"Come here," Chakotay says from beneath his lids, clearly aware of her scrutiny, sensing her melancholy, and she moves up to lie next to him, tucking her head into his neck. His arm curls around her, strokes her hair. "You are ... an extremely talented woman, Kathryn, with an extremely talented mouth."
His words help her push away thought of time-after, and she rolls herself over so she is lying on her front on him, sinks herself into enjoying the slight stickiness of his heated skin and still energetic, recovering rise and fall of his chest beneath her. His hand begins running circles on her back and she is once again very aware just how aroused she still is.
"You think so?"
"I would have thought that was obvious."
"Mm-hmm ... but I'm very much enjoying hearing you say it."
"Extremely talented," he says, reaching to brush his lips over hers. "Very beautiful." Another soft kiss. "Intelligent." His tongue flashes out to tease hers for a moment. "Passionate." This time he pauses, lets their breath mingle and lips just touch as he speaks, the resonance tracing all her nerves with electrical current. "Unbelievably sexy."
"Oh yes?"
"Oh yes," he says, pushing himself up and rolling her onto her back, manoeuvring onto his side, head propped on an elbow. He trails a finger from the base of her throat down between her breasts, across her stomach, edging lower, and she seems to sway under his hand.
And then any reply or attempt to continue the conversation is thoroughly thwarted by the fingers she feels sliding into her panties, tracing her labia, teasing her lips apart, dipping inside, feathering her swollen wet folds. Her focus narrows to his reverent caress, her heart seeming to still, time hushing.
He watches her as he moves his fingers inside her, careful to notice which of his touches and pressures she seems to enjoy best, exploring, but never quite touching her where she wants him most.
Absolutely maddening ... and she's suddenly very keen to be rid of this last piece of clothing, this last barrier between them, and reaches down to push the offending item off. Together, his hands over hers, they slide them down her legs. And they are finally, finally naked.
He eases her legs apart, his breath catching at the sight of her, the bright smell of her arousal that suddenly reaches him. "Make sure you watch," he instructs softly. "I don't want you – us – to miss anything." The commander in his tone unbinds her completely, her seams disintegrating before him.
Not missing this one bit, he moves to settle himself comfortably between her legs, dips a finger in her again, swirls it around her clit.
"Okay," she gasps, her hands finding their way into his hair again and he feels her press with the merest encouragement, asking for his mouth, his worship.
He grins lasciviously at her, then, holding her gaze, acquiesces and brings himself to her, playing his hot tongue tenderly along her lips, teasing, before sliding inside her wetness with one startling, long, direct sweep, from centre to clitoris, mirroring her recent treatment of him. With a cry, her body arches up, and he slips a hand to the small of her back to hold her to him.
Her taste ... oh how he has ached to taste her ... and her scent ... never mind the actual feel of her fevered wet flesh against his mouth. A surge of desire rushes through him again, and as he groans into her at the feelings and thoughts, at her pulses beneath him, he finds himself abruptly at that sharpest edge again and then almost again as she bucks under him responding to his own reaction. Somehow, somehow he manages to resist the call and turn his mind to savouring the sweetness of denial, to focusing on her needs and wants.
He runs his tongue lightly and slowly over and around her entrance, then delves into the exquisiteness fully. Her hands clench, nails biting into his scalp, and her body flexes and courses beneath him. He withdraws, lowering her to the bed and retrieving his hand from her back and she watches, trembling, as he gently draws two fingers through her soaking heat, then slides first one, then another inside her. She whimpers then, when he curls them expertly into the front of her and begins to move, slightly in, slightly out, all the while pressing up at her wall.
He returns his tongue, traversing her with delicate, tantalising flicks and licks, up towards her clitoris. Reaching her most sensitive place, he huffs hot breaths over her, places his free hand over her mound, draws the flushed lips further apart with his fingers, exposing her to him, his dark eyes rising for a moment to seek hers.
Watching him is too much. Fine agony. And when he lowers his head again, the tip of his tongue flashing just once across her bared swollen nub, she feels herself gather and catch, the tremors of tingling pleasure begin to run through her, from the place his tongue seared and down, then as if into her very soul, and out every pore of her skin. It rises through her, its heat and wildness building, and when she sees him reach for her again, it hits her before he even makes contact, juddering, setting every nerve ending she has sparking to violent awareness.
Her body rises to him, her head falling back as her orgasm punishes through her, and he somehow manages to hold her to his mouth as she tosses beneath him, shining delicate strokes across her, careful not to make the touch too much, just enough to stretch and extend her pleasure for as long as he can, and then slowing and lightening the pressure as he sees the chaos in her gradually recede in dusky lost rushes and pulls.
She slowly becomes aware again of where she is; of Chakotay; of his fingers still quietly inside her; of his mouth, hovering millimetres above her; his hot, sweet breath; his lips curling in a smile; eyes flushed with love and want, and yes, self-satisfaction.
She lets out a shaky breath. "Chakotay ..."
"Now ... I think that ... that was frankly a middling attempt on my part," he says, slipping his fingers out of her and coming up onto his elbows. She sees him trying to contain a smile. "I mean ... I barely touched you."
