Title: Au Naturel Author: Nancy Rating: NC-17 Keywords: MSR Summary: Mulder and Scully spend the day together. Disclaimer: Really and truly, I'd love it if they were mine to do with as I see fit, but they actually belong to their creator, Chris Cater, Fox and 1013 Productions. Notes & Thanks: Unlike most of my stories, I have absolutely no idea if any of these geographical places exist and, if they do, what the actual distances or times for travel to them might be. Just journey there with our intrepid agents and enjoy yourselves. This story begged my newly-named muse to be written after a particularly 'active' night of email with my beta reader, Kim. You can thank her for inspiring me, and for reading about thirty thousand emailed story bits during work... Thanks, Kim!!! Feedback: Muchly appreciated, thanks! Email: abracadabra1754@hotmail.com *** It has been an exhausting month, but today they welcome the chance for physical, rather than emotional, exhaustion. There have been too many nerve-wracking, gut-wrenching, mind-shattering cases of late. He has seen the inner workings of minds too depraved to be believed. She has asked too many decomposed souls for answers that are not forthcoming. They have agreed that today will be a feeding of the mind, of the soul, of the body. They will seek nourishment through an all-out shared physical activity intended to push back that over which they hold no control. He has called in a favor to provide the setting for their private day of mutual nourishing. *** She pads around her room, her simple, pale blue cotton panties and matching bra her only clothing. The early morning sunlight streams in over the warm wood tones in her bedroom and she stretches, yawning. She is tired, still, but she is invigorated. She pulls on her khaki cargo shorts, tugging on the legs, twisting herself and the fabric until they sit just right. Reaching into her dresser drawer, she pushes aside several tops until she finds the plum henley. Pulling it over her head, she tucks it into the shorts and rolls each sleeve once, twice, then pushes them up to her elbows. Next, her khaki socks are pulled on and followed by her broken-in, but long unused, hiking boots. She leans forward, her head hanging and shakes her coppery hair then straightens quickly, sending showers of sun-kissed locks tumbling loosely about her face and shoulders. Just as she is about to leave the bedroom, she decides to grab an a change of clothing. In the kitchen, she begins to fill her backpack. Her 'assignment' is food. She knows that if she leaves it to him, they will have beer and sunflower seeds. She places apples, grapes and two bananas in plastic bags and puts them aside. Some crusty sourdough rolls, a block of Havarti cheese and some bottled water join the fruits. Wrapped in protective covering, the bottle of Riesling wine is set in the bag, followed by some bottled water. She places the other items inside, buckling and snapping the backpack closed. On her way to the door, she grabs her sweatshirt jacket. The day is already promises to be warm, but she knows the wooded area will be cooler. *** His well-worn jeans are faded and a bit baggy through the legs. He pulls them up over his knit boxer shorts, adjusting and tucking. He smiles as he pulls the zipper up and slips the metal button through the hole. This day does not hold the promise of others' thoughts, others' needs. He ponders exactly what he needs, what she needs...what they want. Running his hands through his hair, he stretches and sighs. As he moves toward his closet, he reflects on the newness, the burgeoning exploration and forays into uncharted territories they have both made of late. Their contemplations have helped them come to a mutual understanding in the way that is theirs. This partnership has moved beyond the professional and has taken a turn to the personal. His mind continues that line of thinking. He slips into a memory of an evening in the not-so-distant past when their touches became groping and finally loving. He is more than a little pleased that she is also quite happy about that development. He grabs his navy plaid chamois shirt from its hanger and shrugs into it, securing all but the top two buttons. The cloth is soft and drapes over his well-defined shoulders, chest and back. He haphazardly pushes the shirttails into his jeans, the fabric bunching in odd places. Plopping down onto his bed, he pulls on his socks and brown leather hiking boots, lacing them adeptly. He makes his way to the living room where he gathers the map of the trails area and the directions to the site. It is not his idea to bring the latter map, but she suggests that they will save time if they do not have to debate their route. She much prefers they spend most of their time out of the car today. He leans easily to the back of the couch and grabs the Navajo blanket and starts folding, but then simply rolls it, stuffing it into his backpack with the maps. Thinking that the day may turn quite warm, he decides to pack a pair of shorts and a tee shirt. For good measure, he takes his lightweight jacket from the pool hall coat rack, dons his Knicks cap and tosses his camera into the fray. Just as he is about to close the door behind him, he remembers to take his sunflower seeds. Now feeling quite prepared for any eventuality, he closes the door. *** She revels in the fact that although it is a workday, she is not going. She sits on the steps of her building, her backpack between her feet, watching as her building empties in small groups. The sun just peaks from behind the complex across the street so the sidewalk is still shrouded in the dewy pastels of the early fall morning. The weather forecaster has declared this a 'picture postcard summer remnant day'. She concurs. He pulls up at the curb and she is already standing, hoisting her bag by the mesh straps. Before she can make it to the walkway, he has unfolded his lanky frame from the car. She smiles at him and he grins in response. She can tell his hair is still damp even from this distance and it spikes just a bit; one of her favorite looks for him. He pushes his sunglasses to rest on his head, taking some of the hair back away from his forehead. She tilts her head to one side slightly, taking in this new image. She decides it's a keeper. One of her neighbors nearly runs her over in his mad dash to the office. She has stopped all exiting traffic as she remains immobile watching her partner. A softly muttered apology elicits an 'it's ok' response as the man hurries past her. She shakes herself mentally, not wanting to give away just how deeply he is effecting her solely with his attire. She has always loved him in jeans. He somehow manages just the right fit; snug through the hips, but a bit baggy in the legs, slung just below the waist. She imagines what he might look like if just the button were undone, what might be revealed to her from behind and beneath the waistband of those jeans. How his skin might feel under the denim. He is openly staring at her, his arms crossed in front of him. His grin has become a smug, 'I know what you're thinking', smile. She realizes that she will need to do a lot more than mentally shake her head to make it to the car without divesting him of a few articles of clothing. *** He watches her with a mixture of amusement and wonder. He is not unaware of the effect he has on her, yet it still amazes him this fascination she appears to have with him. He is intelligent and he knows that her fine mind appreciates the same in him. He rightly acknowledges that women find him attractive, although he is sometimes caught unawares by this fact. He has seen the way she looks at him when she thinks he isn't noticing. Her frank and open assessment of him now excites him. They have not left for their destination and she is already pushing his buttons, tugging on his strings. He wants her to tug on him some more. He asks her if she's coming, his 'it's never too early in the day for' innuendo not lost on her as she moves toward the car with slow purpose. He waits until she has deposited her backpack next to his on the floor of the back seat and then slides into the driver's seat. He watches the simplest movements as she pulls her sunglasses into place over her eyes, adjusts her shorts beneath her legs and over the seat, fastens the seatbelt, adjusting the strap for her shorter height, turns to him, waiting. He replaces his own dark tinted glasses over his face, his eyes now almost inscrutable and attempts to make some order out of his hair. He knows she watches him still and he turns to look at her. He watches her lips as they inform that they're wasting time and should get going. *** They have left the confines of the city, the sun is now midway between its rising and its zenith and the air is slightly cool in its late summer/early fall way. She turns, briefly, to allow the wind to caress her face, closing her eyes against the warmth of the sun's rays upon her cheeks. His eyes are trained on the road ahead of them as his hand rests on the seat between them. As has happened before, she does not turn back yet, but her hand finds his, their fingers interlace. Together and individual they are. He squeezes her hand, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against her palm. She feels the slight shiver