A/N Thank you so much to everyone reading and commenting! I was so glad that people enjoyed the last chapter, I hope you like this one too.
Shedding the sleep from his brain, and drawing the first seconds of the day into his lungs with a satisfying stretch, his eyes came to rest fondly upon Monica's face.
She was still fast asleep, quiet and calm, although not entirely at peace. The hint of a furrow on her brow and the clench of her teeth revealed an underlying tension that even sleep could not erase.
The root cause of her stress was no real mystery. Yesterday, her boss had called to inform her that the restaurant was on course to make significant losses this year, largely due to a flood in the kitchen back in October, which had forced emergency closure and refurbishment. As a consequence, shifts and staffing were to be restructured, and Monica's hours were to be significantly reduced from January. Reduced to the point of worthless in fact, and she was adamant that she would now have to find a new job.
He had gone to great lengths to assure her that everything would be OK. There was no massive hurry for her to find new employment; he loved her, and would of course support her through what she clearly viewed as a financial catastrophe. He had tried hard to convince her to see things through a positive lens: New pastures might be a good thing; an exciting fresh challenge to get her teeth into. But still, she seemed panicked.
He traced a gentle finger over the taut muscles along her jawline, and she stirred slightly, rolling from her side to her back. When her lips parted in relaxation, his eyes softened, pleased that his touch had the desired effect.
This minor disturbance caused her sleep to become suddenly more animated, her lips curling at the corners, forming a dreamy smile that was accompanied by a small satisfied whimper, her hand drifting up to her face and falling to rest on her pillow.
He shuffled closer, cupping her hand gently in his, and she immediately responded with a relaxed throaty hum, her sleepy fingers returning a reflexive squeeze.
He loved that sound, and he leaned over to press his lips against hers, still pale and parched with sleep.
The kiss initiated a soft, fairytale fluttering of her lashes, and he watched as her blue irises drifted into view from beneath heavy lids, glassy and vague as she transitioned from dreams to wakefulness.
But when she found focus, the proximity of his face seemed to have the same effect upon her tranquility as a fire alarm or a bucket of water: Her mouth clamped shut as she took a sharp inhale through her nose, her elbows quickly jutting so that she could scramble to sit, her eyes still puffy, but wildly alert.
Richard's was not the face Monica had been dreaming of.
He gave a small chuckle of astonishment as he checked "Are you OK?"
She let out another quiet sound, somewhere between a yelp and a cough before smiling an apology, the crease of worry returning to her brow.
"Sorry, I must have been in a really deep sleep. I wasn't sure where I was for a moment..."
She rubbed at her eyes and grabbed for her bedside glass of water with numb, sleep-debilitated hands.
Richard sat up too, combing comforting fingers through her hair.
"You looked very stressed out while you were sleeping, honey. Were dreaming about work? You were grinding your teeth" he told her with concern, before adding, "But you did look very cute..."
As she leaned to place her glass back on its coaster she felt the prickle of his mustache against her bare shoulder, and beneath the sheets a palm began to glide a slow, determined path across her satin pajama pants, from her knee to the top of her thigh.
She cleared her throat and leapt from the bed, trying not to give the impression of a scalded cat, but failing miserably.
"I really need the bathroom".
By the time the muttered explanation rasped from her throat, she was already padding briskly towards the door, with Richard's thoughtful gaze weighing heavily on her shoulders.
"Are you coming back?"
She could tell by his voice that he was trying hard not to sound as affronted as he probably deserved to feel.
She turned in the doorway, wrapping her arms guardedly around her chest. The thin, cropped vest she had worn to bed, regularly and comfortably, for at least a year suddenly seemed inappropriately skimpy and she felt strangely exposed.
"You know what, I should probably just get showered and changed, " she told him with a thoughtful nod and an apologetic wrinkle of her nose "I'm meeting my mom this morning, remember? And I have to walk Tilly first".
Richard's lips dropped open, as if to speak, but she ghosted from the room before he could say a word.
"My dad said he might call in to see you when he drops Mom off. Is that OK? I wasn't sure what time Henry's play was."
Richard was fragrant and pink-skinned, fresh from the shower, and they made eye contact through Monica's small compact mirror as she sat on the sofa, applying a slick of burgundy lipstick.
"Great," he replied "The play's not until 3:00 pm, so it will be nice to catch up with Jack first".
He regarded her pensively for a moment before telling her genuinely "I'm sorry that Michelle couldn't get a ticket for you".
