*Time to change the rating on this sucker. Also, most of you are new to my style of writing, so I suppose it's fair to let you know that I tend to be somewhat details when it comes to writing this stuff. Kthnxbye!*
"Do you think there's a way we could salvage this night?" I ask, half-teasing, but half-serious, too. Even if we don't get to sex tonight, I don't want us to wind up feeling weird about each other. Being open with him about my feelings is weird enough.
"I still want to make love to you, if that's what you're asking." He looks up at me again, his normally bright blue eyes still incredibly dark, but I bite my lip to try to hold back a giggle.
"Make love?" I repeat, my cheeks aching from suppressing my smile.
"Yes, B'Elanna, make love." His voice is filled with exasperation. "Maybe you've heard of it? I'm sure you think it's just some silly, old-fashioned, human notion of mine, but—"
I put my fingers against his lips, silencing him. "I'm sorry. I've just never thought of sex that way. I've never..." I pause, rolling the words around in my head for a moment. They feel foreign and strange. Even the Klingon romance novels I've spent time reading don't refer to sex like that. "I've never made love before."
"Well, it's been a while for me, too." Inexplicably, I feel jealous of whatever woman he felt that way about in the past. I know that's stupid—I know he spent a lot of years drunk and behaving in less than upstanding ways. I also know that, a long while back, he was in one or two intense, serious relationships. He has a past. I know this about him. It's not as if I was celibate before Voyager, waiting for the right man to come along. Still, that doesn't mean I can control the fact that I'd rather he hadn't done any of the big, important stuff before me. "It's basically the same as sex," he says, derailing my train of thought, "but it means a lot more." He takes my hand and holds it against his chest, and I can feel the steady thump thump thump of his heart beneath my palm. For a few moments, I feel completely overwhelmed. His heart was moments away from stopping just a few days ago. He almost died. That thought actually makes my insides ache. This man that means so much to me, who has meant so much to me for a long time now, nearly died. Yes, he would have died knowing how I felt about him, but that doesn't change the fact that we almost didn't make it. I very nearly waited too long to let him how I feel.
His recovery was more difficult than mine, and even though I trust the Doctor and his medical care, I couldn't help but worry about Tom, even to the point that I sneaked into Sick Bay a couple of times in the middle of the night, just to make sure he was breathing. I'd been released within hours of being located, mostly because I made a general nuisance of myself and the Doctor couldn't stand me anymore, but Tom had a bit more difficulty recovering. It was gut wrenching. All told, he wasn't even in Sick Bay for a full twenty-four hours, but it felt like an eternity.
I press my hand to his chest a little harder, letting myself be reassured by his warm, solid form, his very existence. He's alive. I need to focus on that. That's the part that matters—not that we almost died but that we lived. We're here, together, and I don't want to waste more of our uncertain lives hesitating.
I feel his other under my chin, lifting my face to meet his, and it's only then that I realize I've been staring at his chest, almost like I've been trying to see his heart. He smiles gently and his hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me in gently, and he kisses me softly. "I love you, B'Elanna," he whispers, and I feel tears tickle the corners of my eyes.
He said it.
"I love you." He says it again, a little louder, probably to make sure I heard it, and I know I won't let myself think I imagined it.
A grin splits my face and I force the tears I felt back where they came from. Now's not the time. "I know." I don't say it to be cocky or arrogant. Hearing him tell me he loves me makes me realize that I really did already know it. I have no idea how I could doubt it. Everything he's said and done for months now has told me how he feels about me.
He grins at me in return and, even though it's one of the oldest clichés in the books, I swear it lights up my quarters. He pulls me back to him and our lips meet again. I feel myself stop worrying how tonight is going to be. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, whether we behave more like humans or my Klingon side rears its ugly head. It doesn't matter to Tom. It really, truly doesn't. He just wants to be with me.
That's a hard concept to grasp. I don't know if I've ever been with someone, romantically or not, who didn't want me to be more human, or a little more Klingon. There's always been some sort of expectation—I've either supposed to be reserved and polite or angry and aggressive. Tom seems happy to simply take me as I am. I lean forward and press my lips to his. We both chase after each other, playfully fighting for the upper hand. At this point, it doesn't matter to me who "wins." It feels like there can be no losers at this point.
