First
He wakes you once, in another cookie-cutter room, in another cookie-cutter town, in the middle of another cookie-cutter case. You'd think for all of this, you'd at least have some snickerdoodles to show for it. At twenty-five, you'd never have predicted the things that would pass for mundane ten years in your future.
What happens next, though, is as far from cookie-cutter as it gets for the two of you.
You answer his urgent knock at the connecting door half-asleep, murmuring his name in the whiniest voice you can manage at 3 AM—it lacks the Mulder-this-damn-better-be-good bite that you'd like, but his eyes tell you he still gets the point.
"You're okay then?" his voice is an apology already, and you regret your behavior immediately. "I just…I had a dream…I'm sorry…go back to sleep…" He wears nothing but boxer shorts, and you stop your eyes mid-abdomen from dropping to determine their color (black would be nice, the naughty side of your brain supplies).
He turns away, but you reach for him, catching him by the warm, smooth curve of his shoulder (have you touched his bare skin at 3 in the morning before tonight?) "S'okay…," you say gently, "Do you need to talk?" Your brain's still sluggish—it doesn't catch up with your body until you've trailed a dreamy path down his arm with your fingertips.
"Ummm," he fumbles, and you snatch it away, but already the air is charged and buzzing. You feel a flush as it spreads across your chest and travels to land at your cheeks. "Umm, no, it's okay…It was just the same….ah…the same…"
He pauses, and you fight back a shudder as his tongue slides slowly across his lip. (You certainly wouldn't have predicted waking to this ten years ago.) And then you see his eyes, and they—they're not cookie-cutter eyes at all. They're dark and sultry and settled right at the level of your breasts, precisely in the spot that flush blossomed just seconds ago.
Looking down, you realize the top button of your pajamas has come undone, revealing a deep swell of cleavage and pale, pink skin. You gasp quietly, but do nothing (you're not cookie-cutter Dana Scully tonight either). Maybe your brain's still sluggish. Maybe you're transfixed by the way his jaw muscles twitch beneath his skin. Or maybe you're finally hungry for a snickerdoodle.
Five seconds pass. Ten. Both of your breaths become ragged. It's almost torturous to feel his eyes upon your flesh, when his body is only inches away. Your nipples harden against the satin awaiting his touch. Your eyes wander past mid-abdomen this time, and verify that yes, you were right—the answer was black.
He's the one who finally breaks the spell. Reaching down, he slips your button back through the hole, while you bite your lip and try not to tremble.
"Your button came undone," he whispers, then turns and closes the door.
Second
You see him go down from yards away. Your heart leaps into your throat. You used to know what to do in situations like this—continue the chase, of course—but his fallen body pulls on yours like a magnet. Thank god the perp is seized by fellow agents—it stuns you to realize that, had it been in your hands, you'd probably have let him flee.
You've never had an issue distinguishing between professional and personal before now. The line has always been clear. Lately though…, lately it's as though someone has taken an eraser to that line (a good one—not just one of those cheap, pink school ones). It's been smudged beyond recognition. Lately, you're coming to consider Mulder much more of a personal pursuit than a professional one.
It scares the hell out of you.
Kneeling by his side, you gather him into your lap. He's not hurt badly, but your arms don't seem to realize this—they pull him close like a mother may pull a child, soothingly against your breast, comforting words falling loosely from your lips.
Only you're not his mother.
And he most definitely is not a child.
You hold him there though, fingers in his hair, conveniently ignoring that minor detail—just until my heart stops racing, you promise yourself.
But your heart doesn't stop racing.
You realize your jacket's fallen open, that he's resting against only the thin rayon shell you wore beneath your blazer today. And his breath… it's hot and humid and enticingly close to two of the most sensitive bits of flesh on your body (they perk themselves up despite the circumstances). It's electric, regardless of how many layers lie between. For a brief second, you envision him there with no barriers, his tongue lapping at you until you're begging for more. Thank god you're able to suppress the sudden shiver that threatens to overtake your body.