Monica clicked her compact shut but did not turn around. She had developed a thick skin when it came to Richard's children, having been routinely shunned and sidelined throughout her marriage to their father, so it had come as no great surprise that she had not made the cut to attend this particular family event.
"That's alright. I guess the school has to limit the number of tickets, and it's more important that you and Barbara, and Steve's family get to see him perform." she replied evenly.
"We thought we might all grab pizza and ice cream together afterwards, as a treat for Henry, if you'd like to join us for that?" Richard suggested, knowing that she would most likely decline this paltry consolation prize.
He did not, of course, know the full reason why.
Naturally, the moment Monica had found out that Richard would be busy with his family for the afternoon, plans to see Chandler had evolved with rapid enthusiasm; plans that she would certainly not be abandoning now.
She did, however, experience a pang of guilt.
Despite Michelle's best efforts to keep Monica at arm's length, Monica had developed a real fondness for Richard's two grandchildren, and she could not help but feel conscience-stricken where they were concerned.
In fact, one of the reasons she had been so reluctant to end her marriage right before Christmas had been because she hated to imagine a dark, divorce-shaped cloud taking the shine off the Burke family's celebrations and spoiling things for little Henry, who was the perfect age to soak up all of the festive magic.
"I think I'll give it a miss" she told Richard quietly after clearing the guilt from her throat with a cough and a hard swallow. "I'm not sure how long I'll be with Mom. I thought we might get our nails done after lunch. And I still have a couple of Christmas presents to buy. But wish Henry good luck from me, and make sure you take lots of photographs. I'll bet he's going to make the cutest shepherd".
Richard's only response was a slow nod, and a light squeeze of her shoulder as he passed by the sofa and plodded towards the kitchen. He could not help but notice that even that slight, chaste touch drew a flicker of distress from a muscle in her neck.
He sighed hard. It was a strange kind of distance that existed between the two of them now.
For much of this year, there had been an edge to Monica, a simmering resentment that Richard was fairly sure had been brought about by their struggle to conceive, but he could acknowledge now that it had been severely exacerbated by his reluctance to tackle their problem head-on.
Monica had worked hard to paper over the cracks at first, managing to maintain a level of physical affection so convincing that it had almost felt genuine at times. Her stoic commitment was such that Richard suspected that Monica might even have come close to fooling herself that things were OK between them, but he knew her well enough to see the truth.
Any meaningful sexual connection between them had faded to grey and had been replaced by an accomplished performance, designed to keep them both on track, and primed to create the new life Monica so desperately desired.
They had lived like two civil acquaintances for a long time now, tiptoeing respectfully around each other, biting their tongues when it came to real talk, and having polite, devastatingly fruitless sex, so whilst this feeling of remoteness was not new, Richard could sense that something had changed again.
The bitterness was gone, but there was a new kind of vacancy in Monica's eyes. She seemed softer somehow: less angry with him, but she was certainly no more present.
And worryingly, she had not made any mention of starting a family in months.
He might have passed this off as resignation, but somewhere deep in his gut, Richard knew that this latest change in her was in some way linked to Chandler.
The fact that it coincided with his sudden disappearance from their lives was beyond suspicious, and Richard was almost certain that something had happened between Monica and her friend the night he was away in the Hamptons.
He had decided that Chandler, safe in the knowledge that Richard was out of town, had finally tried his luck with Monica, and that her rejection of him had spawned a pervading sense of awkwardness that was what was keeping him away.
That was the theory Richard was sticking with. Although, perhaps it was not so much a theory as it was a best-case scenario.
Maybe she hadn't turned him down?
Maybe the change Richard could see in Monica was guilt and regret?
Restless and depressed following her accident, and perpetually disillusioned by their failure to conceive, it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Monica had finally succumbed to Chandler's doggedly persistent advances, allowed herself to be seduced, and had then come to her senses in the cold light of day.
Richard doubted a full-blown affair; purely because she would surely be trying harder to disguise it, wouldn't she? He had been led to believe that adulterers tended to overcompensate for their shame by being extra attentive to their poor, oblivious spouse.
In fact, his forthright former secretary had once gone so far as to remark that sex with her cheating husband had improved exponentially when he had taken a mistress, such was his commitment to throwing her off his philandering scent.
Nothing like that was happening here.
As exemplified this morning, Monica was making very little effort to mask the complete withdrawal of her affection and attention, cowering from his touch, floating around the apartment solemn and misty-eyed, seeming to exist exclusively inside of her own head most of the time.
