DISCLAIMER: Elizabeth Corday is not mine - although I think she and I could
have a helluva good time going out on the town. Robert Romano is not mine,
although he should be - I would put him in his place and he would like it.
Mark Greene is not mine, and I DO NOT want him. All three belong to that
monolith we call WB. Which is sad, since they don't appreciate the finer
two, and the one they did seem to like they killed..not that I'm
complaining..
R -rating. Here come the hormones. You've been warned.
It had been a very sweet good-night.
The food was delicious, the wine superb, they'd even had another go at the tango. Elizabeth almost felt guilty when she turned the conversation to work. But Mark was agreeable and listened patiently as she lobbied her case once more. He was attentive, nodding and meeting her eyes, but she occasionally caught him gazing at her hair, or imperceptibly stroking her hand. She didn't mind; he was harmless enough. Yet it made her feel a bit..whorish. Like she was using his tender attraction to further her career.
Wait - further my career? Without this trauma fellowship, I may not have a career! And I'm not using him, I'm...dating him? Well, yes, I guess. And people discuss these things when they're dating. Of course they do. Of course we are. Dating...
He ordered dessert with a flourish - one slice of cheesecake, two forks. So romantically inept. Sweet man. They had eaten, heads bowed, silver clinking against china, a sound she would forever associate with the social ritual of finding a mate. And then he had brought her home. Smoothed her hair back from her face, touched her cheek. His lips had been warm and soft, if a bit thin. He wanted to be invited in. She knew it without him saying a word. And it would be nice, not waking up in an empty bed. But something held her back, something elusive. Doubt? Nerves? Fear? Get over it, Elizabeth. It isn't like you've got so many other tempting offers. She changed clothes wearily and climbed into bed.
She was dreaming.
She had to be. She'd said goodnight to him at the door. He'd gotten in his car and left. She'd gone to bed alone.
But there was weight on her body. Lips at her throat. Strong hands at her thighs.
It had to be a dream.
She reached up, blind in the dark. Her forearms made contact with warm skin, broad shoulders, wiry muscle; her hands found angles of bone, shoulder blade, spine. The mouth on her neck exhaled a small chuckle of warm breath. Encouraged by her touch, it moved higher, finding the hollow between ear and jaw. Strong teeth nibbled; soft tongue flickered. Her flesh awoke, seared, cried out for more.
The hands on her thighs moved higher, probing, exploring. Found a ticklish spot to the left of her navel, another just below her ribcage. She squirmed, and another chuckle resonated in her ear before warm lips closed on her earlobe. Palms sliding higher, covering her in warmth, making flesh rise to their touch. She cried out softly. She turned her head, needing to find those lips with her own. Her eyes closed.
Dear God. How could she have thought of those lips as thin? They were full and firm, warm and electric. She parted them with her tongue, tasting the dark landscape hidden within his mouth. Moist and sweet and inviting. His tongue danced against hers, hands plunged into her hair. She raked her nails across his back, felt him gasp against her mouth. He returned the favor by tightening his grip in her hair and pulling her head to a more favorable angle. She giggled, never having thought he had it in him.
The weight crushing down on her shifted a bit, seeking.
And she was lost in the most delicious spiral of sensation she could have imagined. The air above her was no longer black, but warm crimson, cool violet, swirling yellow, brilliant orange, and her breath was coming in mewling gasps, and his mouth was moving against hers and she was lost. Those hands in her hair, on her throat, and lower, and
yes, don't stop, don't be afraid, don't be shy -
and she was touching him, the soft hair at the base of his skull, the smooth skin that crowned his head, the stubble that peppered his jaw. Her fingers at their lips, he caught one between his teeth, swirled his tongue around her fingertip, and she grabbed him, embraced him, drew his head to her neck, and he spoke...that deep, lyrical voice vibrating against her ear...
"Good work Lizzie..."
She jerked bolt upright, clutching the pillow to her chest. ROMANO?!
