On the second of December Rose Tyler woke to find herself in the Doctor's bed for the first time. It came as quite a shock. She remembered the church, and she remembered the dancing, but the rest of it had been a bit of a surprise to say the least. After so many months of waiting for him to make a move, the Doctor had finally decided to kiss her, and then do more than kiss her. And on the floor of a church as well. Her grandparents would have been horrified, although her mother was hardly a nun.
The room was dark, but she was warm, naked under a heap of sheets and covers, the unmistakeable canopy of a four poster bed above her. But more than that the Doctor was wrapped round her like a second skin, sleeping peacefully.
She could feel the double beat-beat of his hearts against her back, his arm around her waist and lower, and slightly more uncomfortably, the hard heat of his arousal pressing into her bottom. It must be morning, she thought, and she had her own personal alarm clock.
She was so happy she wanted to spring out of bed and shake the TARDIS with the force of her laughter. There was a delicious sliding smoothness between her legs this morning, the remembrance of the previous day and it gave her a wicked idea.
He had surprised her yesterday hadn't he? And it really was time he woke up. Moving carefully, so as not to rouse him — yet — she rotated her hips slightly, tilted backwards, pushed herself down gently, but firmly onto the erection prodding into her from below. When he was fully inside her she closed her eyes, squeezed every muscle she had as tightly together as possible.
She felt him wake up with a start, pushing forward into her, making her gasp at how deeply he was touching her, before he realised where — exactly —he was. His arm tightened around her waist as he yanked her back against him, skin to skin along the whole length of her body.
He breathed into her ear, nibbled an earlobe. 'Good morning,' he said.
'Morning,' she replied politely, as he took the hint and ground his hips into her.
Rocking back against him, moving in time with the unhurried vigour of his strokes she felt his hand over her hip, trailing downwards, finding her warm and waiting, his fingers pressing her flesh in time with the push-pull motion inside her. Her orgasm built slowly this time, the throbbing between her legs getting more and more insistent.
'Now,' she gasped. 'Now.'
But he didn't vary his pattern and continued the slow crescendo inside her, as she grabbed hold of the pillows, clawed the edge of the bed, stretching towards release. It occurred to her, between the cries that the burning heat drew from her lips, that this was probably his revenge.
When she finally came, it was a longer and more through climax that she had ever felt, lacing through her body, soothing all her muscles, calling her into sleep again. She felt him try to hold himself steady as the buried part of him shuddered inside her, and his slow exhalation told her how totally he had let go.
'Up you get then,' he said, but she was already asleep.
The Car Crash Bride and The Postman's Daughter by Sally Anne Palmer out now on Amazon.