By Ariadne N.
ariadnen@yahoo.com
 

Date: Sun, 30 Aug 1998 22:56:15 GMT
Spoilers: Avatar
Classification: Skinner/Other
Rating: NC17
Summary: A long evening and lovely music for A.D. Skinner
Feedback: Please! This is my first post, so let me know what you think.
<ariadnen@yahoo.com>
 
 

NACHTMUSIK

I hate these damn society functions. I'm stuck here in a four-star hotel,
eating four-star cuisine, and having a four-star lousy damn time.

Sharon's niece got married tonight, and of course the family had to invite
"poor" Uncle Walter. Ever since Aunt Sharon died, they think, the pathetic
man's been buried alive in his work and needs to get out.

The only place I need to get out of is here. This ballroom gives me the
screaming willies. It's too open, too fey, too full of pointless chatter and
pointed stares.

They set me up, obviously, with a woman. We're the only two single people at
this table, and we're sitting here, nothing in common, bored out of our minds.
She's looking for a middle-aged Lothario. I'm looking for anyone but her.

There's music coming from a string quartet a few feet away from me, in the
corner. Peaceful, warm music, Mozart or Schubert, I can't tell above the
jabbering at this table. Violinists are good, the violist as well, but there's
something in the sound of the cello that appeals to me. The song of the human
heart, perhaps. I look over to where they sit.

Blond man playing first violin, the other violinist and violist married, by
the looks of their matching rings. The cellist is turned slightly away; all I
can see is shoulder-length dark hair, curling softly. The piece stops and she
turns the page.

She turns her head.

Not beautiful, not even pretty, but there's something compelling in her dark
eyes. I'm staring. She sees me, flicks the corner of her mouth up at me, and
gets back to the task at hand.

She's showing off a little, now, letting her body move more as she draws the
bow sweetly across the strings. Her hands are starkly pale against the black
of her dress, strong hands with sinewy tendons, the nails clipped short.

Younger than Sharon would have been, but without her loveliness.

But I'm mesmerized.

The piece ends. "Liebestraum," love's dream. There's a smattering of
applause. I look at her again, find her brooding eyes on me. Risking the
wrath of my family, I point to my watch and to my wine glass, mouthing the
word, "drink."

The violist intercepts this look. Obviously the leader of the group, he hisses
something at the cellist and her face flushes with embarrassment. She turns
away, getting away from whatever he said--probably about not fraternizing with
the guests--and from the look of disappointment on my face.

Damn it, I've gotten her in trouble, and I don't even know her name. She's too
old to have a silly name like Tiffani or a trendy one like Tyler. Whoever you
are, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

My niece interrupts this reverie. "Yes, Andrea," I say to the lace-fluttering
creature who's just appeared at my side, "I'm having a wonderful time. Thanks
so much for inviting me."

She's too young to be a bride, too young to throw herself away on Paul or
Saul or whatever the hell that boy's name is. Smiling, she floats away on a
cloud of tulle, the scent of decaying roses clinging to her hair like a
messenger of death.

When will this torture end?

I return to my pork medallions, my spinach souffle. Big damn deal. Food. I can
eat at home, in civvies, not having every bite constrained by the bow tie. Not
feeling like an ass because a pair of dark eyes has called to me in silence.

They've stopped. Their portion of the evening is over; a d.j. appears out of
nowhere and starts to play pop songs. This really, really is the limit for
me. I sit through the obligatory cake-cutting, champagne-toasting,
garter-throwing, and bouquet-tossing. All I want to toss are my cookies. I
need to get out of there and go back to my room in this overpriced hotel
until morning comes and I can catch the first flight out of here.

I make my exit.

There's a bar. Thank you, Jesus, there's a bar. I'm a man who needs a stiff
drink.

This is much better. It's a library, with dark wood paneling, gleaming brass
rails, and leather seats that you can sink into. The familiar embrace of
leather is almost obscene in its comfort. I order a gin and tonic while my
eyes adjust to the lamplight.

