“Scully?” he asks, and she realizes she didn’t hear the question.
“Do you want the last slice of pizza?” he repeats, pointing to the nearly empty box of Canadian bacon and pineapple.
She shakes her head, taking a deep breath to ground herself in the moment. They sit on the bed in his motel room, reviewing case notes while a rerun of MASH plays on the small TV. He’s been going on about how often arson investigators are wrong about the origin of the fire, and how the way that they determine that an accelerant was used has been widely disputed. That they should not form their opinions on this case around the theory that the fire was set intentionally.
She’s been trying to listen, trying very hard, but he’s wearing that shirt. That Queen T-shirt with the hole in the armpit. It’s the one he was wearing when-
She closes her eyes tight against the memory.
“You okay?” he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice really isn’t helping.
“Yeah, I’m just tired, I think I’ll go to bed,” she replies, rising from her seat beside him.
She passes through the adjoining door between their rooms, pulling her side closed before she flops onto the bed with an exasperated exhale. It’s been over a month and she expected it to get better with time, but it’s only getting worse.
That night had been a mistake. A stupid, thoughtless mistake. She’d made the conscious decision to step close and press her fingertips into his hip bones, steadying herself against him as she pushed up on to her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth. Everything after that had been choices her body made with no concern at all for what her mind might have to say in the matter. It was like an out of body experience, her consciousness hovering above them and watching helplessly as she sated every desire she’d been suppressing for seven years and some months.
The phrase “it all happened so fast” had always struck her as cliche. And yet one second they were kissing, and the next his fingers were deep inside her, stroking her g-spot as she struggled to pull in a full breath. She blinked and his tongue was between her thighs, lapping at her as though her pussy alone could sustain his life, like he needed her more than air. She pushed gently at his head, making excuses, telling him he didn’t have to. When he pinned her hands to the bed and doubled his efforts, she came hard against his tongue, so hard she saw stars. She blinked again and now it was his cock that was inside her, slipping in and out fast and hard, knocking her rhythmically against his headboard until he wrapped his hand around her skull protectively. Blink again and she was in her car on the way home, chewing nervously on her lip as her consciousness settled back into her body. As it asked her what she had done. She might have tried to convince herself she’d imagined it, if not for the slick of his cum in her panties and the tenderness between her legs when she washed herself in the shower the next morning.
Regret. Shame. Embarrassment. Facing him again was the hardest thing she’s ever done, and she’s done some hard things. She’d knocked on his apartment door, unable to meet his eye when he answered. Unable to look at his face as she told him that it was a mistake, and how sorry she was for initiating it. He didn’t speak as she stared at his long bare toes against the hardwood, begging that they pretend it never happened. When she was finished, she forced a glance at him and his expression was neutral, open, accepting.
“Okay,” he’d said, and she left. They haven’t spoken of it since.
Peeling herself from her motel bed, she flips on the shower. Scrubbing the memory from her skin, she attempts to wash it down the drain along with the slickness that had gathered between her legs while thinking about it. She knows it was a mistake, and she knows that it can’t happen again. She knows this, and yet her body betrays her. The smell of his deodorant alone is enough to send her into a tailspin, drawing her to him like a heat seeking missile. There’s a certain way he groans when he’s frustrated that is remarkably similar to the sound he made while his lips were wrapped around her clit. She’s found herself trying to frustrate him just to hear it. She wants him again, so badly. But she can’t. She won’t.
Fully cleansed, she pulls on a T-shirt and cotton shorts. The shower did very little to quench her thirst and so she decides to try working as a distraction. She left Mulder’s room before she had a chance to review the most recent autopsy report, and she was in such a hurry to get out of there that she hadn’t even grabbed it. Moving to the adjoining door, she opens her side to see that his is slightly ajar, their standard signal that company is welcome. Pushing it open slowly, she opens her mouth to speak but stops short when she sees him.
He’s standing at the foot of the bed, facing her. A towel covers his head and he’s rubbing it roughly over his hair, drying off after a shower. He is fully nude, droplets of water trailing down his belly and beading in his dark thatch of pubic hair. He’s flaccid, but still impressive, the plump mushroom tip of him resting invitingly against his scrotum. Her heart starts thrumming in her chest like a jackhammer and she slides her tongue along her lower lip, breath coming out in pants like a dog in heat. She practically salivates at the sight of him, new wetness pooling where she had just washed it away.
When she forces her eyes higher, over the ripples of his taut abdomen and the smooth plain of his chest, she finds that the towel is now draped around his neck, and he’s looking at her curiously.