Your fingers flex involuntarily around his skull, the impulse to guide him further so overwhelming, it takes your breath away.
He grunts softly then, and you quickly release your hold on his head, embarrassed. You try desperately to reallocate him to the professional column inside your head, but it's no use, not when his hot breath is still there, not when your nipples have grown hard, not when you know that tonight, you'll be in your bed imagining this scenario going in a completely personal direction.
Slowly, he presses himself up from your lap, but his gaze remains trapped in the spot he just laid, lingering there in that darkened valley between your breasts, the one that seems made to fit his nose (or his tongue or his lips). Stay for a while, you're tempted to offer.
His breaths are short and quick, and you struggle to remember why this is a bad idea, why you're not allowed to let this happen, why for once in your damn life you can't have what you want without considering the consequences.
A shout from another agent jolts you from your stupor, and you quickly disentangle yourself, ashamed by the reckless nature of your thoughts. "I…you seem to be okay…I'd…I'd better go see if they need any help," you mumble, avoiding his eyes and the way they make you want to crawl back down to the ground with him, the way they make you want to take professional and obliterate it altogether.
You hurry away.
Your heart never does stop racing.
Third
You liken midnight stakeouts to a teakettle awaiting a 'whistle', to a piece of bread awaiting a 'pop'. Time crawls more slowly than a snail across the sidewalk when you sit there counting the seconds.
At least in the other situations, you walk away with a mug of Earl Grey and a piece of toast (if you're lucky, even some strawberry jam). With a stakeout, the most you can hope for is a stiff neck and a headache.
You're two hours and about twelve suggestive remarks in (somehow they all seem suggestive when he's sitting just inches away at midnight) when you finally decide to pick up the magazine the last pair of agents left behind. A typical woman's publication, nothing you'd be caught dead purchasing at the grocery store, but one more minute of that rough, velvet voice and the way he says the word 'combustible', and you're going to lose it.
"Hush, Mulder, I'm reading," you tell him when he starts in again, though reading is a vast exaggeration considering the dim light and banal nature of the material. But it's enough to shut him up, and that in itself is priceless.
He excuses himself to 'get some air' (fuck men and their ability to relieve themselves so easily), while you're just grateful to take a deep breath without filling your nose with his scent. You wonder how Skinner would react if you requested not to be assigned any more stakeouts with Mulder, because they turn you into such a desperate mess.
You flip through the pages of the magazine as though there's a purpose to your actions, as though you're an actual woman who has an actual interest in these sorts of things (it startles you to realize how far from that place you've come). A perfume advertisement catches your eye—shiny, happy couples having the shiny, happy time of their lives—the image makes you want to both gag and cry.
The unused sample is still intact, and as you peel away the wrapping, you remember the days you wore perfume every day, experimented with scents, tried to determine which would attract the right kinds of men. You realize that somewhere along the way (could you pinpoint the day if you tried?), the right kinds of men became one man—one who says 'combustible' in a way that makes your knees weak.
You spread the scent on your wrists, a dab behind the ears, and, feeling bold, in the shadow of your cleavage. Let Mulder squirm for a bit smelling you, you think.
You crumple the evidence and place it in your pocket, feeling suddenly a bit foolish as he slides back into his seat. He tries to be subtle, but the crinkle above his brow and the tilt of his head give him away—he knows what you've done. From the corner of your eye, you watch him lick his lips (goddamn it—it was him that was supposed to squirm, not you), but he goes no further.
"I'm surprised to see you reading that trash," he ponders.
You raise an eyebrow in his direction. "There's nothing wrong with brushing up on my feminine wiles, Mulder. This career does a pretty decent job of eradicating them."
He chuckles, and you assume the discussion is complete. But then in a voice that makes 'suggestive' look like child's play, he murmurs, "On the contrary, Scully. I think your feminine wiles are in fine working order. Quite exemplary, in fact…"
You suck in your breath and curse yourself for being so continually affected by him. You should have known he wouldn't let it drop.