his touch elicits as she watches the ribbon of highway stretch its way in front of them. He also feels her shiver and rakes his nail across her palm, savoring the way her fingers now flex with his and her lips turn upward her eyes behind the glasses an enigma. He reclaims his hand momentarily as he steers the car onto the exit ramp. The transition from the speed and linear way of the interstate to the now winding and hilly path of the country road settles in around them, slowing the pace of the vehicle. He watches the upcoming road signs, looking for Jackson Turnpike. She watches the last of the early morning dew burning off in the meadows around them. Her palm lies on the sun-warmed denim covering his firm thigh. He takes the left turn onto Jackson thinking that it has grown rather warm inside the car and reaches to turn on the air conditioning. Her hand leaves his thigh to still his restless fingers as they search for the climate control. She enjoys a little heat; she wants more. He allows her hand to take his, to settle it onto his thigh under hers, to slip out from under, then cover hers. She watches their hands. He faces the road, but his eyes beneath the shades glance at her. He smiles as her tongue wets her lips allowing the sunlight to make the moisture there dance and glisten. His hand applies gentle, but steady pressure to hers as it inches them both closer to the juncture where his thigh meets his hip. Her fingers guide their hands to the downward slope venturing to his inner thigh and she now applies the gentle, but steady, pressure. She watches openly as his mouth opens, a silent moan heard in her mind, formed in his very being. He's not sure if he uttered a sound, but he felt it and he is keenly aware that his 'conservative to the untrained eye' of a partner is, with deliberate innocence, moving their hands to cover the sweet pain of an erection trapped inside his pants. He wants to allow her hand to have free reign, but, instead, spreads his legs just slightly, possibly to decrease the pressure, mostly to increase the pleasure. Even with the wind rushing by them, she can hear their panting. It's not that she is overly concerned about safety that keeps her within the seatbelt's snare, it's not that she is worried about being cited for failure to wear her seat restraint. It is her knowledge that she will be utterly without restraint should she remove it and that is why is remains. It is the final control where control is about to be surrendered. She catches the wisps of her name as it comes from his lips, caught by the wind, flown to her core. He feels the pressure and rhythm of her hand as it molds to the length and girth of him, as it caresses softly and not so softly, as it palms him from the lowest seam in his crotch to the tip of him near his waistband. She hums his name, the hum mixing in with her near groan. He knows with an innate sense that she will be wet and hot and tight and open and his hand leaves the wheel. She does not allow him to interrupt her focused connection with him. She will not allow this spell to be broken, so she breathes deeply through her nose, hoping to steady her rising arousal, but, instead, taking in the heady scent that even the country air cannot dissipate. He looks at her, his eyebrows rising above the rim of his glasses, his face a study in forced calm. She meets his gaze, her smile sprite and nymph-like as her fingers make quick work of the button in its well-worn hole. Necessity requires him to watch the road, leaving her to watch his face; his slight grimaces, his tongue wetting his lips, etched in her mind. The angle is awkward, but it does not deter her hand from finding the zipper pull. She is determined; she will find a way. His body offers assistance, moving this way and that, as she slowly, carefully pulls the zipper along its track. She looks with rapt attention at the now only semi-contained bulk of him beneath the soft cotton of his boxer shorts. She is sure she can see the pulsing, can feel the heat, can smell his scent. She is very sure she would want all of that, all of him, slipped very slowly as deeply inside her as possible. She settles for the barely contained heat and excitement of him against her hand. She murmurs his name connected to other words that slip and slide and tangle against each other so that they are indistinguishable as separate entities. He does not seem to mind her inability to enunciate clearly. He might care more if it were not for the fact that her small hand is eliciting rather large responses from a part of his body over which he has lost total control. His only hope is that he is able to control the much larger vehicle he is supposed to be driving. While his mind tries to come to terms with the fact that she is sending shooting stars behind and in front of his eyes in broad daylight, his hands are wrestling with the wheel and his lower body is acting of its own accord. His erection seeks her hand, knowing it should lead to other parts of her that will be much more demanding. She asks him how much farther they will travel before reaching their destination as her hand travels up and down, having found its destination. She is gripping, rubbing with her thumb, dragging her nails and lightly brushing with the back of her hand, the length of him. Even with the dark lenses covering his eyes, they cannot hide his response. She sees him struggle to devote full attention to the road, noticing that he has not answered as to the remaining distance. She does not re-ask the question. Instead she purrs his name and somehow manages to slip her hand deeper into his jeans, his sack almost rising to her fingertips. He wonders how she is able to purr his name as he shouts hers. He is glad that he has studied the map before departing because his prior knowledge reminds his deeply fogged and aroused brain that although he has missed the first turn-off for Darlington's Glen, the second one is but a mile down this road. He tries to find a way to keep his right foot steady on the gas pedal and allow the same leg to move closer to her. His body seeks to provide her better access to his very demanding erection. She smiles, a smile that begins at her soft, warm, moist lips and travels to the sparkling azure of her eyes. She is sure of the effect she is having on him and she cannot seem to stop the torture; she is enjoying it too much. She loves the feel of him in her hand and cannot wait for the right time to touch him skin to skin. She does not do so now, even though his body is imploring her to do so. She knows that changing their plans now will alter some inevitable outcome, one that she wants more than anything else. He forgoes engaging the signal in favor of ensuring they do not miss this turn. As he navigates onto Darlington Road, she removes her hand, once again brushing her fingertips over him. She leans over as far as she can without undoing her seatbelt, and attempts to draw the zipper upward. His breathing is stuttering heavily. She is wishing she had thought to bring a change of clothing with her. He has not touched her physically, but his reactions to her touches have had their effect. She is so wet that she is sure others will notice. He stills her hand, moving it to the seat between them as the fields give way to a more wooded area rising out over the hood of the car. They have arrived. He is on the precipice. She sinks back into her seat, strangely winded. He brings the car to a somewhat shaky stop, his foot tap-tapping the break pedal somewhat uncharacteristically, and removes his seatbelt, still making no move to close his fly. He notices the flush in her cheeks, blossoming on her neck, the fact that her hand cannot keep still, touching her shorts, the sleeve of her shirt. He takes a deep breath, holding it just long enough to wrestle the zipper closed. She watches him lift his hips as his back presses into the seat, trying to create as straight a line for the zipper to follow. She observes the struggle as what lies beneath cannot be readily or easily stilled. She mutters 'sorry'. He smiles; lifting the glasses so she can see that the smile extends to his still darkened hazel eyes. He lowers them again, suggesting they get the show on the road. She thinks that one show has already been on the road, but she is willing to see another, very soon. *** They reach into the back seat to retrieve their packs, exiting the vehicle and closing the doors almost simultaneously. He shrugs into the mesh straps; the pack now sitting low slung on his back. She walks toward him, all thumbs as she attempts to secure her backpack. He plays with the brim of his Knicks cap and watches as she continues to fumble. He is grinning and she levels him with the raise of one brow, verbally suggesting that he help her. The single eyebrow conveys the additional, unspoken admonishment to 'shut up'. With little effort and a stolen glance at her backside as she arches into the backpack, they are ready for their hike. The sun is high on the horizon as the climb. It does not take them long to leave behind the lower shrubs, assorted bushes and grasses for the curious mix of pines, other evergreens and oaks. The flora combination is wondrous in its curious nature. He leads the way through the first twists, turns and hills of the woodland path, stopping to retrieve the trails map. His sudden stop causes her to walk into him with a slight 'oaf', her forehead connecting with his backpack. While she has been occasionally watching where she steps, she has more frequently been watching him lead the way. He calls back to her, offering advice about being more careful the next time she's following a backpack. She laughs as she swats his rear, feeling his muscles tighten in response. 