"I..."
"Not tonight," she says again, more firmly this time.
"I'm not sure this is what I want." My voice is hardly there. I can't look at her.
The hand that's on my back begins rubbing circles. I should leave because this is out of control. She was flirting with all three of us this evening, I remind myself. All three of us.
"Look at me," she says quietly.
I do, but only briefly, because what I see in her eyes is too much, because what I see is more than lust.
She tilts my face to force me to look at her and then slides her fingers through my hair, cupping my head. I hear the ticking of a clock nearby, sounding loud suddenly. Monica leans down, her lips touching mine lightly once... and again. Sweet, soft kisses, gentler than I've ever felt. They become wet, her tongue licking my lips insistently, until I open up and let her inside, a mistake if I plan to leave tonight, I realize as soon as her tongue touches mine. A rush floods my body, leaving me absolutely soaked. My knees weaken, and she wraps her arms around me, practically holding me up.
We kiss like this until I grow dizzy and Monica pulls away, also needing air. "See?" she says shakily, grinning. "Nothing to be afraid of." She gazes at me for what seems like a very long time, and I try forcing myself to stare back at her, but it's difficult. Her eyes slip to my mouth and she bends again to kiss me.
I grip her biceps, my purse banging against her arm. I'm on tiptoe, and both of her hands are on my back, pulling me up to her, and there isn't a sound for a long time but the wet smacking of our mouths, our heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock. I'm losing myself, my reserve, my calm.
One of her hands slips beneath my jacket, and the other follows, rubbing my back. I become so acutely aware of her hands, of how large her palms are on my back, of the length of her fingers as they trace my spine, that the sensations her tongue makes become secondary.
Her mouth breaks away, kisses my temple, my cheek, my ear. "I just want to touch you," she breathes, and to demonstrate, she gradually tugs my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I rest my forehead on her chest, trying to slow my breathing, to think, to simply think for a moment. Everything is happening so quickly.
Her shirt smells like flowers and eucalyptus and honey. I breathe her in deeply. Detergent, deodorant, cologne, I realize, but these rational thoughts disintegrate when she succeeds with my shirt, and her fingers touch skin. Monica moans, and her mouth is on mine again.
She kisses me until my lips feel swollen, her hand trailing over my back, making patterns slowly and so softly I can't think. I've never felt weaker or more powerless in my life than at this moment. I've always been a leader, but not now. I'm not remotely guiding this interaction. I'm not even following; I'm only experiencing what she's doing to me, and what she's doing to me feels a thousand times better than anything anyone else has ever done.
Everything is sensation, mostly taste and touch and sound, because my eyes are closed and my entire body is a massive bundle of nerve endings, pulsing. It's frightening how she's undoing me with every kiss and touch. She's touching everywhere but nowhere in particular until her fingers settle on the clasp of my bra.
She's overwhelming me. "I don't..." I don't know what to say. Why am I still resisting this when it feels so good? Because it feels too good. I feel too good. I feel too much, and what does she feel? Her desire is probably a result of her inebriation. Mine isn't. Mine...
"You've trusted me with your life," she whispers. "Trust me now." Her mouth rests against my head; she's almost panting. Her fingers begin working with the clasp of my bra, and I jerk involuntarily. She moans at my reaction. She moans right in my ear, her breath hot.
Having her try to get my bra open is the sexiest thing I've ever known until she succeeds. Her fingernails scrape across my skin and I groan and jerk once more, this time so hard that my purse falls to the floor, its contents spilling. Monica reacts to this feverishly, kissing me hard enough that I'm certain to have bruises later. Her hands are all over my back. Then she grips my waist and she slides her hands up my sides, her thumbs gliding over the curve of my breasts closest to my underarms, barely touching them. I shiver. Her thumbs trail down, further from my sides, to my nipples, rubbing them gently, her hands tracing my breasts. She shudders and wrenches her mouth from mine, panting heavily now.
Is she like this with everyone? Is she so sensual and sexual that all of her lovers have been treated to such passion? I don't want to think that. I want to think that this is as potent for her as it is for me.