There are few of us in this place tonight. A couple sits nearby, hanging on
one another's every word. Sweet. A man could die from sweetness like this. A
few stragglers like myself are nestled in their chairs, holding books idly in
their laps, sipping their drinks in an attempt to ward off the inevitable
lonely trip in the elevator to a classy, well-appointed room. An empty room.

I want to get the waiter's attention, so I turn around sharply. There's a
long swath of black silk draped elegantly from a barstool. My eyes travel
upward and find the brunette cellist sitting there, her cheek pillowed on one
hand while the other flips through the book on the bar.

Ah, Fortune.

I'm too big a man to sneak up on anyone very efficiently, but I give it my
best shot. As luck would have it, she's so engrossed in her reading that her
peripheral vision doesn't register my presence.

This time I voice my thought aloud. "How fortunate," I say quietly.

She starts, almost dropping the book. Her free hand covers her heart for an
instant, and there's a flash of genuine alarm against the deep color of her
eyes.

"I didn't mean to startle you," I assure her.

"It's all right, it's fine." The words are spoken quickly, but not so quickly
that I can miss the delicate trace of a southern accent.

"I hope I didn't cause you any trouble, back at the reception?"

"Mark? He's a jerk.  Wants to be the sole center of attention.  I came here
to...settle my nerves."

Silently I request permission to sit beside her, and her assent is equally
silent.

I long to fill the empty space. "Good book?"

Mirthful crinkles form around her mouth. She knows I'm coming on to her but
doesn't quite believe it. Shyly she regards the dark binding. "Not
especially. It's more of a prop, something to do with my hands. *That's* hard
to fit up on a bar stool." Her hand gestures to the cello case lying at her
feet like an obedient dog.

"I thought it might be some kind of barrier." Her face is uncomprehending for
an instant, then she laughs.

"That's not usually an issue, unless it's a damn dark bar."

Brittle but not bitter, self-knowledge rather than self-deprecation. An
unlovely woman made lovely by her forthrightness and the glimmer of her soul.

She breaks my hard-ass facade into a million pieces.

I order another gin and tonic for myself and make a gesture for the bartender
to refill the woman's wine glass.  Merlot turns the clear crystal into the
dark red of heart's blood. She lifts the glass to me and takes a long, slow
sip. "Thank you," she says.

"My pleasure." The sting of the gin warms me, makes my voice come back under
my control. "You play a lot of these types of weddings?"

"More than I can count. Must be a huge knot in my karmic string for me to
spend so much time with people like that."

"How do you know that I'm not 'people like that?'"

She looks into the depths of the wine, then back up at me. "Because you were
listening." Her fingers push at a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her
ear. "The ones who listen are the ones who matter. All the rest--they're not
real. I don't play for them."

"Were you playing for me?"

Why did I just say that?

A couple of silent beats go by.

"In a way."

Tension. I can scarcely hear my voice over the pounding of blood in my ears.

"Will you play for me?"

Her fair skin takes on a deep blush, a subtle shade of the wine she was
drinking. The dark head drops as she looks into the wine as if at an oracle,
and then her eyes slowly come up to my mouth, then, finally, to my own eyes.
There are flickering flames of desire in her gaze, but doubt is placing a
crease on her brow. "I don't think I understand," she says softly, buying
time.

"I think you do."

The self-mockery is there once more. "I guess I don't believe it, otherwise
I'd be calling the cops."

I take out my wallet and open it to my I.D. "I *am* the cops."

There's a little relief when she reads the information. "Well, that's good to
know, Walter," she says, trying the name in her bright soprano. "It suits
you."

"I'm glad. And your name...?"

"Claire," she responds, the corner of her mouth turned up in a wry smile.

I reach out to take her hand. Her skin is surprisingly soft except for the
pads of her fingers, and her grip is strong as she holds on to me. I imagine
those sure, supple hands roaming over my body and a jolt of arousal rushes
through me.

What the hell am I doing? Why am I in a bar, picking up a woman I don't know
anything about? Don't I learn from my mistakes?

