Into the Wild Black Yonder
Chapter Thirty-eight - Forty-eight Hours of Bliss - part two
On the Enterprise
Mid January, 2259
Nyota
She straightened up when the drum beats stopped, panting from the exercise. Her blood was pulsing in her veins, her body glowed from the exertion, she was deliriously happy - they had been sparring! Really, truly sparring! She wanted to jump up and down and yell. He was looking right into her eyes, and his were so dark, like deep dark pools of chocolate with lights way down at the bottom. He moved, then, advancing toward her until they were almost touching. When she heaved out another breath, her nipples just barely grazed his chest, setting them on fire. Without even thinking about what she was doing, she leaned her face forward just the slightest bit and bit down hard, right where his neck curved into his shoulder. He shuddered, his teeth clinched tight together, a strangled sound coming from his throat.
She moved her face over on his shoulder, no more than a centimeter, and bit him again, not touching anywhere else. His hands were fisted at his sides now, muscles standing out in relief as he tensed his whole body. She moved her face again, bit down maybe just a bit harder, still not touching him with any other part of her body, except those nipples that kept grazing his chest because she was so very close to him. The sound he was making kept getting louder and more primal. It was intoxicating. She felt like she might just come from hearing it.
She slid her mouth along his skin this time instead of lifting away from him, her teeth on his skin clenched just enough that there was a slight tug. He was vibrating beneath her touch. She closed her mouth, exerting pressure slowly, slowly, and shook her head, just a tiny bit. He bucked against her, his arms flying around her, his face burying itself against her neck, his mouth on her, his lok hot against her belly. One long lean leg swept her feet out from under her and she was wrapping them around him as he clasped her body against his so tightly that she could barely breathe.
He was muttering something into her neck, it must be Vulcan, but she couldn't understand what he was saying. And then she was on the floor and he was tearing at her clothing, ripping his, pulling her legs up and bending them until her heels were against her buttocks and her knees against her shoulders and he was thrusting into her, ramming into her, rocking her against the floor, yelling at her, and all the time, through the link between them, lust and desire and possession and love. She couldn't think, she could only feel, and she was so stretched, so full, so very close, spasms in all her muscles, screaming at him. And then everything was flame, everywhere, he was her flame, setting her afire, she was his, he was blazing, the whole world was on fire, everywhere, everywhen, and there was nothing else in the universe except that blazing flame and it went on, and on, and on until she was shuddering and shaking and sobbing and holding him so tight, so very tight.
At some point she was vaguely aware that he was stroking her face so softly, fingers and lips caressing her. She murmured something, she wasn't even sure what, and felt his breath soft on her skin, his forehead grazing hers. She lifted limp arms, cradled him against her. She was so full, overflowing, she could not hold it all and let it flow out across the bond to fill him up as well. She felt like she was glowing, bright as the star she was named for. She turned her face just enough to find his lips with hers and brushed again them, skin tingling gently against skin. She sighed out a long, slow breath, a sound of happiness and satisfaction passing gently from her throat.
Spock
He sat on the couch, long lean legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, uninhibitedly relaxed. One elbow braced on the arm of the couch, hand holding a PADD, ostensibly reading a technical journal. His other hand was in her grasp. She lay across the couch, her knees bent over the other arm, her head pillowed in his lap. With her elbows braced on the couch, she held his hand between hers. One thumb rested firmly in the center of his palm, holding his hand exactly where she wanted it. The other thumb traced the back of his hand, featherlight against his skin. Every wrinkle, every line, caught her attention, her devotion. She turned his hand about, gazing steadily, finding tiny scars here and there. Each one received a tiny kiss, a breath of sensation, as though she could heal those scars with her benediction. Each touch of finger, lips, tongue, sent sparkles of desire and love along his nerves.
She turned his hand again. He allowed, leaving muscles soft and pliable to her ministrations. There was no force in existence that could have induced him to remove it from her grasp. She started at his wrist and slowly, gently, with touch so delicate, she covered his hand. Up the outside edge, clear to the tip of his smallest finger. Down between the fingers, a tiny nip at the web between. A hitch in his breathing was his only response. Down the back of his hand, once again to the wrist, back up again, to the end of the next finger, down again, another tiny nip between those two fingers. A tiny breath, not quite a moan, escaping between his lips, but she heard it and smiled, a soft, dreamy smile. Drifting down the back of his hand to his wrist again, back up to the next finger tip, down to the webbing, tiny nip, on to the wrist, back up, down, down to the web between fingers and thumb. First teeth, then lips, closed gently, exerted tiny pressures, tongue tip teasing with touch so slight, so gentle that the soft noise he made sounded so clearly to her ears.