Reaching across the console, he gently takes your arm, then slowly brings your wrist to his nose. "Putting on this perfume was an excellent display of feminine wiles, wouldn't you say?" Oh lord.
You feel his nose as he presses it to your tender skin, as he closes his eyes and inhales. You think you may be trembling. "It's just…it was just a sample from the magazine," you whisper, as if you had no part in it finding its way onto your body.
"Very nice…," he says, and you breathe a sigh of relief when he finally lets you go. You don't care what Skinner has to say; you cannot keep doing this. "But I never feel like perfume reaches its full bouquet on just the wrists—not enough body heat. Did you put it anywhere else?" Oh my god. What in the hell were you thinking pulling that sample from the damn magazine?
"Umm, Mulder, I don't think…," you stammer, but for some unearthly reason, you keep going, "Behind my ears…I… I put it behind my ears…" Your feminine wiles have nothing against the persuasion of his masculine ones.
"I thought so…," he responds, already leaning toward you, already invading your space (he invades your space daily, but never has he done it at midnight in a dark, cramped car while investigating your feminine wiles). His hands land on your shoulders, and your neck tilts invitingly toward his nose (your body has finally gone rogue, you realize), and his hot breath is there there there, behind your ear, in that spot that makes you whimper if you're not being careful.
And you're trying to be careful, really you are, but when his nose brushes your skin, the slightest squeak escapes your throat before you're able to catch it. "Mmmmm," he responds, "Smells even better, just as I suspected," and again, you're sure he's going to be done, that he'll finally leave you alone.
But when can you ever be sure of anything when it comes to Mulder?
Instead of retreating, that nose slides its way down the slope of your neck. Slowly. You grip the fabric of the seat so tightly, your hands cramp.
"But I'm picking up on the scent elsewhere—am I wrong?" You don't think he actually expects an answer, because his nose is still heading in the precise direction of 'elsewhere', and you honestly worry you're going to pass out.
"Muldd…," you murmur, but then you close your eyes. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is when it finally happens, the culmination of this thing around which the two of you have been dancing for seven long years.
The stubble from his chin brushes the sensitive skin of your chest, and you shudder. You've forgotten how to breathe. He's hovering there, nose pointed directly into the shadow that slips down into your blouse, where you so foolishly swiped that scrap of paper just moments ago. What were you saying earlier about not feeling like an actual woman? Scratch that—you feel more like a woman now than you've ever felt in your whole damn life.
Seconds, minutes, hours pass (how are you supposed to keep track of time with him there?), his harsh breaths the loudest and most arousing sounds to have ever filled your ears. His fingers trail from your shoulders, down along your arms to land at your waist. Your own fingers are hard at work, trying to convince your brain they should twine through his hair, they should pull him close and bury him there, in the place you've imagined him too many times to count.
"Scully," he breathes, and your back arches toward him in invitation. He's about to RSVP, you're sure of it, his breath getting hotter and hotter, closer and closer… Oh Jesus Christ, just another inch….
A loud 'crash' slices its way through the thickened air like a knife.
He jumps back, the moment destroyed. "Shit, I'm sorry…," he mutters, "I'm sorry," and, seconds later, barrels out of the car. It takes you a few deep breaths to realize he's in pursuit (you were on a stakeout, remember?).
Coming to your senses, you follow behind. His words keep time with your heels on the pavement: I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
You wish he'd stop so you could tell him.
I'm not.
Fourth
He's asked you out to dinner. "Just because," he said, and though his tone was nonchalant, the way he chewed his lip awaiting your response (god, you want to suck on that bottom lip like a popsicle) honestly made your heart race.
Just because is a reason given for things without consequence—for coffee or cards or walks in the park. Mulder and you don't do things just because. You especially don't do things like dinner out on a Friday night, without even a casefile as backup.
There is a because lurking behind every corner. Because work, because pain, because fear, because death…
There are always consequences.
You remember that night, a few months ago, when he woke you at 3 AM. How he looked at your body, and how you willingly allowed it. You'd never wish a nightmare upon him, but you've become very careless buttoning up your pajamas lately, just in the off-chance he has another.