This is no mistake. This is a living, breathing woman, soft enough to take
away the blunt edges for one night. One night.

She leans slightly forward and I let my lips brush against hers. Sweet and
warm, her mouth opens for me just enough to taste the merlot.

The world goes away. I stand up and put my hand at her waist while she lifts
her case and picks up her purse. Somehow I know better than to offer to carry
the instrument for her; it is her bodyguard, her life. Silently we go down
the marble corridor to the elevator, our body heat growing noticeably. We are
alone in the elevator. I take out my passkey and put it into the uppermost
lock of the elevator panel.

Yes, I am staying in the penthouse suite. It's one of the few luxuries I allow
myself when I travel. Claire's eyes widen a little but she is silent.

The doors slide open and we are in the living area. The furniture is elegant
yet comfortable. I guide Claire to the sofa after she makes certain that her
instrument is safely tucked away in a corner. She looks up at me with desire
shimmering in those sad eyes and takes my hands in hers.

I lean down and give her a kiss. "I'm going to order room service."

"If you insist."

I loosen my tie and toe off my shoes as I make the call, ordering champagne
and caviar. Her soft laughter runs an electrical impulse through me. "I
didn't know if you'd had a chance to eat tonight."

Her head lifts and she smiles. "That's very considerate of you."

We're a little nervous; neither of us is an expert at beginning something like
this. I sit beside her and run my hands over the silk of her skirt. "This is
lovely," I tell her, meaning it.

"It's my favorite dress. I don't usually wear it to weddings, but
tonight...something just told me to wear something special." There is a sudden
cool silence and she starts to tremble just a little. "I don't do this, ever,"
she says, her voice shaky.

"I know you don't, I know." I want to comfort her, to console her, to let her
lose herself in me. "We won't do anything you don't want. I promise."

"I trust you." Her clear eyes do not waver as she watches my reaction to her
words.

I hope she can see the very real tenderness I'm feeling toward her. I lean in
and give her the softest of kisses, my lips pliant against hers. "So sweet,
Claire."

"Mmm." She snuggles closer, offering me a glimpse of her pale neck. I take the
hint and drop kisses there until she purrs with the pleasure.

Her hands are not idle. She opens the buttons of my shirt one by one.
Exploring fingers caress my chest.

Suddenly I'm like a teenager again, a burst of heat rushing into my groin,
making me hard in seconds. Against my will I push myself against her leg and
she is startled to find me aroused so quickly.

"Look what you're doing to me," I tell her, directing her gaze to my lap. My
hands come up and twist themselves in her hair. "You're driving me crazy,
looking at me like that."

She wants to play. "Like what?" she inquires, all innocence, but her smile is
rapacious.

I'm saved by the sound of the elevator. A waiter emerges with a heavy tray,
setting it carefully down on the dining table. I've left some bills there and
he takes them quietly, scarcely looking in my direction as he exits as
quickly as he entered.

I guess this staff is used to having guests who don't want to stand up.

Claire peers over at the abundance of food and the silver bucket that
contains the champagne. It's expensive, ridiculously extravagant, but this is
going to be a ridiculous and extravagant night.

"I'll open it while you change," I offer.

"Into what?"

For an instant I have forgotten that she is on my territory. My groin
tightens a little with the machismo implications. "My bathrobe is on the bed.
Make yourself comfortable."

With more grace than I had imagined she gets up and walks softly into the
bedroom, closing the doors behind her. As I take the cork out of the
champagne I hear the rustle of silk hitting the floor and the slight rasp of
hooks coming undone. By the time she emerges I have an erection of epic
proportions, and seeing her almost makes me double over in pain.

She's swallowed up by my navy blue robe, her hair tumbling around her
shoulders in loose curls. And she's still wearing her high-heeled black
shoes.

Damn the woman.

My hand is shaking visibly as I pour the champagne into the crystal flutes.
She steadies my hand with hers and lifts the glass to her lips. My glass. And
then she tilts it up for me to drink from. The erotic connotations are
unbearable.

