Disclaimer: the usual admission of non-ownership.
Rating: M, M, M
Summary: another standalone chapter. Smut always occurs to me after I finish a non-smut-oriented story (insert random plug for Building Bridges). This one could also fit into my Contrived series, but it's way too smutty for a mere T rating.
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The fortune-teller smiled as they walked away. This would be good.
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Juliet settled into bed, exhausted from the longest of days. She and Carlton had been working the case of the murdered mailman for a full week, and the list of enemies he'd accumulated (whether during rain, shine, or sleet) was seriously long.
They'd also been sniping at each other, because Carlton didn't have any patience with the psychics and fortune-tellers the mailman had frequented, and Juliet didn't have any patience with the NRA members the mailman was semi-buddies with, and they hadn't snagged any good coffee in several days.
She was ready for sleep.
She just wasn't ready for the dream.
Hands moved on her calves, stroking gently. The room was dim and the man's face was in shadow, but his hands were gentle and sensual and wherever she lay, she was supremely comfortable.
The hands moved slowly up to her thighs, still stroking. He parted her legs, kneeling between them, and his hands massaged her bare skin.
She was so relaxed, and so aroused. It was all so... lovely.
He parted her legs even more, and bent closer. She could feel his breath on her naked body, there between her thighs, and she trembled.
He was going to kiss her... there.
Her phone rang, and she sat up fast and disoriented and horny.
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Carlton was vaguely annoyed. He shouldn't have been, because for the first time in a long time it had been just him and O'Hara out in the field—no Spencers, no Gusters, no other people—and working with her was what he liked best. But the case itself was so annoying, and he was starting to think maybe, just maybe, the mailman simply had it coming.
That last fortune-teller had been a snarky little... non-lady, he amended, as he got ready for bed. How dare she suggest... no, he warned himself, don't think about it. Wouldn't be prudent.
He climbed into bed… and dreamed.
A slim woman stood in a darkened room, her back to him. A far-off light source limned her outline, and he could see she was nude, but she would not turn her head, and he could not move around her.
Touch me, she whispered in his head, and he desperately wanted to do so.
Her skin was so soft; he dropped a kiss on the back of her smooth neck and felt her shiver. He stroked her back, from shoulders to hips, and found his hands were able to move around her body, to cup her breasts. She shivered again, leaning back against him, and he could not see her face but he could feel her nipples hardening against his palms, and in the moment he realized he was nude as well... his phone rang.
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Vick didn't bother to apologize for dragging them out to a crime scene after their long shift; this was a case which required all hands on deck: a home invasion with injuries to the family, the kind of case which pissed everyone off and needed to get resolved stat.
Juliet was restless, because despite the darkness of the work, she was unable to completely shake the dream off… partly because she wanted to know who she'd been dreaming about.
And because the dream had been interrupted at a crucial moment.
Carlton, for his part, seemed equally restless, but he too focused on the job and when it was three a.m. and the Chief sent everyone home for a few hours, he offered to drive Juliet home. He'd pick her up in the morning, he said.
She must have looked really done for, to get such an offer from her equally done-for partner, but she accepted.
Before she got out of the car, he said, "Sorry I've been such a prick the past few days."
Juliet, startled, turned back. "What? Oh. Well… I've been kind of bitchy, so… no problem."
He was looking out the front window, his profile clear in the lights from the dash. "This kind of case puts it all in perspective. Sleep well, partner."
"You too," she murmured.
But once she was back in bed, the dream returned.
This time, she was the one on her knees, between the parted legs of a nude man. She could not see his face, but she could feel his body heat, and hear his breathing.
He wanted to be touched.
Juliet stroked his lean legs, from ankles on up—long, gentle touches. Caressing the underside of his calves and thighs, she heard his sighs deepen, and she leaned forward to brush her lips against his inner thighs as she pushed them further apart.
Please, he said in her head.
Planting her hands at the top of his thighs, she skimmed her lips along his erection, and the heat of him took her by surprise. So warm. Radiating heat.
She wanted more, and brought her hands to grasp this hot, hot flesh, to hold him firm as she cursed the blaring alarm and the god-awful deejay who had just interrupted a task she had really really really wanted to complete.
Sitting up in bed, she pushed her hair behind her ears and tried to catch her breath. She wished she could go back to sleep. She wished she knew who she was dreaming about.