You remember that case, when you held him in your lap. How the heat of his breath against your breast almost broke you. Since then, there hasn't been a day you've not thought about it, a night you've not touched yourself with hands you pretended were his.
You remember that stakeout, with his nose against your skin. How you were 'this close' to asking him for more. You bought new perfume the very next day (cheeks red as you exited the store), and each morning, as you spritz it between your breasts, you imagine him begging to smell it again.
Nothing about your relationship is just because.
There are always consequences.
But maybe he's ready to deal with them.
Maybe you're ready to help him.
You slip from the sharpened planes of your suit and go to your closet. This night is much too fragile for harsh angles; it deserves ampersand curves and hourglass edges. It deserves that little black dress that's hidden in the back, the one you bought on a whim on a day you were feeling restless. You wonder for a moment whether Mulder's ever actually seen you in a dress, much less one with a neckline as plunging as this one (the thought makes you sweat in a sudden and sensuous way).
You wonder whether he's standing here, wavering on the threshold of this abyss beside you, awaiting even the slightest breeze to propel you both forward.
You want to grab his hand and say 'Jump!' You want to grab his hand and say 'Stay!' You don't know what you want. You want to do something just because.
He knocks, and your stomach flips in a way a gymnast would envy. You're a nervous wreck, and you haven't even opened the door. It's just Mulder, you try, but the thought only urges another few twists from your belly.
Opening the door, you step aside in lieu of catching his eye. You concoct a quick plan that has something to do with not looking at him the entire evening—not noticing the dark gray sweater that molds across his chest, not paying attention to the way his trousers hug the curves of his thighs. Not imagining the rough, hard scrape of his five-o-clock shadow if your fingers were to slide themselves (just ever-so-slightly) across it…
God.
Yes, looking at him is definitely going to be a problem. Because you know if you do, you're going to want more.
Collecting your wrap from the couch, you drape it hastily around your shoulders, then head toward him and the door. "Ready?" you ask the hardwood floors beneath your feet (your not-looking-at-him plan is going splendidly so far).
"Scully." His tone informs you that no, it's not going as splendidly as you'd assumed. Your eyes are rebellious though; they refuse to listen to his reprimand, making their way only as far as his knees.
"Scully," he says again, and this time, his fingers beneath your chin make sure every part of you listens (there are parts of you listening he may not even have intended, but oh, they're listening). "Look at me," he demands gently.
Your eyes obey this time, traversing the stubbled slant of his jaw (the one about which you weren't supposed to be imagining) and the rolling incline of his nose (would it get in the way if he kissed you?), to fall right there into the depths his searching eyes (deep-end-of-the-swimming-pool eyes, bottom-of-the-ocean eyes, eyes so deep, you'll never work your way out).
And my god, you realize something in that moment. You were wrong, so very, very wrong. He's not standing on the edge of the abyss beside you—he is the abyss. And you're so close to jumping, your knees shake.
His thumb against your chin is a tether though (he'd never let you jump alone), and you concentrate on that point of contact, on the way he strokes back and forth before pulling away.
His eyes pull away next, and for a second you're relieved, but then you feel them, literally feel them, flowing over your body like water. It's intoxicating, being the mountainside to Mulder's waterfall.
"You're…," he stumbles, "Christ, you look beautiful, Scully." It's startling how quickly your heart begins hammering.
"I…I wasn't sure…of your intentions tonight," you murmur, your tongue sweeping nervously across your lips. The contrast between the crisp white edge of his shirt collar and the bronze of his neck is breathtaking. You fiddle with the wrap at your shoulders—without the distraction, there's no way you could stop your hands from reaching out and touching.
"My intentions…," the words fall from his mouth—slowly, deliberately—but you're afraid to try and catch them, worried this may be the point of no return, the moment that changes everything. Are you prepared for that magnitude just yet?
