Maybe I’m Amazed by Abracadabra
Title: Maybe I’m Amazed
Category: S, Post-ep
Spoilers: Season 7, Millennium
Summary: New Year’s Eve redux.
Disclaimer: They’re still not mine, but I reserve the right to take them out and have some fun from time to time. No profit will be made in the process. Thanks: I keep saying it, but only because it’s true. I have the two best betas in the business, Denise and Kim.
Author’s Notes: Story title shamelessly appropriated from Paul McCartney’s song by the same name. The lyrics just spoke to me.
Feedback: Please? Email me:
Archive: Yes. Please just let me know where first.
Websites: http://www.geocities.com/fanficcorner/index.html http://www.geocities.com/spookys_girl2000/index.html Date: December 2002/January 2003
Maybe I’m Amazed By abracadabra
Thursday, 3 January
The office is dismally dark and silent at this hour of the morning as he wanders back and forth between the door and his; make that ‘their’ desk. Well, that’s what he gets for showing up this early. But the other option was tossing and turning on the cold leather of his couch. Alone.
It’s not much better here; he’s still alone, but Mulder knows that Scully will join him soon. He thinks that lately he’s been craving her company more than usual, but upon second thought, that’s not entirely true. Her presence is always comforting; it stabilizes him in a way no one else has been able to in the past and, he suspects, no one else will do for him in the future. Even when they don’t see eye to eye. And with his partner, that can be almost any time.
Yet he relishes their disagreement, that they’re two different sides of the same coin. Always have been and always will be.
But her presence has moved beyond merely ‘stabilizing’. He’s not quite sure when that happened, although he’s sure he could pinpoint a cluster of moments in time if he were to think about it. He thinks of and about her at times that he considers appropriate because they relate directly to their work. But thoughts of her also occur unbidden, often sparked by nothing more than a familiar scent, a glimpse of color, a whisper of the wind. Sometimes those thoughts take his breath away with their lucidity and emotional depth.
He smiles a smile that ignites his soul.
But for some reason, despite the warmth she wraps around his heart, Mulder is restless. More so than usual, that is. And work is a good place in which to channel the pent up energy and to focus himself. Until Scully arrives.
Finally he settles into the chair behind the desk, clapping his hands onto the armrests, declaring himself ready to concentrate. Three short minutes later, he wheels over to the filing cabinet, poking around in the second drawer from the bottom. He is sure it holds the file he needs to convince Scully of the veracity of their next case. The file search does the trick for the next hour, although he is mostly re-reading his favorite X-Files. Peripatetic, he’s up again, heading for the door. His hand on the doorknob, Mulder stops in his tracks. The image of the two of them, just four short days ago, in the hospital waiting room, just seconds before he had leaned down to her, before their lips had touched, is suddenly stark and warm in his mind. He sees those minutes reeling out in ultra-slow motion and feels the near-electric anticipation of what he was about to do, of her readiness. A kiss. An almost whispery greeting with just a hint of more depth.
A promise of more? It ended all too soon.
He reaches a decision as he turns to grab his jacket. Moving once again for the door, he locks it behind him as heads for Starbucks. He’s suddenly developed a need for the jolt of caffeine as he mentally rehearses what he’s about to propose to his partner.
He hears the rapid staccato of her fingers on the keyboard as he strides into the office, one Mocha Java black and one Cinnamon Latte Skinny clutched in his hands. The trademark bag with the sugary treats he hopes she’ll share with him is stuffed into the pocket of his winter coat.
Moving to the left side of the desk, he clears his throat to let her know he’s standing there. Noting the way the tip of her tongue wets her upper lip as she finishes whatever it is that presently has her attention. Noting that her gesture is both very innocent and very hot. She’s still typing, although the barest hint of a grin now curves her mouth.
He cherishes, and is sometimes bemused by, her mystifying way of being aware of him while pretending she isn’t.
His black wool coat with the leather collar swings just a bit as he casually covers the few steps that bring him behind her chair.
“Mmm, Latte,” she murmurs, the only other sign that she acknowledges his presence.
He places one paper cup with the logoed cardboard holder at her right hand and the other at her left as he leans forward to confirm, “Latte, Scully.”
“What’re you working on?” he asks, his chin nearly touching her hair, his hands on her shoulders. He feels the quick, stuttering movement that vibrates from her hands to her arms to his palms as he cups her upper arms, gently squeezing.
She doesn’t push him away and she doesn’t flinch under his touch. His confidence rises just a notch as he awaits her response. “Scully?”
“Just give me a second here,” she mumbles absentmindedly, her eyes never leaving the screen.
He’s willing to give her a second, but his back is starting to ache as it bows, so he trails his fingers up along the curve of her shoulders, maybe imagining the slight shiver he produces in her, and moves over to her right side. He shrugs out of his coat, tossing it to the side chair and reaches down to push the coffee out of his way. Crossing his arms he perches on the edge of the desk as he studies her. ‘How long can she continue’, he wonders, shaking his head. “You almost finished there, partner?”
A silent nod tells him he’ll need to wait a bit longer before he has a chance to ask her. So he slides up onto the desk, his right thigh oh-so-lightly brushing her forearm in the process.
That seems to draw her eyes away from her work briefly and he watches as her hands pause, poised over the keys. His arms remain crossed in front of him as the arch of his right eyebrow finds it match in her left. “I’ve been thinking, Scully,” he states, inflection purposefully absent, not wanting to cue her in on what’s on his mind just yet.
He’s served the opening volley; suddenly finding that his throat feels as parched as the Sahara. The Mocha Java has cooled just enough to allow him to ease the performance dryness. He wishes he’d thought to take the pastries from his pocket, if for no other reason than they’d give him something to occupy the interminable minutes. The croissants will keep. He, on the other hand, might not if he doesn’t make his move now.
He’s not even sure why he’s wound so tight. This is the woman he’s realized he loves; has probably loved for some time now. His other half and oftentimes, his much better half. At this point, there is very little he hasn’t shared with her; not much he wouldn’t share.
He glances down at her, her hair slipping from behind her ear as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She’s peering closer to the black letters in the light blue screen as if the answers will materialize under the physical proximity of her scrutiny.
Mulder is distracted from his agenda by her movements and by her sudden stillness. Her beauty is sometimes hard for him to define in traditional terms, but that could be because she is anything but ‘traditional’. He tilts his head to one side, his brow furrowing marginally as he processes what he sees, what he knows.
“Time’s up, partner,” low-voiced, he playfully nudges her arm with his knee.
“Huh? Oh, sorry, Mulder,” he grins at her fuzzy look and apologetic tone, one borne of too much intense concentration. A predilection both he and his partner share.
When she attempts to push her chair back, he bends forward from the waist, one hand resting on her arm. “Sit a minute,” his words are but a breath. He knows he now has her undivided attention — and a bit of Scully Skepticism; that special variety that tells him she’s as interested as she is wary, but she’s also willing to give him some latitude. His years of learning Scully communication have paid off.
When he doesn’t immediately speak, her brows knit, her lips purse. So many variations on a theme from her, he muses. He knows she’s running through some special checklist; all method and order and… concern. She most likely wonders if he’s about to impart some sadness or other emotional trauma. No evidence of his inner amusement appears as he observes the slightest change in her expression. Although his posture is casual and open, his face remains neutral, giving her nothing to read.
Mulder is only half-teasing, wanting to draw out the anticipation. Yet he is keenly aware that soon she will slide into suspicion, considering whether he’s about to spring another out-of-the-way case on her or some outlandish theory about their current work.
Her arms crossed in front of her, she first leans back, studying him, seeking the answer he is not providing quickly enough. “Mulder,” she clips, not quite angry yet not as receptive as she might have been mere minutes ago. “I don’t have time for —” Her impatience getting the better of her, her hands are on the desk as she stands, one hand now moving to the top of the monitor.
He watches the unspoken decision she’s made.
And his hand is at her wrist, halting her progress. “No, don’t go, Scully.” He knows she must sense his need and maybe even some of his hesitancy for she remains in place as his fingers wrap around her wrist. Both of their gazes follow as slowly as warm molasses as he sets her hand on his thigh.