Her eyes widen in surprise and shock, her mouth rooting for words. Any words. Say. Words. Dana. A tiny smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.
“I’m so sorry, Mulder. Um, your door was open,” she finally stammers, averting her eyes.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, pulling the towel down and wrapping it around his hips. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, right?”
She can feel her cheeks redden even further, if that’s possible.
“I just...I came to get the autopsy report,” she says, hand still on the doorknob, gaze on the floor.
He walks over to the small desk and picks up a folder before bringing it to her. He’s so close, and so fresh and smooth, and so...Mulder. He holds the folder out to her and she can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. She takes it, dropping her arm to her side, and then just stands there. It’s like he has a magnetic pull on her that she can’t break away from. Compelled by a force more powerful than her self control, she stays right where she is.
“Something else I can do for you, Scully?” he asks in a syrupy voice, and she lifts her eyes to look at his face. His irises are wide and dark, his lips slightly parted. He’s aroused.
“Mulder…” she says, but can’t quite finish the thought. She doesn’t quite need to.
He steps a little closer, invading her space, inviting her into his. He’s still holding eye contact.
“Mulder, we shouldn’t. We can’t.” She scolds her own voice for coming out so weak, so unconvincing.
“Why?” he asks in a tender whisper that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“We agreed, Mulder. We agreed that it should never have happened. That it can’t happen again.”
He sighs. “I didn’t agree to anything, Scully. You said you wanted to forget it ever happened and I respected your wishes. That doesn’t mean I feel the same way.”
She drops her gaze to somewhere around his shoulder. “We work together, Mulder. It’s unprofessional, and inappropriate, and….we can’t .”
“Okay. Like I said, if that’s what you want then I’ll respect it. Sorry for being captain obvious here, Scully, but you’re the one who’s still standing in my room,” he says before adding in a low tone, “I can’t help but wonder if you’re trying to convince me or yourself.”
She drops her eyes even lower, frustrated with herself because he’s right, and her eye catches the tent at the front of his towel. He’s hard. She swallows. She looks up at his face again and she can see his jaw working with restraint, his breaths controlled and shallow. She’s told him no and he will never, ever violate that boundary; he respects her too much. Which is a real shame because right now she wishes that he would ignore everything she’s saying and throw her onto his bed.
No such luck. She has to make a conscious choice.
Her fingers trembling, she reaches out and tentatively touches the edge of the towel at his hips. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, a stream of air rushing out of his nose. Letting the file drop to the floor, she brings her other hand to lie on his chest, feeling the quickened pace of his heartbeat under her palm and the smooth, shower-fresh warmth of his skin. His eyes are on her mouth and she opens it reflexively, inviting him inside. He’s stock still, unmoving. Wordless invitations are not sufficient. She’s verbally told him no, and now she must verbally tell him yes.
“Kiss me,” she says in a near-whisper, in someone else’s voice, with someone else’s intentions.
A tiny little groan echoes in the depths of his throat.
“I’d like to, Scully, but you just told me you didn’t want to do that. I’m not sure I can live through another morning-after regret conversation,” he says in reply, and there’s pain in his voice.
Her heart aches, knowing that she’d hurt him with her own self-judgment. She’d rejected him without meaning to.
“I’m sorry, Mulder,” she says softly, searching his face with her eyes. “It’s not about you, it’s me. I just...it’s not that I don’t want you. I do. But I’m afraid.”
His mouth puckers a little with emotion, maybe relief, knowing that it was never him she was running from. Knowing that she wants him.
He takes her hand from his chest, bringing it to his lips and kissing each finger tip one at a time as she watches, mesmerized. When he’s done, he places it back on his pectoral and covers it with both of his own.
“I would never hurt you, Scully,” he says with so much tenderness that tears prick at her eyes.
She nods softly. “I know,” she finally says, barely audibly.
He bends down then and kisses her, fully but sweetly. It’s a promise and an agreement, one they both commit to this time. As in all things, not knowing what the future holds but knowing that whatever it is they will get through it together.
She slips her index finger under the edge of the towel and tugs. It drops to the floor with a soft whoosh , draping around his feet. The kiss deepens, tongues gently exploring surfaces hard and soft, wet and hot. She wraps her arms around his waist, touching the skin of his bare back. Slipping her hands lower to cup his ass, she pulls him closer and they both groan when his growing erection pushes into her belly.
This isn’t happening so fast, she thinks. She is present, and consciously choosing this again and again. Choosing Mulder, choosing pleasure, choosing to let go for once.
He stoops down and slips his hands under her backside, lifting her up as her legs wrap around his hips. He takes two steps forward and her back is against the wall next to the open door between their rooms, his cock pushing against the juncture of her leg and crotch.
