Part Four: Overflow.
"The greatest power is often simple patience." ~E. Joseph Cossman
From what Erin could remember of her brief encounter with Taosim (thanks to an equally brief boyfriend in college), she knew that the body was controlled by three tan t'iens. The most primal was the Ocean of Vitality, located just one and one-quarter inches below the belly button, a deep, dark, midnight ocean whose tides ruled baser functions, from sex drive to breathing. If such an ocean existed within Erin Strauss, it certainly was in a state of utter turmoil and tempest. The waters had overflown their base, seeping further down into her loins, and the tides eddied and boiled in little whirlpools, crashing against the jagged rocks of her pelvic bones and receding all the way down to her toes—water that felt like fire, water that filled her lungs, water that made her forget to breathe as it sifted and ebbed throughout her being.
But she could not blame her wayward tan t'ien for this—no, the fault was entirely of this woman with skin like moonlight (the moon rules the tides, pulls them, directs their boundaries, affects their comings and goings, disturbs their balance, does it not?). This infuriating woman who had so carelessly toppled over the ocean's bowl, spilling it out, never to be regathered again, who now seemed unwilling to at least attempt to soothe these troubled waters. This woman who refused to let Erin's hands push and seek like the tide, rolling over all that lovely smooth skin (the moon rules the tides, but the tides never touch the moon). This woman who tortured her in the most exquisite and horrible way.
Emily's fingernails dug into the flesh of Erin's outer thigh as her mouth worked the inner, slowly moving down to her center. She could feel the heat from Erin's core radiating on her cheek, could smell the heady, dark scent of her, and Emily fought to urge to plunge her conquistador tongue into those unexplored depths. That was something she did with lovers—Erin, whatever she may be, sprawled across this black leather sofa like some busty blonde from a dime-store detective novel, was not a lover. She was something darker, something more primal, something more tangible, with sharper edges and harder lines than a lover. Still, Emily did not resist the urge to blow one fluttering breath across the wetness, causing Erin to whimper and buck her hips involuntarily. The brunette turned to the other thigh, starting near her center and working her way back up to the knee.
Erin gave a frustrated jerk of her other leg, suppressing the urge to scream. She was on fire, on fire, didn't Emily understand that?
Emily simply gave a disapproving shake of her head, and Erin made another mental note to make sure that she had this woman absolutely screaming for release whenever her turn came around.
The younger woman placed her left shoulder underneath Erin's right knee, leaning forward until there was just the slightest strain in her muscle. She dipped one (only one, sadly only one) long finger inside Erin's pulsing core, her dark eyes locked onto the older woman's face, taking in every twitch, every sigh. With that one wet digit, she slowly traced the folds of Erin's labia, lazily creating a path to her clit. It was the lightest touch, and yet Erin felt as if she could jump out of her skin. Emily began making slow circles, applying more pressure, turning her head so that her lips could latch onto the indention next to Erin's knee, leaving another mark as her hand continued its steady assault.
Erin closed her eyes, but Emily's voice stopped her, "Look at me."
The section chief obeyed. She'd do anything, say anything, be anything, so long as it meant that this continued. With each movement of Emily's finger, another wave rippled through her body, melting her sinews and muscles and tauntly reforming them again.
Emily switched fingers, dipping her thumb into the pool of moisture at Erin's opening before placing it on the hardened bundle of nerves at her apex. She moved forward, her left hand securely planted above Erin's right shoulder, her dark eyes hovering over those beautiful grey orbs, taking in every movement as she pushed two fingers inside, spread them against Erin's walls, curled them to find the spot that made those lovely doll eyes widen, those lovely bruised lips form into a perfect O.
She added a third finger as her mouth lightly covered Erin's, muffling the warm groan that escaped the older woman's throat. It may be late, but if they got too loud, someone might still be around to hear them. And although Emily was in the business of incinerating past connections this evening, she certainly didn't want one of those to be the link between Erin Strauss and her position as BAU Section Chief.
Her blonde companion, however, did not seem to share this concern—in fact, she seemed to be getting louder, every push of Emily's hand elicited another cry (a lovely cry, a dainty cry, completely erotic and more than Emily could have hoped for, but a cry for another time, another place) and though Emily enjoyed knowing that she was the cause of such delicious distress, it could prove to be a problem.
"You need to keep quiet," Emily whispered warmly, trying to sound stern but failing miserably because she couldn't deny the effect that these little gasps and pleas were having on her. She could feel the pounding of her own blood, could feel the wetness building between her own legs, the heat building and seeping down into her thighs, climbing into her chest.
"Make me," Erin's voice was deeper again, breathy but still tinged with challenge. Her light eyes locked onto Emily's dark ones and if Emily wasn't already having her at this precise moment, it would make her want to take the blonde then and there all over again.
So, of course, Emily accepted the challenge. She pushed her fingers harder, deeper, further apart, pressed her thumb into that buzzing pounding bundle of nerves, slammed her mouth over the infuriating collection of tongue and teeth and lips that could anger and arouse her with a single smirk, plunging her tongue further in as the woman beneath her whimpered, trembled, quaked, sought purchase on her skin with well-manicured nails.
Erin was so close, caught in that delicious moment, the delirious suspension between agony and ecstasy, the breath before the final plunge, and part of her wanted to stay in this limbo forever. Emily moved in perfect rhythm, perfect control, and Erin actually considered trying to pull herself back from climax just to keep this moment alive. But that would be controlling, and it wasn't her turn to be in control. Let's not think, remember?
She felt it tumbling, building inside of her the like roar of the wave before it crashes into the rocks, and she simply pulled Emily closer to her, forcing the younger woman's mouth to cover her cries again.
It wasn't lightning or fireworks or some other blinding metaphor. It was steadier, heavier, more predictable. An avalanche perhaps. An avalanche she felt rumble over her entire body, slowing at the end to a peaceful lull.
This was the moment Emily Prentiss would normally lean forward, using her body to still and soothe her trembling lover's skittering breaths, covering her body with soft, tiny kisses and murmuring indecipherable words into her hair and skin. But Erin Strauss was not her lover. So Emily simply sat back on her heels and watched the older woman as she took a deep breath, focused those eyes (now green, now pure green, catlike green) on the ceiling. She carefully studied the classically featured face—no remorse, no doubt, no undying devotion (so far, so good).
A manicured hand (one with Emily's skin still beneath her fingernails) reached up, lightly and self-consciously fluffing the blonde mass of curls that were now completely disheveled. Feline eyes flicked back down towards her, dancing with mischief.
"Now it's my turn."
"Passion is all but soft, it's not tender, it's violence to which you get hooked by pleasure." ~Isabelle Adjani
*Author's Note: The bit about tan t'iens is gleaned from Barefoot Doctor's Handbook for the Urban Warrior. I've never seen another reference to the lower tan t'ien as the 'ocean of vitality' (except for in the aforementioned book), but I loved the imagery and couldn't resist.*