She looks steadily into my eyes, as if she's reading my thoughts, and begins removing my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders with enough force to press me back a few steps. She lets the jacket fall to the floor near my purse, but what's more, I let it fall to the floor. Everyone else in my history has been reprimanded for similar sloppiness, for similar mistreatment of my clothing, even when the garments in question weren't $400 Michael Kors jackets. But the discarded jacket is on the periphery of my focus. Monica has begun on my blouse, unbuttoning it. She seems deliberate and careful, and if it weren't for her trembling fingers, she'd also seem very smooth. I look down at her hands, watching her, until she tilts my chin up and covers my mouth with hers once more.
She continues kissing me while unbuttoning, and when she reaches the last button, she pushes her hands up under my open blouse, under my open bra, and cups my breasts. Her reaction to this is more than her tiny whimper - her body spasms, her pelvis bumps against me, and she squeezes and caresses and decides suddenly that she's got to get rid of my blouse. She tries to remove it, pushing it off my shoulders urgently, her tongue thrusting in my mouth, her midsection pressing against mine, everywhere pushing, pushing until I trip, banging my elbow against whatever's behind me - a bookcase, I think - and she pulls me tightly to her, her hands on my back again, trying to press me right into her, it seems. And only now does she break away from my mouth.
"Oh, God," she murmurs, staring at me. "You are so beautiful." With one hand firmly pressed against my lower back, holding me to her, she touches my cheek with the other. "You are so..." and she leans down and kisses me gently but thoroughly, continuing to hold me with her left hand while touching me with her right, tangling my hair, trailing across my shoulder, and then her movements become so fluid that I think she must be a dancer. She runs her hand under my arm, stroking the length of it while pushing it gently upward at the same time, so that by the time she reaches my wrist, my arm is outstretched, as is hers, as if she's going to lead me into a dance. Instead, she unbuttons the cuff of my sleeve and entwines my hand with hers, bringing it to her lips for fervent kisses before lowering it to my side. And she mirrors this process, pressing her right hand to my lower back, holding me, while her left presses my arm upward, stroking it. This time she kisses the length of my arm once the cuff is open and she takes my hand and brings it to her mouth and kisses it and lowers it to my side and pushes my blouse off. And it, too, is discarded on the floor, an Allen B. stretch cotton khaki shirt that I paid over a hundred dollars for. Her blatant disregard for my clothes, the urgency to get to my body, is as erotic as her mouth, which is open on my neck, kissing, licking and sucking its way from my ear to my shoulder. She pulls my bra off without ceasing her impassioned ministrations. She makes love like she's a poet, an artist.
Or a sailor. Once my torso is bare, her hands course over it, settling on my breasts, and she moans and mutters words that must be Spanish curses, given their intonation. "Monica."
Her mouth moves to my ear, her hands still squeezing and pulling and stroking. "Hmm?"
"What are you saying?" I ask, expecting sexual vulgarities.
She holds still and doesn't answer immediately. "You burn inside me like fire," she finally breathes. "And other things you're not ready to hear."
I pull away, finding out that it is indeed a bookcase that's behind me, full of books that shift when I bump them. I don't pull away from her for the reason she thinks, not because I'm afraid or overwhelmed, even though I am. I pull away so I can look at her. To see that this is real, because I've got so many endorphins in my bloodstream that I can't think coherently. This could be a dream for all I know. She smiles softly, trying to tear her gaze away from my breasts, my torso. She touches the cross on my necklace, takes it between her thumb and forefinger and caresses it, examines it. And I finally touch her. Her breasts. I run my thumbs over her nipples, cup her, and she gasps, and her mouth doesn't quite close after this. It remains open, and she stares at me with such concentrated longing that I do it again, more firmly this time. "Dana." She shudders.
Oh, God. Is this how I make her feel? She's so sexy, arching, tilting her head back. My hands are on her breasts, and she covers them with her own, squeezing. I'm just seeping now, constantly lubricating; even my thighs are wet. "Yes, yes," she murmurs, and then Spanish again.
"What?"
"Your hands, your touch," she translates, straightening. She moves my hands away and strips her shirt off in a quick, fluid movement. When she drops it to the floor, she begins with Spanish again, this time not waiting for me to ask for an interpretation. "Touch me everywhere."