Her eyes widen and she lets out a bark of laughter. His grin broadens and he joins her in her happiness and she can't resist dropping a hand from his head to trace one of those stunning dimples as it appears. He turns his head to capture her fingers in his teeth for a moment, flicking the tip of that incredible tongue at a fingertip, and she lets loose a round vowel sound, the coil of desire tightening in her once more.
"See? Clearly, I have more work to do." He starts to reach down for her again, but she stops him with a hand either side of his head.
"Chakotay ..." she says, voice low and husky, her meaning clear.
He shifts and brings himself up over her, and she wraps her arms around him, bringing him close, very pleased to find her presumption about his recovery time correct. She rubs herself up at him shamelessly and nips at his lips, drawing him into a kiss, thrilling to the taste of herself she finds lacing with his own. A hand finds her breast and he fondles the still-tender nipple, sending long drives of pleasure to her clit. They shift until he is pressing lightly at her entrance and they pause, hearts roaring, breaths hitching, just holding fast to the moment.
He reaches to push back damp hair from her face, his dark eyes filled with emotion, and she returns the look, holds his gaze.
How impossible their journey to this point. How much further yet to go ...
She tilts her hips and presses towards him, angling so he can ease himself into her, centimetre by aching centimetre. He's glad they gave each other release before this, because he wants nothing more than to prolong this particular, most sacred, part of their lovemaking for as long as possible.
Fully sheathed in her, he feels her hands glide down his back and clasp his behind, and slowly, slowly they begin to move, finding their rhythm. Her legs wrap around him, and she shifts her pelvis to encourage even deeper thrusts.
Slow. Enrapturing. Heart-breaking. Perfect.
Home.
They surround each other, the separate and entwined scents of her and him and their mingled sweat, soft noises of the slickness of their joining and pants of breath, whispered words and primal sounds of love.
They both feel it when they cannot hold back any longer, reaching that place at almost the same time. And despite the pleasure she is crying and he cannot save her. The heat is dazzling and whips them up into its hot smoke, and the need overwhelming. They rock together, in the heady claim of the flames. He dips to kiss and lick her tears and she can't not bloom for him, pressing him closer, impossibly closer.
The roar begins from deep within them, its heat drifts out from their centres to claim their limbs, hearts, minds, dancing and building.
She feels him stiffen and the swift thrum of him inside her and then he comes hotly, hard, arching and calling her name for the second time as he is undone. Not taking a moment, he slips an arm under her hips and lifts her slightly, altering her position to best advantage her sensitive places, and continues to move, gaze into her eyes. But she was there almost before he did this, his climax chasing her to her own, and as he tips her up, she is subsumed by their fire, and cries out and pulls him to her, seeking his mouth as the pulsing of her own orgasm takes her, wanting nothing more than to gift all this feeling back to him.
When she has stopped shaking, he lowers them down and comes to rest lightly on top of her, bracing some of his weight on his hands. Not wanting to separate just yet. But she wraps her arms around him again and pulls him to her so all his body is laid out against hers. The heaviness of him, the slight struggle for air a blessing.
There is fitful sleep, waking to test reality, to touch each other again and whisper. To slide into each other again. To sleep the sleep of the drowned.
When last she is truly awake again, he is too. She lies tucked into his side, his arm underneath and around her; the fingers of his free hand tracing nonchalant lines up and down her as if to mark her, create permanence from what is already dissolving. The secret desperation in their casual embrace, in their defiance of time, not secret at all.
Her eyes are distant, visiting a memory he doesn't share.
"I need to thank you," she says slowly, returning to this moment for a while. "For everything. I'm sorry I pushed you away these last few years. That was the wrong thing to do. Unfair and cruel. I was ... protecting myself, protecting the captain, from what you kept trying to tell me. I didn't understand, and I couldn't risk it not working out." She strokes his cheek. "You are my strength and I am yours; I'm sorry I didn't figure it out until now."
He lifts her hand to his mouth, brushes his lips over the pale blue lines and tendons. "I know. You don't need to apologise. It is what it is. We've done our best out here." And as he says it, he knows it is not mere comfort; he could never lie to her. His voice lowers. "You have always been my strength, Kathryn. And it doesn't matter that you didn't realise I was yours; I was anyway."
"Will you promise me something?" she asks, her voice suddenly urgent, the words coming in a rush. "Promise me, you'll not let me, her, push you away any more. Try to show her what you've showed me, when she's ready to listen. We ... we Janeways appreciate guidance more than we like to admit."
"I know," he says, soothing her as best he can. "You don't need to tell me that. I promise."
They draw into the finality of their moment, conscious of everything, of being uncertain and lost, of being wise and found, and of all the steps and missteps along the way of that human continuum.
"We have so little time," she says eventually, aware that her mission cannot be ignored any longer. "And it is all we have. Don't waste a second more."
He shifts a little so he can slip his fingers under her chin, tip her head to look into her eyes, softly kiss her for the last time, the millionth time.