Heat, he thinks. She brands him like the summer sun in all its fiery glory. He briefly wonders whether it’s wishful thinking or if her fingers are actually flexing against the lightweight wool suit pants. Real or imagined, his eyes search the depth of hers as his barely audible and gravely voice tells her, “Go out with me, Scully.”
No pretense, no preparation, he blurts the words and hopes they don’t fall between them into some unseen and unforgiving space between them. A few heavy heartbeats, his and hers, he thinks as he watches her chest rise and fall in exaggerated slow motion. A few more interminable seconds Mulder is sure must be drawn out minutes.
He resists the urge to cover her hand in his and slide it to where he’s feeling the wellspring of his need for her.
As if shaking herself from a drowsy, punch-drunk haze, he catches the color that rises in Scully’s cheeks, following the subtle, questioning arch of her brow where the pinkish red disappears into her hairline. Now his does grasp her wrist with imperceptible pressure, steeling himself for who knows what response or reaction.
Unbidden, Mulder grins broadly at the smallest quirk of her lips as she simply states, “Yes.”
Friday, 4 January
He’s told her little other than to expect a cab at her door promptly at eight and to consider the night ‘formal’. Oh, she’s tried to gather more information, ever her curious self, but he’s been tightlipped and teasing. Or maybe he’s taunted her. Whichever. He wants her off-balance, partly because that’s how Mulder feels, that’s what she does to him. But he also wants her off-balance because he really wants her to anticipate what his motives might be…what the night holds.
Soft music, low lighting, champagne and caviar to feed their souls. And to fuel his fire. Hoping his fire is hers.
The full moon illuminating, bathing his living room in soft warmth. He’s strung a few yards of small multi-colored lights haphazardly; over the fish tank, from the coat rack up and over the archway and on the wall opposite the couch. Not the most symmetrical and esthetically-pleasing design, but it reflects his personal touch, he rationalizes. The coffee table is relegated to the foyer, creating an impromptu dance floor in its place.
In the kitchen, the caviar is piled in nesting crystal bowls, the shaved and chopped ice layered between and below. Now resting at room temperature, a small wheel of Brie adorned with black peppercorns and melba toast sits on the counter. Small California strawberries he has paid dearly for are arranged in a glass bowl inside the fridge. A split of Pouilly-Fuise sits in a rented, silver ice bucket while another chills.
Everything is ready. Except him. Running his fingers through wet hair, he heads for the bathroom, removing the towel from his hips. Pulling on his dark green silk boxer briefs, he mentally reviews his apparel options. He roughs another towel over his hair and heads for the bedroom.
His decision is made for him as he reaches for the navy blue wool dress pants. Although Scully thinks he hasn’t noticed her approval of his newest purchase, it is rather obvious. A smile lights his face as he recalls a recent ‘special meeting’. He had purposefully strolled in late. He was actually running behind, but he’d also wanted to make a statement about exactly what he thought of these meetings. It had to do with the renegade in him.
Scully had been in her usual seat front and center. Ever the attentive and well-mannered Agent, she somehow managed to hide her frustrations with said meetings and appeared to be paying attention. All but a few scattered seats on the opposite side of the room had been taken. Which meant he’d had to walk by her. He’d slowed his pace when he felt her gaze. Turning just enough to glance over his shoulder, but not disturb her view, he’d been sure he’d caught her eyes…at hip level. The resulting pink that lit her face told him he’d been correct. Yes, his partner liked these pants. Or what was under them. Or maybe even both. And he definitely liked her admiring stare. And the small upturn of her lips.
Sliding the narrow leather belt through the loops, he fastens the buckle as he pulls open his bureau drawer in search of a shirt or sweater. Grabbing the camel cashmere, he pulls the sweater over his head and tugs the ribbed hem down to rest at his waist. Shoving the sleeves to his elbows, he heads back into the bathroom, his bare feet padding silently on the hardwood and then the tile. Pumping some mousse into his hand, he rubs a small amount into his hair and runs his fingers through it before he blows it dry.
Mulder’s rushing now, although he’s not sure why. Other than shoes and socks, he’s ready. But it’s not the physical trappings, he thinks. He thinks it may be nerves. From the man who is usually confident, self-assured — and nervous as hell.
A lot rests on tonight. It takes on the power to make or break, although he doesn’t totally believe that to be true. Nonetheless, Mulder is aware that their relationship is at that teetering point, a precarious place where the balance can shift easily. He’s tired and he is also a mass of tightly-reined energy; the effort to control it nearly draining him. He shores up his resolve on a daily basis, considering that which he believes she would consider: Will a more personal relationship wreak havoc with their professional partnership? What if they discover they were better off before a major change in that relationship? Could they go back? Would they want to? What, will, could, would… He will question himself into the stars.
Yet although he is sure of his feelings for her and is relatively sure of hers for him, he is not his usual ‘jump first — think later’ self. Maybe he should be.
He picks up the basketball from where he’s set it on top of the TV. First tossing it from hand to hand, he stops the motion, holding it between his large palms. Elbows bent, Mulder’s hands change position, one above and slightly to one side, the other supporting its pebbly surface from below. Feigning a hoop shot as he rises onto his toes, he quickly brings it back. He bends forward and with a flick of his wrist, lets the ball go, dribbling once, twice before halting.
Scully’s late. Or the cab’s late. Or they both are.
He heads for the kitchen, although there is nothing in there for him to do. So he fills a small glass with water and downs it in one gulp. And then does it again. Before he has time to fill it yet a third time, he hears the knock on his door. Although it’s probably not true, he swears he would know her ‘knock’ anywhere.
He runs his hands through his hair as he makes his way to the foyer. Looking around once more, his hand falls to the gold-tone doorknob. He’s grinning as he tells her, ‘Hey, Scully.’
He grins because he realizes that otherwise, his jaw might hit the floor. Somehow, his brain processes enough information to move him back from the entryway just enough so she can walk into his apartment. He closes the door and as he turns to her, he takes in her back view as she walks, then stops in place as she hands him her wrap.
Until she is under the soft glow of the overhead light fixture, he’s not sure what color she is wearing. What he is sure of is that she looks dazzling. In that classy Scully dazzling way.
“Mulder?” He manages to drag his attention upward from her hips, but it’s not easy. He wants to touch the short, flared skirt that seems to both hug and float over her curves in a most alluring way. Meeting her gaze, he decides the color of that skirt is blue; but not just any blue. It’s sapphire and matches the gleam in her eyes.
And he’s lost whatever else she might have said after his name.
Her amusement is infectious and he finds himself mirroring her playful smile. “What,” he asks, knowing full well she’s said something, but having no idea what. He has only scant seconds to wait for her reply, loving the way her red-gold locks seem to bounce as she shakes her head.
“You did all this?” She waves her hand, expansively taking in his transformed apartment.
Closing the distance between them, he brushes a few errant tresses away from her face, staring at her. Staring at this woman who seems to possess the ability to single-handedly render him speechless.
His fingers have a mind of their own as he twines them into her hair; absentmindedly tunneling through her natural waves and curls. He is mindful that his expression has turned more serious; can see it in her questioning visage.
“It’s not much, Scully,” he tells her low-voiced, “it’s our own special New Year’s Eve celebration.” He pauses, noting that he has her full attention. “Since the world didn’t end the first time, I thought it was safe to try again.”
Her rejoinder follows in the same soft tone, “What? Fox Mulder trying to tempt fate?” Bending down, he wraps his hand deeper into her hair, drawing it back from her ear and whispers, “I’d only tempt fate for one person, Scully, and she’s standing right here.”
Her sharp intake of breath and her small hand above his heart touch him deeply. Her words do the same. “It’s beautiful, Mulder.” And just as he is about to succumb to the spell of the moment, she adds, “Are you sure this is your apartment?”
She parries, he jousts; just as it always is; as it should always be.