"Ugh!" She raked her fingers through her hair as though she could erase the image from her mind by clawing it out through her scalp. "Oh, God - how horrid!" She looked down and saw moonlight reflecting the sheen of perspiration on her chest, her v-neck T-shirt soaked and clinging to her body. "Damn!" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to deny the ache she felt from deep within her loins. She rose on wobbly knees - "Bloody Hell!" - and made her way to the bathroom. A shower. She felt soiled, felt dirty, felt violated. Sure the little bastard had left her alone today - he knew he'd be battering his way into her thoughts tonight! She ripped off her damp sleep shirt, shoved down her pajama trousers and fairly jumped beneath the stream of hot water.
Shampoo. Wash that man right out of my hair, indeed. She tore at her scalp, raked at her hair, scrubbed at her face. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to grab her toothbrush. Finally, the crawling of her skin subsided and she let the water stream over her, rinsing away suds and, hopefully, memory.
It would not do to file such thoughts away. Better to banish them now.
Oh, bugger it. It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Certainly nothing sexual. Isn't that what the experts said? Sexual dreams were never really about sex. Stress, mostly. Yes, perfectly sensible. She was stressed. More so than ever before in her life. It only made sense for her to dream such a thing.
And Romano?
Well, he was the source of all her misery - the father of her anguish. So of course, if stress equals sex in the world of nocturnal vision, then it bloody well should be him cast as the predator. In fact, it was amazing he'd never made an appearance before tonight.
And a pity.
The thought leapt, unbidden, uninvited, into her mind. Elizabeth! - the voice in her head sounded very much like her mother's. Which, of course, incited rebellion almost immediately.
What?! It was a really vivid dream. He was really quite good.
UGH! STOP IT! He's a horrible little vermin...and that was YOUR filthy mind for once, not his. He's most likely a bumbling fool in such matters, so there's no point wasting your time thinking otherwise. Better just to keep on hating him, you'll lose your focus otherwise.
The internal dialogue silenced. She exhaled raggedly. Reached for the tap, meaning to turn off the water, to towel of and return to bed. And then that defiant little voice again...
There's something about the idea of being touched by a man whom you know, for a fact, has wanted nothing else for so long - being touched - being desired - being worshipped...
Her hand grabbed the knob and yanked it all the way to the right, and she yelped as the cold water pelted her skin.
R -rating. Here come the hormones. You've been warned.
It had been a very sweet good-night.
The food was delicious, the wine superb, they'd even had another go at the tango. Elizabeth almost felt guilty when she turned the conversation to work. But Mark was agreeable and listened patiently as she lobbied her case once more. He was attentive, nodding and meeting her eyes, but she occasionally caught him gazing at her hair, or imperceptibly stroking her hand. She didn't mind; he was harmless enough. Yet it made her feel a bit..whorish. Like she was using his tender attraction to further her career.
Wait - further my career? Without this trauma fellowship, I may not have a career! And I'm not using him, I'm...dating him? Well, yes, I guess. And people discuss these things when they're dating. Of course they do. Of course we are. Dating...
He ordered dessert with a flourish - one slice of cheesecake, two forks. So romantically inept. Sweet man. They had eaten, heads bowed, silver clinking against china, a sound she would forever associate with the social ritual of finding a mate. And then he had brought her home. Smoothed her hair back from her face, touched her cheek. His lips had been warm and soft, if a bit thin. He wanted to be invited in. She knew it without him saying a word. And it would be nice, not waking up in an empty bed. But something held her back, something elusive. Doubt? Nerves? Fear? Get over it, Elizabeth. It isn't like you've got so many other tempting offers. She changed clothes wearily and climbed into bed.
She was dreaming.
She had to be. She'd said goodnight to him at the door. He'd gotten in his car and left. She'd gone to bed alone.
But there was weight on her body. Lips at her throat. Strong hands at her thighs.
It had to be a dream.
She reached up, blind in the dark. Her forearms made contact with warm skin, broad shoulders, wiry muscle; her hands found angles of bone, shoulder blade, spine. The mouth on her neck exhaled a small chuckle of warm breath. Encouraged by her touch, it moved higher, finding the hollow between ear and jaw. Strong teeth nibbled; soft tongue flickered. Her flesh awoke, seared, cried out for more.
