Her body was failing her, but he was a similar sort of problem, a physical manifestation of a cancer that could swallow her whole if he wanted. He gave her a high sharper than the chamalla, caused his own sorts of visions, left her sweaty, trembling, and unable to sleep at night, wondering when she'd be able to get her next hit.
His arms were powerful and covered her completely, and she would sink into him, her weariness rendering her putty in his capable hands. It wasn't the sex, though the sex was magnificent. The sex would leave her utterly unable to move. Thoughts of it would pool in her mind at inopportune times and then coalesce, thick and hot between her legs, like his cock primed for penetration. His hands, mouth, body, were all more than adequate, but at night she'd find herself longing for lips on her temple, a laugh in her ear, his hand in hers, and the fear and desire would war in her belly. These were dangerous thoughts, thoughts that pulled her under, slowly but surely. A quicksand in her mind.
She tried to force the intimacy away, when the President and the Admiral faded and Bill and Laura were left to navigate the ever-changing facets of their relationship. She'd take over before he could utter a word, alarm bells telling her to frak him senseless before he had the opportunity to say something they'd regret. Against a bulkhead, in the head by CIC, in a wayward broom closet – risky places, but places far less hazardous than Bill Adama's heart.
Most of the time she felt like she was drowning. He pulled her into the undertow, even as he held her head above water. In her worst moments, Laura Roslin dreamt of letting herself sink.