He releases his hold on her, but takes her hand in his, leading her into the living room. Suddenly, a mix of conflicting emotions and desires confounds him and he asks her, “Is this new,” nodding toward her three-piece outfit. He is pleased that she’s not one of those women who feels the need to feign surprise while murmuring something about ‘oh this old thing?’
She gestures him to the couch and she perches on the armrest, her hands in her lap. “It is. You said tonight was formal and, well, I didn’t need another excuse to treat myself. I don’t do that very often and …” He is curious as to why she trails off when he is very interested in hearing more.
Their moments of sharing more personal glimpses into each others’ lives and each others’ souls seem all too far and few between for him. And hopefully, for her, as well.
He tells her to hold that thought and makes haste for the kitchen. Making good on his word, he is back in a flash with the chilled bubbly and two long-stem flutes clinking between his fingers. He stops in his tracks, the bottle and glasses temporarily forgotten. Scully is feeding his fish — an ordinary task — that appears anything but ordinary when she does it. The tiny, colorful bulbs he’s strung blink and glint and glitter above and around her and the yellow haze from the tank illuminates her face.
She doesn’t face him when she teases, “You going to pop the cork, Mulder?”
He places the libations on the bare surface of his desk and heads back to the kitchen. She follows him and he knows she’s intuited that he might need another set of hands. He leans into the refrigerator and reaches for the bowl of berries. She holds the door open wider, the light bright in the darkened room. Bowl in hand, he sets it on the counter to his side, his other hand coming to rest atop hers as she continues to hold the door open.
Time slows as he really sees her for the first time tonight — lit by the glaring cast of the kitchen appliance. Under his scrutiny, she dips her head, then lifts it again to watch him observing her. He ignores the slight smirk on her lips and lets his perusal travel to the column of her neck and to her shoulders where a much more transparent long-sleeved garment covers her like a cloud. Her attempt to appear cool under his gaze works well — if he doesn’t pay attention to the more rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the velvety camisole that covers her but reveals all. He forces himself to memorize the rest of the ensemble; the top that ends an inch above her navel, the waistband of the skirt that begins an inch below. His need to run his hands over the sapphire blue fabric that caresses her shapely body threatens to fast forward their evening. To possibly end it before it has begun.
“Maybe I should take those strawberries, Mulder?” Her arm is extended toward him, her eyebrow quirked.
Handing her the bowl, he picks up the plate with the cheese and follows her. “Time to pop the cork, Scully.” He follows her back into the living room. Not allowing too much time to berate himself for his trite cliché.
Although, he notes the answering glimmer in her eye. Why Agent Scully, do you have something up your rather transparent sleeve?
Setting the platter with the Brie and crackers next to the gleaming bucket, he takes the champagne in his hands until he feels the icy chill against his shirt. Turning to reach for a napkin, he walks into Scully who has set her bowl on the desk.
Noticing how nicely the bottle fits between them, his hand on its neck…his knuckles now wedged between them…on her chest, he grins apologetically. He steps back awkwardly, his heel connecting with the leg of the desk-turned-serving table, his laughter breaking his near-fall.
“Mulder — here, let me,” she tells him, her laughter joining his as she steadies his elbow and takes the offending alcohol from him. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He loves the sound of her mirth — even if it is directed at him.
“Sorry about the…”, he trails off, motioning toward her top. “I hope it doesn’t stain or…” He’s thankful that she waves away his concern. “Mulder, it’s water. It’s a little cold,” she shivers for good measure, “but it’ll dry.”
He wants to offer to let it dry. Somewhere warm. Somewhere where he can strip her of it.
Instead, he takes the bottle from her, positioning it between his legs. Bending over, flexing at his hips and knees, he grasps the stopper, tugging with a sure grip. Glancing up from under the wisps of hair that have fallen loose above his brow, he catches Scully’s rapt attention. The hem of her gossamer over-shirt is scrunched between wrists and elbows, her hands planted firmly on her hips. But it is her mouth that makes him pause, his hands frozen, his task nearly complete. Her lips are parted; the bow of her upper lip glistening as her tongue peeks out for a brief moment to wet it. The image of her mauve painted lips framing the edges of her upper teeth has him pulling the cork so hard that it strikes the ceiling with a resounding ‘bop’.
Her startled and surprised ‘oh’ and subsequent laughter brings a wide, goofy grin to his face. But, much as he loves their comfort with each other, laughter is somewhat far afield from what he intends for tonight.
Somehow, he is holding her champagne flute in his lap while she is in his bathroom. Her dark blue shirt is also in his lap. He thinks it’s the alcohol; she thinks he has his thermostat set too high. Well, she is probably right, his thermostat is set a little higher than usual, but he is sure that a few glasses of bubbly are also responsible.
She seems to float through the archway, the dim lighting behind her silhouetting her petite form as she stretches, catlike. Mulder assumes a yawn will follow, but he gets what he interprets to be a sultry half-smile as she tucks one side of her chin length hair behind her ear. Infinitely more promising than a yawn.
Holding her glass out to her, he motions with his head as he tells her, “C’mere, Scully.” But she shakes her head and half wobbles, half sashays to his CD player and turns the volume up just a little.
The bluesy sax mingles with the reedy clarinet and clear tones of the ivories as he watches her sway, still facing the disc player.
Lifting the crystal to his lips, he polishes off the last of his and takes her half-filled glass to her. “Scully?” His single word/question hangs in the air above them as he surrounds her, his arms bracketing the shelving she is facing.
She turns in the frame he forms, her back against the stereo, and reaches for her goblet. The slender stem tips upward as her head tips back and his eyes travel from her soft, plump lips on the glass to her neck as she swallows. When it appears that she is considering tossing the flute for good luck, he smirks and stays her hand. “Those were a gift from my aunt.”
“Which aunt was that, Mulder,” she queries, eyeing him suspiciously, matching his smirk. He tells her that it really doesn’t matter as his fingers close over her hand, setting the sparkling cut crystal on one of the lower shelves.
She releases the glass, but makes no attempt to draw her hand from his. In fact, he glances down and then back to her face as she twines her fingers with his. “Dance with me, Mulder,” she purrs, slowly dragging their connected hands between them until they rest on his chest. He sighs when her other hand climbs to his neck.
As if he could refuse her anything she asks of him. As if he would…ever consider such a thing.
He thinks about his motivation for his little soiree, wondering whether he should question the fact that his agenda seems to have gone astray. Whether he should question the fact that somehow he is no longer in control. Smiling inwardly, he reminds himself that it is Scully who usually does the questioning of the known — and unknown — and that it doesn’t really matter. That control has always shifted between them seamlessly.
“So Mulder, why’d you invite me here tonight,” he feels and hears her lips form the question close to his ear, her words hot puffs of air. Sending a shiver down his spine. His legs register the sensation and he moves his foot just in time to save her toes that peak out from her heeled shoes.
“I told you, Scully,” he answers somewhere above her hair, his hand half-consciously gripping her hip tighter.
The music continues. Scully stops and her arms cross in front of her, the place where their bodies touched not quite as warm. She tips her head up, her face a study in misunderstanding. “I don’t believe you did. You asked me to ‘go out with you, Mulder. Technically, only I’m out.”
Although her eyes still hold her smile and her lips curve infinitesimally, he bemoans the fact that she is much farther away from him than she was just mere moments ago. At her mention of ‘technically’, he rolls his eyes even though he has tried to school his expression.
She wants an answer.
Not something he’s sure he can give. At least not in the way she will understand it. But maybe he doesn’t give her credit where it is due.
He steps back with his left foot, shifting his weight, his arms hanging by his side. His hands curl and then open again. He fights the urge to stuff them in his pants pockets.
She deserves an answer, he knows. He also knows that she will listen to him — really listen — like no one else has ever done. She will not only hear his words, but will listen thoughtfully and purposefully. And, whether or not she agrees, she will be respectful of what he has to say, will not dismiss him or his words out of turn.
She is truly amazing.
And maybe that is what he needs to tell her.
But it is more than that, too.