The hands on her thighs moved higher, probing, exploring. Found a ticklish spot to the left of her navel, another just below her ribcage. She squirmed, and another chuckle resonated in her ear before warm lips closed on her earlobe. Palms sliding higher, covering her in warmth, making flesh rise to their touch. She cried out softly. She turned her head, needing to find those lips with her own. Her eyes closed.
Dear God. How could she have thought of those lips as thin? They were full and firm, warm and electric. She parted them with her tongue, tasting the dark landscape hidden within his mouth. Moist and sweet and inviting. His tongue danced against hers, hands plunged into her hair. She raked her nails across his back, felt him gasp against her mouth. He returned the favor by tightening his grip in her hair and pulling her head to a more favorable angle. She giggled, never having thought he had it in him.
The weight crushing down on her shifted a bit, seeking.
And she was lost in the most delicious spiral of sensation she could have imagined. The air above her was no longer black, but warm crimson, cool violet, swirling yellow, brilliant orange, and her breath was coming in mewling gasps, and his mouth was moving against hers and she was lost. Those hands in her hair, on her throat, and lower, and
yes, don't stop, don't be afraid, don't be shy -
and she was touching him, the soft hair at the base of his skull, the smooth skin that crowned his head, the stubble that peppered his jaw. Her fingers at their lips, he caught one between his teeth, swirled his tongue around her fingertip, and she grabbed him, embraced him, drew his head to her neck, and he spoke...that deep, lyrical voice vibrating against her ear...
"Good work Lizzie..."
She jerked bolt upright, clutching the pillow to her chest. ROMANO?!
"Ugh!" She raked her fingers through her hair as though she could erase the image from her mind by clawing it out through her scalp. "Oh, God - how horrid!" She looked down and saw moonlight reflecting the sheen of perspiration on her chest, her v-neck T-shirt soaked and clinging to her body. "Damn!" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to deny the ache she felt from deep within her loins. She rose on wobbly knees - "Bloody Hell!" - and made her way to the bathroom. A shower. She felt soiled, felt dirty, felt violated. Sure the little bastard had left her alone today - he knew he'd be battering his way into her thoughts tonight! She ripped off her damp sleep shirt, shoved down her pajama trousers and fairly jumped beneath the stream of hot water.
Shampoo. Wash that man right out of my hair, indeed. She tore at her scalp, raked at her hair, scrubbed at her face. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to grab her toothbrush. Finally, the crawling of her skin subsided and she let the water stream over her, rinsing away suds and, hopefully, memory.
It would not do to file such thoughts away. Better to banish them now.
Oh, bugger it. It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Certainly nothing sexual. Isn't that what the experts said? Sexual dreams were never really about sex. Stress, mostly. Yes, perfectly sensible. She was stressed. More so than ever before in her life. It only made sense for her to dream such a thing.
And Romano?
Well, he was the source of all her misery - the father of her anguish. So of course, if stress equals sex in the world of nocturnal vision, then it bloody well should be him cast as the predator. In fact, it was amazing he'd never made an appearance before tonight.
And a pity.
The thought leapt, unbidden, uninvited, into her mind. Elizabeth! - the voice in her head sounded very much like her mother's. Which, of course, incited rebellion almost immediately.
What?! It was a really vivid dream. He was really quite good.
UGH! STOP IT! He's a horrible little vermin...and that was YOUR filthy mind for once, not his. He's most likely a bumbling fool in such matters, so there's no point wasting your time thinking otherwise. Better just to keep on hating him, you'll lose your focus otherwise.
The internal dialogue silenced. She exhaled raggedly. Reached for the tap, meaning to turn off the water, to towel of and return to bed. And then that defiant little voice again...
There's something about the idea of being touched by a man whom you know, for a fact, has wanted nothing else for so long - being touched - being desired - being worshipped...
Her hand grabbed the knob and yanked it all the way to the right, and she yelped as the cold water pelted her skin.