I can't touch her for looking. Monica's clothes have been concealing an amazing body. Her breasts are full and ... just ... amazing. Firm and full and breathtaking. I place my palms on her chest and slide them down to her breasts, to her tummy, and to her breasts again. More than I know what to do with, but luscious enough to eat, and that's my sudden desire. I kiss them, suck her nipples into my mouth, and Monica's body undulates as if to music. One of her hands presses my head firmly on her and the other trails over my back, squeezes my ass and pulls me to her roughly. She lets me stay on her breasts as long as I want, and it's a long time. I've never held a breast in my mouth. I had no idea.
"What did you say?" she murmurs, tangling her fingers in my hair, kissing my neck, moving to my lips and then alongside them.
"I don't know." I didn't realize that I had spoken.
She kisses me and grins on my mouth before leaning back and stroking the hair from my face. "You said you had no idea about something."
"I had no idea it could be like this," I tell her.
She looks at me tenderly, caresses my cheek with the back of her hand, and runs it down my neck, down my chest, between my breasts, down to my skirt, resting the palm of her hand on my abdomen, and then lower. She leaves her hand there for a minute, not stroking, not squeezing, just... resting it, but I'm not sure if she's gauging my reaction or if she's letting me get accustomed to the feeling of her hand there, or if she's claiming that area. Before I can decide, she places both hands on my hips and kisses me and I wrap my arms around her neck and pull her in deep. The softness of her breasts, the pure erotic feeling of her breasts pressing to mine, leaves me breathless. I don't know how much more softness I can bear.
Her hands slide to the back of my skirt and begin working with my zipper, and she's trying so earnestly that her mouth stops kissing, just holds perfectly still, her tongue thrust inside. I suck it and squeeze her breasts, and she leans heavily against me, momentarily trapping my hands where they are, a thumbnail on each nipple. Forgetting the zipper, Monica reaches over her head and braces her hands on the tallest shelf of her bookcase, arching toward me. I've never felt such a thrill at touching someone, but it's impossible not to be thrilled by this woman. Monica moves with my hand, seeming to ripple with each caress, giving me the amazing pleasure of knowing how I make her feel. "You're breathtaking."
She smiles softly at my words and continues arching, her pelvis pressed to me, her spine curved, head tilted back. I press my hand flat on her chest and she lets her head fall back more, hair cascading behind her. The men we left at the restaurant wouldn't have appreciated such beauty. The thought of her going home with either of them repulses me. "It drove me crazy to see you flirting with Mulder and Doggett."
Monica withdraws from my touch long enough to give me a look that sends shivers down my spine. Then her hands are gripping my shoulders and her mouth is descending on mine so forcefully that my head bangs against some books, which knock books beside them, which begin falling on the floor. Monica is oblivious, her hands coursing over my torso, fingernails scraping my arms, my waist. She dips her head down, bending, and lavishes her attention on my breasts, tongue stroking and flicking my nipples, lost in her passion, her hands touching every part of me that the skirt is hiding until they travel down my thighs and back up again, pulling my skirt with them. She moans. Her fingers trail over my thigh-highs, over the exposed flesh above them, over the legs of my panties.
"Monica." I'm not even coherent. Her name is just a whimper.
She sweeps her hands up, cupping my ass, and stands tall, pulling me with her so that I'm barely on tiptoe, mostly hanging in her embrace, her hands squeezing and pulling and massaging before lowering me down again, my skirt catching on her jeans and riding up. She moans and runs her hands over my hose once more at the place where they end and flesh begins. And then she reaches between my legs and we both groan. Hers is a long, keening sound from deep within. Mine is probably the same. I'm wet through my panties, a fact that becomes more pronounced as her fingers slide along them, cupping me, then stroking me.
"Oh, God..."
She's breathing hard, her fingers insistent, but they don't need to do much. I'm already beyond the point of arousal - my body has just been waiting for release. My hips begin rocking against her hand, harder when she begins muttering in Spanish again. "Monica-"
"Hmm?" She's out of breath. "What is it?" she whispers, her fingers still insistent.
My hands are on her shoulders; I'm trying to hold myself up.
"Dana?" Monica kisses my bent head. I'm watching my skirt crease and fold over her cloaked hand. It's surreal. "Look at me," she says in her breathless, whispered voice, fingers pressing harder, faster.