Much more and…very simple. He is beyond a shadow of a doubt, head over heels and every other possible clichéd way in love with her. To the extent that its intensity sometimes takes his breath away, leaves him unable to function without over-thinking his every move.
“I —” His mouth opens, a word comes out. Her right eyebrow climbs. She waits patiently, her posture relaxing.
Without preamble, she steps into his space and tugs his hand free from his side. He is not sure what she intends, but her gesture puts him at once at ease and sends tingles from their point of contact upward.
“You owe me the rest of this dance, Mulder,” her azure eyes are wide and glittering as her gaze search his.
Weaving his fingers with hers, he straightens their arms until they are positioned out and away from their bodies. He then takes a step closer to her, feeling the heat between them. “That I do, Scully, that I do.”
She allows him to fold her into his arms as hers circle his waist. The feel of her fingers splayed over his ass and her thumbs hooked in his belt loops is heady and hot.
He rests his chin atop her head, his eyes slipping closed. This is heaven — plain and simple. As usual, however, he is thinking, wondering.
Where will this night go? Why does she really think he invited her here? Can she just accept it for what it is — his need to be closer to her?
Is it possible that she feels the same way?
They’ve been here, or nearly here, before. Close, touching, speaking to each other without the words. Sharing intimacies with their own form of intimacy. They’ve danced before, but not the dance of two people whose bodies touch in the ultimate and intimate connection — the connection their souls have already seemed to have formed.
So what is it that has him so hesitant, so stop-start in his approach?
Neither one of them would win an award in the ‘assertiveness’ arena where their emotions are concerned. For better or for worse, they each have their baggage and their reticence.
But they have always had each other.
And he believes that she wants this too; whatever ‘this’ might be, might become. He feels it. He wants to believe it.
A new sensation strikes his senses. His forearms are bared, the sleeves of his sweater almost to his elbows. He is still holding her wrapped against him, but she has tunneled her fingers under the knit fabric, those same fingers now lightly moving over his skin.
He draws in a hissing breath. “Was it getting too hot in here, Scully,” he asks her, feeling the way the strands of her hair slip beneath his chin.
“Mmm,” she replies, her hands now cupping his elbows. Pulling him closer.
He is extremely aware of just how close they are and he finds that his hands have a mind of their own. Although, he is pleased to note, they want exactly what the rest of him wants — more contact with Scully’s skin. The plush, soft velvet molds perfectly to her rear and feels heated beneath his palm. Every step they take; side to side, forward and back, registers against his hand and he grips her a little tighter still, guiding her.
His other hand makes it way to the few inches of lower back above her waistband of her skirt and below the hem of her top. One trait they share is their quest for the truth. Scully’s quest is formed by her scientific method. His is led by nothing more than a finely-honed sense of curiosity and the need for discovery. That is how he explains just how quickly his fingers slip under the camisole, dancing across her spine, loving the feel of her warm skin.
Loving even more the way she responds.
Tit for tat. Balancing the scales.
Using the spaces between his arms and their bodies, she winds her hands from his forearms to his back, making quick work of searing his skin with her touch. An unplanned ‘ahhh’ escapes his lips as her fingernails trace parallel lines up and down his spine.
The beat of the music is heavy and sultry, but it has nothing on the way in which his petite partner’s hips are moving. If she was tentative earlier in the evening, she seems rather sure of herself now. Mulder is very sure he likes her style.
He needs more hands. He needs to cup and kneed her ass, but he also needs to move the blue velvet out of the way of his seeking hands and yet he also needs to tangle his fingers in her hair because he wants to devour her mouth.
He feels very selfish in a most lust-filled way. But he also recognizes that what he really needs to do is show her. Show her what he feels. He creates space between them once again, trying to quickly catalog the touch of her in front of him, on his back, all around him. and then, before she can give voice to the confusion and the possible annoyance starting to cross her face, he slides his hands along her bare arms. Eliciting gooseflesh in his path and her sharp intake of breath.
She is watching him raptly now, her hands alternately smoothing the fabric of her skirt and reaching for him. He takes the latter as a sign that what they are doing is right. He wants to tell her that she need not do the former; he would like to brush his hands over her skirt until it falls around her ankles.
Instead, in one sure motion, he leans forward, slanting his head as his hands frame her face. His thumbs trace aimless circles at her temples as his fingers tunnel into her hair, gently drawing it back from her face. His mind registers the fact that her dark with desire eyes are languidly moving between his eyes and his lips and her lips part as her tongues wets them.
That is all he needs.
Her lips are wet and warm and softly firm beneath his. He tries to halt the smile that creeps across his mouth as he remembers New Year’s Eve and his full-hearted intent and half-hearted attempt.
He is caught. As is often the case, she knows his thoughts without him giving them voice. The vibrations her words set off buzz pleasantly. “Mmm…Mulder, not the same…don’t stop…”
Through the haze of arousal, he hears her meaning as his thumbs find their way to her jaw line. He can’t get enough and any thoughts of hesitation are banished as she meets his kiss with a deep hunger. One of them mumbles ‘Oh, God,’ but he is not sure which.
Her hands are everywhere…fingers trailing through the wispy hairs on the back of his neck…one palm resting on his shoulder, her firm grip on his biceps before he arches at the return of her hands to his back. With unexpected ease, he parts her lips wider, their teeth briefly clashing before her tongue meets his. Taking turns…her tongue traces the edges of his teeth, his teases and taunts before tasting her.
He thinks they might still be dancing. He thinks he still hears the music, although he can no longer identify either the lyrics or the artist. They do not seem to be moving to any other beat but that which is created by his racing pulse.
And that beat guides him, his breathing quickening.
She murmurs his name, their mouths separating, the need for oxygen overriding their need for physical connection. He thinks that he could listen to her say it over and over again — if it weren’t for the fact that they have to be apart for her to do so.
Their gazes lock in a defining moment, his hands sliding effortlessly over her neck to her shoulders and along her arms. He wonders if she sees in his gaze what he sees in hers. Guileless, openness and maybe the deep abiding affection that threatens to overtake him.
As one, they both begin to speak and then laugh softly at their timing. With a nod of his head, he indicates that she should continue.
She does, but not in the way he imagines. Her hands settle on his hips once again as his hands glide teasingly slowly back up her arms, his index fingers nudging aside the satiny spaghetti straps.
They slip away easily as a few more fingers gently tug them downward. A small smile plays about her lips as she glances at one shoulder and then the other, finally returning to his eyes. Her bemused grin and the sparkle in her otherwise darkened eyes encourages him.
Her head lolls as the backs of his fingers trail along her collarbones and the sapphire edging of the camisole’s neckline. He leans forward to kiss the tip of her nose as he feels her fingers clench as they move to his ass, pulling him to her. Given his position, he stumbles, one foot moving between hers to ground him. He grips her shoulders when his actions elicit a heady response from her — her hold tightening, her body pressing to his.
He bites his lower lip, trying to stave off the moan her crush creates, but is only halfway successful. His hips meet hers as he wedges his leg more firmly between hers, forcing her already-short skirt higher.
Her eyes return to his as his thumbs trace a ‘V’ from her sternum outward toward her collarbones and back again. Pushing a little bit farther each time they reach the plush stretchy fabric of her top. Her smile is both alluring and mischievous.
“Are you hungry, Mulder,” she asks, her double entendre zipping between them like live wires. All he can manage is a shake of his head. “I mean, you went to all the trouble to buy all this…”
Her voice rasps seductively and while he wants to tell her that he doesn’t give a damn if the food goes bad, he can’t seem to find his vocal chords. She, however, seems to have retained her ability to speak, albeit not in any Agent Scully tone he is used to hearing. “Cat got your tongue, partner?” Her smile turns more playful, but her thumb and forefinger tugging gently on his lower lip feel anything but playful.
With lightening quickness, his hands frame her face again, forcing her fingers away as he crushes her to him.
In a frenzied tangle of arms and hands and mouths, they are moving, but the music has long been forgotten. Through a fog tinged with searing bits of bright light and sparks of heat, he registers the feel of her hands pulling at his sweater. She seems to be trying to get him out of it, but fails to realize that their limbs are in the way.
