Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sooo, a few things:

-I'm a novice at French. Forgive me. I used it sparingly.

-I was feeling a little cheeky at the end of this chapter... :) Indulge me, I've given you over a hundred chapters now.

-OVER A HUNDRED CHAPTERS! Ahh! (Did I mention feeling cheeky? -giggles-)

As always, thank you for the loverly reviews and I hooope you enjoy this chapter. :) The end.

Oh, no. Not yet. ...Jellybean, how is this for a Captain Orgasm? :D

Okay, now The End. (Of my A/N, not this story. Yet.) :)

Chapter One Hundred and One:

Her hand slid up my thigh, and my eyes closed tightly. It wasn't that I didn't want her—God, I wanted her—it was just that this wasn't right. I had planned out this day perfectly—we were supposed to get back to the hotel in time for a romantic dinner in a private room downstairs, put Ayla to bed and relax a little in the big Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom, teasing each other, and then get out and order strawberries and champagne from room service and consummate our union in the most romantic way I could think of, in a giant, luxurious, fluffy bed.

It was probably thoughts of that which had gotten us lost in the first place—thinking of the French Maid's uniform and the wedding gown surprises, I was almost certain she had wedding night attire planned out… and I'd been trying to imagine it while driving out of Allouville-Bellefosse. Would it be traditional and white, or seductive and black? Maybe playful and bright… her skin shone in just about any color… and before I knew it, we were turning around for directions.

Knowing that letting the smaller of my two heads do the thinking for me had gotten us into this mess should have told me that allowing it a second time wouldn't help, but she was just damn convincing…

"Sara," I gasped out, catching her wrist in my hand and pulling it from me with a soft moue of disappointment. "…We can't, on the side of the road. Your dress… And if someone comes… and leaving Ayla in the car… It doesn't feel right."

"Gil…" She whispered, deep and delicious. "It's our wedding night…"

I throbbed, but shook my head. "It is. …And this isn't how our first time as man and wife should-ohhhh!" I groaned, her other hand having replaced the one I still held away from me.

"But we can't do it in the car, Gil. …Even if it didn't bother me that Ayla is… right there… car sex makes the car move. A lot. We'd wake her up, and then not only would we be frustrated, but she's be up and crying again."

I blinked in surprise. I wouldn't necessarily say that my wife—my wife—was more experienced or…adventurous…sexually than I was. In truth, my sexual past was no doubt far more interesting than hers, though it was certainly not something I was proud of…but still, she never ceased to astonish me with the sheer variety of locations in which she had…been intimate. Not that inside a car was as extreme as airplane bathrooms or on the hood of a Camaro, but her blatant use of the phrase 'car sex' still stunned me.

Unfortunately, she used my moment of surprise to unbutton and unzip my pants and pull me through the hole in the front of my boxers. …And her hand's slow, teasing strokes were proving far more effectual against bare skin. "Sara." I attempted, rolling my head on the seat to look at her. She licked her lips.

"…Outside?"

"No." I managed, though it was breathy and unconvincing, even to my ears. She grinned.

"And if I got out there right now and slid out of this dress…?"

I grasped her hand again, desperately trying to regain some control. "…I would be understandably upset that my bride was naked on the side of a French highway."

She shook her head. "Then you just need a little extra convincing…" She purred, lowering her head and snaking out her tongue. I gasped out loud at the contact and the heat that came with it, my hands moving to her head to pull her off and succeeding in only tangling my fingers in her hair, which she had long since taken down when the pins were starting to give her a headache. I groaned softly, still trying to murmur out words that would discourage her, and aware that I was failing entirely. I was just about to acquiesce—she was moving in such a way that would grant me no release, yet keep me wanting it as fervently as I wanted air—and say we would go outside but we needed to hurry… when headlights shone bright in the rearview mirror over the top of a hill, very close and moving slowly… and then signaling and pulling onto the shoulder behind us.

"Sara!" I said, pulling her from me almost forcefully and quickly refastening my pants, aware that they were doing little to conceal my erection. I frantically grabbed my suit jacket from the back seat and laid it across my lap just as the men approached us on my side of the car. I rolled the window down, and the first man bent down.