He pauses, and the moment draws itself out, thin and elastic and so full of expectation, it's almost painful. You suddenly feel incredibly warm (how is he so calm?), but as you reach to slide the wrap from your neck, the fabric snags the chain of your necklace.
"Oh!" you exclaim.
"Here, let me," he says, and all of the sudden his fingers are there at your neck—warm and soft and against your skin. You suck in a breath at the sensation. Surely he's touched you there before, but never like this, never on a Friday evening, never before a dinner out, never when the only thing you can think about is how close he is and how unbearable it is for him not to be touching every other inch of your body.
"There," he whispers, as he deftly extricates the wrap, and you breathe a sigh of relief that he's done, that in a second, he won't be close enough to kiss—you're feeling too dangerously close to doing so right now. You're teetering so precariously on the edge, it's unnerving.
But he's not done.
Because he hasn't moved away, and his finger is still there, still sliding beneath the necklace to trail along your clavicle. "My intentions, Scully…," he repeats, and his finger strays from the chain, now unabashedly wandering across the upper region of your chest, dipping and sliding and caressing. "My intentions are…whatever you'd like them to be..." His voice works its way down into your most secret places and nudges. Oh dear god.
His finger meanders lower, edging its way toward that shadowed valley you hoped he'd notice when you chose this dress tonight. You drop your eyes to watch its path, parting your lips to release the quickened breaths now struggling to escape your throat. Unbidden, a barely-there moan escapes as well. You're trembling—can he feel it?
He finds the spot where your breasts begin to swell from the flat of your chest, that delicate feminine curve, and traces the lowercase 'm' across your skin, arcing up on the right, a dip in the middle, then ascending again on the left (you drew birds that way when you were young). You're afraid you may faint.
"Fuck, Scully…this dress… your breasts…," he mutters.
"Oh god," you whisper, closing your eyes. You're not sure how much longer you can stand here without your knees buckling. Does he have any idea what he's doing to you?
"Tell me what you want…," he whispers back. Your head lolls on your neck as you consider your options, as your nipples harden in expectation. What do you want? You want snickerdoodles, you want personal, you want combustible… You want him to touch you just because, for no other reason... You want his hands, his mouth, his tongue…
You want him. Utterly and undeniably.
"I want…," you breathe, and his mouth is suddenly at your clavicle, nuzzling (my god, in all your fantasies, you've never considered him nuzzling). "I want…" He nips at your skin, and you gasp. "God! Mulder!" You can't concentrate, not with him doing that (though yes, please keep doing that).
You grasp him by the jaw. It hurts almost physically to pull him away, but his proximity right now is making you dizzy. You'll never sober up with him so close. And you need to be sober, you need to be lucid and clear-headed before making this leap.
His eyes are dark, so very dark; they're blazing with a hunger you've never seen in him (Is it possible he's hungrier for you than for the unexplained? The thought leaves you breathless). You draw your fingers slowly along the ridge of his jaw (finally, finally), and it's as marvelous as you'd ever imagined.
"Mulder," you murmur, but you can't stop your thumb from tracing its way right up around the curve of his chin, from landing against his bottom lip. It's wet and plump and reminds you of a ripened plum. You want to taste it so badly, your mouth waters.
But first…first you want something else.
"What I want, Mulder…is THIS." You slide your fingers to his shoulders (they'll be allowed back at his lips soon, you promise). Then further down his arms to twine through his own. Then slowly, ever so slowly, you draw his hands back up your body, skimming over your hips, your waist, your ribs, then…
Then then then…
You bring them to cradle your breasts.
And ohhhh…. You close your eyes.
He moans, and you do, too—there's no way you can't. Christ, it's divine, this very first touch, this first leap into the abyss. Just the sensation of your flesh resting against his palms is already the most erotic thing you've ever felt, even with clothing between, even with him not yet daring to move.
This isn't cookie-cutter, this isn't professional. This is heat and lust and the two of you, finally giving in to the one thing you've resisted the most. And it's exquisite.