"Hungry?" I ask her, my meaning double-edged.

"Starved." Claire takes a cracker and spreads caviar on it with the tiny
silver spoon. She pops it into her mouth and chews, her eyes closed and a
little moan of approval making her throat flutter slightly.

I want to hear that sound again and again. By the time I catch my breath she
has made another little snack and feeds it to me. I lick the tips of her
fingers as they come nearer to my lips than is strictly necessary, then take
a long swallow of the champagne. It calms me a little, enough to keep my
raging blood under control for a while longer, at least.

When I look at her again, the neck of my robe has slipped down on one side,
exposing her shoulder. Its round softness beckons me. My mouth is there
suddenly, tasting the warmth of flesh and the slight bitterness of perfume.

"Walter," she whispers, shivering.

I fold her up easily in my arms, not wanting to crush her with my eagerness.
Her mouth covers my chest with little kisses punctuated by the tip of her
tongue. Without too much force I pull her head up to meet mine, claiming her
lips over and over again. There's a heat rising from her, darkening the scent
of her perfume and adding the faint hint of arousal,  wafting it to my
overstimulated senses. Only when I move to take off the robe does she pull
away.

"Too much light," she manages to gasp.

She's afraid I won't like what I see.

"Please."

Reluctantly I go to the wall switch and extinguish the light. There's a faint
glow coming from the window, just enough to turn us both into silver spectres.
Just as my eyes begin to make the adjustment, Claire rushes into my arms and
holds me tightly.

"Easy, easy," I say, soothing her with lips and hands. "I'm not going
anywhere." She looks at me and cocks her head slightly.

"Nowhere?"

I laugh, the rumble coming from my chest. "Well, I can think of ONE place." I
dip my head down level with hers, amazed at the brilliance of her eyes even in
the darkened room. "If you'll go with me."

Her arms twine around my neck. "Yes," she says so softly that it almost sounds
like a sigh. "if you want me."

If I want her.

What have men done to her, that she could doubt me at this moment?

I want to hurt someone. My blood boils at the idea of getting my hands on the
idiots who cast her aside because she doesn't fit their ideals. But more than
that, I want to be the one to wipe away all her bad memories and replace them
with my desire.

I begin my quest to do just that.

"Claire, I want you," I say, letting my shortening breath make the point
clearer to her. "Of course I want you."

She presses her body along mine, warming me, inflaming me. None too gently I
run my hands under the familiar cotton of my robe to touch the unfamiliar
softness of her skin. Oh, God, breasts. Real breasts, womanly and warm,
delightfully heavy in my hands, their softness accented by the contrast of
the nipples that tighten at my touch.

Claire's breathing catches and her trembling is no longer from fear but from
need.

Hands are flying around my body, on my chest, around my waist, undoing my
cummerbund and pants and leaving me naked. Holy God, she's stroking me and
I'm so hard, so hot...her hand clenches around me, stronger than any woman
has ever done, the way I've always wanted a woman to touch me but never dared
to ask...as strong and sure as my own hand...

With a growl I pull away from her. "Too close," I manage to gasp. I take that
remarkable hand and kiss it on the palm, detecting my own aroma mixed with
hers. "I'll take a rain check."

There's a brief pause, then she laughs. "Is that what they call it?"

"That's what they call it." I step out of the pile of my clothes and slowly
untie the sash of the robe. "Let me in, Claire," I whisper as I let our unclad
flesh meet. "Let me near you."

"Oh, God," she whispers. She rocks slowly against me, her moist center growing
hotter by the instant. My fingers trace a line over her belly and through her
hair, down to where she is swollen and waiting for me. "God!" she cries at the
first touch. "Oh, please, yes..."

I turn her around, her back pressed to my chest, and let my fingers adore
her. My other hand teases her nipple. She is undulating against me, her dark
hair spilling over my arm. I lean over and kiss her, hearing her faint
whimpers in my mouth.

"No one will hear you, Claire."

