November 12
Washington, DC

I'm awakened by the text message on my phone at 9:07 and reply to it quickly. I reluctantly get out of bed, use the bathroom, pull my jeans on, and walk out to the living room to await my delivery. The bellboy knocks just as I am rounding the armchair, and I deposit another fifty into his hand as I take the bags from him and send him on his way. I sit on the couch with my new purchases and pull a couple things out that I'm keeping for myself, then pull open the Nordstrom shopping bags to take a look at the things their personal shopper has picked out for Scully.

After I left her in her room last night I went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the broken glass and water on the floor and then made a call to the front desk and had them arrange for these things to be added to my bill. You see, I want to do everything I can think of to keep Scully here in my suite as long as possible, and that means ensuring that she's comfortable. I know her style, I know her sizes, I know that she tends to get cold easily, and I also know what brands she tends to wear. So I asked for a pair of jeans, a couple long sleeve t-shirts, and a sweater. I asked for socks and slippers-she's certainly not going to be wearing those heels she wore with her dress anytime soon. I thought about tennis shoes, or loafers, but I figured her foot might be too tender for those. And then, after a moment's consideration, I went ahead and also ordered underwear. I asked that everything be plain, solid, reserved colors, and that the fabrics be warm and comfortable. I am happy with what they've selected, it all feels like it would blend in with her usual wardrobe. I hold one of the t-shirts up, a thick, mottled brown henley, with a series of small buttons at the neck and marvel at how small it is. I bring it to my own chest and realize I wouldn't be able to get an arm through the thing. The other t-shirt is a plain smooth cream colored v-neck. The long, moss green cardigan seems cozy. It's thick cashmere, sort of fuzzy, with pockets and a belt, and brown wooden-looking buttons. The price tag reads $315. What the hell, I don't care. I requested cashmere, and she loves this brand and probably would never buy something so expensive for herself. I'd happily pay ten times that if it meant she'd stay a while. Then there's a 3-pack of white socks, a 3-pack of pastel colored panties, and a simple, white cotton bra. There's nothing remotely lacy, frilly or sexy about them, but I drop them back into the bag quickly, as if they've burned me. I don't want to think about them. The slippers are basic spa white, too, and they look warm and, like everything else, impossibly small.

I also ordered a random assortment of toiletries. Toothbrush, deodorant, etc. I asked that they add some bandages for her foot and miscellaneous other things. I hope I thought of everything. If I'm really, really lucky it will be enough to keep her here all day.

I place everything back in the shopping bags and head back to my room, stopping at Scully's door to hang the bags gently and quietly from the knob. I keep walking, almost stumbling from the sheer exhaustion, to my bedroom and pull my jeans off again and get back into bed. I only got to sleep about 3 hours ago. My body is resentful of this disruption and is demanding more rest.

I lie back and picture her. I feel like I should rein it in since she's here under this roof, but I can't seem to stop the images from springing up. I see her in that purple dress, standing up and tossing her hair, then smiling when she spotted me. I think, almost guiltily, of tearing her stockings from her leg. Guilty because of how much I enjoyed it and how much I wanted to rip them off completely from both legs. I think of how much I wanted to slide my hand over the curve of her firm, shapely calf, up to tickle the satiny softness of the underside of her knee, and up further still to that tiny bit of naked thigh I got to glimpse before I willed myself to stop, to not look up her dress while I sat in front of her on the floor and tended to her injury. I remember how warm and small her foot was, as I held it in my hand to steady her as I worked. I can vividly see her squirming, her body reclined back on her elbows, chest thrusting up when the pain hit, her fingers making little fists, grasping at the comforter. I see her remarkably pretty face wincing, eyes sqeezed tight, mouth agape, looking for all the world like a woman in the throes of passion. Is it supremely fucked up that I remember the smell of her blood while I watched her writhe, and that the iron tang of it in my mouth and my nostrils only made made me harder for her in that moment?

I see her as she read me the riot act in the restaurant, I remember how the panic shot through me as she stood, both her eyes and words burning me, making me break out into a cold sweat, and I smile remembering my victory, convincing her to stay.

I wish I could have found some way of picking her up and carrying her into this bedroom with me. But she's on the other side of that wall, and while it's not what I most wanted, it's honestly better than I ever could have hoped for. She's not at home. She's here. She stayed. And she's in that bed that I slept in last night and she's wearing my clothes. And I'm wondering if she can smell me in that bed and if my scent arouses her like hers arouses me. I'm wondering how she would smell now, with my scent on her skin. And that thought, and the delicious images it's conjuring, is making me harder. Too hard to ignore.

I turn onto my side and bring forward the memory of her I've replayed a hundred times since I last saw her...the memory of waking to find her spooned up behind me in her parents' cabin, her arm around my waist. It still strikes me as so surprisingly stirring, so sweetly sexy that she opened her fingers wide to allow me to lace mine into them. The intimacy of it easily matching, maybe even surpassing, the the sensation of her impossibly soft, warm breasts pressing into my back with her every breath. And then there's the sound of her voice, both husky and honeyed, uttering my name. "Alex." I say it myself softly, quietly, trying and failing miserably, to mimic hers.

Then my memory melds into fantasy as I bring our joined hands down, flattening them out and guiding hers to press firmly against the insistant, throbbing need between my legs, to slowly open my belt and unbutton my jeans. I take myself out, imagining her small, soft hand instead of my own large, rough one. And I am so ready now that all it takes to bring me off is to envision the way she glared at me in all her furious glory in the motel parking lot in Tennessee before darting her eyes behind me and bringing her tounge out to lick at the corner of her mouth.

Jesus Fucking Christ. Works...EVERY...time. I bite my lip to muffle the moaning of her name that has become my mantra every night since I left her in North Carolina.

Once my breathing returns to normal I clean myself up, roll onto my back, and smile serenely through my hormonal haze as I realize I'll get to see her when I wake up. I can hardly wait. I fall quickly into the sleep I slept as a child on Christmas Eve...so eager to sleep because I'm so eager to wake.