I feel myself being lowered to the bed and I wrap my arms around him, holding him close. He settles his weight on me and he's surprisingly solid and heavy. I don't think he's one to be easily broken, which is reassuring.
He comes up for air and he smiles at me. His eyes are heavy-lidded, almost sleepy looking. I reach up and push his hair back from his forehead, his skin already warm and slightly damp. Without another word, he leans down again and starts attacking my neck. His lips tug and pull at my skin, his teeth take little nips here and there, his tongue darts out to soothe any injuries, though he's being none to gentle about it.
I let out a sigh and close my eyes, letting myself be swept away. I'm perfectly content to let him take the lead for the moment. It feels pretty amazing to not have to give someone directions. I'm sure that'll happen at some point tonight—it's inevitable the first time with someone, unless you don't want to have a good time. I have no problem telling Tom if he needs to go a little more or a little less, or if he needs to move a few microns to the left. There's no sense in letting the guy think he's doing something right if he's not. The same goes for me, though, too. If I'm not doing the things I need to do that will make him squirm, I want to know about it.
I gasp suddenly, just a little, as his mouth moves lower. His teeth are scraping across the tops of my breasts. Just that feels incredible. I haven't let myself think about how long it's been since I've had sex, but now that it's upon me, my body is reacting in very powerful ways. True, I have used the holodeck a few times to relieve some of the tension, but even that's been a while. It would scratch the itch, but I would often feel even more alone and a bit depressed afterward. Eventually, it was easier just to handle things on my own. For at least the last six months, Tom has featured pretty heavily in my fantasies. Information I won't be giving him for some time—I don't think he needs that sort of ammunition or ego stroking just yet.
However, I'm quickly learning that the Tom of my imagination is nothing compared to Tom in real life. What little I had to go on before right now—some kissing and what I vaguely remember during the pon farr—isn't anything compared to having this man's body pressed against mine, his lips and hands going everywhere.
I feel my legs fall open to give him more room and he settles between my thighs, his hands bunching up my undershirt. His mouth moves again and he somehow, through the layers I'm still wearing, manages to find my nipple and bite down. I hiss as my back arches. His eyes dart up to mine but I don't stop him. This is good. This is really good. It's borderline painful, but not in a bad way. Most people don't seem to get that not everyone needs or wants to be treated like glass all the time. I'm sure that Tom and I will have moments that are incredibly tender—hell, that could happen tonight for all I know—but the fact that he's not afraid to push me is a good sign.
He moves again, this time his lips sliding across my stomach. I let out a deep sigh and drape my arm over my head. Normally, I don't like to be this passive during foreplay, but he seems to really be into worshipping me at the moment. Truthfully, it's nice to feel desired like that. It seems to be making him happy, too.
I realize his lips have stopped and my eyes open in time to see him pulling himself up to his knees. He stretches across me and tugs at my shirt. I sit up to help him and he yanks the undershirt over my head and tosses it across the room. It vaguely occurs to me that we're now both in our underwear, and for some reason, that makes what we're about to do feel very real. My heart starts to pound, though not with nerves—I've never been terribly embarrassed to be naked in front of someone. It's anticipation.
Meanwhile, he's staring at me as if I'm the first semi-undressed woman he's ever seen. He's licking his lips slowly, longingly. I notice that, with the way we're positioned, I'm essentially eye to eye with his erection. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, his unique smell washing over me, his arousal making it more potent than ever.
My eyes fly open and I look up at him, his gaze already on me. I reach out to the waistband of his shorts, sliding my fingers just under the edge. I wait for him to protest but he says nothing. Encouraged, I reach in and carefully wrap my fingers around him. He moans, loudly, and jerks against my touch, and my entire body shakes just a little. He feels so incredibly warm and firm in my hand. No holographic simulation could compare to this, at least not for me.
I tug his shorts down with one hand, trying to be careful. My need to see him, to see all of him, is overwhelming, but the last thing I want to do is hurt him. Still, he doesn't stop me. I finally shove the underwear down to his knees and I let him go for a moment, leaning back to take him all in. He's beautiful. The gently muscled, defined planes of his chest taper down to his stomach and narrow hips, the lines and angles giving way to the pulsating flesh trapped beneath my fingers.