She chews her lip, trying to stay quiet. I stroke more firmly. I am intent
upon finding the place that makes her muscles clench. There. Oh, there, and
she's writhing now. All that delicious softness is stroking my entire body.
And still she tries to stifle her sounds. She is biting the back of her
wrist.

I take the hand away, holding it firmly, and look into her wild eyes. "I need
to know," I tell her. My searching finger flicks against her, dipping into
the heated wetness.

"...can't..." she groans, shame warring with her undeniable desire.

"Oh, but you can. You can do anything you want, anything you need." I let my
drenched fingers linger on her favorite spot until she is squirming
helplessly, then I stop abruptly.

"Oh, no...don't stop..."

"You want me to keep doing that?"

"Yes!" She bucks against my hand, which I keep just close enough to tantalize
her.

"Good, good," I croon, stroking her once more. She is shaking so violently
that I have to hold her around the waist with my free arm.

Move vocal now, she is crying out her pleasure with long, inarticulate
sounds. She is holding on to my neck, her arms stretched above her head,
revealing the length of her body to my curious gaze. Even in the relative
darkness I can see the deep flush that is covering her. The cleft above her
ass is rubbing against my penis so hard that I'm having trouble
concentrating.

There is a change in her body. Her movements slow and she takes in a
shuddering breath, holding it, letting only the tiniest gasps escape her in
little staccato cries. I can feel a deep throbbing in the flesh under my
fingertip.

"You're there now...that's it, isn't it, that's the place..."

"Oh, please...yes...Walter..." Her voice gives out for an instant, then she
begins to wail her pleasure. "Yes!" she cries triumphantly.

So exquisite, she's coming in my hand and it's so beautiful, so
perfect...once, twice, three times and she's still coming...still calling my
name...

"Walter...Walter..."

I need to take her now. Now.

I half drag, half carry her to the bed, drawing out her orgasm with strong
flicks of my finger. She falls backwards into the nest of pillows and opens
her arms to me. "In me," she gasps.

Without any hesitation I find my way home, at the edge of her welcoming heat.
She's wet, the passage still quivering with aftershocks. I moan loudly.

"It's okay, it's okay," she assures me as I discover her tightness.

"Don't want..."

"You won't."

Our eyes meet. God knows when my glasses fell off, but I can still read her
expression and it's full of desire. I kiss her with reverence as I continue my
journey. I can see myself disappearing into her.

She was right; I don't hurt her as I begin my thrusts. She opens to me, her
softness a perfect counterbalance to my hard, aching need. With each stroke
she learns more about me and soon she is lifting her hips to grant me the
depth I have to have, meeting me with increasing speed and force. I drive
faster; the ache is more than I can endure.

"God!"

Her fingers graze my tight sac and my balls pull close to my body. I'm
panting and groaning with the constant exertion. Somewhere outside of the
humming in my body I can hear her crooning to me, little wordless soprano
sounds urging me onward.

As if I could stop myself.

I'm wound so tightly that I can't breathe, can't see past the flaring redness
behind my eyes. I'm so close but so far away, unaware of anything but the
absolute agony of being on the edge of orgasm. What can I say, how can I tell
her how absolutely perfect this all is?

"...ohh..."

Brilliant, Walter...

I hurt too much to care. Bright hurt, pain like ecstasy, the center of my
being on fire, imploding, cutting off my breath.

Too much, too good, and I'm there, right THERE...

It's so sweet, so perfect, and it's all spilling from my body in overheated
waves, too much...too much...

"Ssh, ssh, it's okay."

I'm ashore, my head on her breasts, trying to remember how to breathe, how to
move. Pulling out of her is like cutting out my heart.

Warm, soft arms clasp me closely, and chocolate eyes hold me in their thrall.
"You must be exhausted," she whispers.

A barking laugh escapes me. "At the very least." I kiss her nose and eyelids,
then take her mouth for long, breathless moments. "Will you be all right
here?"

"More than all right." She lets me turn over and spoon her against me. I crave
her warmth.