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Carlton didn't think he'd sleep again that night after he dropped Juliet off, but he was wrong.
And he was glad to be wrong.
He stood in the same dim room as before—even though he couldn't see any specific object or color, he knew it was the same place. He was nude, but perfectly comfortable. Anticipating.
The woman came up behind him, and he couldn't move to see her, but he recognized her… not her scent, for there was none, but her essence.
Pressing herself to him—he could feel her breasts touching his back—she encircled his waist with her slim arms, and gave light kisses to his shoulder blades.
It was gently erotic. He wished he could move his arms.
Her hands moved on his chest, up and down, stroking him. Playing with his nipples as he'd teased hers. She was silky warmth behind him, pressing closer, and then those hands moved down his abdomen, down his stomach, and she stroked him with one fingertip, making his flesh throb. He was already erect, and her nimble fingers kept him in that state.
Her sighs—not just his—were profound as she explored him and drove him insane, and he was desperate to move, to turn, to take her, and having Don Imus snarl something in his ear was not in the least bit aphrodisiac.
He pitched the pillow at the radio across the room, which had no effect on Imus—whom he hated; he only set the station to that channel to make sure he'd get up to turn him off.
Dammit. It had been a long time since he'd had an erotic dream that intense. Two in one night? Both interrupted?
Damn. It.
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They had to go back to Flakytown, as Carlton put it, to re-question the last fortune-teller, because when they ran her sheet, it turned up an old weapons charge, and it happened to be the same type of gun which killed the mailman.
She was unexpectedly amused to see them, and completely unconcerned about the gun business. Product of a bad marital choice, she said; her husband made her buy it because he couldn't get a gun in his own name. She grinned and grinned at them, and Carlton was growing more annoyed. The last thing she said before they left was sleep well, which Juliet thought sounded taunting.
The way Carlton scowled, he thought so too.
But the two of them didn't snipe at each other today. He'd even brought her coffee when he picked her up in the morning. They didn't talk much, but the silence was companionable.
Juliet was too tired for conversation anyway, and her mind kept wandering back to the dreams.
Work progressed on the home invasion case, and it was late when she finally got home. She collapsed onto the sofa, not willing to go another foot.
Just sleep… you need sleep.
You need me, said the man, although she once again only heard him in her head.
He was teasing her nipple with his tongue. She couldn't move her arms to caress him, to touch his hair, to lift his head so she could see who he was.
His weight was half on her, pleasant and erotic, and his mouth on her breast was incredibly arousing. His fingertips strayed across her other breast, teasing and tormenting, while his lips and tongue continued their torments.
Which she loved.
She arched her back, rising to meet his touch, and he lifted his head, caressing both breasts with hands she believed now were made to touch her.
She wanted to see him. She wanted to kiss him.
He put his mouth between her breasts and nuzzled her, then trailed his tongue down across her abdomen to her navel, his hands staying on her nipples as his tongue moved south.
Juliet parted her legs and hooked them over his shoulders, and he laughed, and she almost knew that laugh, almost… almost…
His mouth settled between her thighs and her near-instant orgasm woke her up, sweating and certain he hadn't even touched her, really, before it happened. It had just been building so steadily and rapidly, there was no stopping it.
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Carlton stood in the shower, but it was much too late for cold water. It was three a.m., and he'd awoken in a state worthy of a fifteen-year-old who'd just scored his first issue of Penthouse.
It was her mouth… damn, that mouth.
The woman was straddling him in this dream. Her soft thighs were warm where they were pressed to his, and although he could not see her face, he felt she was smiling.
He felt her hands sliding up and down his body, and he heard in his head her murmurs of appreciation... telling him he was so warm, so touchable, so sexy. Words he rarely heard (and hadn't for a long time), and yet he believed her. That is, he believed her sincerity.
She grasped him lightly, and stroked his flesh, and it was as if she knew him, and owned him.
He didn't have to ask for more: she gave it; her mouth enveloping him while her fingers still stroked him, and it went on and on until he simply lost it, giving it all back to her and waking sweaty and hyper-aroused and needing the shower not to prevent the storm but to, well, clean up after it.
Damn.
He rested his head against the tile, letting the warm water cascade over him, and was almost afraid to go back to bed.
