Aux Etoiles by abracadabra, 2/2

*::*::*::*::*::*

A slight breeze stirs the single bare bulbs in their makeshift
fixtures above them and the floorboards beneath them creak and
whine with their movements and the settling of the rustic
structure.  She notes the moist warmth of the evening and idly
marks the fact that somehow her core body temperature is far
warmer than the ambient temperature. In fact, she is both warmer
and wetter than the typical warm and damp D.C. spring night. She
doubts the night sky is thrumming any harder than she is.

It is while her thoughts seem to be making the most profound
meteorological comparisons that she registers that she is no
longer making the most passionate sucking love to her partner's
throat but is rather sitting between his legs, her partially-tee
shirt covered back to his completely bare chest.

As if in answer to her question as to how she finds herself in
his lap, he whispers, "It's magic, Scully." Puffs of breath
sending a shiver through her, hardening her nipples to a
tingling fullness and ache. He wiggles his hips, moving a few
inches backward taking her with him, one arm around her waist,
the other hand snaking up under her tee to cup her skin-pebbled
breast. He holds her especially tight at the waist to help ease
an ache of his own in his quick-to-recover and more quickly
stiffening cock.

Her hands move from his forearms, reaching up and behind her,
her fingers in his hair as she tries to turn, tries to connect
them with a kiss. Her actions also lift her breasts to him and
he alternately grazes her peaked nubs with his trailing fingers
and  possessively and greedily tweaks and pinches them.

He maneuvers his face to hers, feeling her lips on his, their
heat in the chilled air sparking. Relinquishing his hold on her,
he takes her chin in his fingers making a match between them as
his tongue parts her lips. In perfect unison, they moan, the
vibrations adding another layer to the already complex scenario.

She positions her leg over his as she inches back into him and
he is momentarily lost in the scent of their combined lust. She
feels the pounding in his chest and the solid throbbing against
her lower back and the way his arm curls around her and allows
him to thrust into her. As their mouths part, she licks her
lips, panting, her head falling back to his chest. But it is a
very brief respite when she feels his hand inching her already
hiked skirt higher still until it is almost as if she is not
wearing it.

Looking over her shoulder to follow the path of his hand, he
feels her damp hair softly caressing his cheek. He gently rubs
his face into the wavy locks and then says her name, knowing she
will think he is about to once again launch into a discussion
about fate or magic or starry skies. But he knows it is only
because he wants to touch her.

So he finger paints on her inner thigh without the paint,
spelling out 'Mulder heart Scully'  It doesn't matter if she
knows what he intends, she is reacting more than favorably even
without knowledge of the words. Although he can't quite make out
what she's saying at first, the way she moves her leg to allow
him better access tells him all that he really needs to know.

She is tuned in to her pulse, to the fact that she seems to be
panting even though she is telling herself to breathe normally.
There's nothing really 'normal' about this situation although
engaging in steamy play with Mulder isn't rare in its
occurrence. It is however a rare treat when it takes place when
they are technically still on a case. Even if all they have left
to technically do is complete their final report. Usually the
stickler for finishing up administrivia, she summarily dismisses
it just this once in favor of the rather inquisitive feel of his
fingers as they tease mostly and tickle occasionally. He laps at
her neck in the spot that drives her insanely crazy with want as
she feels the elastic at the apex of her legs move. Move to let
him in.

He is too horny at this point--again--to be slow and languid as
is sometimes the case with them. He considers that sometimes
slow and languid is a salve to hot and bothered and sometimes
it is like stoking the already raging fire. How sometimes she
works him to a fever pitch and only to torture him with
excruciating slowness and then there are other times where one
of them enters the situation already so turned on that even the
presence of clothing does not create a barrier and it is about
everything and nothing but frenzied coupling, the sensations
running as high as their need.

Tonight he knows it is a little of both. While she seemed to
hesitate initially, she suddenly becomes all hands and mouth
fucking his mouth with her tongue while she dallied on the path
of his chest and then consumed his cock with unbridled hunger.