Something had happened, but no matter what it was, Chandler was a scab that Richard had decided not to pick too hard at. There was no way that he was going to risk another failed marriage over some minor indiscretion. What mattered to Richard now was his future with Monica, and Chandler would play no part in that.
The New Year would hail new beginnings, and Richard would do what he should have done a long time ago: He would take the bull by the horns and ensure that his wife finally got her heart's desire.
His appointment with Dr. Palmer was booked for December 28th, and the simple act of being proactive about their situation had turned Richard's nerves to optimism.
He was absolutely determined that by this time next year, a new baby Burke would finally be on its way, reinvigorating his marriage and solidifying their family's future forever.
Monica's ascent up the stairs at Bedford Street was a rather labored trudge. As well as being physically laden with bags of assorted Christmas gifts, spending time with her hypercritical mother never failed to weigh her down. Lunch with Judy always came with a generous side-portion of disapproval.
Historically, it was Monica's catastrophic love life that had taken center stage at these catch-ups, with the majority of Judy's thinly veiled jibes revolving around her daughter's seemingly unavoidable spiral into spinsterhood, so when Monica got married, she had stupidly assumed that might put a stop to the campaign of disparagement.
But whilst her lavish wedding to Richard brought to an end her mother's hand-wringing that Monica was on course to die an old maid, it soon became clear that Judy had many more targeted weapons ready and waiting in her arsenal.
Monica's career, her abilities as a wife and homemaker, nothing was off limits when it came to Judy's censorious tongue, and on that basis, Monica had decided that it would be wise not to mention that her hours at the restaurant were due to be slashed.
So today it was Monica's appearance that caught Judy's castigatory eye. Her daughter's fluctuating weight during adolescence was a perennially favorite topic of conversation anyway, and after Monica's recent accident, whenever she had been foolish enough to consume the smallest morsel of food in her mother's company, Judy had wasted no time in offering repeated reminders that comfort eating during a period of limited physical activity might cause Monica to gain all of the weight she had fought so hard to lose.
At lunch today, however, Monica had learned that perversely, she was actually looking very thin, and not in an attractive way.
According to Judy, it was patently obvious to the entire world that Monica was not taking sufficient care of herself, and it was highly likely that her evidently laissez-faire attitude toward nutrition was contributing to her continuing failure to provide a new Geller grandchild.
The fact that Monica had barely been able to stomach a leaf of the Caesar Salad she had ordered for lunch only served to add fuel to Judy's fire, but unfortunately, it is not all that easy to eat when you are biting your tongue and clenching your jaw.
The knowledge that she had a whole afternoon of Chandler's company to look forward to was pretty much the only thing that had kept Monica going, and when she finally pushed open the door to Apartment 19 and saw his sweet, lopsided smile, she was immediately submerged in a warm pool of relief so heavenly that she very nearly wept.
Chandler jumped to his feet and began to help her to unload the bags from her sagging arms before intuitively pulling her close. She sighed as she relaxed blissfully into the sunshine of his embrace, feeling brittle tension evaporating from every muscle in her body.
Today's greeting was somewhat subdued when compared with the passionate, shirt-ripping ravishment she had become accustomed to receiving when arriving at Chandler's place, but on this occasion some kid-glove treatment was exactly what Monica needed, and an intense surge of gratitude tightened her loving arms around his middle.
"What have you got in here? Rocks?" he asked as stepped away just long enough to deposit a bulky black holdall on the floor by the counter, alongside her plethora of shopping bags.
"Ah! You'll see..." she managed a cryptic smirk, but could not stave off her continuing weariness for too long "I'll show you in a second, OK? Just give me five minutes to recover first. I had lunch with my mom, remember? And I can't stop thinking about work. I need another hug before I do anything else."
He willingly complied, enveloping her in the peaceful sanctum of his arms once more. He pressed a soft, sympathetic kiss against her lips for good measure, and the grimace she had been fighting all day finally melted into a dreamy smile.
"You look very pretty today," he told her, leaning back and soaking her in appreciatively. "I like this"
He was unsure of the correct terminology for her hairstyle, but demonstrated his approval by tapping the silver clip that was holding her silky dark locks in some kind of elaborate twist at the nape of her neck.
"Thanks" she smiled gratefully, "But according to my mom, this is not actually the most flattering hairstyle on me. I look better with my hair loose and blow-dried with a little volume. That way, it covers my ears, which is good, because my ears are not my best feature."