My lips hover at the back of her neck. I taste the salt of perspiration along
with a unique, indescribably poignant sweetness that is hers alone. "I don't
want to sleep," I mutter thickly.

"You may not have a choice." It's a matter-of-fact statement, with nothing
behind it but affection. "Besides, I'm glad about the reason."

"What reason? That I'm a middle-aged man and I need my sleep?"

We both laugh. "That I could...please you..."

" 'Please' is too small a word," I assure her, kissing the top of her head.
"Just let me rest for a while, and I'll show you...pleasure..."

Peripherally I'm aware of her happy sigh, and then I'm gone.

***

Bach?

I blink quickly, searching for my glasses and wondering why I'm hearing Bach
when there's no light coming through the window and my radio isn't on.

No glasses. Wait.

The music is coming from the other room, live. In the other room, somewhere,
my glasses fell to the ground in the heat of passion. I peer shortsightedly
at the clock and find that I was asleep for over two hours.

She's playing for me.

I get up and wander into the other room. There are no clothes to cover me, so
I just proceed naked to where she is sitting on a dining chair. My robe is on
her, but she's barefoot as she pulls the bow sensuously along the strings.
She doesn't see me at first because her eyes are closed in an ecstasy of
creativity. The music surges and recedes.

She senses my presence and opens her eyes, smiling. So warm and welcoming.

"Did I wake you?"

"It doesn't matter. Keep going."

I reach for the champagne. I don't remember re-corking it a while ago, but
I'm glad; the bubbles still make their merry froth along the glasses as I
pour some for us both.

There's a last little sigh of melancholy music, and Claire stops. Carefully
she sets aside the cello and bow and takes the glass I offer her. "I couldn't
sleep," she says.

I crouch beside her. "Why not?"

She shrugs, and that bare shoulder comes tantalizingly into my view. Even
without my glasses, I can see the freckles on the fair surface and I suddenly
want to play connect-the-dots with my tongue.

So I do.

I wait for her little sigh, then continue touching each freckle in turn. "Do
you want more, Claire? Is that why you couldn't sleep?"

"I want more, God, yes. But I couldn't sleep because...well, I have the rest
of my life to sleep. Tonight, I have you."

That's the perfect answer. I pretend to search for my glasses to give myself a
moment to recover from the shock. When the search fails, I put my hands firmly
on her arms. "You have me tonight. Anything you want, it's yours."

Her black eyelashes stand out against her cheeks as she closes her eyes, lost
in thought. "I want to see that look on your face again, Walter."

"What look?"

When she opens her eyes, I'm lost again in their depths. "This one. The one
you get when you want me."

"Oh, I do want you." I part the center of her robe and kiss her knees, then I
sit on the floor and draw her feet into my lap. "Every inch of you," I
continue as I knead her ankles and toes. I start to kiss my way up one leg,
from the instep of her foot upwards in a straight line to her calf, her knee
again, and then her thigh.

She is breathing harder as the anticipation begins. I push her thighs apart,
kissing the little marks left by the corners of her cello. Up and up, into
damp black curls.

Her fingers grip my shoulders; her eyes are wide and unfocused. I wrap my arms
around her legs and dive into her.

Almost at once a surge of moisture leaks from her. I taste its briny heat and
she shudders violently. My tongue probes her, searching restlessly for the
treasure. Swelling flesh meets me and I lick it. Slowly at first, with the
flat part of my tongue, and then with quicker stabs, little thrusts that make
her cry out her delight.

The sudden violence of her climax surprises us both. She collapses into my
arms. I pull her from the chair into my lap, rocking her gently back to
earth.

Her first word is an apology. "Sorry."

I can't help smiling as I kiss her cheek. "Sorry for what?"

Still trembling, she finds it hard to form words. "Not very...ladylike..."

"Ah, Claire, no." I cover her damp face with kisses. "Don't say that, that's
not true," I murmur.

"It's just...no one...ever..." The harsh breaths are mixed with sobs.