He draws back, having no choice but to break the exploration of her mouth.
She is a vision. Her hair fluffed and tangled from the tracks of his hands, the flush on her skin evident even in the subdued glimmer of the twinkling light. His loving inspection continues, his eyes now riveted to her upper body; the thin straps laying haphazardly around her biceps, her chest rising and falling. Her breasts round and heavy, her hardened nipples poking at the body-hugging fabric.
“You are…stunning, Scully,” he whispers with reverence and no small amount of unabashed love and lust. In an effort to demonstrate, he bends his knees, bringing them face to face and kisses her with tender restraint. The sweep of her arms around his neck feels like a caress.
“And you Mulder, know how to turn on the charm,” her forehead touching his, she smiles before she breaks the kiss to answer him.
“That’s me, charming,” he growls, the sound more Don Juan in the seraglio than Honest Abe by the fireside, but he is sure she will hear the sincerity in his actions.
Restraint refuses to hold sway as she catches him off-guard. “You can be charming when you want to and I find it very…very…hot.” The touch is barely there, but when the back of her hand skates across his fly, he nearly jumps.
He doesn’t want to second-guess that gesture. Nor can he ignore the fact that he is already shaky with need.
He grasps her wrist with a little more force than intended, noting how she automatically makes a fist. He brings it to his lips, nibbling at her fingers and lapping at her palm when they uncurl. Her eyes flutter as his lips close around the tip of her finger, drawing it into his mouth.
“How hot?” he mouths around her digit before gently sucking on it. The small ‘O’ of her lips and her ragged breathing are the only response he gets. Her eyes never leave his as he swirls his tongue around her finger before releasing it.
Taking both hands in his, he places one at his waist.
“Jesus, Mulder,” she pants, “you have to ask how hot?” With a rough exhalation, she leans to her left and reaches for her champagne. Knowing that it is probably warm by now, he tops it off from the bottle in the ice bucket, pouring himself a bit more also.
She chokes on a laugh as he downs his before she has brought the rim of her flute to her lips. “Here, let me help you, Scully,” he tells her, failing miserably at hiding his smug grin. Arching one brow she deadpans, “I don’t think so, Mulder,” and polishes off hers as well. Setting the crystal back down, she smiles, “for your aunt.”
“My aunt thanks you.”
He is grinning again, marveling really, at how this wonder of a woman can take him back and forth from the height of passion to impassioned playfulness. “And she would want you to know what a wonderful dancer I am.” He sweeps her into his arms again, the slightly more lively strains of the music surrounding them.
He adores the sound of her laughter, even though it may be somewhat colored by the fact that they have consumed half the bubbly. He adores even more, holding her in his arms, watching the way she looks at him as her hair whirls around her chin, her eyes full of the same need he is sure she sees in his.
Whisking her slender hand high above them, he spins her…her eyes closing…the percussion marking time’s passage… At the full extension of their arms, he gently tugs on her hand and she turns and turns again until she is nestled against him. Bending over her, he supports her back with one arm, his other hand clutching hers between them.
“Beautiful Scully,” he murmurs as he leans in more to dip her.
She is breathless. Flushed with exertion. And time seems to stand still as she lets go of his hand, her fingers crawling to his shoulder.
He places a gossamer kiss to her breastbone before lifting her off her feet as they both straighten up. She rests her head near his shoulder as they both breathe raggedly, his chest rising and falling. He has barely caught his breath when she whispers his name, reaching upward to nip at his chin and his lower lip.
He grasps her upper arms, slanting his head and descending on her mouth. He is insatiable where Scully’s kisses are concerned and he moans deeply.
She is ready for him. When her tongue tangles with his, it is as if a switch has been flicked. The combination of the alcohol and the way her body seems to fit his as if they were made to be joined renders him senseless with need and desire.
Somewhere he registers the possibility of asking her consent, but her hot wet mouth seems to be sucking the life force from him as her hands burrow under his sweater, raking across his back and follow the line of his ribs forward.
Mulder’s doubts are washed away as his very fit partner attempts to climb him to decrease the little space that is actually left between them.
He is desperate to brand more of her skin and he manages to slip a hand between them, palming and cupping her breasts. It is her turn to moan as she arches into his questing hand.
“Scully,” he mutters against her lips, “off.” She doesn’t seem to want to let him go so he uses both hands to push the thin velvet camisole down over her chest until it scrunches around her waist.
He wants to see her and to return them to the seductively slow pace of earlier this evening, but he is so turned on that he has tunnel vision. He can focus on nothing more than showing his partner, his confidante, the love of his life just how much she means to him.
He knows that there are words for such feelings, that there are ways to verbally communicate those feelings. But he also knows that they have always been at their best with other than words. Actions and non-verbal means have always spoken volumes for them.
Her next actions speak loudly. Her hands rest atop his as she guides them back up to her breasts. He strokes her rigid nipples, extremely aware of his erection, glad that he has worn a less form-fitting pair of pants.
His hands cover her, grazing and then kneading her flesh. Her very fevered flesh; the heat between them inescapable. She whimpers then and he is undone. One hand moves to her ass as he tries to make her taller or make himself shorter, his body seeking its counterpart.
He thinks that if they are to continue, there’s a strong chance they will need to be horizontal. And, as much as there are plenty of accommodating surfaces in the vicinity, he really wants their first time to be something other than a quickie on the floor.
Not that he hasn’t imagined the two of them, overcome with raging lust, grappling and groping their way until one of them straddles the other, succumbing to a very primal need.
As a matter of fact, Mulder has imagined a few scenarios with similar culmination — on many of the furnishings in his apartment, in her apartment, in their office… But, in point of fact, the reality of the current situation is much headier than his wildest daydreams.
Her fumbling fingers bring him back to the here and now as she manages to slip the tongue of his belt through the buckle. She is biting her lower lip, but the small throaty sounds still escape as she tugs a little too hard on the small button at his waistband.
He wants to help her, but is much too caught up in trying to slide her skirt up her thighs while he fixates on the jouncing movement of her breasts…and the way they are alternately crushed against him or just grazing his sweater as he pulls her forward.
As if he couldn’t be any more aroused, their movements cause his hand to slip downward over the bunched fabric of her garment. Hot Mulder skin meets hotter Scully thigh just below the curve of her ass. And she’s not wearing hose; his mind manages to note as her sweet cheek fills his hand. Reflexively, he clutches at her, both of them moaning in response. He wishes he could see what his hand is feeling, but he’s swamped in sensations. His thumb is hooked underneath the elastic border of her high-cut panty line as his tongue swirls around the shell of her ear. Meanwhile, Scully’s nails circle his navel just before her fingers slip under the edge of the stretchy waistband of his boxers.
He believes this must be what they mean by sensory overload. But he’s willing to test out the addition of more sensory input.
She sighs as her hands dance along the edge of his boxers making their way to his ass once again and then brushing along his ribs. If he didn’t know better, he would take her moan and second sigh for frustration. Instead, he involuntarily nips at her earlobe as little jolts hit him when she swipes at his nipples.
His sweater is being twisted and tugged and pushed and he guesses that she wants him to remove it. But he’s having too much fun to let her go.
She leans back and with a huff and a pout tells him, “Mulder. Off.”
He has a dilemma. It shouldn’t be so hard to figure out, really. She wants him to take his sweater off. He doesn’t want to refuse this woman anything she wants of him. But in order to grant her wish, he has to relinquish his hold on her. Has to take his fingers off her ass under her panties and he has to stop brushing across her tight nipples.
He is capable of making professional decisions without much forethought. Yet she has reduced him to nothing but nerve endings in less time than he would spend reviewing a potential X-File.
Focus, he tells himself, trying to think with the head north of his midsection.
Mulder makes a leap, knowing that if he removes the sweater, she will have more of him to touch with her hands and kiss with her lips and taste with her tongue. Her very hot, very wet tongue which seems to be tracing his linea alba. Until she can go no farther.