'Backpack, indeed', she thinks, her hand lingering just a little longer than needed. She finds herself fervently hoping that she does not have to delay her desire to touch him much longer. She enjoys hiking for the sheer physical exertion. Following him, his snugly denim-clad glutes directly in front of her, raises the enjoyment level, helping make hiking an aerobic activity for her. Determining they are already on the correct trail, they agree to walk until lunchtime or, until they find the clearing noted on the map. She takes the lead this time, pushing low branches that overhang the ascending trail from their path. The air is cooler in the shaded glen and the air sings through the tree tops, the susurration of the boughs a pleasant sound to their ears. The pine- covered dirt becomes rockier and she climbs sure-footed, wending her way. He is silent as he follows her and she ponders what he looks like; the cap hiding all but the wavy locks as they tickle the nape of his neck, the collar of his shirt sitting back on his neck, pulled by the weight of the pack. She smiles. His long legs striding, climbing, the creases in the denim as it strains across his groin and thighs. The image of the bulge in those jeans from their car ride makes the air around her suddenly seem stifling, close. She pauses to catch her breath. It is his turn to nearly run into her, his hands settling on her hips for balance. To balance them both, although they remain upright, they are far from feeling 'balanced'. She tries to settle against him, but her pack hits him low in the ribs and he laughs, pushing her forward. He does not, however, relinquish his hold on her hips, using his hands to turn her to face him. Her blue eyes search his, then explore that which originally caused her to stop. The reality of him is much more powerful than her imaginings. He pulls her toward him, their backpacks no longer obstacles to their proximity. Her gaze travels over him from the brim of his cap to the laces of his boots and to all that lies in-between. Although her eyes move quickly, she does not fail to notice the obvious sign of his arousal, nestled snugly between his slim hips. Her hand moves on its own, reaching toward him, a magnet to steel. His hands travel from her shoulders to her hands, temporarily ending her quest, bringing them up between them. Their fingers intertwine as they step closer. Her breath hitches and she loses her footing on the rocks. Before she can consider falling, he pulls her toward him, her face burying in the soft chamois that covers the solidity of his muscles. She breathes in the mountain air as it mingles with the chamois and the sandalwood soap and much more that defines him. Their trek will end at this spot if she does not move them forward. She places her palms low on his chest and pushes herself slightly away. Her hand reaches up to grasp the brim of his Knicks souvenir. She tugs and pulls upward, removing the cap, chuckling at his hat hair. She leans down to set the cap on the rocks and before she can straighten once again, his hands pull her up from under her arms. Since her shoulders are already raised by his action, she continues the momentum, bringing her hands to his face. She pulls him closer to her. Leaning forward, she stands on her tip-toes. He is sure she is about to kiss him. He knows he wants, no needs, to kiss her. She ruffles his flattened mop. She laughs and darts away ahead of him, her backpack sitting low on her hips, bouncing as her glutes work...hard. She knows, can 'see' him standing there surprised, startled...and surely thinking about payback. She knows she loves being on the receiving end of his payback. He smiles appreciatively; enjoying the fact that she has bested him, if only momentarily. He loves a good game and loves it even more knowing that she, his partner, will occasionally agree to play the game with him. Certain that he would be very happy if both win this game, he pursues her. He knows her pack is heavy, thinks he should have asked to carry it for her, knows she would have refused. She is physically strong and capable and does not suffer those who make assumptions based on her diminutive appearance. He has long since learned that her strength sometimes borders on the unbelievable. Her hair drifts and lifts, tossed and disheveled by the speed of her movements and the swirling mountain updrafts. Slivers of sunlight filter through the canopy of leaves and branches occasionally reflecting bright spots of fire off her hair. Her hips and legs work in concert, propelling her forward with each hip extension, each back stroke. He smiles at the juxtaposition of the wooly khaki socks sitting above the hiking boots, against the creamy and toned skin of her lower calves. Yes, he is enjoying this game of 'catch me if you can'. And he is sure he can. He slows, knowing his much longer legs would allow him to overtake her too quickly, thereby ending too soon this chase. *** She slows, reaching down in front of her to clamber over the pile of rocks that have blocked the trail. When she reaches the top, she stops to catch her breath, her hands on her hips, her sunglasses hastily pushed up to her head. She squints as she takes in the view. She has arrived at the clearing, the marker to her right telling her this is 'Darlington Falls and Reflecting Pool'. Although she knows this must be a popular area, it is wondrously empty on this weekday morning and with no small thanks to her partner's friend... The area directly in front and to her left is an expanse of the softest emerald green grass she has seen recently. It is almost as if someone has seeded this space and provided tender loving care. To her right, the trail continues, winding, turning, climbing. Across the emerald expanse she sees a small wading pool leading to the falls. The water tumbles and foams and cascades from high above, streaming near the wading pool, coursing and churning farther away as it spills into the deeper waters. The trees frame the scene, allowing the rays of the sun to warm the large, rounded water-worn rocks along the falls. He pauses a few feet behind her, watching her surveillance. She is breathing heavily, the semi-profile of her chest rising and lowering. She is Queen of the Hill from which she views the clearing. He hears the birds, the insects and other local fauna interspersed with the whooshing and surging of the falls. In less time than it takes her to be aware of his presence, he is behind her, several rock steps below her perch, his hands gently pulling on the straps of her backpack, taking it from her, depositing it to one side. His arms quickly circle her, his arms underneath hers, their hands resting below the waistband of her cargo shorts. She smiles as she leans back against him, her head leaning to one side almost even with his. The rocky ridge provides the false illusion that they are nearly the same height. She whispers his name, the breathy syllables touching his face before she touches her lips to his skin. His hands completely cover hers as they move outward to her hips and then inward and lower. She feels the heat settle over her at the point of contact and spread out like a star's blaze across her body. Counterpoint to their hands, his rather insistent hard-on nudges and teases her lower back and hips. The sensations take on a life of their own as their bodies rock and surge and thrust and push, seeking connection and needing to join. Her hands leave his to their travels as she reaches behind him to grasp his hips. She cannot see his eyes drift closed and then reopen nor the sweep of heat that begins as a stirring in his gut and moves outward as a flush rendering him breathless. She feels the heat of his breath as his head drops forward, so his lips can find her ear, her neck, and she hears him link her name with 'oh' and 'god'. She understands the meaning because it is mutual. Her hands rub and grab along his buttocks and upper thighs, urging him forward as she tilts her hips up and back, against him, into him. He needs no such guidance as his hands roam restlessly from her abdomen upwards, grazing her breasts and then downward, separating her legs, his fingers lightly dancing across that place where her warmth and wetness originate. For a while, it is only sounds; chirping, whooshing, buzzing, whispering sighs, panting, gasping. Voices, husky and low, gravelly underneath slippery, soft moans and rhythmic groans, join the chorus. Semi-coherence occasionally gives way to half-uttered words and names with drawn out syllables. But as they revel in the sounds, their bodies will not be denied. He humps her from behind as if he has not yet discovered the ability to sheath himself inside her. She rocks back into him as he cups her, the dual stimulation creating a frenzy she cannot stop. The air around them is dizzying or maybe it is they who are dizzy. She gropes for his hands, entreating