"It says here that the Amarok can be vanquished by silver, much like in the werewolf legends," Crane comments. "I believe," he adds, squinting at the page. "His handwriting is deplorable, and Inukitut is not one of the languages in which I am completely fluent," he admits. "And, the Google translationis completely useless."
"Oh, so you're admitting you're not amazing at something?" Abbie asks, grinning at him across the table. She's been making notes of her own from her laptop, a yellow legal pad beside her.
"One thing," he allows, trying not to return her infectious smile.
"Hmm, I can think of a few other things at which you aren't amazing," she continues, tapping her pencil thoughtfully against her chin. "Making coffee…"
"I prefer to leave the preparation of that particular beverage to the professionals," he defends himself. "Besides, tea is much more civilized."
"That's your way of saying you've become a coffee snob," she retorts, laughing. "Hmm, what else? Oh! Your skill at Mario Kart leaves something to be desired…"
"That infernal controller behaves nothing like a real automobile!"
"As does your ability to keep your mouth shut while watching documentaries…"she continues, thoroughly enjoying herself now.
"Well, I cannot be blamed if I am merely pointing out the inaccuracies and inconsistencies that are being broadcast as…" he pauses, sighing, "facts. There really should be better accountability on television. Furthermore—"
"Here we go," Abbie mutters under her breath.
"—a channel calling itself 'The History Channel' should know better than to broadcast programs perpetuating the belief that there are space aliens."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "You mean to tell me that after all we've seen and done, aliens are out of the realm of possibility for you?"
He angles his head at her. "Of course not. I have no problem whatsoever believing in the possibility of life outside of this planet." He looks down at his book again, not noticing the sound of Abbie's pencil clattering to the floor. "I'm merely stating that until there is indisputable proof, Mr. Tsoukalos should not be allowed to present his program about Aliens as though it is hard fact." He looks up again. "Abbie?" She isn't in her chair anymore, and he looks around the Archives, trying to see where she's gone. "Love?" He feels warm hands touch his knees, then slide up his thighs. "Oh…"
Her hands move to his inner thighs, dangerously close, then back away. Teasing him.
"Miss Mills..."
One small, strong hand ventures higher again, this time moving all the way to his groin, where she closes her hand over him, squeezing just enough. He grunts, his hands gripping the edge of the table. She can feel his manhood growing and stiffening under her touch and slyly smiles , scooting closer, nudging herself in between his knees.
When he feels her opening his trousers, he speaks again. "Is this your way of getting me to stop ranting?" he asks, his voice husky. He peeks down at her.
"Actually," she says, taking him in her hand and softly stroking his now fully-erect shaft, "I enjoy it when you are ranting." She plunges him into her mouth in one sudden, smooth motion, and he groans. "It's kind of sexy," she adds flicking her tongue against the tip, then biting very gently.
"Oh?" he asks, intrigued, his voice breaking as his body jerks in response to her actions. Later, when he can think clearly again, he will realize that she only cuts off his diatribes when they are in public, where others may hear and think him strange or even unbalanced. Privately, she lets him rant and rave until he is out of breath or words, whichever comes first, enjoying every moment.
"Mmm-hmm," she affirms, her mouth full again. She licks from the base to the tip, swirling her tongue around, then taking all of him in again, slipping him in and out several times. "I love a man who is passionate about his beliefs," she says, her hand reaching further into his opened trousers, gently squeezing below.
Crane groans, having difficulty staying in his seat. His hands move from the table to the arms of the chair, his knuckles white.
Abbie sucks him into her mouth again and again, her beautiful lips and skillful tongue luxurious and wet. She hums pleasurably, the sound vibrating against him.
"Yes," he gasps, willing his hips to be still, to not thrust upward into his beloved's mouth. "So good... oh... Abbie, I'm..."
She lightly bites him one more time, knowing he's close, then takes as much of him as she can into her mouth. She sucks hard, slowly lifting up, then suddenly plunging downward.
"Ohh..." he makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan as he hits his climax, releasing down her throat.
Abbie was ready for it and swallows, drawing every drop from him. She kisses the tip, then moves upward, settling into his lap.
"I dropped my pencil," she explains, kissing him. "Had to pick it up, you know." She brandishes said item in front of him.
"You're fortunate we were not interrupted," he says, glancing around at the several entrance points, both visible and hidden, around the room.
"I sent Jenny to go talk to Big Ash about our wolf thing," Abbie says.
"Amarok," Crane automatically corrects.
"Yeah. And, youknow she likes to stick around there as long as she can without being too obvious," she adds. He chuckles, and she continues. "And, Irving is across town until late afternoon today. Besides, he's learned to knock after that one time."
"Ah," he answers, nodding. He kisses her, remembering exactly which "one time" that was. He was kissing Abbie against the bookshelves, and she was completely hidden from view. Irving thought Crane was having a dizzy spell, leaning against the shelves with one hand, head bowed. After that awkward encounter, he always knocked loudly before he entered their inner sanctum.
She kisses him again. "We will be uninterrupted for a while. So, I wasn't worried."
"Is that so?" he asks, glancing at the clock. Still three and a half hours before nightfall.
She nods, then shouts in surprise as he lifts her, setting her on the table, pushing his books out of the way.
"In that case," he rumbles, closing his trousers, then opening hers. "Miss Mills, this garment must go."
As Abbie carelessly shucks her jeans and panties, leaving them hanging from one foot in her haste, Crane sits in his chair again and pulls her to the edge of the table, settling her legs over his shoulders.
"Skirts are much more convenient," he mutters, kissing a hot trail up her firm thigh.
"Not for police worrrr-ohhh..."