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Despite the lack of sleep, Juliet felt pretty good the next day. Her faceless lover had treated her well, and Carlton actually smiled at her over bad coffee at the station, plus they had good leads on the home invasion case, so everything was looking up.
She treated him to lunch, which made him smile even more—and he had such an appealing smile; it stripped away the stresses of the job and enhanced his already remarkable blue eyes. He was in such a good mood by the time they left the café that he stopped at a street vendor just to buy her a gelato.
Juliet could get used to that.
She could also get used to the dreams, and therefore knew she wouldn't have one that night.
In fact, she was so certain she was done with the dreams that when she realized she was in one, and her lover's mouth was again between her legs, the orgasm didn't even wake her: she just let the dream roll on.
He slid up her body and entered her, all hot hard desire, and the room was so dark she couldn't make out any of his features but she knew she knew him. She knew that physical presence. She knew him.
And inside her was where he belonged: she knew that too. Arching up to meet his thrusts, finally able to move her arms so she could embrace him, she begged for his kiss, but she had no voice, and he didn't hear, and the orgasm—his? hers?—left her again wide awake, drenched in sweat, and half off the bed.
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They had to go see the fortune-teller again. Carlton really did not like this smirky little woman. She was just too damned happy to see them.
This time they were asking her about her ex-husband's use of the gun he'd made her buy. While she babbled to Juliet, his attention wandered to some of the paintings hanging on her dark walls.
There was one with a couple in bed, half-covered by a velvet blanket.
Velvet.
Instantly his dream flooded through his hormonally-charged psyche.
The woman was underneath him, and he was taking her. He was deep inside her, and it was a perfect union, and they moved in unison, except he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to see her face—a face he knew he knew—and he wanted to kiss her, hard and deep and forever, but he couldn't. Somehow he couldn't. He sensed she wanted him to, but he couldn't—the motions of sex were too overwhelming, too demanding.
He woke in the middle of a hell of an orgasm, gasping and totally lost in those misty moments between dreaming and wakefulness.
Turning back to see how Juliet's conversation was going, he caught the fortune-teller grinning at him again.
"Knock it off," he muttered, and she laughed.
"You need sleep," she said kindly, but her eyes were not kind so much as… knowing.
Juliet glanced at him, puzzled.
The lady said to her, "You need sleep too."
He narrowed his eyes at her. It had no effect.
She actually cackled. "Remember what I told you the first time."
Carlton didn't want to remember.
You are meant to be together.
He didn't know if Juliet heard it—she never mentioned it afterwards—but he'd chosen to believe the woman was just a meddler, poking fun at the cop, messing with his head because she could.
Asking Juliet was out of the question: if he did, he'd have to explain why, and telling his lovely, unattainable partner that someone hinted they should be together wasn't going to happen, because if he did, she would very likely laugh herself silly and become even more unattainable.
Still cackling, the fortune-teller shooed them out of her shop.
Juliet got in the car beside him and commented, "She's right about needing sleep. I haven't gotten much lately. Have you?"
Ummm… he shrugged. "It's never enough."
It never was. He stole a look at her: so damn beautiful. He wished he didn't love her the way he did.
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She had noticed Carlton taking an interest in one of the paintings, half-listening to the fortune-teller as she studied his profile. He was very attractive, Carlton, even in a foul mood, but for the past couple of days he'd been surprisingly good-natured.
It was nice, and she already liked him too much. Maybe she more than liked him, but she couldn't afford to admit that to herself because they were partners, and There Were Rules.
He'd been on her mind as much as her dream lover, because when they were here the first time, the fortune-teller had whispered to her something she knew he didn't hear: he is only yours.
She admitted now to goosebumps at the sound of the words; at their implication. But he was her partner, and There Were Rules.
However, rules about anything else did not apply within dreams, nor to the one she had that night.
That a tongue could be so devastating was astonishing. Juliet felt his hands on her hips as he took her with his mouth alone. She felt his soft hair brushing her damp thighs as he slowly and relentlessly brought her to a series of rolling orgasms from which she couldn't wake and didn't want to.
He would not stop.
She stopped fighting it—she let go of her psychological desire to return the favor. She just let it happen.
If I ever see your face… I will tell you I am yours. Even though you already know.