I try to be gentle as I stroke my hand up and down him a few times, but it's hard to hold myself back. I feel his body shudder. I look up at him again to find him staring me intently. "I've never wanted anything as much as I want you," I whisper, startling myself with the words, before I lean forward and take him into my mouth. He moans again and I grab onto his hips, keeping him steady. His scent…oh, my God, his scent. It's getting stronger by the second. I relax myself a little and take a deep breath, scooting closer to him. I take him in as far as possible, bobbing my head back and forth as slowly as I can. I really don't want to rush this moment.
His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging at me gently. It doesn't feel like he's asking me to stop, but I look up at him anyway. I shouldn't have worried, though—his head has dropped back a little, his mouth is hanging open, and I can hear him breathing raggedly. He seems pretty happy right now.
Without warning, he shoves me away and I fall back onto my elbows, surprised. I watch his chest heave for a few moments before he shifts a little, kicking his shorts completely off his legs. He reaches out and grabs my shoulders, pulling me up to my knees. His face disappears into my neck and his hands slide around my back, fingers fumbling with the clasp of my bra. It occurs to me for the first time how unexciting my standard issue Starfleet underwear is, not that it seems to matter to Tom. If this relationship holds up, I might have to use some of my replicator rations on something fancier.
Even though it really doesn't seem to matter to him.
I shudder and wrap my arms around him, tilting my head to give him better access to my neck. I'm not sure if it's something he figured out on his own or if it was something I gave away on Sakari, but my neck is definitely one of my hot spots. If someone knows what he's doing, it's one of the most amazing feelings in the universe…and Tom really seems to know what he's doing. I angle my head as best I can to return the favor, pressing my lips against his pulse point before taking his earlobe gently between my teeth and tugging. His fingers finally manage to unclasp my bra but he makes no moves to remove the garment. Instead, he runs his hands up and down my back, letting his nails scrape against my overly sensitive flesh. I snake one hand in between us, grasping him once again. I feel him stiffen even more against my palm and he makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a growl.
For a few moments, I lose myself.
That noise goes to some deep, primal place within me, and I can hear myself growl in response. I press my nose against the space just behind his ear and gasp, trying to smell as much of him as I can. He keeps licking and biting my neck, moving down to my clavicle and back up again. It feels so good that I would cry if everything wasn't hazy with desire. I release his erection and grab his chin, holding him in place. I move my mouth to his cheek, breathing heavily, before I take his delicate flesh between my teeth. I start to bite down when I freeze, suddenly overcome with the memory of doing this to him once before. The pon farr had only just begun surging through my veins and, even now, I don't know how much of that moment I can blame on a chemical imbalance, and how much of it was just me.
"Do it," he breathes, tightening his grip on me. "Do it."
I hesitate anyway. I'm trying my hardest not to think too much about what's happening, but there are some things that seem almost too vulgar and too much like a caveman. Like biting someone's face. It just feels too…Klingon. But that's what he wants, right? For me to be myself and just let go. Why is that so hard?
"I want you to," he says, a little louder. "Mark me."
So many things fight within me. I want to—desperately want to—mark him, no matter how old-fashioned and prehistoric that is. Part of me needs to have the universe at large know that he belongs to me. But another part of me, the quiet, more reserved human part, doesn't want to advertise her sex life to the whole ship. There are some things I need to keep to myself, and my relationship with Tom might be one of those things. It's such a small ship that it would only take one person to see him with a bite on his face and the entire crew would know. Within an hour.
With another growl, I shove his face away and latch onto his shoulder, biting with enough force to break the skin. He lets out a quick yelp of pain, shoving me away for just a second before he yanks me back to him. I don't get a chance to react before I feel him bite down on my shoulder. I yell out in surprise and he looks up at me, questioningly. I know what he's asking. He's wondering if he's gone too far. I think I'm more surprised that he understood my need for discretion than that he repeated a very Klingon gesture.
I love him even more.
*A/N...fully formed notes and justifications for my thought processes will be at the end of the story. Also, I have two others that I'm writing. What's come over me?