him to move from this precarious spot. He is throbbing with his need for her although he allows her hands to temporarily still his. Instead, his fingers crawl up her scalp, her hair falling through and around his hands like so much spun silk, her head falling into his hands as he laps at her exposed neck. She sweetly admonishes, but finds it hard to move away from, him. She knows that she is usually the one to play practical to his whimsical and regrets that she must do so now. She takes his hand and they stumble and half jog to the grass by the water's edge. *** He goes back to pick up his cap and her backpack, setting everything on a flat- topped boulder. His smile does not go unnoticed as she pretends to be occupied in the task of arranging a picnic scene. It is also rather obvious to her that he is still aroused, although he occasionally attempts some minor adjustments. She knows that he does not easily embarrass, especially around her. There is too much history with them, too much that has been seen, but not said with words, too much that has been felt, although, until recently, only with the mind or with the heart or with that other place that feels heat and frenzy and primal desire. But that has all changed, so she knows that he does not care that she sees just how horny he is. Does not care that she knows exactly what he would like to do to her, what he plans to do to her. He turns away from her, opening his backpack to retrieve the blanket and his sunflower seeds. On her knees in the grass, oblivious to the stains on her soft skin, she watches the stretch in the expanse of his lats, the chamois shirttails coming untucked. Her pupils dilate and her tongue moistens her lips as she takes in the way the denim hugs his hips, the path of the double-stitched seam that begins at his waistband and moves downward, separating the firm cheeks of his ass and continues yet, to touch his balls before tracing the line of what she knows is still a very strong, very hard erection. She is frozen and she is melting. He knows. She knows that he does because of the look on his face when he slowly turns to lay the blanket between them, because of the way he kneels at the edge and leans toward her to smooth the Navajo designs, because of the way his eyes seek hers from under the fringe of his bangs while his head is down. He moves back, sitting on his heels, his hands resting with the appearance of calmness on his thighs. Her position now mirrors his and he can see the color in her skin that begins at her thighs then is hidden from view until it reaches her neck, her face. Her hair is wild around her face, as wild as her breath is inside her, as wild as her heart literally pounds in her chest. She has managed to set the repast on the blanket, but it goes unnoticed by either of them. They individually acknowledge a hunger, but it is not of the sort that will be sated by wine or by fruit or by bread. She glances toward the swirling wading pool. He looks beyond to the churning and rushing of the deeper waters as they both unlace and remove their boots. It is happening like a silent dance, each partner knowing the steps, but watching the other perform them. Some of the steps are shared initially, but formed separately, started slowly. Boots unlaced, removed. Socks toed and pulled and scrunched until they go the way of the boots. Her usual orderly inclinations give way to his more casual approach. They stand and face each other; the next steps open to interpretation by the dancers. She moves first, her toes wriggling in the roughness of the blanket on top of the softness of the grass. She steps toward him as he steps back, drawing her to the emerald carpet. His first steps onto the grass are tentative; it is cool on his bare soles. His toes curl and lengthen again and again. Her eyes are drawn to the simple movement as his eyes have never left hers. As if bearing witness to what is taking place, nature is silent and still. The occasional rustling of the wind through the pines is almost non-existent and the heat of the now noonday sun is warm, even through the mottled shade. She is not sure why it is today, this day unlike others, but she cannot escape her need to touch him, to finish what she started as they made there way to this place. Touch him all over, but moreover where he is still tumescent, where she knows he is pulsing and turgid and wanting. She has a single purpose and she will not be deterred from it. They both stand on the grass, the wading pool close, the falls a mere swim from the pool. He extends a hand to her, clasping hers as he reels her in. She allows him to draw their bodies together and she sighs. She feels the heat of him surrounding her and she knows how easy it will be to allow him the lead he contemplates stealing from her even now. She will not be deterred. She focuses and she steps back slightly moaning at and mourning the loss of some of the heat he generates. She delights in his look of surprise and question and the way he licks his lips. Oh, yes, she notices all of that. She walks around him, slowly, her feet making no sounds in the grass. She stops behind him, looking, touching. He does not attempt to turn to her, somehow knowing at least on some level, what she intends. His body shakes and his cock is so hard that he calls upon long forgotten, disturbing images in hopes of temporarily quelling the raging desire that seems to be centered in his jeans. She ever so fleetingly touches his shoulders, trailing her fingers down his back, then stops, waiting. He sighs, says her name, a statement, a question. She answers, her hands now on his waist, pulling his shirt from his jeans, smoothing it down over his hips at his side, over his behind. She waits again. His reaction is more pronounced in its urgency. He attempts to turn to her, but her hands on his hips firmly indicate that he should remain. His hands move ineffectually, wanting to touch her, wanting her to touch him more. She feels the pace escalating like a runaway train careening down the tracks. She is much like that train and cannot be slowed. She smoothes her hands over the front of his shirt as she leans into him from behind. The curve of the hem reaches to the mid-point on his thighs, but she will not stop there. Releasing her arms from around his waist, she moves in front of him, her small hands reaching upward, she is standing on her toes to touch the fine hairs on the back of his neck. His smile is now seriously slow and darkly erotic. He bends at the knees to fit to her size, her shape and her hands move, one to his neck, one to the back of his head. Their mouths have not yet joined and she is remembering other joinings of their lips and tongues and their wet touches and she wants it again. She is telling him, 'mmmmmm', and 'nice' and 'yes' and he is agreeing with her with even more fervor. Being lost in his mouth and caressed by his tongue and sucked by his lips is delicious. He somehow manages to muse that he is one lucky sonuvabitch that his partner only appears to be staid and proper and appropriate when she is that, but is truly much, much more in an enticingly dangerous way. He thinks he is close to losing consciousness from her kisses alone as he remembers he owes her for nearly driving him insane while he was driving earlier today. He succeeds only in pulling her top from her shorts before she stops his hands while still kissing the living daylights out of him. He makes his tongue explore more of her hot little mouth as her hands work on the button and fly that hold what she wants. Before he can register what she is doing, she has broken their kiss and dropped to her knees, renewing the stains of nature. He calls her name yet again and her eyes dart to his as her hand cups him, molds to him, traces the outline of him. His knees threaten to buckle underneath him as she tugs and wrests the denim from his hips, carefully around his bulge, down his legs. His hand leans on her shoulder as he steps out of his jeans; the warm breeze making the hairs on his legs stand at attention much as that which lies inside his boxers stands. She glances up at him again, seeing his half-closed eyes languid and yet full of something more primal and eager. She likes this look...a lot. She tongues her lips, her eyes never leaving his, as her hand moves inside his shorts. She wonders whether he is always this large in her hand, stacking her hands on him one above the other. He succumbs to the intensity of the stroke and snorts, telling her she's not going to hit any horsehide with it the way she's holding him. She laughs wickedly right back at him as her thumb moves along the ridge, up over the eye and around the head of his very hard-on. His snort becomes an audible groan linked with some lesser deity. Her hands grip him still as she begins to tongue the head as if doing a lollipop, a sucker. When her lips circle him and she hollows her cheeks to make good on the sucker analogy, his hands tangle carelessly in her hair. She takes her lips from him and laps at him over and over as she moves one hand low between his legs while the other remains to stroke him in a most basic up and down movement. He experiences her ministrations as anything but 'basic' as he tries to get her to stop, or, at least slow. Maintaining oral contact only, she moves