A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If you are uncomfortable with such content or under the age of 18, please continue to the next chapter.

Chapter 6

Laura sat on the couch, as Remington… err, Ruggles… cleared the table and did the dishes. She sipped on a glass of wine while mulling how the evening should proceed. The possibilities were… endless. There were the numerous kinks and aches from her wagon ride that could be addressed. One of his foot massages would be divine right about now. A rendition of her own fan dance, he'd once performed for him. Him ordered to slake each and every one of her needs, the very thought of which made a shiver of pleasure shoot through her. It was all so deliciously hers to choose from, but when he stepped into her view, the only thing on her mind was a seduction so thorough, so complete, the memory would follow him for a lifetime. Yes, she decided, in her butler fantasy, she would take the lead.

"How else might I be at your service, this evening, madam?" She pursed her lips, then smiled.

"I believe I'd enjoy a fire this evening, Ruggles."

"Of course, madam," he agreed, with a formal nod of his head. She watched as he walked to the fireplace and flipped on the switch, the gas log flaming to life.

"If you would, the comforter and blankets from the bedroom, there before the fire?" she pointed a finger haughtily.

"Yes, madam."

As he retrieved the bedding from the bedroom, arranging it just so in front of the flames, she searched the radio of his stereo for what she was seeking. With a smile, she turned down the volume only in the slightest as Chopin's Nocturno Op 62, No 2, trickled through the air. Only then, did she cross the room and taking his hands in hers, smiled softly at him.

"Sit with me." She cast the role of Ruggles aside as simply as that. She kept his hands in hers as they kneeled, then sat, facing one another. She scooted closer, their bent legs overlapping, her knees resting near his hips

"Laura—"

"Shhhh." She pressed a finger to his lips.

Warm blue eyes met hers, then closed as she whispered the fingers of both hands around his ears, then cupped his neck. The languid kiss she bestowed upon him was unlike any kiss she'd given him before – tender, confident, tinged with desire and thoroughly unguarded, filled with an emotion that left his heart racing. His hand trembled as it buried itself in her hair, and his lips instinctively responded to hers, taking what she was offering,

She found herself drowning in the rich, spicy taste of his mouth. She took and gave at will, exploring his lips, his mouth while her hands caressed neck, shoulders, back, then returned to cup his jaws. As Nocturno Op 62, No 2 ended and Liszt's Consolation No 3 began, her lips departed his to blaze a path along cheek, then jaw, while her fingers worked in concert to unknot then cast away his tie. Intuitively, his hands clutched at her waist when she began to back away. With a sensual smile, she leaned forward to tap her lips to his again, the retreated to lift a gloved had in hers.

"As interesting as these might be," she lifted her brows at him, suggestively, as she peeled the glove off, "I much prefer this." She raised his now bare hand to her mouth and kissed his palm, then repeated the same for the second.

One-by-one, she removed his clothes, gently caressing the skin that was bared, from time-to-time stilling his hands as they reached for the buttons on her blouse, to stroke her. He complied, his hands twitching, his body quaking, when she eased him to his back. As Liszt's Consolation No 3 gave way to Debussy's Claire de Lune, she tugged off his slacks, then briefs. She bent over him a final time, her cloth covered breasts pressed to his bare chest and rested against an elbow as her lips sought his again. She touched her lips to his hot, opening lips, sipping at them, each of them tasting the sweetness of the wine in which they had imbibed not long before. His hands grasped at her slender waist, tugged, a silent entreaty that she cover the length of his now quivering form with hers. Instead, her lips fled, only to rest quietly next to his ear.

"Turn over, Remington," she whispered.

He wondered, as he did as bade -marveling at the same time how he found the strength to turn to his stomach – what sweet torture it was she next had in mind, and for how long he could bear it. Already, he felt as though he was drowning in the warm swell of emotions, the waves of sensation swirling about him, making it impossible to do little more than twitch, tremor and at times quiver. She was making love to him in a manner she never had before, giving all of herself, her eyes showing not a hint of inhibition – to the contrary, their honey depths telling him she was letting him all the way in. Gone were the walls, the questions, the fears. There was only Laura, and a tenderness, gentleness in her touch that told she was as vulnerable as he in the moment.

As the last notes of Claire de Lune twinkled in the air around them, and Liszt's Lieberstraum No 3 Nocturnos first notes began, his eyes drank in the sight of his lovely Laura, as she slipped one piece of clothing off a at a time until she was as bare as he. Heaven, in his opinion, was quite here on earth, as she sat astride him, her bum on his and her knees tucked against his sides. He sighed, deeply, when her hands strayed through his hair, then settle to massage his scalp while her lips whispered over his shoulders, her tongue leaving trails of wetness behind, only for her to blow softly against the moisture, sending goosebumps skittering across his skin.