She rolled her eyes glumly as she parroted that particular chapter of her mother's unsolicited assassination of her appearance.
A hint of anger flared in Chandler's habitually gentle eyes and he shook his head in disbelief.
"Are you kidding me? You don't have a bad feature on your whole body! You are the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, Monica. I'm sorry, but your mom doesn't know what she's talking about."
Her eyes drifted closed as she rested her thankful head against his shoulder, another swoon of a smile pulling her lips into a soft arc.
"And I happen to love your ears." he assured her tenderly, "I like the shape of them. They're kind of... elf-like..."
The smile vanished from her face as she pulled away sharply and gaped back at him.
"What?" she demanded incredulously, "I look like an elf? That's even worse than what Mom said! Is everybody on a mission to destroy my self-confidence today? You are on my list!"
She jabbed an accusatory finger into his shoulder, before flouncing from the kitchen with a cross shake of her head.
"Not like a Christmas elf!" he explained, wide-eyed and remorseful, "Like a sexy elf!"
A scoff of disbelief erupted from her throat and her face was one big angry question mark as she flopped down onto the barcalounger.
"What the hell is a sexy elf?" she challenged hotly.
""The Lord of the Rings" ones!" Chandler attempted to elucidate "The elves are like, the hottest creatures in the entire trilogy! Everybody knows that! I meant it as a compliment!"
She glared back at him, narrow-eyed and staunchly unimpressed.
"Well thank you, Chandler. I'm incredibly flattered that you think I'm hotter than hobbits and orcs."
He had to suppress a smirk as he absorbed her sarcastic reply and gazed upon her perfect, pouting face, before coming to perch tentatively on the arm of the lounger.
"The elves are super hot. Way more beautiful than any human" he told her softly, sliding a consoling arm around her shoulder.
He suddenly looked a little coy as he added, "And it's actually kind of your fault that I like them so much..."
"What?" A scathing frown quickly turned to dubious alarm, "And just how much do you like them?"
"I like them... a regular amount.. " Chandler's stuttered dismissal came with a sideways glance, Monica's suspiciously raised eyebrows provoking a shade of defensiveness.
"Anyway, the point is, I first read "The Lord of the Rings" just after that second Thanksgiving I spent with your family. You know, that time you chopped off my toe?.. "
The reminder of that gory incident so many years ago, when she had caused Chandler significant injury by accidentally dropping a knife on his foot, caused Monica to shift guiltily in her seat.
"Ross lent the books to me," Chandler continued, "I had a bit of time on my hands... You know, not being able to walk and all..."
She regarded him warily, wondering where this story was leading.
"Maybe it was because you were on my mind anyway ... I don't know... but when I first read about the elves, the way Tolkien had described them kind of made me think of you. So that's how I pictured them ever since..."
His diffidence caused Monica's expression to soften slightly.
"Why? How did he describe them? Were they clumsy as well as having ridiculous ears?" she asked ruefully, still cringing slightly as she continued to recall that most mortifying of Thanksgivings.
"No," he buried his lips against her hair as he nudged his way onto the seat next to her "They don't have ridiculous ears. I just imagine their ears to be sort of cute and leaf-shaped. A little like yours."
He ran a gentle finger around the rim of her ear as he spoke.
"In the books the elves are described as strong, and graceful and fair, and kind of... glowy.. and that made me think of you. Because it was the way you looked when you walked into the room that Thanksgiving."
He moved his finger to trace its way across her cheek and down the bridge of her nose as he regarded her admiringly.
"I mean, Tolkien did also say the elves were tall, so I guess you're more of a hobbit in that respect..." he teased.
Monica's annoyance spiked once more as she pointed out sharply, "Hey! I'll have you know that I'm actually above average height for a woman!"
Chandler sniggered his way through her protestation, before becoming soft and serious once more.
"But the main reason they still make me think of you, is that they are out-of-this-world beautiful, and magical. And that's what you are. In every way possible."
He squeezed her close, his voice low and confidential.
"Even though you had just mutilated me, I was still crushing hard on you, you know? That's how beautiful you are."
An unwilling, bashful smile crept across her face, and she felt an unstoppable glow of internal warmth.
"God, we've known each other for such a long time, haven't we?" she mused with a deep sigh, suddenly wistful, "How did I miss this for so long? When you were right there in front of me?"
"Meh. You were probably thrown off by my terrible haircut." He responded with a gentle chuckle. "Or maybe it just wasn't the right time for us..."