He loves her mouth on him, her head between his legs
watching her slide him in and out and attempt to suck the life
from him. He knows she loves giving head and is, in fact, damn
good at it. But he can't stand the thought of not being allowed
to 'give', too. He is, by nature, sexual even though there is
much more to their relationship. But he faces the fact that
along with her many other fine qualities, he has almost always
wanted to taste her and drive inside her until neither of them
can see straight. And right now, he wants to feel her slick heat
and touch her where he knows he'll push her over the same edge
he went over not so very long ago.

Reaching back and up, she grips his shoulders but then quickly
changes her mind and grabs his forearms, loving the feel of the
muscles there, the power of him. When his hands move to her
thighs, re-situating her, she clutches at him for balance. But
being off-balance is sometimes part of being with Mulder and it
is the sheer anticipation of what he may do that thrills her.

She is always and in all ways amazed by his manual dexterity
skills. The man is a study in kinesthetic pleasure; a true
devotee of employing all the senses in all that he does. And
does so well, if she is asked to comment. But right now, she is
beyond commenting because his very manually dexterous fingers
are doing a maddeningly teasing dance alone the high-cut legs
of her panties and an even more insanely taunting two-step
beneath the stretchy hip band of the very same panties.

Without shame, she lifts her legs up and over his and holds on
to him for dear life as two fingers begin an insistent
exploration of her, slipping effortlessly into the liquid heat
of her center, causing her to  purr and then hum and then
escalate into full-tilt moaning. Stubbornly trying to resist
because she knows he will smile that smug-with-satisfaction
smile, she bites her lip to keep from uttering his name linked
to her deity.  Their cheeks touching side by side as he watches
her, she can feel the smugness anyway and loses the battle, her
"God, Mulder!" nearly exploding from her.

"God" is right, he muses, and he loves what he does to her
almost as much as he loves what she does to him. Or maybe it's
a tie. Nonetheless, he needs room to move and the give of the
fabric is just not enough for his long fingers and large hands.
Nearly lifting her from where she is delectably pressed against
him, he slides those large hands under the satiny stretchy
fabric cupping her hips as he whisper-commands, "Take them off,
Scully."

In a flurry and tangle of runner's legs and long, strong arms
and fine forensic pathologist's hands and Special Agent in heels
legs, the scrap of cloth ends up on the bottom step of the porch
in the very dark field bathed only by the functional lighting in
the D.C. spring air. He considers ridding her of the skirt also
but is either in too much of a randy haze or likes just how
sexy she looks with it bunched around her hips and waist while
that which is below is open to him and the night air.

Or perhaps it is both. Nonetheless it remains.

Her legs once again part and drape over his poplin casual
slacks, the weight of her thighs on him a symbol of the trust
she places there. Calling upon his excellent multi-tasking
skills, he finds a spot or two along the exposed column of her
neck and worries it with his teeth and playfully nips it with
his recently licked lips. One hand tugs at the turgid peak of
her rounded breast while the other resumes exploring her sex. It
is hot and swollen and he dips first one, then two, long fingers
into her, swirling and twirling them and when she arches into
him and her hips meet him with each stroking, he leans down just
a bit more and bites her in earnest where her shoulder meets her
neck.


She is aware that his thumb is playing her like a finely strung
and well-tuned instrument, making her hit all the right notes
as her legs start to shake and quiver and the feel of his rather
substantial erection trapped between their bodies slides her
arousal to the top of the treble clef. Her fingers dig into him
wherever she can grab hold--moving from his thighs to his arms
and then to twine in his hair and settle back onto his arms. He
is working her both like an artisan who has honed his craft and
a lover who knows the object of his affection better than he
knows himself and she is putty in his hands and under his mouth.

She registers the sensations as he moves from one breast to the
other titillating her, taking her upwards still as he tweaks her
nipples and then kneads her soft and firm flesh. And she is
overwhelmed, the blackness around them now shot through
with pinprick stars of white brilliance as every inch of her
sparks and small fires shoot along her neural pathways.