"Salut, Monsieur. We're with the… car rental agency. We have a jack and tire, if you would like us to repair your vehicle, or we can give you the keys to ours, if you're in a hurry."

I cleared my throat, adjusting the suit jacket self-consciously, and glancing at Sara. She had a mischievous smirk on her face, but answered seriously. "…She'd probably sleep through a tire being changed…"

I nodded, turning back to the man. "We can wait… we've got a sleeping infant in the back we don't want to risk waking up by attempting to move…"

They looked apprehensive, but nodded, and moved back to the vehicle they'd driven out here and opened the truck while I rolled the window back up, trying to think of ways to get my…problem…to go down. Sara giggled and got out of the car, and with a huff I popped our own trunk and got out as well, slipping my jacket on, hoping it would disguise the issue while I headed back towards the men to tell them that we did have a spare tire in our trunk, just not a jack.

At first Sara stayed outside to supervise, and I suspected she was itching to jump in and do it herself—the woman knew her way around a car—but was far too sensible to risk ruining her dress. Eventually, she sighed and slid into the slanting car via the back seat, just in case Ayla woke up. I held two large flashlights for the men as they worked in tandem with an impressive speed, removing the flat and replacing it with the spare, tightening the tire in place and then slowly bringing the car back down to earth.

I thanked them genuinely, though their amused smiles when I commented—complimentarily—on how quickly they'd found us told me that they might have realized some of what had been going on. But then, Sara's lips had looked puffy and thoroughly fuckable when they'd arrived, and I was probably less than smooth when it came to hiding my response to her. They offered to guide us back to Paris, since they knew from the man I'd spoken to on the phone that we'd gotten lost a few times, and we weren't nearly as far away as I'd thought we were. Within the hour, we could see the light diffusion against the sky, even if we couldn't yet see the Eiffel Tower or any of the other recognizable Paris landmarks.

We probably seemed like rather stupid Americans, because they guided us directly to our hotel before waving cheerfully at us and going on their way, and Sara chuckled a little at that as I steered us into a parking space and glanced at the clock. 12:36. A.M. I sighed. "…I'm sorry, Sara. It's not really our wedding night anymore, and I'm sure you're tired…"

She yawned, but smiled. "I'm never too tired for you, Gil. …Let's get Ayla to bed, yeah?"

I nodded, feeling my own eyelids drooping, and took the few bags we'd brought along while she lifted the sleeping toddler to her shoulder, her arm tucked in the crook of Ayla's knees, supporting her under her diaper-clad bottom. We went up to our room in silence and I moved to place the bags while Sara slowly undressed Ayla, changed her diaper, and slipped her into pink feet pajamas with little white bunnies all over them. Ayla liked to point at them and say 'Un-nee!' She had a pair in blue with cows, but she called them moos as opposed to cows. I slipped out of my suit, hanging it up in the closet, and came over, saying I'd lay Ayla down so Sara could change.

When I returned, she was standing in underwear, hanging the dress and replacing it a thick, white garment bag and hanging it in the closet. …I wasn't sure what would happen tonight, but I knew that we were both exhausted, and so I didn't want to ask and make it sound like I was…pressuring her. I mean, I wanted us to have a wedding night, but I also didn't want it to be a miserable experience because we were both too exhausted to even get into it. …I would leave it up to her.

I moved behind her, hands gently catching her waist and pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her shoulders. "I'm sorry about tonight, honey. I love you." I kissed the opposite shoulder and gently nuzzled my face in her neck, in an affectionate rather than seductive manner. She pressed gently back against me, her arms rising over her head and around my neck in an embrace. I tightened my grip around her waist, and when we released each other, I gently moved to the bathroom to go through the motions of getting ready for bed.

Between using the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I washed my hands—and found myself looking down at the simple gold band Sara had purchased for me and slipped on my hands for the first time today. It fit perfectly, and I wondered how she'd ascertained my ring size without my knowledge. I ran the fingers of my right hand over it affectionately before snatching my toothbrush—blue to Sara's pink—from our travel bag and quickly brushing. I found myself almost slumping from bathroom back to bedroom, and thought that it wouldn't exactly ruin our wedding night to just curl up and sleep together. Sara was right—we had made love just that morning. There was still a tiny part of me that felt… disappointed… but I pushed it aside with a yawn and curled up under the covers as I listened to Sara checking on Ayla and double-checking the locks on the door before making her own way into the bathroom.