He gave a thoughtful shrug before pressing adoring lips against her temple.
"I mean, I'm not sure the timing is particularly great now either..." she pointed out blackly, her droll smile fading slowly as her voice dropped to a gentle whisper "But I suppose none of that really matters. I just feel so lucky that we finally found each other, Chandler. I hope you know that."
"I'm definitely the lucky one" he contended gruffly, coaxing her chin towards his and drawing her into a loving and lingering kiss.
"Does that mean that I'm off your list?" he checked, when they finally broke apart.
"You're off the list."
"Good" he told her with a fond smile. "So now will you show me what's in the bag?"
The reminder caused a glint of devilment to sparkle in Monica's eyes and she sprung excitedly from the lounger, dashing to the kitchen to rummage through her pile of shopping bags, retrieving the mysterious black holdall that had quite rightfully piqued his interest.
"So... this is kind of an early Christmas present.." she told him as she placed the bag on his lap, studying his face from beneath her lashes as he began to unzip it.
His mouth dropped open as he took in the contents.
"You got me a video camera?"
"Well, no." she admitted, "You can't keep it. It's been lying around our apartment for ages, I think Richard put it on our wedding list but we never used it. So... I thought that you and I might as well have a little fun with it."
He examined her face with tentative curiosity as she continued to smirk provocatively, handing him a luxurious boutique bag tied up with lavish black ribbon.
"And this kind of goes with it. If you want..." she told him neutrally, chewing her lip and eagerly awaiting his response as he slowly untied the ribbon.
He pushed back the layer of protective, scented tissue paper and removed a seductively short and scant, black babydoll chemise from the bag.
"It's beautiful babe, but I think it might be a little snug around my waist." he managed to joke, though his voice sounded somewhat hoarse.
She rolled her eyes and came to rest on his lap, so that they were face-to-face, her knees straddling his thighs.
His quip belied the lingering expression of adorable boyish timidity, and she could tell that he was a little hesitant about allowing himself to join the dots of her selection of gifts.
Both anxiety and desire flashed in his eyes as he looked up at her, his fingers fondling the delicate chiffon and lace, his imagination ready to run wild, but not quite daring to voice the hopeful conclusion he had drawn.
She looped her arms around his neck and brought her face close to his ear as she explained herself in a low murmur.
"I guess I thought that since we won't be together on Christmas morning, it might be nice if we made a little home movie that you could watch instead."
She planted a series of alluring kisses along his jaw bone.
"A little something to remember me by..."
Her whisper caused him to shiver as her teasing smile grazed his ear, before she tugged at his lobe with gentle teeth.
"I'll even let you direct..." she purred, her lips widening to a wolfish grin as he turned his head and stared back at her, his eyes simultaneously awestruck and famished.
"But I'm not wearing an elf suit" she added with a snigger.
It was Chandler's turn to roll his eyes.
"They don't wear suits!" he scolded impatiently, enjoying her giggling squeal when he landed a reprimanding slap against her rear, "They're not that kind of elf!"
But he soon pulled his mind back on track.
"Are you saying you wanna make a sex-tape?" he confirmed slowly, his voice tremulous and his eyes like saucers.
"Uh-huh!" she affirmed gleefully.
He gawked back at her mutely for all of a second before urging her to stand and scrambling to his own feet too, frenetic and clumsy, thrusting the lingerie towards her before snatching up the holdall and commanding "OK, you go put this on! I'll set up the camera!"
His mad fervor elicited an indulgent chuckle from Monica as she rose agreeably and made her way towards his bedroom to change.
"Wait. We're not doing it in here are we?" she checked apprehensively as he began to extend the legs of the tripod, "We can't! What if Joey comes home?"
"He's out all day" Chandler assured her "Don't worry, I'll lock the door. We have to do it in here: My room's not big enough. The angles will be all wrong and we'll need some floor space for what I have in mind."
Monica's eyebrows arched suspiciously.
"Uhh OK, Scorsese! That sounds like the voice of experience talking! Just how many of these masterpieces have you made?"
"This will be the first one!" he insisted "It's just not the first time I've imagined it. Now quick! Go change! And throw me those cushions from my bed".
She smirked as she brought her fingers to her forehead and fired him a compliant salute before sauntering towards the bedroom.
When she eventually emerged, her eyes were ablaze with an excited anticipation that turned quickly to astonishment.