The PADD was laid down on the table beside the couch, all pretense at reading now forgotten. His hand tangled in her hair, spreading it gently out over his leg. Her fingertips proceeded up over the top of his thumb, down the side of his hand, a gentle kiss at the wrist. Now she rotated his hand again, so that his palm was against her face. The thumb that had empaled his palm now slid around to the side of his hand, the back cushioned in her palm. She started again at the base of his palm, moving slowly up the side of his hand, to the top of his smallest finger, drawing the pad at the fingertip in minute detail with her slow, lingering touches, then bending his hand to her face and breathing her soft breath into his hand. The hand in her hair tensed, then, with an effort, released, but his fingers remained against her scalp, kneading softly. Breath hissed between his teeth.
She turned her face, so slightly, and breathed against his palm as her fingertips glided down the length of his finger, down his palm, up again, crossing the palm, exciting all the bends and creases of the next finger, turning the tender pad at the end into a pool of fire. Soft, soft breath, whispers of lips across fevered skin, streaks of flame along his nerves. His breath came faster, shallower now. He trembled, ever so slightly.
She continued, moving so slowly, covering each finger with tiny attentions, teeth, and tongue, and lips, and fingertips. Until his whole hand was on fire, and he throbbed with desire. His lok strained against the loose pants he wore, threatening to burst through the fabric if not released soon. His body trembled, his breath gusted out in moans. He could not think, could not function at all, his entire being focused on that one hand. And when he thought perhaps he would go mad from it, she rolled her face towards him and bit him, through the fabric of his pants, and he convulsed in white-hot ecstasy.
***
What had been meant to be a quick wash-up had turned into an hour-long experience of touching and tasting and holding. Now his body was telling him that food was greatly desirable. And apparently hers as well, for as he pulled the clean black tee-shirt over his head, he saw that she was rummaging in the stasis unit. He joined her to see what she had selected. Yes, that looked very good, and that as well. Into the replicator on 'warm'. Bread and salad on the table. Plates, silver, juice. They sat at the table and ate. It only took a few minutes to clean up.
Perhaps some music, and he could actually read that technical journal while she did whatever it was she was preparing for. He settled back on the couch, in the same position he had been in earlier. Warm memories gave a quirk to his lips. He picked up the PADD and scanned the displayed text - where had he been? Ah, here. He read a while and then his eyes flicked over to her. What was she doing? Something with her fingernails. Probably filing that one that was slightly ragged. His eyes went back to his reading. Shortly afterwards, a strange odor assaulted his nostrils. Looking up, he observed something very odd. She had a small bottle open and was dipping a tiny brush into it and then painting something on her fingernails. So that was how they got those odd colors. Interesting. She held up the hand she had been working on and blew softly on her fingernails, encouraging them to dry. Her puckered lips held his attention longer than anticipated. When she dropped her hand back to the table, he began to read again.
When next his eyes were drawn to her, she had one knee bent, with the heel of her foot balanced precariously on the edge of the seat of her chair. Her left arm was down the outside of her leg, spreading the toes apart. Her right arm was going from the small bottle on the table, down to her toes. Apparently her toes were to match her nails. He watched a moment, eyes drawn to the dynamics of her motions. He still had not finished the article he had started. Did she intend to blow on her toenails as well?
Some motion must have drawn his eyes again, because when he looked up, she had both feet on the chair seat, her arms wrapped around her knees, toes all spread apart, her head bent and resting on top of her knees, eyes shut, humming along with the music that was playing softly in the background. Nothing at all to make his senses reel this way. She was so beautiful. He ached with it. Almost he rose, but no, she had spent some time on this ritual and that paint was obviously not dry yet. He pushed down on his reaction, calming himself. Later.
Back to reading. Had he not read this page before? He shook his head.
"Something wrong, Spock?" Her voice was calm, happy. It washed through him, leaving peace behind. He did not understand how she did this to him, but he was ever grateful that she did.
"Nothing is wrong. Much is right." He allowed his lips to curl up at the corners, an expression he knew she liked. His eyes danced at her. "Very right."
A smile spread slowly across her face, lighting it up. She glowed with happiness now. He laid the PADD down. Technical journals could wait. He rose and crossed the short space to where she sat, reaching down to lift her up and carry her to the waiting bed. It surely must be time to sleep - but first he would need to see that she was properly tired.