They kiss languidly as he thrusts gently against her, his hands snaking under her T-shirt to knead her breasts, pinching her nipples as she moans into his mouth. He’s so hard and so close, and she’s not wearing panties. The thought sends a throb to her clit. She shifts her hips around, dropping inches lower until he’s right there, the smooth head of him prodding against her opening, slipping right past the thin cotton of her shorts.
“Oh fuck,” he rumbles. “Is this okay?” he asks, needing to be sure before he goes any further.
“Yes,” she replies breathlessly, “please.”
He moans long and low, nuzzling his nose into the crook of her neck as he pushes and shifts, finding just the right angle until he slips inside, filling her.
Her head drops back against the wall, mouth falling open in ecstasy and relief, a single piercing cry echoing in the quiet hotel room.
He stays still for a moment, kissing her neck as his breath heaves in anticipation. When she tilts her head back down, taking his face between her palms and kissing him, he begins to slowly pump in and out. Long, deep, slow strokes. So different than before, so much less frenzied. The first time had felt like they were trying to finish before they got caught, or came to their own senses, or changed their minds. Now they take their time, kissing and stroking, touching and exploring, enjoying each sensation. The only sounds are the soft smacks of their lips, the occasional moans escaping their throats, and the wet slide of his length as he moves within her.
He pushes her shirt up to expose her breasts, dipping his head to take a peaked nipple between his lips and suckling gently as she scrapes her fingernails over his scalp in encouragement. Her back is starting to hurt from being crammed against the wall but she can’t bring herself to stop what they’re doing. Mulder must have been thinking something similar because he suddenly clutches her to him and walks them over to the bed, staying inside her all the way.
He lays her down on the edge of the bed, him standing before her, and pushes her shirt up and off, tossing it aside. Next he withdraws from her and tugs her shorts down and off her hips, his glistening hard-on bobbing in the space between them expectantly. She’s expecting him to slide back in and resume what they were doing, but instead he kneels on the floor between her legs. She looks down at him, preparing to speak. Preparing to object.
“If you don’t like this,” he interjects, “I won’t do it. But if you’re about to tell me not to bother because you think I’m just doing you a favor, you should know that this,” he pauses and drags his tongue in one long, hard stroke over her dripping sex, “is all I’ve thought about every day for the past month.”
Her eyes roll back in her head and she drops against the bed as he begins his assault, licking and lapping at her with all the devotion and enthusiasm she’s been conjuring in her own fantasies since that first night. His tongue is soft while his fingers are firm, spreading her open and dipping inside, flicking and grazing and pressing, skirting gently down over her asshole to gage her response, learning her. Two lessons in and he’s ready to graduate as an orgasm begins to tingle in her toes, building and building.
“Tell me,” he lifts his lips from her briefly to speak. “Tell me when you’re coming.”
She shudders, brought further just by the sound of his voice. She’s almost there. She feels the telltale clench that will bring her over the edge and he groans, feeling the same thing around his fingers, or his tongue. She doesn’t know what part of him is inside her but she doesn’t care. Her breath is hitching, her moans continuous, drying out her open mouth until she swallows hard, trying to gather enough saliva to effectively speak.
Swell, rising, peaking, up to the point she can go no higher, she can’t turn back, not that she wants to. It’s inevitable now.
“Oh, I’m coming,” she pants, and he growls as she falls apart, throbbing against his mouth as he continues to stroke her with his tongue. His fingers are deep inside pushing against her pulsing g-spot, making it longer, harder, better than it has ever been. After the initial explosion he continues to tease smaller waves of pleasure from her and she doesn’t think she’s ever continued to orgasm for this long. She hears a fricative sound and sees his arm pumping vigorously. He’s touching himself.
“Oh my god,” she croons, overwhelmed by sensation, by pleasure, by release.
It becomes too much and she touches the top of his head, signals him to stop, then pushes herself away from the edge of the bed and lays on the pillows at the head. He climbs up beside her, nestling into her side and kissing her face tenderly while his hardness prods her thigh.
She kisses his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue, and reaches down to stroke him firmly. He groans and bucks into her hand, and she lets her leg fall to the side, tugging on his arm until he rolls on top of her. He slips back in easily, she is so wet and ready, and they quickly resume the pace they’d enjoyed against the wall. Long, firm strokes accompanied by deep kisses and hands exploring. He lifts her leg and rests it on his shoulder, deepening his angle, and while she knows she can’t come again this soon it still feels so damn good. He’s breathing hard and his eyes are closed, his mouth falling open and his eyebrows lifting impossibly higher as he approaches his own release.