In the time it had taken her to pour herself into her lingerie, sort out her hair and neatly fold her clothes, Chandler had somehow managed to transform the living room into a candlelit haven, strewn with rugs and soft blankets, and scattered with cushions.
Not only was she amazed by his speed and efficiency, she was also surprised that she had not been the one to consider setting the scene for their movie in this way, she was usually so detail-driven. Beyond supplying new lingerie, her own envisagement of this tape had been confined to lurid imaginings of crude action, so she felt really rather touched by Chandler's sweet nod to romance.
Engrossed in his scene-setting, he had not yet looked up, so she leaned against the door frame and took a moment to drink him in.
He was lying on his side in a pile of cushions, propped up on his elbow, focused, serious, and concentrating hard as he lit and placed the last couple of candles he had dotted artfully around their makeshift set.
His t-shirt had ridden up, exposing the pale skin of his midriff, and Monica studied the faint line of hair that descended from his naval, becoming progressively darker and less downy as it disappeared beneath his jeans. She inhaled deeply and her eyelids drifted as she was taken by a sudden and overwhelming urge to thrust her whole face against that patch of warm skin; to breathe him, to draw him into her lungs, and explore every bit of him with lips and tongue. The thought made her clench and twist.
This kind of raw, bodily lust was a whole new world for Monica. As she looked back to that sweet face, she knew that he had absolutely no idea what he did to her, he was just living his life, completely unaware that he had awoken some previously dormant trove of mind-blowing animal impulses, that now lived and breathed and thrashed at her very core, surfacing violently and unpredictably at the merest touch or glance.
It was not that she had never experienced intense desire before. There had been plenty of male bodies that she had found objectively attractive over the years. But nothing like this.
Historically, her arousal had always been driven by her own mind, heavily rooted in the scenario and in her own performance. Not in a particularly selfish way; she loved to give pleasure; but even a large part of that came down to the sense of empowerment she derived from her lover's fierce response.
Sex made her feel good about herself. She might have failed to impress her mother at all of life's junctures, but she sure knew how to impress a man.
Up until this point, even during encounters that might have appeared outwardly submissive, in her head, Monica was in charge. She knew exactly what she was doing. She had always been the author of her own desire.
But this visceral need she had for Chandler was way beyond her control. It was as if he was something that was happening to her, and there was no way to stop it. Not that she had any desire to stop it.
Despite the camera and tripod, her urge to devour him right here, right now, was in no way performative. She was no longer a mortal woman seeking admiration, and hoping to impress, she was some carnal entity that throbbed and ached to experience every last bit of him. She needed him. Every breath, every sound, every pulse of every vein.
Even beyond this strange corporal necessity to consume him whole, cerebrally, her desire to pleasure Chandler was all about him too.
She needed him to feel the extent of her adoration, because it was something she doubted she would ever be able to verbalize with any degree of efficacy. It was too big for words.
Like now, when he finally looked up and his gaze met hers, his lips falling apart as his hungry eyes roamed her sparsely covered flesh, the only words that she could find to growl through her painful flaming desire were, "God, you are so cute".
The speed of her pounce granted him no right to reply, and he found himself pinned back against the cushions, his t-shirt being forcibly dragged over his head, and when she tossed the garment across the room he could only groan beneath the silken heat of her thighs as her lips crashed desperately into his.
He was so nearly swept along, momentarily lost in the swirling, roiling ocean of her passion, but then he remembered the task in hand, and from somewhere he found the resolve to sit himself up, placing his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to slow her down.
"Whoa! Mon! We're not even rolling yet!"
He really, really wanted to make this tape.
She let out a frustrated sigh as she sat up straight, but when she saw the shift of his Adam's apple, and the wildness in his eyes as they drew level with the barely contained swell of her breasts, a smile tugged at her lips. She flexed her shoulder blades as she leaned forward, her chest craving the attention of those softly parted lips. Her hair, wavy from being twisted back in a bun all day, tumbled into his face, and she gave a slight but deliberate grind of her hips, enjoying the impatient twitch of his still-clothed erection against her thigh.
"Fine. Come on then Mr. Director. Let's get this show on the road", she breathed, "Where do you want me?"
His eyes were still glazed, hypnotized by the wanton heave of her breasts.
Where didn't he want her?
He took another hard swallow and nodded slowly as he stared back into the fire of her expectant eyes.
"OK, stand up" he told her, low and breathless "Right in front of the camera. I want to be able to see you properly."
