Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from the TV show, "Friends," portrayed in this work of fiction. I am not making a profit (of any sort) from writing this.
A/N: Set after the show, but mentions, obscurely, information learned in Season 7, Episode 17: "The One with the Truth about London".
Warning: Fluff and smut (not graphic).
He cradles her head in his lap. It's been a long day. Monica's tired. He's exhausted. The kids are in bed, and all he wants to do is sleep.
But it's their time of the time to be with each other and not care about anything or anyone else, except for each other. It's coveted time, not to be wasted.
"I love you," Chandler says, lowering his mouth to Monica's, kissing her, and delighting in the throaty purr that his kiss elicits, even after all this time. Their love hasn't diminished with time, if anything, it's grown over the years.
"Love you too, Mr. Bing," Monica says when he's relinquished her mouth. "How about we bring this into the bedroom?"
Earlier exhaustion forgotten, Chandler swallows, heat creeping up the back of his neck as he pulls his wife to her feet, lets her lead the way to their bedroom. Even after all of these years (has it really been ten?) they're still going strong, and their marriage hasn't lost its spark.
"You still happy that it was me all those years ago, and not Joey?" Chandler asks, hating his mouth even as the words come out. They've buried this particular hatchet years ago, and he'd happily cut his foot off to keep it from going into his mouth again.
Monica's lips curl upward, and she raises an eyebrow. She traces Chandler's tie with a finger, and then drags him forward with it, causing him to fall against her. They topple onto the bed, Chandler landing on top of Monica.
The hand that's not holding onto his tie slowly inches its way southward, and all of Chandler's blood rushes in that general direction as well. Suddenly, he can no longer think, can no longer remember the stupid words he'd uttered moments ago, because Monica's hand is stroking him, the other one, tightening the tie around his throat, just enough to add some excitement into the mix, not enough to cause him to see stars, or lose consciousness.
"Monica," Chandler whispers her name like a prayer, shifting his weight, obeying the commands that she gives, wordlessly, through the tightening and slackening of the tie around his neck. They've never done this before. He's never even known that he wanted to until right now.
It's a heady rush, and he's begging for more, silently, because he doesn't want to wake the kids. Monica's hands, her hips, her lips, her breasts are his undoing, and Chandler writhes beneath her tender-not-so-tender ministrations.
"More than happy," Monica says, breathless, eyes glittering in their dimly lit bedroom as they move together, bodies in perfect sync.
Their climax, when it comes, feels like it's been hours, maybe years in the making, and it's all that Chandler can do not to shout out his pleasure as they come together. Monica falls beside him, and he pulls her close, presses his lips to her neck...that spot just behind her right ear that makes her moan and shiver in pleasure...her lips.
In the aftermath of their lovemaking, they somehow manage to work their way beneath the covers, skin tingling, muscles lax. Wrapped up in each other's arms, Monica's head nestled snug beneath Chandler's chin, they sleep. It's comfortable, and right, and Chandler thanks his lucky stars that it was him, and not Joey, that Monica had gone to all those years ago.