But you're not finished…
"And I want THIS." You weave your fingers through his hair and gently draw down his head—to that spot where flushed, pink skin meets little black dress, the spot he's left unfinished too many times in the past. Your nipples strain against the fabric, sensitive and peaked at the prospect of his impending touch.
"Fuck," he breathes, and you shiver.
You arch your back to urge him forward, but he lingers without touching—his hot, humid breaths are enough to make you scream. He's going to kill you. Your heart will cease to beat right here beneath his ripened-plumb lips, before you've even had the chance to taste them.
And then (praise Jesus), his fingers flex. They sink into your softness. He cups his palms and he lifts, pressing your breasts up and together, until they're all but spilling from the neckline of your dress. It's so damn sexy, you can hardly breathe. His tongue slides along his lip, and you whimper (how can you not, his lips so close to your skin?)…until…until…
Until finally (seven years worth of finally), his mouth is there, pressed sweetly against the skin above your heart. The two of you groan simultaneously. Oh dear god, you've waited so long for this, you want to cry. But before the tears even begin to form, his tongue slips out. His lips begin to move, his teeth begin to nip, and then suddenly, crying is the furthest thing from your mind because it's becoming increasingly clear that Fox Mulder is planning to devour you whole.
He crouches before you, lips frantically pushing aside fabric in search of your most eager flesh, and it's glorious, finally being on the receiving end of his infamous passion (you're suddenly wildly jealous of every case you've ever investigated, if this is how it feels being the focus of his intensity). Your fingers scrape restlessly through his hair. Below, his hands are just as busy, kneading your breasts, plucking at your nipples through your dress until they're aching.
You've never been this aroused in your life, and when he finally tugs your bodice down to put his mouth directly on those aching bits of flesh, it's all too much—your knees give out beneath you. He anchors you with a strong hand between your shoulders blades though, and this new position is somehow even more divine, your breasts lifting to his mouth in offering.
"Scully…Scully…Scully…," he murmurs into your cleavage. The words are muffled, but it's the sexiest thing you've ever heard, Mulder moaning your name against your breasts after this many years on a Friday night. You want to bottle the sound and sleep with it under your pillow. You want to hear it every night in your dreams.
Eventually (but only after copious amounts of extremely diligent research), he finds his way to your mouth as well, his lips ascending your neck like a wandering vine. When he reaches the top, he looks into your eyes. With a cocky grin that makes you want to throw him down and fuck him right here on the floor, he says, "I like your intentions even better than mine, Scully."
You smile back coquettishly (two can play at this game), and respond in the least professional, least cookie-cutter way possible, "Good. Because I have lots of intentions for you tonight."
Then you grab hold of his neck and kiss him with a passion so heated, it honestly would burn the damn cookies anyway.
Fifth
"I always wondered, you know," he murmurs against your neck, and already you're addicted—to the sound of his voice just moments after sex, to the way it wraps itself around your body like a blanket.
"About what?" you ask, listening to see whether you sound just as soft and sultry as he. You do. Seven years worth of finally looks good on you both thus far.
His head is on your shoulder, and if the two of you were a protractor (connected only at that one single point), the circle you'd draw with your pointed toes would be almost too tiny to see.
You can't keep your hands still. They've had nothing with which to fill themselves for so very long, and his body is abundant with places that fit them perfectly. They're currently exploring his left deltoid and right trapezius (Would the fact that you can name each muscle in his back—both extrinsic and intrinsic—arouse him, you wonder? You suspect the answer is yes).
"How devastatingly beautiful you'd be…," he continues. Your body is still damp, your breaths are still quickened, your clit is still pulsing. You had sex not ten minutes ago (and oh, was it divine—unbelievably so). You should be sated, at least momentarily. But my god, he knows just what to say to rev up your engine again (Did you really just use a sports-car analogy? His long, lean lines and the superior equipment beneath his hood must be affecting you).
"You've seen me before," you murmur.
"It's not the same, and you know it," he says (and you do know it, but for some reason, you needed to hear him say it).
