Vegas in Red: Ring of Fire
Imparadised in one another's arms.
Moira O'Meara fell back. The bed caught her, took the impact of her body. She couldn't see. Was blinded by tears. Tears of extreme pleasure, emotion, sensation. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't catch her breath. It hitched in her throat. Her chest was rising and falling so rapidly she wouldn't have been surprised to see her racing heart leaping out of it.
She was hot. Sweaty. Sticky. Feeling nothing almost to the point of numbness, but at the same time feeling everything. Every intimacy. Every touch, kiss, caress, lick, nibble, bite. She blinked, trying to relax. The drone of the fan did little to cool her hot, sweaty skin.
The room was warm. It was her bedroom, but it looked different. As if the familiarity had been erased by the raw sexuality of the previous hours. Finally Moira swallowed. Throat raw. She turned her head to the side to view the man beside her. "John?" Her voice was a whisper. She swallowed again. Scooted to press herself against him. She touched his chest. Fingers burrowing in the tangle of sweaty, dark chest hair. The solid, lean muscles underneath. Silver hairs curled amid the darker ones.
"John?" she repeated. As if saying his name would center her. Calm her. Restore her to some semblance of normalcy. She hadn't known what to expect. Probably not a quickie but the events of the evening had surprised even her modest expectations.
John Sheppard was sprawled next to her on the bed. Naked. Magnificently on display but he didn't care. His eyes were closed but he wasn't asleep. Not yet, as exhaustion clawed at him. He could feel the press of Moira's naked body on his. The curves and softness pressing, pressing.
He felt drained, but happily so. He felt her fingers on his chest, gently caressing the scabs, the scars. He felt the raw scratches on his back. They gave him a purring satisfaction as had everything else. It had gone beyond sex. Beyond lust and pleasure and need. Beyond what he usually expected from prostitutes. With Moira there had been all of that, of course, but there had been passion. Mutual enjoyment. Another word surfaced but he buried it.
John opened his eyes. Swallowed, but his voice was still hoarse when he spoke. "Told you I could get it to fit."
It took Moira a moment to understand him. Then the memory surfaced, the joke about his cock not being able to fit. He met her gaze. Green eyes brilliant with mischief, pleasure. She smirked. "John!"
He snorted a laugh. Gaze roving. The oscillating fan was lifting strands of her hair, a glorious fall of browns and reds cascading along her nudity. Across her rosy lips, rosy nipples. Other places he was sure were rosy as well. He smiled smugly. "Moira."
She felt a shiver at the way he said her name. Voice low, husky. Possessive. She felt goose bumps along her arms. Blamed it on the fan. She snuggled on him suddenly. His arm slid round her, keeping her close. He closed his eyes, the warmth of her body lulling him to sleep. She was silent, thinking. Even now as she nestled on him. "John?"
Her voice broke his descent into slumber. He caressed her back, her hair. Slid his hand down to lightly smack her rear.
"Ouch!" she complained.
"Ssh!" he ordered. Grasping a cheek to squeeze.
She squirmed on him. Hit his arm. "John!"
"Ssh! I don't like to talk after sex, baby."
"So what do you like to do, sweetie? Drink a beer?" she acerbically asked.
He smiled. "Yeah. Go get me one, baby." He slapped her rear again.
She squirmed. "Stop that!"
He chuckled. "Fuck you feel good. So fucking sweet."
She frowned, squirming on him. Motions so blatant now his eyes flew open and he met her angry gaze. Brown depths of passion and annoyance arousing him. She kissed him. A long, savoring kiss. Her body sliding along his. Aligning until she rolled off him. Sat. Sighed. "Fuck indeed, detective," she noted. Shoved her messy hair out of her face. "No wonder you have to pay for it, Sheppard."
"Huh?" He rolled onto his side. Enjoying the view as she turned away from him. Long hair billowing down her back. Her shapely rear teasing, tantalizing.
"Do they have to sign a waiver before you use that thing?"
He snorted. Laughed. "Damn! I knew I forgot something, O'Meara!" He watched as she pulled on her pale blue bra. Stood and wiggled into the pale blue thong. John groaned, reacting despite his weariness. "What's the rush, baby? Fuck that is a pert little ass!"
She looked over her shoulder at him. Gaze traveling over the long, lean length of him sprawled on her bed. "Move that fine ass of yours, Sheppard!" She left the room.
John smirked. Heard the water running in the bathroom. He folded his arms under his head, under the pillow. Closed his eyes, flexing the muscles in his back, his legs. Completely content. Completely at ease. Drifting to sleep once more, as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Moira stood, shaking her head. Combing her wet hair. She was certainly getting an eyeful as John was sound asleep, sprawled like some centerfold in the middle of her bed. Arms and legs flung in every direction. He was snoring softly. The fan's hum had lulled him to a deep, dreamless sleep. Utterly content, like a cat in the sun. The sweat and other fluids had dried, leaving his hair wayward. Her gaze wandered. He was so utterly male. All that body hair and those solid muscles and all of that length. Handsome face calm in repose. Features relaxed. Long lashes sweeping. The softest smile played on those full, perfect lips until his snoring resumed.
She felt herself reacting, remembering the pleasures they had shared. Both the passion and the gentleness he had bestowed. Emotions threatened to spill, to overwhelm. She threw the wet towel at him. "Sheppard!"
The strident tone woke him. He sat. Found a wet towel in his lap. He blinked. "What the fuck?" he muttered. Staring. Moira was fresh from the shower. Long hair wet. She was clad in a pale pink woven shirt and blue jeans. "Moira?"
"Get that fine ass moving, John! It's late and I've got to get to work. You can use my shower if it's not too girly for you."
He smiled. "I'd rather wait, thanks all the same. Unless you're going in there with me." He quirked a brow.
She smiled. "No, but thanks all the same. Now get moving, mister." But she stepped to the bed. Sat close and took his hands into hers. Almost shy as she stared at their entwining fingers. "Um, John…I…um…I…um…"
He freed his hand to lift her face to his. To kiss her. "Moira."
"I, I have to get to work, John, I can't—"
He kept kissing her. Ignoring her excuses. Mouth entwined with hers. Bodies soon to follow.
But she pulled back from him. "I have to get to work, John!"
"I still need to talk to you, Moira. That's the reason I came over, remember?" His brows furrowed as he touched her arm, abruptly recalling the bruise on her skin. A bruise he knew he hadn't put there. Would never put there.
"Oh. Right. As I recall you didn't say much."
He smiled. "Didn't have to, did I? I was…um, busy."
"Yes, you were." She smiled. Kissed him. Stood. "But I really have to go now. I have to present my proposal to the committee. You can let yourself out, can't you? Meet me for lunch, at Rita's. You know it? Okay," she agreed to his nod. "Around one or so, okay?"
"Okay. And then you'll tell me how you got that bruise, or do I really need to ask?"
"It was an accident, nothing more. I've got to go. I…" She hesitated. Moved to him and kissed him again. Then quickly left before she changed her mind. Returned suddenly as he was pulling on his boxer shorts. "And no snooping!"
He laughed in response.