The moment I look up at her, her fingers slip inside my panties, and she's talking to me, how gorgeous she thinks I am, how good I feel to her, and she's rubbing my clit and whispering so many terms of endearment, so many that I'll never remember them all, even though I'm concentrating, and the orgasm slips up on me while I'm still staring at her, and I practically double over in her arms, convulsing and groaning as if I'm giving birth again.
After my body has quieted somewhat, Monica's hand slips from my panties and she pulls me close in her arms, and I huddle there, head on her chest. I fight to control the trembling; she soothes me, rubbing my back. She kisses my forehead, my hair. "You're amazing," she whispers.
This surprises me enough that I unfold myself to look at her, wondering why she thinks I'm amazing when she just brought me to orgasm. She's the amazing one, such a passionate person. I wrap my arms around her neck and draw her head down to me, to kiss her slowly and earnestly. My gratitude is deep.
Our kiss is leisurely and sweet for a while and her hands stroke my sides up and down so lightly that it tickles. But our peace is shattered when the phone rings. I break away to give her a chance to answer it. "God," she whispers, totally focused on me, her voice rough, her eyes penetrating mine. "God." Her hands squeeze my ass, pulling my skirt up further, and she shoves her leg between my thighs. "I just want you so badly."
She doesn't even seem cognizant of the ringing phone. Her passion for me, the level of her desire, is so ... It's so foreign from the Monica I thought I knew. I thought she had a crush on me, yes. I thought she was sweet and gentle and kind, and she is all of these things, but she's also erotic and strong and insistent, and the way she has taken charge of the situation, the way she has me pinned to the bookcase with her knee between my legs, so powerful, so commanding, but still so gentle ... this is so different than how I imagined her to be. Not that I have imagined her or fantasized her. Except for those times I imagined Mulder fucking her. I don't want to think of her with him. I don't want to think of the possibility of her with anyone else; however, a woman is leaving a message on Monica's answering machine, and she's saying that she had a great time the other night, but she hasn't heard from Monica in a couple of days and is everything all right?
"Who's that?"
"No one." Her mouth crushes mine in a feverish kiss.
Is she seeing someone? The thought invades my mind, distracts me from everything she's doing. Who else does Monica touch like this? Just because I haven't slept with anyone in years doesn't mean Monica's bed is as empty. Maybe she has a string of lovers as long as her arm. Maybe her bedroom is Grand Central Station.
"Come on." Taking me by the hand, she leads me away from the main area of her loft. We pass her answering machine along the way, and even though she doesn't glance at it, I do. A big red 3 is flashing. Three messages. From the same woman?
Her bed is large. I glance about, not even sure what I'm looking for. Evidence of other lovers, maybe. Monica moves behind me, unzips my skirt and lets it fall. "I haven't done this before." I sound like a virgin. "I mean with a woman." Now I just sound like an idiot.
"Mmm." She wraps her arms around me, pelvis to my ass. "Then how lucky am I?" she murmurs in my ear. Her lips trail kisses along my neck. "I'm honored," she whispers.
She touches me, speaks to me as if she adores me, and this turns me on more than anything ever has. I reach up and pull her head down to me, kissing her heavily. Her hands cover my breasts. "God," she mutters, and turns me around and pushes me toward the bed and then presses me down onto it. I kick off my shoes and watch her undress. She pushes her jeans down quickly, and then her panties, without a trace of self-consciousness. She shouldn't be self-conscious; her body is magnificent, trim and lithe and ... womanly. Full breasts, flat stomach, dark patch of hair between her legs. Scar on her right breast. I stare at it as she pulls my panties down and off, leaving me wearing nothing but my thigh-high hose. "Oh," she says. She's staring at the area between my legs, clearing her throat. "Well, that answers that question."
I've been here before; I know exactly what she's referring to. Is the hair on my head natural? Or do I color it? "And what question is that?" I don't understand why people are so fascinated by this.
A grin flashes across her face and she waggles her eyebrows. "Well, Agent Scully, I was wondering... " She freezes for a moment, eyes large. "Freaking Jesus. You're in my bed. Dana Scully is naked in my bed."
"Yes, she is."