A sound he does not believe is in his verbal repertoire escapes him as he frames her face and bends to claim her mouth with his. He pulls away and whisks the offending sweater up and over his head. Tossing it in the general direction of the couch.
Noting that Scully has reattached herself to him, scraping her teeth over his nipple.
Trying desperately to catch his breath, his eyes slam shut. When did this woman ratchet up the festivities, he idly ponders just before she switches nipples, her fingers working the already saliva-slicked one.
“Scuhhlee,” he manages through gritted teeth, his hands roaming freely over her arms and chest. His eyes open on her very obvious sigh and inhalation as his knuckles now drift aimlessly over her tight peaks of her breasts.
“Mmm?” Her lips slick and swollen, she gazes up at him and he finds himself falling into the depths of her eyes. But, he is also a complete jumble of extreme want and he is ready to come apart all over again. It seems that his cock now has a mind of its own at it strains against his partially opened pants, almost begging her to touch him.
But her hands are too far away as she slinks toward him, her hands exquisite torture as they tunnel inside his silk boxers to squeeze his ass. Torture, plain and simple as she presses her belly into him, the softness of it painful pleasure against his throbbing erection.
He mouths her name again, nothing but expelled air. He isn’t sure what he means to tell her. It could be ‘more’, it could be ‘not enough’, but more than likely it would be ‘let’s get naked, Scully’. If he could only say something.
“Are you trying to tell me something, Mulder?” She is grinning wickedly. At him. While her hot little hands tease and taunt, her nails scratching, her fingers pinching. Each touch causing him to thrust his hips. Seeking more contact. Seeking release.
Oh yes, Scully, I’m trying to tell you something, he thinks wryly. Summoning his will and wits and strength, he reaches behind him in a flash, grabbing her wrists. Drawing her hands up close and between them. Loving the look of stunned arousal on her face, the way her mouth falls open, her tongue wetting her lips, the way her eyes go wide, her lashes kissing her cheek as she closes then opens her eyes again.
He is suddenly overcome with a warm rush of love and desire for her. This woman who arches toward him, wearing nothing more than a pair of impossibly high heels, a scrap of bunched velvet that passes for a skirt and another swatch of said fabric round her slim waist. Her small hands curled in his much larger ones, held tightly between their bare chests.
It is too much. Much too much.
Her hands still in his, he starts to turn her around, but stops to lean toward her. One hand gently stroking the hair from her eyes, he kisses her forehead. He smiles at the way both her hands clasp his one — she doesn’t want to break their connection anymore than he does. Resolute, he heads for his bedroom.
Only to feel resistance. She has caught her breath, barely. And something devilish sparks in her expression.
One hand on her hip, her hair disheveled, she is trying to look seriously questioning. He thinks twice determining that he will not point out that given her current state of dress — or undress — she looks very hot, but decidedly un-serious. He finds it hard to keep the smirk from his lips.
“Mulder, are you seducing me?” She tilts her head, her right brow rising.
“Is it working?” He reaches for her other hand, already starting to reel her in to him. “Yes.” Her reply is barely audible as she takes her sweet time walking toward him.
“Then I guess I am.” He has already turned as he leads a very willing Scully through the doorway.
Mulder wants to see more of Scully, but fears that turning on the overhead light will somehow dispel the mood. Besides, the combination of moonlight and street lamps through the slats of the open blinds washes over her creating a very ethereal, yet very down-to-earth vision.
His eyes locked with hers, he slips off his shoes and then lifts each leg to pull off his socks. All footwear is kicked under the bed with his heel and his toes curl into the low pile carpet as they stand there. Taking in the sight of each other from top to bottom.
Mulder considers that she might leave, although he has nothing but his often-present doubts to base it on. Will she come to her senses, away from the dancing, from the champagne, from the festive setting of his living room? Will the reality of what he hopes they are about to do cause her to reconstruct her walls, to hold him once again at arm’s length? He has no doubts about his chosen course and is as sure as a sometimes unsure man can be that she feels the same.
His mind replays moments from the last several years, flashes of smiles, shared laughter and tears, touches. All moments that seem to have drawn them here. To this place. To this time.
Whether from modesty or her analytical mind working overtime on the state of her outfit, he watches her attempting to pull her camisole up. Possibly to recover that which he would prefer remain uncovered.
“Hey partner, I think we were headed in the other direction with the clothes,” he banters with a wink. His eyes then open wider as he realizes that they are on the same page.
Her hands criss-cross in front of her and she twists and tugs the scrunched velvet up and over her head. She shakes it out and deposits it on the chair by the bed in one fluid motion.
“I believe it’s your turn, partner,” she tells him, swaggering toward him. The wink she sends him smacks of a playfully sexy side he’s often thought — and hoped — existed, but is witnessing for the first time tonight.
He drops his hands to his side, eagerly anticipating her next move. Hoping that she will choose something, anything, that will be attentive to his aching need. And he doesn’t have long to wait…
She crooks her finger, but he remains rooted in place. Two more steps and she closes the distance between them, her finger still beckoning him. He bends down, ready to hear her secret, to discover what has put the serene look in her eyes.
Her lips a mere inch from his face, he can feel the puffs of warm breath, can almost taste the champagne bubbles. She doesn’t touch him with any part of her body, but he feels the electricity zing between them. “How long have you had this planned, Mulder,” she asks with the barest note of mirth in her whisper.
Before he can figure out how to answer, the backs of her fingers are against his abdomen, toying with the line of dark hair that wends it way below his pants. “Was it spontaneous?” She cooes to him, wriggling her fingers, the pads now against his hot skin, beneath his boxers. Tickling, tangling in the wiry hair.
He sucks in his gut at her questing touch, his boxers quite a bit less comfortable than they were when he put them on. He tries to form the words to tell her about planning this night, but he can’t seem to remember how to structure a sentence. Instead, he growls her name.
She bends to lap at each nipple in turn, following with a line of chaste kisses that end at the border of his clothing. “Was it difficult to ask me?”
He wonders how the hell she is so composed. And whether she actually expects answers. But that thought flies the way of his sweater and her camisole as she starts to lower his zipper, taking care to skirt what he swears is a granite hard on with finesse. Is this Scully or some temptress in her body, he muses.
The sound of the tab moving along the zipper’s teeth is inordinately loud; almost as loud as the pounding of his blood. His body shakes and when his trousers puddle at his feet, he steadies himself with one hand on her shoulder as he steps out of them. She stands, his pants in her hands, and turns to place them on the chair.
But she never makes it that far.
Her arm extends toward the chair; but he takes her other hand, twining their fingers, and pulls her toward him, the wool garment dropping to the floor behind her. She catches her balance, her bare back to his chest, arms crossed at her waist in front of her, his hands holding hers. Holding her to him.
He thinks it’s time to provide her with some answers. To maybe pose some questions of his own. And to level the clothing playing field just a bit.
Nosing her hair away, his lips smile against the shell of her ear as she tilts her head, exposing her neck.
“Hmm, Scully,” his voice like fine gauge sandpaper, “I believe I owe you a few answers.” He nibbles at her lobe and her jaw line before blowing lightly in her ear.
“I’ve always known you were very curious; a good trait for an investigator. For a doctor, even.”
She shivers and moans, her nails digging into his forearms. “Don’t need answers, Muh—”
He nods and then, grasping her chin, her turns her head to one side and leans over her. They are so close he can see her individual lashes as she struggles to keep her eyes open, can feel her warm breath on his face.
“Yeah, you do. I need to tell you that I thought about asking you. A lot.” Low tones, monotone, he is sometimes told, but she seems far from bored if he is any judge of her reaction. The way she nestles further into him. Velvet-covered hips squirming against satin covered hardness.
He hasn’t moved his thumb and forefinger from her chin and when her lips part and she sighs, he captures her mouth with his. Hot and demanding. It is his turn to moan when her tongue finds his.
Her head hits his chest heavily when she is forced to come up for air, her breasts rising and falling with her accelerated breathing. He bucks into her as his hands grip her hips, holding her firmly. She grinds her ass in counterpoint.