She smirked and arched an eyebrow as he positioned her in the center of the rug, next to his lounger, before darting across the room to hit record and check the framing.
When he looked up at her from behind the camera, however, he felt a sudden rush of panic on her behalf. He was immediately discomforted by this vision of her alone, vulnerable and unshielded beneath the lascivious, whirring gaze of the lens. He almost switched the thing off altogether, wanting nothing more in that moment, than to gather her up in protective arms.
But the assured smile she returned was one of pure exhilaration and he knew that any self-consciousness he was projecting, was all his own.
Why would she ever have cause feel uncomfortable in her own skin? She was not like him. She was perfect. A goddess.
As he prowled, awestruck and covetous, around the periphery of the living room, her keen eyes never once left his, her head turning, looking over her shoulder to keep him in sight as he slowly approached her from behind.
The fact that she was trusting him with something like this made his heart pound. He adored her.
When his arms finally snaked around her waist and his lips dipped to her neck the contact felt instantly ecstatic and kindled a mutual shudder. She immediately arched against him and turned her face towards his, her back pressing against his chest, and she lifted her arm, reaching behind her to card sensual fingers through his hair.
His fingertips stroked her cheek, then brushed along her collarbone before trailing along the delicate strap of her fitted babydoll, right down to the lace cups, but he did not slip it from her shoulder as she had expected him to.
Instead, Chandler was taking his time, slowly outlining the whole garment, tracing lacy patterns with a teasing index finger, then skimming the flimsy chiffon that covered her stomach with a feather-light palm, all the time his lips and breath felt like brushstrokes, painting fire against her neck and back. Her flesh became taut and her spine bowed hard, he was barely touching her but she already felt ready to dissolve into a pool of molten arousal.
He continued to savor and caress her like this for what felt to Monica like torturous hours, and when his languid right hand finally peeled the bodice of the garment away, exposing her bare skin to the camera, she hissed and shivered. His left hand tightened its grip on her hip, holding her in place. She was straining impatiently, desperate to turn her body towards his, ready to ravish him and force an increase in pace.
Keeping things steady was seldom easy where Monica was concerned, and Chandler knew only too well how his slow tender kisses, gently cupped palm, and the soft brush of his thumb across her nipple would be riling her up.
When she thrust her pelvis back into his with another insistent groan, he finally addressed her demands, his strokes and squeezes becoming faster and firmer, while his other hand began to roam her thighs and buttocks, teasing fingers skirting the elastic of her thong, but willfully ignoring the one place she desperately needed them to be.
Monica could take it no longer and without warning she whipped around to face him, her mouth attacking his ravenously, before roving his body like a tornado, devouring his neck, his chest, his stomach, nipping and sucking at whatever was in her path.
When she yanked roughly at his pants, any hope of slow and steady was well and truly over, and Chandler could do nothing but give in to her mad fervor, taking it on as his own, and freeing ferocious urges he never knew existed.
When he grabbed her abruptly by the elbows and forcefully spun her around to face the camera once more, he could have sworn her cry was one of triumph.
His teeth grazed her neck as he hooked an arm beneath her knee, lifting her leg from the floor so that she could brace her foot against the lounger, and she reached behind to take him in hand, guiding him and then poising him against her raging heat.
That first blissful push was now her favorite feeling in the world, and when that ecstatic sensation of expansion and fire and fullness coincided with a humid low growl at the top of her spine, a long, loud moan forced its way from her throat.
His lips were brushing against her ear, and the feral sounds he was making, as well as those made by the increasingly frantic collision of rampant flesh, were sending her wilder and blinder by the second. She wasn't sure if she imagined him commanding her to touch herself, but that's what she heard.
As her eyes squeezed closed it felt like he had more hands than was possible, he was roaming every inch of her slick skin, pushing down firmly on her back, twisting her hair, clutching at her shoulder, then at her hip.
She could tell that he was waiting for her, his breath pained and desperate and his embrace clinging, hot and damp, but this time she wanted him first. She wanted him to feel how he makes her feel, out of control, unable to stop. Like he might die if he stopped.
So she grit her teeth and stopped breathing, she doubted this looked pretty for the camera, but she really didn't care, she was no polished porn star, in fact, by this point she barely felt human. She leaned back against him and waited, her high-pitched cry emerging only when she felt him tremble and quake, his arms tightening around her like a vice, all ready for her to splinter into a million pieces.
As they collapsed in a depleted heap on the lounger a euphoric grin spread across her face and a whimper of thunderstruck laughter chimed in her throat.