her hands to his hips, her thumbs pressing, then gently pulling outward from his groin to his hips. When her mouth leaves him, her hands replace it and she draws back slightly to admire the sight of this man, this Adonis in a plaid chamois shirt with the shirttails framing his throbbing penis. It is more...much more than she can bear without resolution. She assists him as he sinks to his knees, as he grabs for her face, his hands almost rudely pulling her hair, pulling her mouth to his in wild need. Her tongue does not have a chance as his invades her mouth, flicking over hers, searching for her throat. Her hands join his and she grinds her hips into him, meeting him grind for thrust. An overwhelming need to bring themselves together skin to skin consumes her and her hands leave his to unbutton, unzip and remove clothing. She accomplishes the shorts only before the lusting whirlwind who is her partner has his hands on her hips over her panties, up under the legs of her panties and inside her panties from in front and behind. She smiles at his groping assault until she feels the finger of one hand between her cheeks and the long middle finger of the other hand deftly parting her inner folds, seeking her dripping inner core. His kiss effectively removes any last vestige of sanity or breathing ability and another finger joins the first inside her, pumping and surging. She is trying to say his name but succeeds only with the first part when his thumb swipes down over her clit and then up again. She cries out into his growl as his hand shifts behind her, splaying across her ass, holding her steady as he finger fucks her and thumbs her engorged nub. Her hands desperately latch onto his shaft, but, given their tangle of arms and mouths, he slips from her hold. A temporary substitute, she grabs and claws his upper arms, moving toward the buttons of his shirt. Her lips leave his to deeply inhale much needed oxygen. Her hands continue to blindly paw and rip at his shirt. It is in her way at a time when she has little ability to complete the simplest task. Instead, she moves her hands around the problem, under the shirt, her palms flat against his small, tight nipples. She fingers his nipples and pinches and pulls, wanting to taste. He laps at her face and plants light kisses in her hair, willing her to look up at him. She does look up at him...as she falls to pieces within his arms, his fingers inside her. He slowly withdraws, wrapping his arms around her to hold her steady against his body as she rides out the shivering and shaking. She smiles against his chest experiencing a high that is almost beyond her belief and she thinks that there is much more to experience today, now. He strokes her back and her hair and murmurs loving and lusty words and sounds to her as he lowers her to her back in the soft grass. He has a few more needs for them to meet. *** She suggests they move to the blanket, it serves a purpose, not the least of which is shielding their skin from any more grass stains. She looks at his knees as he looks at hers and they laugh at the child-like wonder of stained knees from hand and mouth sex in a state forest clearing. When she finds herself on her back on top of the Navajo designs, she is no longer laughing. He is kneeling at her side, with his hands under her plum- colored henley top, pushing it up so her pale blue cotton bra with a little bit of lace is exposed to him and to the flora and fauna. He glances over at her matching panties where they lay in the grass and marvels at this woman who wears coordinated underwear. He recalls that often when they are together during non- working hours, she doesn't wear her coordinated underwear for very long. There are some times when he swears that they are engaged in a wordless contest to see which one will lose her or his undergarments first. He considers it a tie. She feels very exposed; laying on her back with her legs apart, her top between her neck and her breasts and her bra about to go the way of her matching panties. His lips brush hers asking her to open to him as he opens the clasp of her bra. Their lips slipping over each other touching and not touching, her tongue darts out to find his, his hands find her breasts. He straddles her, his bent legs framing her small hips. He slides down then, stretching his body out over her, his legs bracketing one of hers now. Their faces close, closer, their tongues stab at one and other and then their lips graze, their teeth nibble. She considers the marvel of his thumbs as they pad her hard nipples and her back arches from the blanket. He weighs her breasts, his fingers turning outward to circle around and under and back over her, his thumbs now flicking the ache. She tries, once again, to remove his plaid chamois shirt. In a show of lightening agility, he removes it for her and lowers himself over her once again. She notes the sheer intensity in his darkened hazel eyes as his mouth seeks and finds its target. He elicits yet another cry from her when his teeth sink into her neck in that spot he knows seems to link to multiple nerve endings. He bites and sucks, his lips nibbling, his tongue soothing. When he applies the sweet suction of his lips as his tongue flicks repeatedly, her hips squirm and then buck upward wanting more sweet torture from him, needing him inside her. She tells him so. Her kisses her neck, the taste of her in his mouth, in his head, on his lips. She tells him more ardently and demonstrates with her hands, pulling him up to his knees, lifting her legs so her inner thighs massage his hips just before her heels rest on his butt. He answers her. His fingers skate over her lips and like a baby bird taking food from the beak of its mother; she yearns for his fingers in her mouth. He feeds her, two fingers between her lips. She draws them in, suckling and licking, but it is too much and not enough. She takes his fingers from her hot mouth and moves them to where he will use them. He understands; he always has, but he wants to touch, needs to feel touched. He touches her center ever so lightly and then grasps the tip of his straining erection, touching her clit. He feels the urgency in her legs as she grapples with his hips, wanting to fuse their bodies. She rakes her nails over his back and he winces and smiles as his nerve endings jangle and tingle. His cock needs no other positioning as it slips into the slick heat of her and he allows his hips to do one of the things they do best. She has her answer. She has him. He thrusts once in slow motion with a purpose and a burning desire. Her heels rest on his hips restlessly, urging him. Her teeth clamp onto him, finding smooth, firm skin lightly sheened with sweat. The salty, musky, dark taste of him invades her just as his shaft invades her inner core. He moves heatedly, feverish thrusts and bucking and slamming sealing them together and almost uncoupling them. He repeats the motion over and over and over and she cannot have enough of him. He rises onto his forearms on either side of her upper arms, his hands on her shoulders, pushing and pulling her down. His knees press against the sides of her hips, holding her in place, giving him the ability to penetrate her more deeply. She smiles, her eyes unsure if they are in the act of opening or closing and she thinks 'yes, they are'. Her hair is damp and sweaty and curling on her face and on the blanket and he thinks he has never seen a more beautiful sight. And then he reaches between them with his finger and applies slight pressure to her clit in that spot just to one side he knows sets her off. Her hands find his ass and she kneads him, alternately gripping and pulling him toward her center and separating his cheeks. She feels his nonsense syllables when his ass is exposed. When her hand finds his sack drawn up tightly to him, she knows he is oh-so-ready. She is ready too. She whispers in his ear and wets his ear, imploring him to pump harder, to let himself slide right over the edge with her. He wants to come into her with such passion that her words and her wetness everywhere make it just that much easier. Several final rather uncoordinated thrusts finish him. His finger pressing and circling her clit finish her. *** She feels his open mouth on her neck planting weakly defined and sloppily loving smooches along the slippery, sweaty skin. She lays beneath the blanket of him feeling covered and safe and mutely tingling. His body journeys from its free fall, making detours along the way, his muscles still spasming, then resting, not wanting to move from the heat and spent passion of his partner underneath him. Her hands trace paths through the salty wetness on his back and his arms, her fingers comb through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. She sighs his name breathily, repeating herself like a favorite song that is programmed to replay over and over. He tastes her afterglow skin and essence and wonders if he should move his weight from her. She senses his question and holds him tightly, whispering her need to have him where he is, asking him to let all of him rest atop all of her. And he complies. Although the day has grown warmer, the shade of the arboreal cover lends a slight chill to their cooling bodies. In a half-sleep state her mutters to her that some clothing is probably