Behind the closed door of her quarters, she grabbed handfuls of his shirt and tumbled him onto her bed. She felt like she was falling, and he caught her, flung her over so that he could settle his weight on her and then they were kissing, drinking each other in.
It was flashes of time, moments caught as though by strobe light, a struggle with her boots, with his belt, discarded items of clothing thrown heedlessly across the room. The sensation of his skin on hers, smooth except for the scratchy feel of his chin and jaw as it rubbed against her – her cheeks, her neck, her breasts, her belly, her inner thighs. The rasp of his tongue as it seemed to find every inch of her. The frustrating tease as he licked around the side of her breasts until she took rough handfuls of his hair and aimed him, followed by the electric lance of pleasure as his mouth took possession of her nipples and worked them into aching centers of building need, magnified desire.
The incredible flood of sensation as his mouth, those slender, clever fingers dipped lower, stroking, teasing, entering her, and tossing her over the edge. Her own cries distant in her ears as handfuls of his hair slipped through her hands and her body convulsed. The hard, ready, heavy feel of him in her hands as she curled her hands around him; the growl deep in his throat, harsh and desperate, as she guided him to her, into her. The visceral satisfaction as he slid deep on first thrust, his hips grinding against her, his forehead dipped down towards hers even as the muscles strained in his neck, and another hissing moan escaped his lips.
The surprising strength of the muscles of his upper arms and shoulders, straining under her hands, as he moved over her, slow, too slow, holding himself back at first, tantalizing them both, and then the sudden release as she wrapped her legs around his back, yanked him in for another devouring kiss, rotated her hips against his. The fierce battle of his body against, inside, over hers, as she met his increasingly desperate pace with equal hunger of her own; tongues sliding in a matched duel over each other, over teeth, lips, jaws. The taste of his sweaty skin in her mouth as she bit down on the curve of his neck and he sobbed out her name in a long, rolling sound. The final keen of her own voice as he shuddered and shattered in quick, rough, stabs of his hips and she dove after him.
She felt empty when he withdrew from her, but he was still there, his arms surrounding his, his breath in her mouth, not kissing any more, just there, touching. His hands stroked through her disarrayed hair, tossing a few last pins on the floor, then drawing handfuls down across her shoulders and back. His mouth left hers as he buried his nose in her hair, smelling her, then he pressed soft, lingering kisses to her shoulder, her neck, his tongue teasing at her ear. She continued to stroke his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his scalp, the bony length of his spine. Slowing caresses now, gentling, relaxing together.
When he finally lifted his head to look at her face, to meet her eyes, there was only warmth in his. Those fathomless brown pools were soft, doe-like, no hardness, no guilt or withdrawal, nothing but chocolate sweetness. A smile curled at his lips, carving dimples in his cheek and she had to touch them, trace those indentations with a fingertip. His eyes blinked shut as he leaned into her hand, depositing a kiss in her palm.
"Me bonny, bonny lassie," he whispered in heavily-accented tones, the twinkle in his eyes and the deepening of those dimples telling her that this shift to the vernacular of his childhood was deliberate. That made her laugh, lightly, as she stroked some long strands of hair out of his eyes. In a strange way, this moment, the easy comfort in the aftermath of passion, the tender intimacy that he did not shy away from, was the best of all. He wanted to hold her, to keep her close, to linger in occasional kisses and soft touches. He wanted her.
His head settled on her shoulder, their bodies still entwined, sliding slowly towards sleep. He nuzzled her collarbone; she caressed the back of his head. Her eyes began to close...
And shot open in shock when the door suddenly hissed open and a familiar, round face peered in at them. Stunned eyes met hers and she sat up swiftly, waking Nicholas, who turned, took one look at the intruder and swore in vivid, vicious tones, the accent coming thick and unconsciously true now.
"You fucking wee gobshite! Eli, I am going to cane your hide!"
Eli squealed, proffered an unintelligible apology, then turned, nearly falling over in his haste, and ran from the room. Nicholas leapt up to follow, but stopped when she hit him in the back with a tossed shoe. He looked back at her, startled, and she gestured at him. "Clothes, Nicholas. Might be a good idea."
"Fuck," he swore, shrugging into shirt and pants as quickly as he could manage while she remained relaxed on the bed, enjoying the view, loving the way he moved, that combination of natural elegance and clumsy speed, graceful and expressive, yet still somehow controlled – though only just barely.
She did go to her feet before he ran out the door, grabbing him and swinging around to kiss him once again, soundly, thoroughly, before framing his face in her hands.
"Don't hurt him too badly. I'm the one who'll get stuck cleaning up the mess."
He kissed her back, hard and swift, and amusement flickered behind his fury. "Don't worry, love, I'll leave him in one piece for you."
"Good. I've got a very big needle with his name on it."
He laughed openly now, squeezed her shoulders, and stalked away in pursuit.
---
FINIS