"Monica!" he barely managed to wheeze accusingly, "You said I could direct! We didn't even use my cushions!"
His outrage drew a longer laugh from Monica.
"You directed plenty!" she refuted breathlessly ,"Are you seriously telling me off? Because, I've gotta say, it seemed like you enjoyed that!"
"Enjoyed it? Are you kidding? I'm still seeing stars! That was unreal!"
His wide-eyed bewilderment caused her to giggle and she kissed him tenderly, running soothing fingers across his fevered brow, her soft breath evaporating the moisture that beaded against his skin, cooling and calming.
She studied his features dotingly for a while, bringing her lips to each velvet temple and then to each eyelid before whispering.
"Just let me know when you're ready for Scene 2, OK? You can direct the whole thing this time, I promise."
"Scene... what?" his squeaked incredulously "Are you trying to kill me?"
"Oh don't be such a baby!" she chastised with a smirk "I know what you're capable of, remember? Just give yourself a minute! We can use the cushions this time."
She extracted herself from his arms and sauntered towards his carefully created nest to investigate his work more thoroughly. Her flesh was so glossy and slick in the candlelight that as he watched her move Chandler felt a promising throb of replenished energy surge through his core.
"Fine! But I'm the one lying on the cushions, not you!" he insisted before she could collapse into the pillowy mass "That's the only way this can possibly happen. I can't even feel my legs!"
"Fine" she agreed, offering him a hand to help draw him to his feet.
Her kiss was deliciously lazy now, her lips and fingertips gentle and coaxing as she embraced him with weak limbs, and her caresses kitten-soft as she encouraged them both to the floor.
He relaxed supine on the pillows and she gently eased herself to rest astride his hips, stroking his hair and whispering in his ear "There has to be another scene, Chandler. This is your Christmas present remember? We have to make sure it includes all of your favorite things."
She threaded her fingers through his, and brought both of their wrists to rest on the cushions at the side of his head. Languid kisses landed like butterflies on his skin, the tickle of her hair felt like gentle waves of therapeutic electricity. Nobody had ever loved him like this. He had never felt so safe, so cherished, and he thought for a moment that this must be what heaven feels like.
Her lips continued this tender exploration of his torso, her body sliding slowly over his, still hot, wet and salty with sweat, and she felt his abdomen become taut beneath her.
She paused to look up into his eyes with a coquettish grin.
"There you go!" she encouraged, "I knew you had another scene in you!"
"It's you. I told you, you're magical" he murmured, groaning as he thrust his fingers into her hair, gently cupping her scalp, luxuriating in the slow undulations of her neck and the gentle bob of her head.
A distant loud laugh from the stairwell was a startling reminder that they were not the only two people in the world, and they paused for just a second, until quietness allowed them to resume.
They might have been able to ignore the ensuing low voices in the hall but the accompanying metallic rattle of keys and mechanical clunk of the lock froze their blood and rounded their eyes.
"Shit! It's Joey!" Chandler hissed, "I forgot to put on the door chain! Go!"
They abandoned their candlelit sanctuary, camera and all, and made a desperate frenzied scramble for Chandler's bedroom.
He leaned back against the door as soon as he had slammed it closed, pressing his ear against the wood, wild-eyed and panicked.
"Oh my God! Who's with him?" Monica whimpered.
She looked on the verge of fretful tears.
"It's Ross," Chandler confirmed hesitantly, wincing, knowing that her brother's presence could only fuel her distress. "Look, it's OK, they'll figure out what's going on and they'll leave. They won't know it's you".
"You have to get back out there!" she whispered frantically "What if they rewind the tape?"
"They wouldn't do that!" Chandler assured her, desperately trying to summon complete faith in his own words, and in Joey and Ross's ability to respect his privacy.
"My purse is by the counter! And my jacket!"
A squeak of a sob emerged from Monica's throat and he moved away from the door to place calming hands on her shoulders.
But then came a knock.
"Chandler?"
He rolled his eyes in outraged disbelief and threw up his arms, growling rhetorically to the universe "Who the hell knocks when somebody's making a sex tape?!"
"Go away Joey!" he yelled angrily before turning back to address Monica's dismay.
"Get under the covers. I'll get rid of them, OK? " he promised gently, kissing her forehead and urging her towards the comfort and secrecy of his bed, before running a hand over his face, and struggling to formulate anything that remotely resembled a plan of action in his brutally unsettled mind.