a good idea and some food, an even better idea. She asks whether they can accomplish all that while not moving from their current positions. His quick kiss to the tip of her nose and each of her eyelids and the way that he crawls off of her body tells her it will not be possible. She watches his lean animal form on all fours by his backpack, tossing out more items than she knew were inside until he has totally unstuffed his pack. He tosses a pair of dark green board shorts and a long, off-white tee shirt onto the rocks and re-closes the bag, the other items still on the rock. She is sure he is displaying himself for her with his exaggerated stretch, arms overhead, back arched; yet she enjoys his show. He has nothing to hide and much more to be very proud of. He surprises her, turning quickly to catch her in her blatant appraisal of him. He winks at her and nods imperceptibly before he pulls the shorts up over his quite bare lower body and slips the tee over his head and down over his equally bare chest. She shivers, gooseflesh rising. It is true that the sweat of their lovemaking has cooled on her body, lowering her skin temperature. It is also true that he holds her utterly and completely in the palm of his hand, even with a mere look, a smile, a wink of his eye. She reaches for her gym shorts and midriff top and it is his turn to appraise her as he very perceptively notes that she does not reach for either the blue cotton panties nor the matching and coordinated bra with the little bit of lace. His smile tells her that her manner of re-dressing meets with his approval. As she passes him, she swats him on the behind, smiling at his mock yelp. She gathers her scattered undergarments along with his jeans, shirt and boxers, placing all in their respective packs. Even in nature, she prefers her order to his disorder. She returns to the task of setting out their lunch. He lies on his side, his head propped on his hand, his knees slightly bent. He inquires as to the menu, his fingers 'walking' toward her knee, resting on the blanket. She pushes his fingers away, placing the wine, the havarti, the fruit and the crusty rolls in-between them by way of response to his inquiry. She uncorks the wine and rummages in her backpack, frowning. She, the organized one, has forgotten the wineglasses. He, the one unconcerned about such things, grabs the bottle by its long neck and drags it across the blanket. Setting it in front of his mouth, his hand first strokes absently down the neck to the wider body. She crosses her arms, tilting her head to one side, his name a mere humor-filled wisp from her lips. He interprets this as a reason to continue his appreciation of the fine wine. Still propped on one elbow, his hips leaning back just slightly, he tips the small mouth of the bottle toward his face. With singular attention, he rims the opening with his tongue, letting it dart inside once, twice, just for good measure. She imagines the feel of that tongue on a similar opening located in the very center of her, an opening suddenly begging for his attention...again. He tells her how sorry he is to be taking such a long time, how much he knows she really wants some wine. He further explains, his voice dropping most likely an octave and a half, that they do not need glasses, they can simply drink it from the bottle. By way of demonstration, he up-ends the bottle, his head tilting back to reveal an expanse of throat, his Adam's Apple moving with the swallowing of the wine. She is well aware of this game he plays. He is a highly sensual man who also happens to love to rattle her, to disturb her composure, to arouse her with nothing more than the most routine gestures. And he is very good at this game. But she is a player, too, and can give as good as she gets. She slices two slivers of cheese and crawls over to him, sitting down, scooting herself backwards up against him, her hips settling into the angle formed by his bent legs and his torso. She leans into him slightly, intentionally, and her left arm drapes over his hip and behind him to his lower back. She smiles at him as he continues to alternately drink the wine and make tongue-love to the bottle. She murmurs to him to get his attention, but she has it already. Her right hand takes the bottle from his grasp and sets it aside. He turns to her, noticing the mischievous look in her eyes as she pushes him down off his elbow. He laughs, asking her what she thinks she is doing. She tells him she *knows* exactly what she is doing as her upper body covers his, her hand bringing a piece of havarti to his lips. He takes her wrist in his hand and then nibbles the cheese. His eyes are on hers; her eyes are on his lips which are on the cheese and then his lips are kissing the palm of the hand he holds. She gasps and he takes the rest of the cheese from her with his teeth, finishing it off while still holding her wrist. The other slice slips from her fingers as he snakes his tongue down the center of her palm and then up and down each finger. She moans his name. He moans her name and then brings her hand to his mouth. He rolls onto his back, pulling her forward. She briefly manages to remind him that they were supposed to be taking a breather and having something to eat. As he sucks two of her fingers into his mouth, he garbles that he *is* eating. She knows she would laugh at his wittiness if she had any breath left in her. She is panting, hard. Her other hand moves to his hip when he rolls back and she discovers that he is, again, as hard as she is panting. But he roughly takes her shoulders, dragging her forward, her hair just so much softness around his face. Their lips hover mere inches from each other, the air of unadulterated electricity like a live wire between them. She dips toward him, teasing, and then pulls back. She does so again and attempts to do so once more. He warns her, 'three strikes', as his thumbs and index fingers hold her along her jawline and his tongue flicks her lips. Their mouths open, their tongues dance and flirt with each other outside their lips, between them, until the heat and the zing of it are just too much. She falls into his mouth and they are devouring each other, their hunger on its way to satiation. *** Their contact up to this point has been about lips and tongues and mouths and he wants to consume her. But he wants more and she is already trying to give it to him. She tries to climb him, her leg gaining purchase over his thighs, moving up to his groin. He wants her on her back, spread beneath him so he can thrust and grind against her. She has her way. First. She sits on top of him and drives her center onto him, but he pushes with his heels in the grass and, holding her in his arms, rolls her onto the blanket, his knees between her legs. She laughs when she tells him that her already short shorts are now wedged in her ass and he buries his nose in her neck, his muffled laughter superheated by the feel of his erection pumping against her. He wants to see and feel her partially bared cheeks and attempts to flip her over. He rises to his knees, his hands on her hips, pulling her, wrestling her over. She giggles and kicks at him and squirms head first, trying to wriggle away, the roughness of the blanket against her bare ass, scratching, tingling. He pulls her back toward him, he snorts, shaking his head, first leaning over her, then darting away quickly to avoid her foot aiming for any and all connection with him. She cannot stop her laughter as she tells him to 'stop', that she 'wants to get up'. He wants to play. His eyes are darkly mirthful as he notes how her shorts become shorter and tighter over her crotch as she struggles half-heartedly to get away from him. When she manages to kick at his shoulder, he grabs her ankle, holding her leg, lifting it high enough to afford him an unparalleled view of the cotton fabric bunched and wedged between her legs. He imagines himself wedged, but not bunched, between her legs and his erection throbs. She jerks her ankle from his hold and pulls herself to her knees, her hands rushing to pull the shorts back into place. But his hands are quicker and in a split second, he is telling her, 'no, no, I want to feel you' and he walks on his knees to her, pulling the back hems up higher, baring her soft firm skin to his roaming hands. The feel of the bunched material between her legs as it disappears into her folds makes her tell him, 'oh god' and 'oh Mulder' and she does not know what to do with her hands so she gropes him. His shorts are being unsnapped and unzipped and pulled and tugged and her small hands are reaching inside. He is raking his nails over and around her soft, firm butt cheeks and pulling gently and not-too-gently on the scrunched up fabric on her hips. Her actions elicit a few well-chosen words from him and his actions elicit much more from her. The sheer size of him, both in weight and height, allow him to cup her and drag her closer to him, smashing her hands between them. The friction of her palms pressing and rubbing him works him to a fevered pitch so he kneads her flesh and separates her cheeks wider. She nips at his chest right through the cotton of his tee in response. And he answers her back burying his middle finger inside her. His mouth opens over her ear, his lips trying to form a