"Jean Luc Picard! Put me down this instant before you pull something!"

I hear the reproach in his tone of voice, "Beverly, don't be ridiculous, you don't weigh what 8 stone? Plus, it's a tradition to carry the bridge over the threshold!"

Then I hear a sneaky tone in his deep voice, "besides," he mutters into my ear, "you need to save your strength for later, Mrs. Picard."

He can't stop saying my married name – and neither can I! I'm holding in my hand Hope's wedding gift to me. It's a plaque for my door. It's a present that has Hope's name written all over it: a traditional wooden plaque for my new office with the words inscribed, Dr. Beverly Picard, MD. It's the first time that I've seen my married name written out so officially. I remember one time when I was at the Academy; I was bored one evening while studying for my astrometrics exam. I can remember sitting there at my desk scribbling the name Beverly Picard over and over again in the margins of my padd. I erased it before Jack could have the slightest chance of seeing it, but I remember that it was the first time that I admitted to myself that I was in love with Jean Luc. Seeing my name on the plaque that Hope gave me is the realization of that girlish pipe dream and when she first placed it in my hands, I couldn't stop looking at it.

"Jean Luc, I think you can put me down now – we're well over the threshold."

"I know," he replies with a boyish grin, "but I just like holding you."

I smile and I move in to kiss my husband. It's supposed to be a chaste kiss of tenderness and gratitude. Within seconds, I feel my feet planted firmly on the ground. We separate for a moment; we're not supposed to start the honeymoon until we at least unpack a few of the boxes, but soon enough my back hits the wall and Jean Luc's hands have trapped me on both sides.

The house is still new to us; we've only spent one night here. Right now, we're sandwiched between the foyer and the dining room. Our lips meet again, I open my mouth to him, and immediately his tongue tangles with mine. Jean Luc is so comical: earlier, I caught him examining the back of my dress to see with how much ease it could be opened. He doesn't know I saw him do it, but it appears that he appraised the situation with honours as I feel his hands deftly move over the closures of the gown. The dress sags and the Bajoran silk enticingly whispers down my body as gravity claims its prize. I'm breathless and so is my husband. His eyes follow the trail of the dress and a wolfish grin encroaches on his face. I see his pupils dilate and his eyes become black with desire.

His hands slide down from the wall and they're cool as they skitter over my body. Like he's wielding a paintbrush, goosebumps start forming over the areas that he's touched. I imagine what a tantalizing image I'm presenting to him. I decided to forgo the bra; all I'm wearing is cream coloured lace lingerie. I let the moment pass before my own raw desire takes over and my hands start frantically undoing the small buttons of his shirt. My hands are frenzied and I'm getting frustrated when I keep missing buttons. He smiles and starts to take over while I attack the closure of his trousers. It all falls away and suddenly everything becomes so elemental. We're in our home, on our own piece of Earth, we're married, husband and wife, man and woman.

We're staring at one another. In the sunlight leaking through the windows, I'm able to look at all of him. I examine the contours of his chest, the abdomen, his legs, and his manhood – standing proudly at attention. He sees me smile and he starts to chuckle as he moves in to remove my last lace barrier. He's close, but I can't wait and I grab him, practically yanking him to me the rest of the way.

I latch onto him hungrily like a starving woman. He returns my fervour, moving closer to me and forcing me flush against the wall. For some reason I had imagined rose petals and candles this evening. I had imagined languorous hours of love making, but right now all I want is my husband.

"Jean Luc," I manage between searing kisses, "NOW!"

He smiles at my readiness. I think that by now the man knows that once I see him naked, I don't need any more preparation. It's nice, but it's by no means a necessity. He deftly hooks my leg over his hip and enters me in one quick movement. It's not a new sensation, but I cry out. I can feel my orgasm build and I know that I'm close. The thing is though: he hasn't started to move yet. I know that for both of us, this is going to be over practically as soon as it began.

He doesn't kiss me, he just looks at me and he starts to withdraw. I whimper at his absence but not before he slams back into me. And in that moment, I'm gone. My muscles contract all around him and my head slams loudly into the wall. I feel bad; as soon as my climax comes, the tightening of my walls around him force him over the edge and I feel a warmth spreading.

My knees sag and I feel him holding me up, "I'm sorry," I croak.

He moves close to feather kisses along my collarbone, "for what?"

I smile, "so fast."

I feel his head shake, "Beverly, it's hard to go slow with you."

"So," I begin, "should we break in the shower?"

He's still kissing me when I hear, "not yet. I have a surprise for you."