I know, he answered silently.
He lifted his head to smile at her… and she saw his face.
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Carlton was behind her, in the shower, water droplets glistening on her skin, and he was taking her, and she was crying out, and he was deep inside her willing, needful body.
She wanted more, harder, faster, and he gave it.
Mindless pleasure, mindless ecstasy.
Joined bodies, shared sensations.
She twisted as she arched back, moaning, and he caught their movement in the mirror.
For the first time, he could see her features… her damp hair, dark blonde… her beautiful skin, flushed with passion… and she opened her eyes and met his gaze, and he knew her.
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The fortune-teller clapped her hands, laughing at what she saw in her crystal ball.
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He could not face Juliet.
He had never been so happy to have a scheduled court appearance for the morning. He remembered Juliet had appointments in the afternoon, so if he dragged out his return to the station until after lunch, she should be gone, and he'd have a whole day to figure out what could not possibly be figured out in a single day.
Or fifty.
He'd been in love with her for a stupidly long time, so that was no surprise. He'd certainly fantasized about her before, because he was a male and human and male and stupid and male. And in love with his beautiful, sweet, kick-ass partner.
But what he didn't understand was why this succession of dreams now, and why her identity had been hidden from him until last night.
Did the woman only become Juliet because of yesterday's visit to the fortune-teller?
No. He knew the woman he'd claimed in the shower was the same woman from all the other dreams. He knew her shape, the feeling of her skin, even how she reacted to his touch and knew how to touch him.
So why hide it from himself?
And why now?
And what now? He couldn't keep having this sort of dream about her. It wouldn't work at all to become visibly aroused every time he was around her. They frowned on that sort of thing, yes they did.
So yeah… what now?
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Juliet knew he was in court all morning, and she knew she wouldn't see him in the afternoon.
The problem was, she wanted to see him. Having finally seen him in the dream, having finally identified her mystery lover as her attractive, irascible, desirable partner and friend, she wanted to look him in the eyes and decide whether Dream Carlton was in fact living inside Waking Carlton.
But she kind of knew he was. She'd long suspected Carlton would be that kind of intent and purposeful and giving lover—not that she'd thought about it that much—which was a lie—and she'd long suspected he might have feelings for her which went beyond mere friendship.
But they were partners, and There Were Rules.
She set her mug down and looked over at his empty desk.
Screw the rules: she had to see him.
"O'Hara!" Chief Vick called peremptorily. "My office, please. Break in the home invasion case."
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Carlton was on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, heading for his car. The trial took exactly long enough for him to justify delaying his return to work until Juliet would have left for her appointments, so he was optimistic.
The fortune-teller stepped into his path. As usual, she was highly amused.
"You know," he snapped, "I heard the real reasons babies smile so much is that they have gas. Is that your problem?"
She laughed. "How are you, Detective?"
"Get away from me." He tried to brush past her, and she caught his arm with a firm and bony grip.
"I told you," she said knowingly. "I told you. You are meant to be together."
He glared at her. "You're full of crap."
"Dreams don't lie."
"Dreams lie all the time. That's what they're for: so we can lie to ourselves enough to get through the rest of our lives." He shook his arm free, annoyed and now embarrassed, which was even more annoying.
She was surprised, her smile fading. "But that is not so, Detective." Tilting her head, she frowned at him. "I will fix."
"The hell?"
"I will fix!" Nodding with satisfaction, she toddled off down the street.
Damn her.
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"He thinks they are only dreams."
Juliet spun around at the voice. She was walking to her car, fresh from the dentist's office, her mind on Carlton—who else?
The fortune-teller was close, and she was smiling.
"What?"
"He thinks they are only dreams. That they cannot come true."
She had goosebumps, and there was no point denying her understanding. "He's had the dreams too?"
The lady nodded. "Do you agree with him?"
"No," she said with certainty. "Dreams can come true."
"This I know. Now you need to make him know."
"But…"
The lady smiled. "Show him."
Juliet's mouth opened but she had no words. "How?"
The smile fell. "Seriously? I can't do everything. Work it out." She huffed away, and Juliet watched her go with her mouth still hanging open.
Right, then.
Time to find Carlton.
It was only four, so he'd still be at the station. If she went back, she'd get sucked into work, and she would do a flat-out terrible job at any task set before her.