Behind my omnipresent lust comes the anger again, the fury against whoever
taught her that she was unworthy. "Then, they don't know what they've
missed." I cradle her, relishing her softness even as my own body begins to
make its demands known. "I want to do it again."

Finally she laughs, kissing me soundly. "I can't," she whimpers. "I don't have
any bones in my body."

"Never stopped me before." I get up and pull her into my arms, lifting her off
the floor. "This way to the torture chamber."

"Oh, yes. Please. More torture."

It feels so good, making her happy. I want to prolong it as long as possible.
With a flourish I set her back on the bed and the robe falls backwards to
expose her body. There is still a touch of rose to her complexion, a
testimony to her recent orgasm, and her eyes are on fire.

"Come here, Walter," she intones. I fall willingly into her open arms,
nuzzling the space between her breasts. Downward, ever downward, her hands
search me out and find how greatly I want her. "Oh!" she gasps as I become
even more erect in her hand. "Did I do that to you?"

"Yes..." My brain starts to overload at the very first stroke of her palm.
"You're making me...crazy..."

Somehow my mouth manages to latch on to her nipple, sucking it until it's
like a diamond against her skin. She likes that; I can feel her squirming
underneath me. In retaliation, she begins firm, rapid stroking, her fingers
massaging as they move.

I'm a dead man.

It's no effort for her to roll me over onto my back. I couldn't fight her
even if I wanted to, and I don't. Oh, my God, she's getting me so close, and
now her mouth is joining her hand...

"Jesus!" I scream, nearly arching off of the bed. She continues to minister
to me, making my cock the center of attention for us both. Lips and tongue
bathe me, and there's just a hint of her teeth when she slowly drags her
mouth back up. She licks the vein, blowing on the wet flesh until I start to
moan. There is an answering moan as she takes all of me into her mouth again,
licking and sucking, and her hands sweep over my thighs...

And she stops. Damn her. She's smiling down at me.

"Had enough?"

With a groan I pull her on top of me, settling her right over the desired
target. "Not even close," I manage to say hoarsely.

With agonizing slowness, she lowers herself onto me. Sweet drops of her
wetness trickle down my length. She's tight and slick, impossibly hot, her
flesh slowly, slowly searing mine as it wraps around me. Her breath catches
in a gasp between agony and delight.

"Claire?"

Dark, half-focused eyes meet mine. "I'm so...full..." she murmurs. With a
little cry she begins to move up and down, trying to get all of my cock into
her. "Ohh..."

Carefully I bring my hips up to push myself deeper into her. I'm sweating and
trembling. Above me, Claire is straining, her tight passage protesting the
intrusion. My fingers find her clitoris and start to rub it gently, coaxing
back the little hood and finding the deep root.

"Oh, God, Walter..." Her breathing quickens and her muscles start to relax.
She's taking me into the perfect orchid of her flesh, all the way until we
are completely connected. A happy smile replaces the contorted grimace she
had worn. "I did it!"

I smile back, grinning like a crazy man. "Oh, yes, you...you...GOD!"

I lose all power of speech as she starts to ride me. Such delicious, welcoming
tightness, and it's milking me, tugging at me as surely as her strong hand had
done. My hands shake but remain focused on their task. Using my heels as
leverage I lift my hips upward, keeping the thrusting gentle for as long as I
can.

But she's good, and it's not long.

Blood is surging through my ears and cock, roaring and pulsing. When I can
breathe, I feel hot surges of ragged air slicing past my open mouth into lungs
that can't remember how to work. She is swollen under my fingertips, the firm
flesh heated and quivering. Needy. Ready.

Multitasking, Walter, I try to tell myself, forcing my fingers to continue to
stroke her even though they want to clutch wildly at the sheets. I miss my
target in my eagerness and she moans deeply. Her hips are moving in small,
hard circles.

If my balls were any tighter, they'd be in my liver.

She's looking down at me with such tenderness that I can hardly bear to meet
her eyes. I don't want to come without her...what's she doing?

Her fingers wrap around my wrists and I can no longer touch her.

