Author's Note: There is an NC-17 version of this chapter posted at sd-1.com, in the Syd/Vaughn fanfic thread, if you would rather read that.
Part Nine
Their hands and lips are everywhere by the time they are through their front door; Sydney pushes his coat to the floor as his lips assault her neck.
"We should start a fire," he murmurs.
She grins wickedly. "I think we already started one."
He laughs against her neck. "In the fireplace, Syd. When have we had the chance to make use of it, just the two of us? We can open a bottle of wine…"
"I can slip into something more comfortable," she says, reveling in the idea. She would have loved to take him right there in the entryway, but she thinks she likes the idea of making this last even better. It's not often, after all, that they have the entire house to themselves. Come to think of it, she can't recall having made love anywhere other than their bedroom and the bathtub since they moved in. Pity to waste all the space…
"You do that," he whispers, pulling away from her. She whimpers at the loss, and he smiles. "I'll get the fire going, pick out a bottle of wine. You go change."
"Okay," she says, kissing him once more, languidly, rapturously. "I love you."
"I love you too, sweetheart. Now hurry back."
She makes it up the stairs in record time, smiling slyly as she opens her lingerie drawer. Before the whole Kerri debacle, she managed to pick out an absolutely gorgeous black nightgown made of satin and lace. It's a lovely garment, sexy without being trashy, and she smiles when she thinks of the way Michael will look at her when he sees her in it.
She changes and makes her way back to the living room. Michael has discarded his jacket and tie and stands before the fireplace, sipping a glass of wine as he surveys his handiwork.
"Michael," she says softly.
He turns to look at her, raking his gaze over her in open admiration. She loves the way he looks at her, as if she is something to be admired, worshipped, adored.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, moving slowly toward her.
She smiles, reveling in his gaze, his admiration.
He moves close to her, very close, running one of the nightgown's spaghetti straps between his fingers. "New?"
"Bought it today," she whispers.
He runs one finger, his index finger, along the strap. "Exquisite," he whispers, and she doesn't know if he means her, or the expensive fabric of the nightgown. Both, perhaps. "It's a pity, though."
"What is?"
He smiles. "I'm sure it was expensive," he murmurs. "And you're not going to be wearing it for long."