“Tell me,” she says, panting. “Tell me when you’re coming.”
His eyes shoot open and he looks at her with a ravenous expression, intense and frantic as he quickens his pace. The rhythmic slapping of their bodies as they meet is deafening, the soft nudge of his balls against her ass on each upstroke a sensation she will recall later and blush. His face crumples, the sweet agony of orgasm distorting his features into something beautiful and vulnerable.
“I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming,” he bellows, and she feels the hot spurt of him against her cervix, the throb of him against her still-sensitive walls.
She watches him raptly, mesmerized by this face that is new to her and so deeply intimate. Just when she thought she knew every expression that could inhabit his face, here is another one. Perhaps her new favorite.
He collapses, half his weight draped over her and half on the bed, and they lie there for minutes, catching their breath. Finally he stands and goes into the bathroom. She hears the tap running and he comes back with a dampened washcloth, dragging it gently between her legs. The gesture is so tender and sweet, it makes her chest ache.
He returns, turning off the light and slipping under the sheets to lie beside her, curling his lanky frame around her petite one.
“Stay,” he says in a pleading tone. He’s expecting her to say no.
“Okay,” she replies.
They fall asleep in each other’s arms.
He wakes to the unfamiliar sensation of a naked backside tucked firmly against his groin. Blinking in the darkened room, he remembers and smiles against her hair, pulling in a deep breath full of her shampoo and the smell of their sex. His arm is draped over her waist, one hand cupping a warm breast, and he can feel himself growing hard against her. His initial reaction is to be embarrassed and try to conceal it, but then he has the thought that maybe he doesn’t have to anymore. As his cock stiffens, it finds itself wedged between his leg and the bottom of her ass cheek and he instinctively thrusts his hips a little, seeking friction. She stirs and he freezes, feigning sleep. Her breathing tells him that she’s awake, maybe having the same moment of realization he did. When she wiggles her backside against him a little, he’s sure. He groans and she does it again, more firmly this time. He allows his hand to squeeze gently at the breast currently in its possession and it’s her turn to moan. He’s thrusting against her in earnest now, his length threading between her ass cheeks until he feels her hand touch the head, pressing it against her opening until he routes inside.
Hot, wet, and tight. So unbelievably tight. He pushes his face into the crook of her neck and kisses the skin there frantically, pumping at a pace he won’t be able to keep up for long. Reaching down, he grasps her knee and pulls her leg up to hitch the ankle behind his thigh, then slips his hand down to touch the place where their bodies meet. His fingers slide along the length of his own cock as it pistons in and out of her, gathering moisture, before he circles her clit with his middle finger. He experiments with different levels of pressure and patterns of movement until he finds the one that makes her clench around him as her breath hitches in her throat. They haven’t said a word, but she is pulsing and whimpering and he’s close, so close that he hopes she gets there soon or he might leave without her. Suddenly, she hisses out “oh god, oh yes, oh god,” and then he feels her grip him like a vice. The feeling of her coming around him is overwhelming and he follows her over the edge, muttering obscenities into her ear as he pours himself into her.
This time there is no towel. He falls back asleep before he’s even fully retreated from her, clutching her to him like the prize that she is. Mine, mine, mine, he wants to tell her, but he doesn’t.
It’s 6 am when he hears the beeping of her alarm through the wall, and she’s untangling herself from his arms, sticky and sweat-damp. He’s so afraid that he’ll have to see the shame in her eyes as she tells him again that he was a mistake, so he pretends to be asleep. Before she crosses the boundary back into her own space, she leans over him and kisses his sleep-still lips, lingering for a beat. He’s too cautious to let himself think that’s a good sign; once bitten twice shy and all.
Ninety minutes later she joins him in the rental car, showered and pressed and erased of any sign of their entanglement. He watches her for indications that she’s upset; avoiding eye contact, stiff posture, set jaw. He sees none of that, just regular old Scully, carefully cradling her styrofoam cup of shitty motel coffee as she settles into the passenger seat. She glances at him and worry clouds her face as she catches his pensive expression.
“You okay, Mulder?” she asks, eyebrows furrowed in that way he finds adorable.
He nods reassuringly, a small smile on his lips. “Just tired, didn’t get enough sleep,” he offers, not thinking through the implication.
“Sorry about that,” she says softly before taking a sip of her coffee, and he can see the smile she’s trying to hide behind the cup.
“Don’t be,” he returns, starting the engine as a feeling of relief and contentment washes over him. “More than worth it.”