lock over it as his tongue darts in and out and in and out again and again, flicking, licking. She tilts her head to cement the connection with his mouth and his name leaves her throat in a frenzied cry. She drags her palms up the length of him and pulls her hands from his shorts. She feels his groans and growls of disapproval through her inner ear and her inner soul as she wraps both arms around his waist as her hands burrow into his shorts from behind. She tells him not to let go and 'tighter, harder' and 'more' as she rocks against him hard and then even harder. He is breathing like a stallion into her ear while his tongue continues its invasion. He is not sure whether it is the water rushing from its point of origin above them and crashing into the cavernous pool or the blood whooshing and surging through their veins that is making all the noise, but he cannot hear anything else around them. She experiences yet another hot gushing between her legs rendering her shorts so incredibly wet and tight that she must spread her legs further. He feels truly blessed by what or whichever sprites, deities or other- worldly creatures he may worship. His staid on the outside, wontonly wild everywhere else partner has her hands in his pants grasping his ass for all she is worth while he has now two fingers buried inside her. He wonders in some small, mildly still coherent place in his brain whether they will ever get to eat something other than one and other on this fine day. He decides quickly that he does not really care. Her senses once again on full alert, she takes her hands from him and reaches for his arms, her lips forming a few sounds to indicate that he should look at her. With one last lap at the shell of her ear and nibble on her lobe, he kisses her cheek and does as she asks. She needs to cool her raging body and slow her jackhammering heart. He looks puzzled momentarily, his hands attempting to get lost in her hair as his fingers twirl and lightly tease the strands as they shine in an errant sunbeam. She adjusts her shorts, feeling and seeing and smelling the evidence of her high state of arousal, noticing a similar condition in her playfully sensual partner. He wants to know what she is thinking. She wants to show him. Re-corking the wine and covering the cheese, stopping the task only because he is trying to tell her that he does not give a fuck what happens to either right now, she allows him to take her hand and help her regain her legs. They are a pair; quite completely disheveled, the blush of total and utter sex on visible skin, their knees as green as God's grass and their lips swollen and berry-ripe. He swings her arm while he holds her hand, the joy inside his heart about ready to burst. He cannot imagine feeling such happiness, being so much in love. The color in her cheeks darkening slightly, she turns to him and winks; she knows, she feels the same way. Exactly. *** His long slender feet slowly make their way toward the wading pool's edge, stepping surely over the low rocky ledge that serves as the border between mink- like grass cover and clear, cool, rippling wetness. Her much smaller, dainty feet follow his, her toes taking the time to wriggle in the long jewel-tone blades. The frustrations of the past month seem in a land far, far away and today seems to stretch in its infiniteness. He wants all that is magical and ethereal and hedonistic for himself, for her, for them. She is, even sometimes with matters of the heart, more pragmatic although she is learning to let whims and wishes replace needs and results, causes and effects. She watches him, her partner of more years than she can sometimes count, of mere months in this *new* way. Inside the head with the hair that lies every which way is a keen mind, a well- honed intellect, a man of razor sharp wit as well as stubbornness, egocentrism and the ability to irritate some lesser Saints. Inside his beating heart is too much guilt, compassion and more love than she has ever known. She gazes at his backside and decides that it will be soon enough to *see* once again that which is inside *there*. She is very appreciative that she has had the opportunity over and over and over again to make good use of her medical knowledge of the male anatomy. She has been told that her training will be useful to her. He squeezes her hand, somehow knowing that her silence means she is thinking about him. Or, maybe that is his egocentrism. He locates the path to the wading pool, pointing to indicate it to her. While she stands to listen to the water, he sits on the largest rock by the water's edge; his hand still clasped with hers. His feet dangle in the water, kicking, splashing like a child's. She moves closer to the rock and lifts one leg; her foot resting next to is thigh. She leans down, resting her hand on his shoulder, watching his feet, kick, splash, kick. He turns ever so slightly, one eyebrow raised as he studies her face, calm, slow, happy. She senses something, a change in his mood? A new intention? He slaps his heels into the water and kicks with renewed energy, the airborne drops landing in her hair and on her face. He nonchalantly inquires how the cool water feels and if she wants to swim. She shoves him in response. He turns grabbing her waist, pulling her sideways to his lap, leaning her backwards. Now she is kicking, trying to right herself, but he has the leverage and the strength in this position. He tells her to 'calm down', to 'not fight it', that it's inevitable. She manages to tell him, between bouts of uncontrolled giggles and squeaks, that if she goes in, he goes with her. He effects an air of calm and tells her of course he'll join her, always, forever. He tips her back further, her hair now dancing on the water, her hands and arms gripping his to keep her balance and her legs flailing. Wrapping his arms around her, he stands and walks into the wading pool. When the water rises midway to his thighs and his board shorts darken, he smiles at her, his chin tipped toward his chest, his eyes glancing up from under his brow. She sees that the electricity from earlier is ever present as he sits on another rock in the pool. The initially icy water covers them to their hips, chills them, but it is she who gasps and shrieks and it is he that sees her nipples outlined against the cloth of her midriff top. The top acts as a wick, drawing the water to it and upward steadily. The rising heat from their bodies prevents the chill from reaching them further. His hands slip between the elastic of her shorts and the hem of her top as he tells her he will 'make her warm'. She sticks her hand into the pool and ensures that his face and his hair are just as wet as hers. As she leans sideways to the water, his hand just happens to slide to her breast. He feels its roundness as he feels her shudder. He says 'Scully' on a drawn out hiss. Her quest to drench him momentarily shelved; she turns to him and draws his lower lip between her teeth as his fingers pull on her cold, hard nipple. It is her turn to hiss. He suggests that her top might be weighing her down as he pushes it up and over her head. She does not consider denying him and as she arches back to assist him, he leans in to help dry the water from between her breasts. She is very appreciative and once she is free of the offending article of clothing, she pulls his face to her chest. He kisses her wet skin as he slides them off the rock and into the wading pool. Her immediate reaction is surprise as she laughs and sinks below the surface. She has promised to 'take him with her' and she is still holding his head as she slips under. They both surface coughing and laughing and slicking hair back from their eyes. He stands, pulling her up to his body, her naked breasts pressed against his water-logged tee. She places her hands on his hips, holding perfectly still and when she is sure that he is waiting for her seductive next move, she uses their buoyancy to twist away from him, swimming toward the falls. He loves a challenge. He strips from his tee, tossing it to the rocks, and pursues her. His longer arms and only slightly late start allow him to pace her quickly. She glances back, her dark wet hair whipping around her face, partially obscuring her view of him. At that point, he draws in a deep breath and jackknifes into the deeper pool. She treads water, spinning around in place, looking for him. She then stays in one place, trying to peer into the depths below. That is when he surfaces behind her, his arms slipping under hers, his hands seeking her breasts. Her sharp intake of breath brings her chest into closer contact with him and she exhales his name loudly although the rushing of the water from overhead drowns out the sound to all but her and him. She feels on arm wrap around her waist as his legs scissor back and forth to keep them afloat. She instinctively holds onto his forearms as his other hand reaches between her shorts legs pulling her up and back against him. His skin is slick and hot beneath the cooler water and she slides her back against his chest. The sun has moved again and is now in full view above them in the break in the overhanging canopy of leaves. The rays provide a warming contrast to the water temperature but only add to the heat of their bodies. She widens her stance; attempting to hook her feet around behind his legs, but she cannot still his legs or they will go under. She grapples with his body, searching for the best hold to allow her to rub back and forth against his hand pressed into her crotch. He watches the waterline break over and re-submerge her nipples. Although he is strong, she wriggles from his hold and swims the short distance toward the rocky ledge beside the falls. He follows her languidly; she is not running from him and he will follow her wherever she swims. He calls out to her in question and she rolls to her back, her head lifting up a few inches from the water, her arms circling to hold her in place as he closes the distance between them. He is in front of her now, his chin seeming to rest on the water. His hair is slicked back from his face and she can see the droplets on his lashes. 