part 4/4

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

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
her core 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*::*