shirt, which joins his jacket and her dress on the floor. Then he pulls her close, and buries his face in her masses of chestnut hair, inhaling, not just the familiar sweet-clean of her shampoo, but the faint hint of her sweat as well. Her scent.
Has she always been this intoxicating?
He could run a comparison of every reaction he has ever had while breathing in Zoe's scent, but he chooses not to. In thirteen days, it will be a full year since the first time he experienced emotion. Then, he had focused so much on analyzing and identifying what he was feeling that he almost missed the actual sensation. Those ten seconds of love had left him hopeful that one day he would be able to reach emotional awareness with or without the chip his brother had stolen.
But…
They had also made him into a failure.
Instead of sharing the feeling with his lover – with Zoe – Data had missed the opportunity to give her the three words she so much deserved to have, the three words he wanted to give her over and over, forever.
He had failed the woman who meant more to him than any person he had ever encountered.
He would not miss this. He would not waste this opportunity to share a… feeling… with her.
Especially since this feeling, this desire was centered upon her.
He guides her, backwards, toward the bed, and nudges her until she is sitting upon it. Kneeling, he removes her shoes first, and then the stockings he had watched her roll up each of her smooth legs hours before. Though they are both typically quite verbal, neither Data nor Zoe speaks as he helps her out of her underwear and frees her breasts from her bra.
He takes a moment to just look at her, and it is as if he is seeing her nude form for the first time. His hands twitch with the need to touch her, and he indulges the urge, caressing her thighs, cupping each breast and rolling each of her nipples between his fingers, and finally diving into her hair, letting it entangle him, and claiming kiss after heated kiss.
Data relinquishes Zoe's lips only when he realizes that she's tugging at the opening of his trousers. He stands up, kicks off his boots, rids himself of the rest of his clothing, and returns his attention to the woman he has been devoted to for nearly eighteen months. (The specific number of months, days, hours is there, in the back of his brain; he refuses to let it surface.)
Her hands reach for him, pulling him down to join her on the bed, and he alters the pattern of his breathing until it is synchronized with hers. Not so long ago, he had insisted he would never be able to give Zoe passion, but when they join, it… feels… more intense than he is accustomed to.
Her heat. Her softness. Her scent.
Her hands gripping his arms.
He wants it never to end.
When her climax comes, it triggers his, and he calls her name, croons it, over and over, his voice shaking: "Zoe… my – my Zoe…"
She is mostly beneath him, her eyes wide, her expression soft. "Data…" his name is barely a whisper. They shift to a position more comfortable for her, and she reaches for his face, pulling him down for another kiss, gentle this time. "Are you alright?"
He knows his eyes are moving back and forth. Not for the first time he wonders what it looks like to her, how she perceives him in these moments. He manages to form words to reassure her: "I am funct-" he begins, then amends it to "I am fine." But then he turns his focus inward, allowing himself a minimal level of diagnostic, just enough to confirm for her, "Zoe… I felt. I… " He cannot end the sentence. He, who is known for his ability to babble, has run out of words.
With infinite tenderness, she reaches to brush a rare loose section of his hair away from his face. Then she stretches up to nibble gently at his lips. "I know, love," she says, her voice warm and soft. He perceives a new maturity in her, but it is nothing he cares to quantify or call to her attention. "I saw… I felt it with you."
Data does not want to jar them from this mood of safety and stillness, so keeps his own voice as quiet as his lover's. "It was overwhelming," he said. "I wanted only to experience the softness of your skin, to inhale the scent of your hair, to taste your lips when I kissed you."
"And now?"
He hesitates, taking stock of himself, probing internally to discern what remains and what… does not. "The… feeling… is still there, but it is somewhat… muted."
She nods, acknowledging his words. Then, still speaking gently, as if she is afraid she might frighten him (but I cannot be frightened) she asks, "Should I worry? Should we call Geordi? Do you need to perform a self-diagnostic?"
"No." Data answers all three questions with a single word. "I am cataloguing my reactions and responses for later analysis, but right now, Zoe, I wish to… I wish to continue this experience, if you are up to it." He lifts his eyebrows making the statement into a question. His partner is 'only' human, after all, and she may not be able to go on.
"Up to it?" Her own eyebrows quirk into the expression he thinks of as her 'challenge face,' but seconds later she is burbling with laughter.
If he could drink in that laughter and make it his own, Data thinks, he would do so. Instead, he kisses her, and then, cradling her against him, he rolls onto his back, putting her in control.
Zoe's shriek, he notes, is equal measures of delight and startlement. "Data!" He responds with a look. "Again?" she asks, in a tone that implies she is both amused and aroused.
But the question he answers isn't about the sexual intimacy they are about to begin anew. It is about this feeling, this desire for the woman who is his other – better - half. "Still," he corrects, reaching up to twist some of her hair between his fingers. Very softly, almost reverently, he adds, "Always."
Data believes it to be true. He hopes he is not wrong.
You know me. You don't mind waiting.
You just can't show me, but God I'm praying,
That you'll find me, and that you'll see me,
That you run and never tire.
Desire.
Notes: Song lyrics are from "Desire" by Ryan Adams, from his 2002 album Demolition. Dialogue is from chapter 7 of Crush III: Sostenuto.