“Okay,” she tells him. He is not sure whether the fact that he thought a lot about asking her what is ‘okay’ or if what their bodies are doing in unison is ‘okay’, but either way, it is much more than ‘okay’ for him, too.
He thinks perhaps she means that they do not need any more words. That the time for talking has long since passed.
But being Mulder, he cannot resist. He has noticed how she responds to his voice, has sometimes found her watching his lips as he speaks. She probably thinks that he doesn’t see and that’s fine with him. But he has saved this piece of Scully observational information and it serves him well now. “Okay, Scully?” His lips are at her other ear as his fingers find the hem of her skirt. He only needs to bend his knees to reach it since their movements have allowed it to ride high on her thighs. “Okay that I help you lose the skirt?” He is smiling now and doesn’t have to see her face to know that she is smiling, too.
He decides to change tactics, knowing that pulling the short stretchy garment off will take her panties with it. And he wants to savor each and every moment of disrobing Scully. Therefore, he heads for the waistband, his hands underneath now, covering her hips.
‘Mulder, please’, she tells him. And he is only too happy to oblige. He considers asking her to clarify, but it wouldn’t matter. He plans to ‘please’ her in as many ways as possible tonight. And for many, many more nights, if she will allow him.
As he slides the skirt down over her hips, the silky feel of her skin is cool beneath his warm palms. The sensation causes her to push backward, her ass cheeks stroking his erection, and he bites his lower lip so hard he may have drawn blood. Instead, he pauses, fingers clutching at her thighs, shirred fabric around his wrists.
“Damnit, stop that,” he husks out half-heartedly. She chuckles. And pushes back into him yet again.
“You are evil, Agent Scully… Did I ever tell you how much I love it when you’re evil?” His laughter joins hers right before he latches onto her neck, lightly suckling her pulse point.
“Mmmm…” Her arms reach behind her, hands first closing on his shoulders, then sliding lower. Only to be hampered by his arms. Back to plan A, she moves them to his shoulders and then to his neck, twisting and turning to find his mouth.
Meanwhile, he manages to drop the skirt at her ankles and taps her leg to indicate that she should step out of it. He is too enamored of the look of her painted toenails peaking out of her heels to allow her to remove them. Yet.
Their lips separate as his hands rove over her body, her arms slung back and around his neck. She twines her fingers in the short hairs at his nape, turning to gaze at him. He smiles at the wanton woman stretched along his frame, a desire so strong surging through him that he can barely contain himself. She is luscious curves and gentle firmness pressed to him as he explores the hills and valleys of her.
He imagines that she is as on edge as he is. The way she arches as his hands close over the roundness of her breasts, the way her nipples seem to grow diamond sharp within his pinching fingers, the way she pants and whimpers when he swivels his hips into her.
She tries to turn in to him, but he stops her with a sloppy wet kiss just below her ear. “You know, Scully,” he murmurs, his speech barely audible, “I thought it was the woman’s handbag that matched her shoes. Not her panties.” His kisses her again before glancing at the shiny navy satin of her French-cut briefs and the shiny navy leather of her shoes.
This time, she succeeds in placing them chest to chest, nipping at his shoulder. Tugging at the hems of his boxers, her nails then score the backs of his thighs. “Only you, Mulder…” She purrs as she finger plays with the curve of his ass where it meets his thighs.
The effect and response are instantaneous. The pull of the fabric binds his swelling erection, trapping it between them, creating friction that is both arousing and almost too much. Hoping to focus her attentions where he most needs them, his palms travel shoulders to hips, his own fingers slipping inside her panties, cupping her ass. Squeezing, teasing.
Her hands travel to his biceps, turning his skin white under the pads of her fingers. “God, Mulder —”, she gasps. His hands spanning her hips now, his thumbs move forward, tracing lazy circles just below the elastic waistband.
When her top teeth bite the corner of her lower lip, he thinks he may take her where she stands. And while that thought is certainly tantalizing, he wants their first time to be without the need for athletic skills. But the sight of her is testing his ability to delay gratification. Testing it beyond the point of no return.
He decides that the organized and planned and methodical partner of his is about to be knocked off her feet. Literally.
Trailing the backs of his fingers up over her abdomen, her ribs, pausing at her breasts to lavish attention on them, his hands come to rest on her shoulders. Playfully Eskimo-kissing her, he then puppy-nips her lips, artfully evading her attempts to capture his mouth.
Before she can bring her hands up to his face, he nudges her backwards. Noting with no small measure of amusement and satisfaction the look of total surprise on Scully’s face as she lands on his bed, ass first.
But it is him that has the wind knocked out of his sails as the result of his push.
More beautiful than any Renoir, more sultry than a New Orleans summer night and sexier than anything his personal fantasies could ever conjure. Scully on his bed, breathing heavily from a combination of exertion and arousal, palms and forearms flat on the bedspread, flaming hair tousled. Her eyes, lit by the streetlights that filtered through the slatted blinds and by some inner fire he has yet to experience up close and personal. Her breasts quiver as she adjusts her position, her nipples dark, tight. His gaze is drawn downward to the taut firm abs, to her slim waist, to the way the height of her heels lift the angle of her hips, one leg splayed wide, the other knee turned inward.
An irresistable force draws him closer until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. And he is immobilized under her scrutiny. Her eyes search his, the fact that he is partially hidden in darkness causing her brows to draw together as if she can will light to shine upon his face. She licks her lips as she focuses next on his mouth and he finds himself once again mirroring her actions. She holds her pose as her gaze roams across his chest and he swears she will hear his heart thudding against his ribs. Every nerve ending is on high alert and yet he is powerless to move.
When her attention moves to his groin, he unconsciously contracts his abs, his cock straining upward, pulsing.
In one fluid motion, she shifts her weight, coming to a half-seated position. She is so close now that he can feel her heat coming off her in waves. Can smell the scent of their arousal. He wants to touch her, but something in her look holds him at bay.
When she tugs at the hem of his boxers, he groans, watching her watching him. “You know, Mulder, it’s not nice to push your guests around like that.” Her tone is as matter-of-fact as if she is explaining her latest findings for a case report. The faintest glimmer of a smile, however, lays just below the sensuality in her eyes. “They might think you’re over eager.” His mouth opens and then closes again, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone word.
And then her hand closes around the hard ridge of his erection and his eyes slam shut. “Hmm…I’d say you are very eager.” He can tell that she is very pleased with his reaction as he moans her name. Twice. Gripping him tighter, she husks out, “Take them off, Mulder.”
He is only too happy to oblige and hopes he can do so with a modicum of dignity.
She leans back again as he slides the silk garment down his legs and steps out of them, leaving them where they lay. Unsure he is steady enough to bend over to retrieve them. She smiles then, one of those full wattage smiles that makes his heart swell at the sheer joy of being here with her. At what they are about to do.
“C’mere, Mulder.” Her voice sends a thrill through him, his cock jumping. He kneels at her feet, his hands immediately massage up and down her shins and calves, coming to rest on her bent knees. She hisses at the sensation, her head thrown back. As he pushes her legs farther apart, he edges ever closer. Fingers spiraling along the curve of her inner thighs and then raking up and down her hamstrings, it is his turn to smile as her legs fall open, knees nearly resting on the comforter.
“Right here, Scully,” he tells her as he covers her, his elbows on either side of her head. Her arms wrap around him, hands smoothing up and down his back, forcing him into the cradle of her hips. “Right. Here,” he repeats before his hands tilt her head to one side and he begins to plant ever-increasingly more demanding kisses on her lips.
Using her heels for leverage, she lifts her hips to him, grinding small circles in a slow, dizzying pattern until he can take no more.
Slipping his arms underneath hers, he catches her unaware. He brings her to him as he sits back on his heels. She toys with him as she comes to her knees, her hand moving between them, her thumb absentmindedly outlining the full and heavy length of him. Her fingers curl around his shaft, a smile just this side of predatory gracing her lips. “Jesus, Scully,” he growls, his hands roam down her back, to her ass, fingers slip-sliding on the satin panties. She is relentless, her thumb’s side to side motion on the ridge just below the head of his cock draws forth unintelligible sounds from somewhere deep inside him.