'You are a beautiful man', she thinks to herself and then tells him aloud. His smile is full wattage, almost as brilliant as the sun high overhead. His arms dart out in front of him, below the surface, and grab for the waistband of her shorts. Her eyes register her amused shock. She should know better; she *does* know better. She willingly twists and turns, sculling the water almost frantically, to allow him to pull her shorts from her body. He holds them above his head in mock triumph. He swims with them to the ledge, hoisting himself on top. She observes him standing just to the right of the falls on the wide rocky outcropping. His board shorts are plastered to his lithe lower body and while she is sure that his Sig is back on shore, she is also sure that something else is causing the heavy shorts to bulge in front. She shakes her head with laughter, enjoying herself more than she could have thought possible. As she swims toward him, she muses that she could love this man solely for his ability to make everyday life magic for her. As she hears the ledge, she watches him unfasten the button and slide the zipper down, neatly lowering and then stepping out of, his shorts. While he is not cocky, well, except for what is standing proudly from the dark brown wiry curls in the juncture of his lean and muscular thighs, he is self-confident in his body. He has perhaps stepped too close to the wall of rock behind him because she watches him step forward a bit too quickly, losing his balance and falling head first back into the pool. She watches him surface, a small blush rising in his cheeks, a smirk on his face. A man who can laugh at himself. Another fine quality in a partner, she thinks. He leans down to offer her his hand and she joins him on the ledge. She finger combs her hair back from her face, stopping in mid-comb to gaze up at his face. While there is so much more of him upon which she may gaze, his eyes have always told her all there is to know about her, about him, about everything and anything. Now is no different. She sees their love and his passion and right on the border of the passion, she recognizes that his mischief has not yet played itself out. He does not tire easily and she does not tire of him. He places his hands over hers, slowly moving in to kiss her lips. She returns the silent communication and they turn to walk under the falls. *** He is being led by his sex. It is leading him to hers. His very clever and always thinking mind is seeking the perfect place, the most comfortable position. He knows that plunging himself between her legs is but one, albeit powerful, way to show her how much he loves her mere existence. He has become a believer, seen evidence of just how much she enjoys his physical and carnal demonstrations. His proof includes the fact that she is also the initiator and often takes over when he has not intention of leaving off. This location provides a bit of a challenge since it is so rock hard. It is not unlike him in that sense, but he is rock hard with softness and firmness layered on top. His inner resources and the fact that he is still in possession of their wet shorts give him the answer he is seeking. They stand side by side on a very deep ledge, a cascading curtain of water falling in front of them, the spray back-lashing them. The lip of the ledge meets the pool as it receives the charging wetness. He spins her back to the water and holds her by the waist as she arches back to catch the spray on her face. She is sure she sees a rainbow form in the crystal light of the sun against the water. Her mouth is open, her tongue extended to catch the droplets. From the slow burning flames inside him, his plan is formed. His hands not leaving her, he pulls her flush with him, they bodies slapping gently together. He begins to back into the recessed corner, but she is nothing if not a woman who knows what she wants. And right now, she wants to align her petite body with his much taller one, to skim and glide her hands everywhere over him, feeling the heat of him beneath the slick cold of the spray, to taste him with her mouth. She begins to do so and he thinks she reminds him of a long ago time when he dated a girl known as 'the octopus' because her hands were everywhere at once. The octopus was all of 16 years old. The woman before him is much more than that and knows exactly what she is doing all over him all at once. But he also knows what he wants to do and he finds her hands and holds them still, walking her back to the corner ledge. Resolute purpose he becomes as he places their folded shorts against the wall and sits. He beckons her with one curved finger, motioning exactly where he wants her to be. Her attempt at a defiant pose only serves to make him more determined and much more aroused. Her jutting hip, the uplift of her chin, the hand on her hip define her intent, but her sultry smile is more indicative of her desire. His eyes trail from her feet to her slim ankles, to her athletically curvaceous legs to the coppery curls of her sex, upward over her flat abdomen, her voluptuously perky breasts and finally, to the darkest depths of blue in her eyes. His husky tone invites her to join him, 'please'. She hears the tinge of want and need in the invitation and stands straddling him as he sits below her. He smells her desire and sees how her sex glistens with her readiness. They do not need more foreplay. Lord knows they have had all day and at least many years of looks and touches and innuendo that held seriousness underneath. He is being consumed by his need to devour her, to be buried within her again. He is sure she can see the blood pumping in his very erect penis. He watches as it seems to be drawn to her. She has not missed this fact either. Her own sex is aching with an uncontrollable desire for him. It is only a question of which of them will be able to make it happen faster. As with many things they do in life, they do this together. He moves forward enough to allow her to wrap her legs around behind him and he slides his hands under her rear, shifting her closer. She takes him in both hands, feeling the size of him, the heat, the pulsing. She lifts herself up and forward and his hand joins hers to guide him inside. For a moment, there is nothing but each other's eyes and the feel of him so very far inside her. They do not move, they almost do not remember to breathe. And then she sashays her hips this way and that and he exhales, whispering her name like his mantra and she answers with his name. It is always this way with the sound of their names and the intimacy their use implies and invokes. His hips answer hers, driving forward and upward. She holds onto his shoulders while his hands come to her waist to steer and guide her. Their pace is becoming more rapid, unintentionally, unconsciously matching the torrential downfall that continues to send a fine mist over them and around them. Her hips twirl, then grind and drive forward and back along his shaft. And his head lolls back, his eyes opening and closing. She watches his tongue dart out to wet his already wet lips and smiles, knowing he is in the same throes of passion in which she finds herself. He feels the blood pounding in his head, north and south, and the clenching of her muscles around him send wild fire through his veins. She watches him try to keep his eyes open, but begins to pant as she knows he is coming close, closer when his eyes snap closed, his lids scrunching in that look half way between extreme ecstasy and delayed gratification. He is pulling her ass, holding her tightly, sending shivers through them both. She feels as if she is bouncing on him as his hands knead and pull her bottom in quick short bursts, then slow, then pick up speed once again. Her index and middle fingers find her clit and move in tight circles around it. She knows they are both about to go the way of the falls, mixing and merging within each other. She cries out first, an exclamation of unknown meaning. He maintains the hold on her, but suddenly stills his hands and pumps into her one, two, three times more, his cry joining hers. *** She leans in to touch his face, kiss his lips. They are both trying to re-adjust their breathing. His eyes open and his face relaxes as he regards her. He asks if she is enjoying their day away. She wants to know if he really has to ask. He says he is just trying to make sure. And she tells him he can be *very* sure. Very sure, indeed. ~~Finis~~