Despite the years in which I'd loved her, it had only been since Ayla's kidnapping that I'd actually shared a bathroom with her. So while we weren't necessarily shy about bathroom habits, more often than not we simply did them separately. In a few years, I'm sure, we would disgust each other with how comfortable we were together, but for now, I felt no pressing urge to force the issue, despite the fact that she had teased me mercilessly the first time she caught me carrying an entomology text into the bathroom in Boston.

I settled into bed, yawning again, and turning the television on, not wanting to fall asleep before she even came out, despite being fairly certain that we would just be cuddling up and maybe talking for a few minutes before we drifted to sleep. Just as I was about to call to her to make sure she was okay, I heard the bathroom light turn off and sat up a little, already smiling at the thought of her in either her fuzzy pajama pants and a tank top or one of my t-shirts, looking sweet and comfortable and entirely adorable. …So when she stepped into my line of vision, I nearly had a heart attack. …And I was definitely awake.

She was wearing a spaghetti strapped little nightie that was solid and fitted over her breasts, but sheer and floaty beneath that, parting midway down her stomach to reveal a white garter belt that hooked to lace-topped white stockings. Her tiny, lacy little panties tied on either side… so there would be no need to even remove the stockings. I groaned softly in appreciation, and she smiled. "…I thought about saving this for tomorrow, but… I didn't think the effect would be as dramatic. …I hope you're not too sleepy…"

Despite the blatantly provocative and adventurous nature of her ensemble, her approach was slow and sensual, and our lovemaking was the same. My senses were reeling with the soft, silky feeling of every scrap of clothing she had on, and I took my time in removing them, leaving the stockings and garter belt as I slowly slid inside her, my whole body trembling with the feeling. She bent down over me, forehead pressed to mine, and held my gaze for what felt like an eternity, but would never be long enough. Instead of thrusting in and out or Sara lifting and dropping herself, we wrapped our arms around each other and rocked in time with each other, keeping me pressed as deeply into her as possible.

The result was a much lower-level of pleasure… a simmering rather than a burning… it was soft and deep and overwhelmingly sensory, and it meant that we could stay close—we were not mindlessly seeking pleasure, we were wrapped up in one another, the pleasure a result of our eye contact as much as it was of our movements. And though I had not expected this, Sara seemed far more responsive to this manner of lovemaking… her climaxes were not so explosive, but they lasted an unbelievably long time, and came again and again. By the end of her fourth small but lingering orgasm, she looked nearly mindless, her eyes out of focus, and I was thrumming with a deep pride at that.

And yet, the minimal movement did not exhaust me the way traditional lovemaking did, and she was the one who called a stop to it, peaking six and telling me that she simply could not take it any longer. It was too much for her to handle, and every inch of her was oversensitized—she was clenching around me and shuddering every time her nipples slid across my chest, and when I slid my hands down to cup her beautiful ass and tug her more firmly against me, she nearly convulsed.

For me, the slow rhythm felt amazing, but would not allow me to finish, so I rolled her back onto her back and sped up, seeking my own climax imminently, and though the faster pace seemed to help with her sensitivity issues, she was still nearly screaming beneath me, and when my thrusts faltered and the unbelievable, rolling waves rushed through me powerfully, I felt her clench around me a final time, this one seeming more like the climaxes I recognized—large, incendiary, cataclysmic.

I slid out of her a moment later, once I'd caught my breath, feeling incredibly sore and not even remotely sorry for it. A glance down at her told me she was seconds away from being deeply asleep, so I gathered my strength and sat up, unhooking her garter belt and sliding it and the stockings off her body. She would wake up sore if she slept in something that tight… and then I finally curled up behind her, drawing her gently to my chest where she snuggled up, even in sleep, and sighed a deep, exhausted, contented sigh.

And despite my own fatigue, I felt a shameless smirk slip over my face, lacking the tiredness of the rest of my body. Normally I was not an arrogant man… but Sara had just had eight—albeit small—eight—count them, eight!—orgasms in my arms. …And even if it meant that neither of us could walk for the rest of the time we were in Paris and then some… it didn't really matter.

I was Gilbert Grissom—Sex God.