When one small hand caresses his inner thigh on its way to cupping his sack, his whole body shakes with unbridled need. Repossessing what little coherence he has left he crowds her space and whispers low and dark, “Get the panties off, Scully.” Her warm panting breaths and the way she traces an imaginary dividing line along his balls sets his last nerves on fire.
Tightening his hold on her, he makes room for their bodies. In one fell swoop, he falls backward, pulling her on top until she is straddling his hips, her wet center grazing his erection.
“You know, Mulder, this isn’t helping…” Her smug smile seems to indicate that she has him where she wants him. And that is fine with him since he is almost where he wants to be.
She sits astride him, rising on her knees, leaning forward, her hands on his shoulders. In her eyes, he sees nothing but deep, dark passion — and that hint of playfulness that he wishes to see more often. Suddenly, her position over him is too tempting; Scully on all fours, her breasts temptingly close, her legs spread, leaving her open and waiting. And poised above him.
Lifting himself to his elbows, he strains toward her, his lips brushing back and forth across her swollen nipples, first swiping with the tip of his tongue. He then captures one in his mouth, pulling her down and forward as he suckles her. Her thighs frame his as she squirms and rubs against him.
She is moaning — moaning and humming as she settles over him, giving him better access, forcing his head back to the comforter. Her fingers in his hair as she holds him to her makes him tingle.
Suddenly, she pulls away, her breast slipping from his mouth as she sits back into him. The heat of her is almost more than he can handle in its intensity. Her hands are splayed on his chest as she tells him, “Stay right where you are, partner,” and she moves over him, the edge of her right shoe grazing his bent leg.
He rolls to his side, head resting on his elbow, and watches her strip the final barrier from her body. They reach toward each other simultaneously when her panties catch on the stacked heel. He steadies her, thinking that even off-balance, she is truly beautiful.
Time stands still. Their positions frozen, they visually seek each other.
He can make out diagonal glimpses of her as the artificial light blends with the moonlight, bathing her in a warmth suffused with want and need. He cannot see her eyes, but can feel the heat of her gaze on him. She wets her lips, just a hint of the pearliness of her teeth evident. He can tell she is not sure what to do with her hands as they reach for her hair, tucking it behind her ears and then flutter to her sides.
She is all soft curves and womanly beauty, her scent evocative of her readiness for him.
He wonders what she feels about what she sees as she observes him. As he imagines her eyes roving over his torso, he feels himself swell yet again and rolls on to his back.
The time for slow and seductive is long gone as she steps out of her shoes, bending; perhaps to set them under his bed. He chuckles inwardly at the thought of her ability or need to be orderly in the midst of their sexual tumult.
“Scully?” He can barely hear his own voice, but somehow he knows that she does.
“I’m here.” Oh, he knows that is true.
“I want you here,” he quietly demands.
And she is there. Walking to the foot of his bed, she slinks toward him on her hands and knees, spreading his legs in her wake. He sucks in a lungful of air, still feeling that it is not enough. His erection tightens and jumps when her very heated and very wet tongue laps him from bottom to top.
He begins to moan without restraint — his partner wringing unintelligible sounds from deep within him. He wonders when he thought he was in control of this night. He wonders if he ever really cared…
She seems to know what he needs; what they both need, as she manually strokes him once, twice and stops. He thinks that if he is reading her signals correctly, there will be time for that — after. After he sits up and pulls her over him.
After he holds her hips steady above him, feeling her shift and open to him. The slick heat of her damp and magnetic, drawing him to her as if they were always meant to be joined physically as well as emotionally. For surely they are.
His hands still gripping her hips, she pushes him down and reaches for his penis with her saliva-slicked palm. She teases them both as he feels the evidence of her arousal cover his very tip. And then he is part way inside her. And still she teases as she slides him in and then pulls herself back up. Again and again, over and over, her movements finally allowing him to lengthen his strokes. Shadows dance around her as he catches small glimpses of her above him. Her eyes close as her lips part, wisps of her hair falling across her face as her head lolls to one side. She steadies herself, her hands on his abs as she rides him to within an inch of his life.
He finds her breasts, his thumbs pressing into her nipples, then swiping across them — hard. Now it is she who is whimpering and moaning his name as her hands cover his, showing him how to roughly pinch her.
She slows, somehow instinctively understanding that he is very close. She rises slightly and slips one small hand to where they are joined, holding him, applying a pressure that helps him hold back and drives him wild; the image he cannot completely see still branded in his mind’s eye.
The room is all low, dark and barely audible sounds and a lustful mixture of her scent and his and theirs.
Releasing her breasts, his hands trail down over her taut abdomen, his index finger rimming her navel. One hand settles on her hip, his touch telling her what he wants, what he needs. And she grips his hips with her thighs, tightening her inner muscles around him.
The sensation swamps him and he bites his lower lip hard.
“Scullee…” He manages to grit out.
He believes that she translates the tone of his plea as a request to pick up the pace. She is right, as is the case often when she is called upon to interpret his meaning from few or no words.
With unerring accuracy, he finds her bundle of nerves, his bent finger stroking around, touching her everywhere but where he knows she wants it most. Where she needs it most.
“God, Mulder, you —” Her guttural entreaty is cut off abruptly as he settles into a rhythm that elicits some of the most erotic Scully sounds he has ever heard.
She stills his hand, grasping his wrist tightly, in much the same way his cock is squeezed as she spasms around him.
His own release is coming fast and she grabs her, rolling her under him, driving into her with reckless abandon. She barely has time to wrap her legs around his hips as he slams into her, two short strokes, followed by a long slide home. And then he is as finished as she is.
Saturday, 5 January
“Happy New Year, partner,” he whispers as he gently brushes the hair from her ear.
She replies from her twilight sleep, ‘mmm’, and nestles back into him, the curve of her ass fitting nicely against the flex of his hips. He believes that he will sleep in his bed nightly if she is in it with him. That this year will be a very good year now that his bed has been properly broken in, the gods of bedroom furniture smiling down upon him.
The early morning is gray and it is snowing, big, fat, wet flakes the fall in a dizzying pattern, reminding him of holiday snow globes.
He draws the sheet back up over them from where it has fallen to his hips, the early morning chill settling in around them. He wraps his left arm over her, his elbow bent and his hand cupping her breast. She stirs and ‘mmm’ becomes ‘Mulder, sleep’.
He smiles, wondering whether she is trying to tell him to go back to sleep or that she still wants to sleep. He figures that they can both sleep anytime and leans in to nibble at the shell of her ear.
Her body responds even if her mind is begging for more shut-eye. Her head angles back toward him and he captures her lips with his in a lazy and somehow very arousing kiss.
That doesn’t last near as long as he would like it to.
He is fully awake in every sense of the word now, his partially erect cock beginning to prod her ass.
“Happy New Year, Mulder,” she tells him as she turns her face back to her pillow. He is sure she is also very much awake at this point regardless of her attempts to hold him off.
“Rise and shine, Scully,” he tells her, his chin on her shoulder as his hand ventures beneath the sheets and over her hip. Allowing her to feel just how ready to rise he is.
“Do you ever sleep, Mulder,” she asks, her voice breaking on his name, giving her away. Telling him she wants him again as much as he wants her.
“I’ve got better things to do, Scully. The day’s a-wastin’.”
He thinks that this fiery redhead, lying spooned against him, is truly amazing as she rolls back into him, her legs parting.
Or maybe it is him who is amazed.
Downloaded from x-libris.xf-redux.com
This file contains work/s of X-Files FAN FICTION and FAN ART which are not affiliated with Ten-Thirteen or The Fox Network. No income is generated from these works. They are created with love and shared purely for the enjoyment of fans and are not to be sold in any format.
The X-Files remain the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and Fox, unfortunately. The original stories and art remain the property of their talented creators. No copyright infringement is intended. Any copyright concerns can be addressed to .