"And I'm about to ..." She trails off, picks up again in Spanish.
I shiver. "You're about to what?"
Monica kneels on the bed, lifts my legs and parts them. She hovers over me, palms flat on either side of my torso, knees between my bent legs, her eyes glued to mine. "Make love to you," she translates softly, planting a kiss on my cheek. Her mouth moves to my neck, nibbling it, and she sits up, her hands on my wrists, pushing my arms above my head. She dips back down to my ear. "Hold you, kiss you, touch you," she continues. "Make you come for me until you're so exhausted that you don't have the energy to get out of bed. I'll hold you prisoner with my tongue." She licks my ear to demonstrate.
I'm speechless, which is becoming the norm tonight. She's sexual and sensual and incredibly gorgeous. And familiar, like someone that I must have lost long ago, someone I didn't even know I was missing. I focus on the scar on her breast again.
Monica sits back on her heels once more and places her hands on my shins, stroking me until she reaches the top of my thigh-highs. She pulls them down slowly, bending to kiss along each leg, removing the hose and kissing shins, calves, knees, thighs. Inner thighs. She scoots down, lies on her stomach and oh... Her tongue doesn't just taste me, it ravishes me; she's gorging herself on my labia, my clit. I rise up on my elbows to stare at her. Seeing Monica between my legs, making love to me like this, is ... carnal; I think I could come just watching her. She raises her head. "You okay?" Her voice is so hoarse that it fades out before she finishes speaking.
I nod dumbly. Monica's face is slick. Strands of hair cling to her cheeks. What is that she said earlier? Freaking Jesus. I have never seen anything so intensely erotic in my life as this woman: naked, her cheeks, chin, mouth wet, looking up at me with eyes that are half closed, lust on her face primal, as if feasting on me is sating a voracious appetite. I was deadly wrong to think her passion was a result of too much alcohol. She's wanted this for a long time. Shudders wrack my body.
She goes down on me again, her eyes remaining on my face at first, and then she bends her head and concentrates her attention on my clit, rolling it under her tongue, sucking and nibbling and flicking it rapidly before releasing it. She tries to penetrate me with her tongue, isn't satisfied, and pulls away, crouching on her knees again. "I can't do enough," she says somberly, entering me with her fingers.
"You're doing terrific," I utter between moans. "Trust me on that."
"I want to do more." She bends and kisses my stomach, fingers pumping slowly. "I want to do so much." She hovers over me and kisses me, and her mouth tastes like sex. I clutch her fingers tightly and release. Monica shifts, begins pumping in and out and slapping my clit with the heel of her hand, and I'm coming again, and it burns this time. It's a long burning wave and she slaps me harder and faster until the orgasm rips out of me, and I lie in her arms, shaking. I feel like crying, even though I'm not sad at all, but I fall asleep instead.
I wake up just a few minutes later, or so she says when I ask her. She's lying on her side, stroking my belly, staring at me with her large eyes. "Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "I'll cover you."
I stare right back at her, feeling like someone who has been fucked very well. I've discovered a whole new type of sexual experience, but I've been so aroused by Monica, by her overwhelming emotion and sensuality and eroticism, that I've done very little but take from her. The night is unbalanced. I want to watch her explode.
"Here, get under the covers," she whispers.
"No." I put my hand between her legs, and she's hot and wet, and she groans deeply. I have plenty of experience bringing myself off, so I put that knowledge to good use, squeezing and pinching and rubbing, and Monica just melts. I've never had someone react so strongly to my touch; it makes me feel ... powerful. I spread her, place my mouth on her clit and begin sucking and licking, and she becomes putty, bending and moving, arching her hips up, talking to me, some in Spanish, some in English, mostly unintelligible because she's speaking so lowly, but my name and various forms of God's name are sprinkled into the mix.
"I want you so much, Dana." She says this clearly, stiffening for a moment, stroking my head. "Come here." She pulls me up to her chest and wraps her entire body around my torso. "I want you right here when I come." And she guides my hand between us, moving into the position that suits her best, and stares into my eyes.
"You're beautiful," I tell her.
A gentle smile lights her face. "You don't know what you do to me."
I didn't before tonight, but I'm learning now. Her body language speaks volumes. Still... "Tell me."