He fits his fingers between each of your ribs and trails them across your torso. You imagine yourself as a sheet of loose-leaf paper, thin blue finger-lines eagerly awaiting his poetry (you want him to write it with his tongue).
"It drove me crazy, not knowing …," he adds. "I spent hours, Scully, fantasizing... trying to picture... From memory— what I could—but mostly by studying you. Did you feel me studying you, Scully?"
Did you feel him studying you? My god, you've felt every glance, every wash of his eyes over your body for the last seven years. It's been torture.
His fingers are playing along your hips now, tracing the places they protrude from your belly like flattened stones. "I felt it," you whisper. "For years, I tried not to. But then…"
"I got it all wrong though, every last bit," he interrupts. His lips vibrate against your jawline. "I could never have fathomed this—how absolutely breathtaking you'd be—the pink of your skin, the weight of your breasts, the flavor of your nipples against my tongue…"
God. You lick your lips. "Yeah?" you breathe.
"Yeah," he says. "Your breasts…Christ, Scully, I was haunted by them…ever since that night in the hotel room—your undone button—and that fucking perfume in the car…"
As if to illustrate his point, he rises to one elbow and turns his gaze to focus on your chest—your skin is still buzzing from his earlier attentions. It still tingles from his touch. His finger traces a line from your suprasternal notch to your navel, and you gasp.
"I wanted you those times," you whisper, "…wanted you to look, to touch. I ached with wanting it."
He moans, and your hips arc slightly from the bed—they're already trained to the sound of his voice.
"Tell me, Scully…What did you want?"
"Mulder, I don't…you don't need to…" You're flustered by his request, not used to speaking so openly, especially not with him. But you're also aroused, the thought of him touching you in exactly the way you desire so enticing, you're flushed even just considering it.
"I want to," he pleads, "My god, Scully, I want to make you feel so fucking good, you can't see straight…" His urgency is intoxicating—you bite your lip to keep from whimpering (what he doesn't know is that you haven't been seeing straight since you walked into that basement office, a lifetime ago).
He smooths his hand up your abdomen until it meets the underneath swell of your breast, then traces a long, slow figure eight with his finger—around your right breast, then crossing between to circle around your left (it's also the symbol for infinite, you think, and the thought strangely makes your heart flutter). He continues—around, around, around (8+8+8+8+8+…You stop trying to keep track—normally you can count much higher, but his finger+your skin=a woman much too dizzy to complete complex equations).
With every loop, the '8' shrinks smaller. Your nipples pebble into sharp, needy points. They know the feel of his fingers now, know how he can make them feel. Your breath quickens, and you begin to wonder whether he'll ever stop, whether you'll pass slowly into infinite with the ache of his fingers drawing ever-so-slightly-closer-yet-never-actually-reaching the places you need them the most.
"Please…," you beg, arching your back into his touch.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, and his finger stops, right there in the spot where pale, milky skin meets dusky pink. You want to cry.
"Fuck, Mulder!" you gasp, "Touch me. Please…" You bite your lip in anticipation, so hard it hurts.
He leans down to whisper in your ear, "Like this?", then flicks his finger quickly across an aching nipple. A firefly flash, and then he's gone.
Your body jolts at the contact—he's fine-tuned you almost to your breaking point.
"Unghh," you moan, "Yesss. More though. More…." You've never sounded like this, so frenzied, so frantic.
Again, he flicks his finger, first on the right, then the left, then back again, alternating between your breasts like a ping-pong ball. The tease of it is almost painful. You need more, so much more.
"Harder," you breathe, "Harder. Pinch them." He complies, and you groan, your neck arching back into the pillow in relief.
"Yeah? You like that?" His voice—god—it's not only wrapping itself around you like a blanket, but now it's working its way inside you, caressing you from the inside-out.
"Mmmyeah…yeah…" You lick your lips and close your eyes, reveling in his touch. He pinches, then tugs, repeating the action until you're hips are rolling in tight little circles against the sheets. But you need…you need… "More…," you plead, hoping he can decipher from those four small letters exactly what you're asking of him.