There was something to be said for making love to the person who'd been your closest friend for years, long before you'd ever taken that first, maybe stumbling, step past the line in front of the bedroom door. They already understood the nuances of a look, what the inflection in the other's voice meant. They already knew how the other preferred to be touched and had, long ago, intentionally or inadvertently, had ferreted out some of their partner's most sensitive places.

There was something to be said, too, for your lover being a sensualist as Remington was. Just as he could not stop himself from admiring a beautiful woman, he had no resistance to the simple act of touch. Lips, hand, mouth, tongue, fingertips, he yearned to be touched in any way by her. He made no effort to hide what she was doing to him: His muscles often dancing, his skin twitching, the muscles of his bum tightening, while he groaned, panted, calling her name and God's frequently.

By the time Lieberstraum No 3 Nocturnos, then Bach's Orchestral Suite No 3 in D Major ended, she knew if she took him too much closer to the edge, their bodies would not be merged when his restraint broke… and she wanted that more than anything.

Leaving him, she lay on her back beside him, then with a tug of his hand, encouraged him to hover over her. He stared at her, trying to slow his breathing, while is fingers brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

"Madam spoils me this evening," he panted, then reached for her neck, caressing it.

"Maybe madam believes Ruggles deserves a bit of extra attention for his tireless commitment to the role." She fingered the hair at the base of his neck, while cocking a brow at him and giving him a wide grin. They both knew he'd been anything but devoted. However, he'd seen the detested role through to the finish, and that counted for something. By the time of Debussy's Reverie's first stanza began, she'd judged him ready for the finale, and pressed her palms firmly against his chest. Never questioning her, he rolled to his back, pulling her head downwards for a long, thorough kiss when she straddled his hips.

Once again, she used touch, now combined with tender kisses, to drive him back upwards. She dragged her fingernails through the hair on his chest and abdomen, suckled at his collarbone, rolled his nipples between her fingers, while she shifted so his erection was cradled in the apex of her thighs. She rocked against him as his hands roamed her body, stroking, teasing, caressing. Suddenly she shifted, and his eyes rolled in his head, his hands clutching hers as she took his hard length inside her wet, hot depths. Leaning forward until their joined hands rested on the bed above his head, she rode him expertly, his hips thrusting upwards to meet hers. Already she was trembling at the edge, fighting against her impending orgasm, when the first notes of Chopin's Prelude in E Minor eradicated what little restraint he had left.

"Oh, God, Laura, I can't," he groaned in apology, in the instant before he broke, grinding his hips into hers as he shuddered from the power, duration of his climax.

"Remington," she murmured, as she let go of her own tenuous hold, her body spasming, drawing him further inside. When she bit down on her lip, he pulled a hand loose from hers, and urged her head downward until their lips came together. They kissed, panted against one another's lips, until the last of their tremors subsided. She collapsed, burying her face in his neck, breathing in his comforting, familiar, scent as his arms encircled her.

She shifted, only the slightest, separating their bodies, but remaining splayed across him, one of his hands stroking her arm, the other tangling in her hair. She dozed within minutes, as he pondered the evening's events.

He'd been unable to stop himself, to hold out, when that melody had begun. It was the same one she'd played the night she'd moved into the loft and had discovered the baby grand he'd gifted her. Something had irrevocably changed in him the night following her house exploding, as he'd held her, sobbing and broken hearted, in his arms. He hadn't wanted to leave that evening he'd listened to Chopin floating through the air, knowing it was she at the keys. He'd wanted to take those three flights of stairs that would lead her to her loft two at a time, to bang on the door until she'd answered, then to use every ounce of his charm to persuade her into spending the evening with him, and not for sex, but merely presence. He'd wanted to… protect her…. To make sure she remained safe… for him. It had taken everything he'd had in him not to do exactly that, but what had led him to dismiss Fred, to opt to walk home instead, was the acknowledgment that if he failed to honor her request for solitude, he might well push her away.

That had been unacceptable.

Form terrify him thought it might, as he'd learned the night she'd dangled from a girder hundreds of feet above the ground that he wasn't quite prepared to lose her, by the time he'd held her as she'd cried, he'd learned he needed Laura Holt in the world for him… period. She'd somehow become his compass, his comfort, his happiness.

How could that particular melody not have affected him as it had?

And now? He wanted to fall asleep, exactly like this, every night, for the rest of his life.

With that thought in mind, he drifted to sleep.