"Just you," she gasps. "Just for you."

I have to come. I can feel the unbearable tension and the first boiling surge.
"Can't...stop..."

"Walter...come for me..."

My eyes see nothing but blinding white and I hear a roar tearing out of my
throat. Over and over. Thrusting, thrusting, trying to complete the circuit,
my whole body is convulsing with the unleashed energy. Ramming full-force
into her and moaning. I need to come, I need to come now, now...NOW!

And I do, oh thank you God, I finally feel the hot spray leaving my body and
entering hers, then cascading back down to cover us both.

"...sorry..." I gasp, knowing that I've left her quivering around me.

"I loved it," is the surprising reply. "I loved watching you come...it was so
erotic, Walter..."

What's left of my erection gives a small flutter at her words and we both
laugh. I pull her down to cover me and, inevitably, I fall out of her. "But I
want to make it better," I growl, fighting the urge to drop off into sated
sleep.

"How?"

It's a challenge. My fingers, which are just now regaining their feeling, part
her flesh. "Will this do?"

"Probably...okay, definitely..."

She's been ready for so long that her body starts its spasms almost
immediately. I concentrate on one curve that seems to be the most sensitive,
letting our combined wetness ease the friction as the speed increases
exponentially. "Sweet, sweet girl, you're going to come, aren't you?"

The sound of my voice deepens her response. "Yes...please...harder..."

How could I not obey her breathless command? My fingers stroke her, staying
outside; she shies away when I try to penetrate her, so I remain where I
began.

"Oh, yes..."

"Tell me how it feels," I demand. I need to know, have to know.

"Tight, and swollen, so tight...pulsing...can't stand it...oh, God, Walter..."

"Ssh, ssh." I've embarrassed her, but the words made me so hot that I couldn't
resist. My mouth takes hers in silent thanks.

With a long wail she convulses, then is silent. Motionless.

"Christ!" My brain is reeling, remembering another woman who died in my bed,
and I frantically feel for a pulse.

It's there, regular if hard to feel, and she's breathing.

Fainted.

Oh, my God.

My testosterone goes through the roof at the realization that she's lost
consciousness from the force of her orgasm.

Easy, boy.

I pet her, stroking her hair and whispering softly in case she can hear me.
"Claire, Claire, it's okay. You're okay, sweetheart."

Where the hell did that come from?

I hope she didn't hear that.

I hope she did.

For a long time I continue to hold on to her, rocking her tenderly in my
arms. There's the faintest hint of a smile on her slightly parted lips. Once
more, as a test, I put my fingers back on her center and stroke.

She comes, softly this time, her little moan muffled by the swoon.

God, I love this.

Her eyes open, heavy and dreamy.

"Hi there," I whisper into her ear. "You went away for a minute."

"...back..." It's all she can manage. Her arms are too weak to wrap around me.
I've drained her, sated her completely, and she wants to sleep now.

I pull the covers up over us both and enclose her shivering body in the
coccoon of blankets and my own flesh. "I'm right here, I'm holding you."

"...mmm..."

I've never felt this good in my whole miserable life. And in just a few
hours, I have to get on a plane to D.C. and leave her behind.

***

Sunshine sucks.

It slaps me in the face and I wince, partly from a hangover and partly because
my head is filled with images of passionate sex with the woman I hold now.

Oh, and partly because of my body's morning wake-up call, which is of an epic
proportion despite the unaccustomed activity of last night.

Claire's thigh is pressed just close enough for her heat to penetrate the
skin of my cock. Penetrate. I don't dare think about that word. I look over
her as she lies asleep, wincing when I see purple marks where my fingers have
squeezed too tightly, and some larger marks where I must have injured her in
my...eagerness.

We'll both leave here with bruises, Claire.

I get a mental image of myself working alone at my polished desk high above
the D.C. traffic, and my sadness is palpable.

But there's a stirring of the bedcovers and warm arms wrap around me, and for
the next few hours we'll sing those night songs to one another.

It will have to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End

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