"You... have this power over me. I watched you all the time when we worked together. And now you're not there."
Her voice reveals the emotion behind the words, and I kiss her reassuringly. "Why did you watch me?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know. I just couldn't take my eyes from you. I just wanted to please you so badly." She strokes my head. "I always want your approval, you know?"
This isn't really a revelation. I knew she idolized me; I knew she had me on a pedestal. But hearing her say the words has set me on fire. I pump her carefully, suddenly needing to hold back, to not go crazy on her. I need to hold back because the adrenaline surging through me is enough to rip her apart if I don't control myself. I concentrate on being gentle.
"I felt like the schoolgirl with a crush on the teacher." She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me sweetly, her body curving into my touch. "I wanted you to keep me after class."
I have to see her come. She has to come for me right now. I crash my mouth onto hers and slam my hand on her clit hard, repeating what she did to me earlier. I want to fuck her. She's revealed so much this evening, uncovered so much about me, tapped into something inside me - my passion - whatever has been dead for so many years. I just want to fuck her until she screams my name; I want to make her feel exactly how she's making me feel.
She tries to wrench her mouth from mine, moaning deeply. Whatever she's unleashed in me is going to veer out of control. I want to possess her. I want to make her happy. I kiss her harder before finally releasing her lips, and she begins thrusting against me wildly, throwing her head back, erupting beneath me.
I kiss her face and neck as she recovers, sweat glistening on her forehead. It takes her a few minutes, as it had taken me, but she's completely different in her afterglow. Where I held still, wrapped up tight, she's open and relaxed and loving, winding her body around mine, touching, whispering her gratitude. I want more.
I nibble her shoulders and earlobes despite her giggled protests, and when I can take it no longer, when I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't fuck her, I press her hard to the bed, straddle one of her thighs, and clamp my mouth on her neck. I want her so badly I can't see straight.
"Oh, God, what are you doing?" She holds my head firmly in place, obviously wanting me to continue sucking her neck. "Dana." I feel her legs begin jerking, trembling. "Oh!"
Even right now, blind with lust, I have to tease her. I just can't help myself. "Do you want me to stop?" I lift my head as if to move away.
"No!" she cries. "Please, no, no," and she pulls me down firmly. "Please."
I fairly gush over her fervent plea. Her legs lock around my midsection. I push her wrists into the mattress and continue bruising her neck, and she slips into a different state of arousal, it seems, tremors in her arms, her belly. Making mewling sounds. This goes on until the tremors in her legs become more pronounced - pronounced enough that she can't control them; the entire bed vibrates. "I'm burning up," she says in a voice that sounds very much like she's crying. "I can't stand this. I can't..."
I'm not even touching her. I'm just holding her wrists and sucking her neck, and she's whimpering that I need to hurry, that I need to help her, that I need to finish her. I push my knee to her center, and she gyrates against it immediately. I press and withdraw my knee, press and withdraw, until I'm banging her clit over and over, gently at first, then harder and faster, then slower and softer again. I ease off her neck, kiss her and dip down to the other side, opening my mouth and flicking my tongue over the skin there, but before I can clamp down again, she's exploding, groaning and crying, and when the first wave passes, she takes my thigh between her hands and holds my knee firmly at her center and holds still until another wave comes, and she convulses on my knee, and when this one passes, she releases my thigh, telling me to keep my knee right where it is and to kiss her neck again. And another quiet wave comes.
Monica holds me afterwards, her body still shaking with tremors. She kisses me and tells me how wonderful I feel to her, and finally I feel sated. I could drift to sleep very easily here, lying on top of her, but she rolls me over onto my back and gives me an oral experience like nothing I've ever known. Her tongue licks me everywhere thoroughly, occasionally flicking my clit. She does this slowly and continuously until I feel like I'm going mad. I arch up to her and she enters me with her fingers, pumping both my vagina and my ass while flicking my clit rapidly between her teeth. This orgasm is rough and she rises to meet me, kissing me softly, telling me to come for her, and I clamp down again on her neck while I ride it out.
Later, she spreads my legs and places her pelvis to mine, gyrating slowly while looking down at me. She says my name again and again. She says it when she comes.