It appears he can (did you have any doubts?), because he rises to his knees to use both hands, and oh, immediately your pleasure is doubled. With this new position, his enthusiasm appears to double as well, and he kneads your flesh until you moan, then resumes the pinching and tugging routine he perfected just moments ago. You perhaps should be self-conscious with him above you like this, watching over you as you lose control, but you can't be, not when it feels this good.
"What else, Scully?" he pants, and you realize he's just as aroused as you, that he's hard again already, pressed against your hip. It's exhilarating, that after all these years of (very secretly) admiring his erection, you're now allowed to touch. You reach between his legs and wrap him in your fingers. His groan is divine (you dearly love Mozart, but Mulder, lying on your bed and groaning from your touch, is more melodic than a goddamn symphony).
"Roll them…," you breathe, "Roll my nipples between…between your thumb and your fing—," and oh god, before you're even finished, he's found it—that one spot, the one where, when he swizzles his thumb in just the right way (when are you going to realize that with him, it's all the right way?), it travels to your clit like a bullet train, arriving at its destination almost before it's begun.
"Yesss," you hiss, clenching your thighs together. He's magic, he is, a great big Mulder-shaped piece of magic. And lucky for you, he's showing you all his tricks (you're tempted to whisper 'abracadabra', but a particularly good roll of his fingers produces a much-less-magical whimper instead). Before you know it, he's moving onto his next illusion, and sweet Jesus, it's the most spectacular one of them all.
His mouth lands on your nipple, and you quickly see this is one riddle you'll never solve, how the barest touch of his lips and tongue can make you moan his name so desperately. How the slightest bit of suction can make you take hold of his head, with no intention of ever letting go. This is Mulder—Mulder—you keep reminding yourself, touching you, pleasuring you, burning these damn cookies beside you.
You realize he's writing that poetry now (the poetry you hoped he'd write with his tongue over your loose-leaf body). He's scripting phrases, stanzas, entire verses, across your breasts in sweet saliva-ink. You think you decipher the word snickerdoodle; you're quite positive of the word combustible (the fact that he finds rhymes for those two makes you wetter than you've been in years).
You're lost in sensation; you're drowning in it. You stroke his cock to the same rhythm he sucks at your breasts, and the communion of it is exquisite. You're sure you can feel his pleasure just as acutely as your own.
"Scully. Fuck, Scully," he growls into your skin, thrusting his hips, grinding them up against you. Your own hips are rolling as well, searching blindly for his hand, his mouth, his cock, any part of him that's available to carry you over that edge into sweet, sweet oblivion.
"Mul… please, please…," you gasp, until finally you can't bear it any longer. Pulling your fingers from where they're tangled in his hair, you search out his hand. You slide it along your body (down, down—you're sure he'd follow you anywhere), and press him to your center, to that pulsing, aching place so desperate for release.
And he knows. He knows (you've always known he'd know). One rough circle around your clit and one oh-so-perfectly-curled finger thrust inside, and you're gone, utterly and absolutely. You cry out, arching your back and falling to pieces, feeling the rumble of his voice against your breast as he does the same.
And oh, it's glorious, finally lying beside him (naked and flushed and chests still heaving) after so many years of lying alone. How could you ever have been satisfied with professional, when personal feels like this?
"Do you know my very favorite part of all of this?" he murmurs sleepily, dancing his finger across your ribs once more (apparently, his poem is still unfinished).
"What?" you answer quietly, smoothing his hair from his brow (there are so many things about all of this you'd consider your favorite, but you haven't the vaguest idea of his).
He rises once again to his elbow. "That I can touch you—" He leaves the end of the sentence dangling there, and, leaning over, presses his lips to your heart. Then, ever-so-slightly, his tongue begins to move across your skin (unfinished poem indeed). You close your eyes and breathe, and slowly, slowly, the final phrase becomes clear:
Just because.
You whisper back with tears in your eyes, "That's mine, too."
You never did make it to dinner, but that's okay. Suddenly burnt cookies seem like the most appetizing thing in the world.