All the while, she hears and feels his the roughened molasses of
his voice coursing through her, telling her, 'beautiful Scully'
and 'I've got you' and 'I love the way your body feels in my
hands'. And then she is above them watching the scene unfold and
she thinks that it is fate or magic or heaven on earth. Or it is
simply the most blissful high she can experience.

*::*::*::*::*::*

He knows that she is chilled as the most gossamer of breezes
Settles around them. Thinking that she is in that between state
hovering on one side of sated and the other side of sleep, he
surrounds her with his arms, drawing his legs closer together to
conserve their heat. His nose nuzzles her neck and then his
face nudges at hers the way one cat seeks the comfort of another
and he elicits a soft purr followed by a deep sigh from smiling
lips. Her formerly closed eyes flutter--he feels the lashes
tickle his cheekbone as she turns toward him.

Although it is not unusual, it is infrequent that he misreads
her. It is true that she is sated and it is true that she is
feeling a deep state of liquid relaxation. A liquid relaxation
tinged with a leisurely charge.

She is aware of her partner all around her--he supports her
weight, he envelopes her, he breathes with her, their scents
co-mingling, shrouding them in a heady perfume of passion
realized. But although she has had a taste of him, it was all
too brief and she needs more. She knows he needs more by the
rigid length of him hot and heavy low against her back. She
murmurs his name and angles more so she can say it again into
his waiting mouth. It begins with "Muh..." and slips into
"Mmm..." as she invites his tongue to meet hers.

All too soon, the kiss ends, but their lips remain so close that
not even a sigh can find its way in between. And he is talking
to her yet again. In that way that she finds soothing and gentle
and arousing and vibrant. He is insisting that she think about
his earlier suppositions about fate and about magic and she is
amused.

She loves his curious and open mind, loves its flights of fancy
and fantasy, loves how it pulls her to new realms of
possibilities where she otherwise sees only that which is
grounded in fact. But she has seen one too many instances where
his flights are reality. She knows the meaning of granted wishes
and believing in that which has no basis in worldly verification.
The very fact that they are together in this way is somewhat
fantastical, magical and feels like a granted wish from a Genie
released from her captivity.

He relishes the feel of her lips touching his, feather-light,
brushing him just enough to let him know she is there. The bow
of her upper lip is a perfect compliment to her full lower lip
and he dips in once again to taste those lips, one at the back
of her head, her hair tangled around his fingers as he holds her
in place. The feel of her smaller, but no less strong hand at
his face, thumb massaging his temple, heightens the intensity
and he is more aware of the near-painful ache and throbbing
between them.

She senses his need for release and turning, one hand planted
on his chest, her eyes meet his. Dark need and flash-fire
passion confirm what she feels. Her gaze sweeps over him;
tousled and matted hair framing a fine sheen of perspiration
dotting his forehead, the slope of his nose, the dip in his
chin, half his face in dim light, half in shadow.  Her fingers
stroke his bare chest lightly, his flat nipples begging for her
attention, as his quickening breathing lifts his chest again and
again. It is when her glance follows the demarcation in his
taut abs downward that her earlier seductive grin becomes a
stifled chuckle. She recalls that in her frenzied haste to take
him in her mouth, she chose the path of least resistance.

His eyes look into hers, his brows raised in bemused query, as
he gazes downward. So intent on pleasuring her was he that he
has missed his current state of dress. He hears her words, "Oh,
Mulder", and snorts at the sight of his raging erection curving
toward his belly...through the flap of his boxer briefs. Their
laughter does not diminish their desire. He has not known any
other with whom he could share laughter in the throes of
passion, with whom he could be so open and trusting and know
that it would be returned one hundred fold. In synch in all
things, they both reach for his cock, attempting to free him
from his cotton knit barrier.

Slight color rising in her cheeks, she defers to him in this
matter, her hands never leaving him, massaging his thighs, her
lips planting kisses on his nose.

