Mulder is like the heat of a flame, elusive and captivating.
There are benefits to being his partner. Scully can see him almost anyplace, anytime.
The drawbacks came on lonely nights, when not being able to touch him became too much to withstand. When the only chance for his caress comes with the single candle burning on the mantle above her fireplace. She sheds her clothes, and steps out of her underwear, baring a sex unencumbered by hair, meticulously groomed. She kneels before the fire and carefully sets the burning candle on the floor in front of her, two delicate fingers spreading herself open, exposing her flesh to the heat of its flame.
The fire burns.
She builds up a sheen of moisture, sweat across her skin and dew gathering between her thighs, whispering his name, eyes glazed. And then she rears up, the tongue of the candle flame licking at her glistening sex, until it becomes too much and she settles back onto her heels again, her finger starting its travels through the wetness.
The fire burns.
Eventually even a deliberately unhurried pace brings her to the inevitable apex of pleasure, her desire consuming her, her edges curling in the heat, until it takes only one last sweep of her finger, or, if she has truly held back long enough, just the barest lick of the candle near her clitoris sends her into moaning paroxysms of ecstasy. She grinds against her palm then, igniting her own flames again and again, until at last she lies sated before the hearth, soaked with sweat, her skin aglow.
And still the fire burns.