She called him.
"Carlton," she said with exaggerated breathlessness when he answered—his normally crisp tone a bit unsteady. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but my car won't start. Could you come get me? Take me home? I've already called for a tow truck."
"Sure," he said, calmer now. "Where are you?"
She told him, and he said he'd be there in ten, and he was seldom wrong.
What is your plan?
To look him in the eye and see if he's the one. Really the one from the dreams.
Except as she reviewed her memories while waiting for him, she knew it was. She felt it was. He was the man in the dreams, and the dreams were real, and the fortune-teller was right, and he was hers. She'd just left out the part where Juliet was his.
Carlton's car appeared and she went to meet him before he got too close to her Bug; she didn't want him getting out and offering to jump-start it.
Jump-start me.
"Thanks," she said as she slid inside his Fusion. "I owe you."
"Don't worry about it." He looked uneasy again, and his hands on the steering wheel were the hands which had been on her nude body.
"I'll make you dinner. I have some steak."
"Really, you don't have to—"
"I bought a bottle of Jameson's," she cajoled.
His eyebrow quirked, and his smile was slow. "Well, if you're going all out."
You have no idea.
He drove to her apartment and followed her in, and she could sense his growing tension, but it wouldn't last long. Inside, she locked the door, took off her jacket and urged him out of his along with his holster.
Sleeves rolled up, lean forearms exposed, he loosened his tie and watched her watching him.
Juliet undid the top button of her blouse.
Carlton's crystal-blue eyes widened.
If I had seen your eyes in that first dream, I might have been too scared to allow more dreams. I had to get to know you without the barrier of The Rules.
Letting out a deep breath, she crossed to where he stood.
She was going to say…
"Did the fortune-teller tell you anything the first time we were there?"
It was Carlton's voice, not hers. Husky and uncertain.
Juliet froze.
He started to move back, and she grasped his arms to hold him there.
"Yes," she whispered. "She said you were mine."
Carlton paled, but the blue flared to something she recognized, primal and deep.
"What did she say to you?"
He swallowed. "Have you been having dreams?"
"Every night. What did she say to you?"
His fists were clenching and unclenching as he fought for some kind of internal control. "She said we were meant to be together."
"Oh, good," she sighed, and ripped his shirt off.
He more or less ripped hers off too, and the sofa was an excellent first place to have crazed sex, more comfortable than the coffee table and much closer than the bedroom.
It was the damnedest thing to already know his body, and the sense of wonder she picked up from him suggested he was shocked at how well he knew hers.
Certainly in her dreams he'd learned all of it as well as she learned his.
It just about blew her mind when she spotted a small scar on the top of his shoulder which matched the one she'd dreamed, a scar she'd never seen in person because there was no real reason to see your male partner's bare shoulders.
The reason it didn't completely blow her mind was that the rest of her mind was already fried at the moment, since the only reason she could see the top of his shoulder was that his head was between her thighs for real this time, and she was nearly screaming out in ecstasy.
They did it all. Everything they'd each dreamed, they did that day in her apartment, up to and including the shower. Twice.
And everything was perfect and crazily erotic and she lost count of the number of orgasms he gave her with tongue and hands—not to mention with the hard length of him driving into her repeatedly.
Sometime after midnight, drenched in sweat and desperately needing another shower, they lay trembling in each other's arms.
"We were meant to be together," she said wonderingly.
"I am yours," he agreed.
Juliet rolled more fully into his arms, easing her leg between his thighs. "Do you still think the dreams weren't real?"
"I think I'm dreaming now."
"Do you see my face?"
"Yes." He stroked her cheek tenderly.
"Can you see my eyes?"
"Beautiful blue eyes." He was smiling, and had no idea how gorgeous he was to her.
"Then you're not dreaming."
He kissed her, his mouth insistent yet gentle, and then he scowled. "That damned woman's going to gloat now."
Juliet laughed. "Let her."
"Hell, she's probably some kind of crystal ball voyeur."
"Oooh, then in that case, let's give her another show." Juliet slid down his body and took him in hand, and if the gloating fortune-teller hadn't already passed out from shock, what went on during the rest of the night probably pushed her right over the edge.
But 'the damned woman' had been right.
So let her gloat.
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