He is all about efficiency and economy of motion; maybe from
practice, maybe due to runaway urges. Whichever, he manages to
slide both boxers and poplin pants down and place his jacket and
shirt beneath them.

She watches him, head tilted to one side, waiting. She is sure
he is about to pontificate or postulate or attempt once again
to engage her in speculation about the mysteries of the known
universe. She is therefore nicely surprised and doubly turned
on when he intones, low-voiced, "Climb on, Scully."

His arms are extended toward her, opening himself to her, and he
tilts his head as she has done, unaware of his matched movement.
He remains silent as she fumbles with her skirt. Partners
always, he has her back; or, in this case, his hands on hers,
stilling them, drawing her closer and closer.

It is she that surprises him with her words as she straddles his
lap, her knees on either side of his hips. Her hands now on his
shoulders, hovering above him, she tips her hips upward and
presses into him.

"I've been thinking about fate," she croons as she rocks
her hips.

"And..."

She continues as if he has not spoken. "I don't know if I'd say
this particular event was predestined by some force beyond our
control." She leans in to kiss his upturned and flushed face.

And then her lips curve upward at his uncontrolled and muttered,
"uh...um, Scully..."

"And I don't think that any sleight of hand...oh, except maybe
for this...," she teases as her hand wends its way between them
to find the drops of fluid at the tip of his penis, bringing her
finger to her lips.

"But I *do* think that I'm feeling rather charmed and under your
spell right now," she purrs, inches from his mouth as she gently
guides him to her wet center, "and I forecast a rather magical
remainder of the night for us."

Previously held enthralled by her words, he now grabs her hips,
unable to sustain her teasingly slow pace. Their bodies melded,
he feels her legs wrap around him and watches her head loll
back, her hair hanging in waves and curls and a mass of fluff
behind her. His hands slide up under her skirt, the feel of her
behind as it flexes and tightens spurring him on.

And ride him she does, no longer able herself to speak to him of
unproven hypotheses or continue her erotically lazy rocking. She
rises and falls on him as if her hips have a will of their own
and she grips him as if she will never release him.

His hands move to her upper arms as his lips descend on her
breast, suckling and lapping at her, trying to take as much of
her into his mouth as he can. Her whimpers shoot straight to
where they are joined and he slows for the briefest moment.

A coda. A respite. A chance to draw back and look at her, this
wondrous woman who moves on him with wanton abandonment
and manages to take him over the edge.

She is lost. Lost in the feel of his lips surrounding her
breast, his tongue flicking around her areola and nipple while
the suction from his mouth drives her wildly insane. Her hand
moves to the juncture of her legs and she touches herself, the
pressure of their bodies bumping her hand, heightening the swirl
of electricity.


And then he is stopping, although their hips continue to thrust,
the pace is slowed. Ready to cry out, she looks at his face, her
own a study in carefully controlled frustration. She doesn't
utter a word when she notes the way he regards her. It is
tenderness tinged with lust and desire. She answers his look
with the slightest curl of her lips and a kiss to his brow
before her fingers begin to move and she lifts up until she has
almost allowed him to slip from inside her. She is amazed at
how quickly he catches on, reaching for her hips and drawing
her downward, his eyes slamming shut once again as he bites his
lip.

*::*::*::*::*::*

The feeling of having fallen over the edge of ecstasy hangs in
the air around them, suffusing it with an artificial warmth and
a cloak of euphoria. Happily spent, unsure if still shaky
muscles will support them, they pull themselves together.

Buttoned and zipped, she leans into his side, her head on his
chest, the feel of his arm around her shoulders a comforting
weight. His chin rests in her hair, moving only to plant kisses
there. She wraps her arms around his waist, drawing nearer
still, wanting to burrow into him and shut out what lays beyond
this porch, this field. But she knows that there are other times
between cases and other times in the familiarity of their
apartments and in their below ground level office where they
will share this closeness and other less physical closeness.

He nods, as if he knows what is in her mind. And he does, just
as she knows what is in his mind and in his heart. And he knows
that there is nothing and everything magical about that fact.

*::*Fin*::*