"Night"
by Char Chaffin

A fast bit of R-rated MSR because Donna wanted it, and dedicated to
Sallie's birthday in a week or so!

The tie goes first.  She releases the knot carefully and slides it
off slowly, keeping eye contact with him, blue to hazel, bright to
smoky.  He doesn't say a word when she extends her arm and drops the
expensive silk to the floor.

Her earrings are next.  With gentle fingers he works the clasp on
each, slips the thin post from each ear, pocketing the inch-long
dangles of seed pearls.  They looked lovely on her, but her lobes are
too delicate and sweet to cover up.  He whispers it to her and
watches the blush rise on each cheek.

One slim, rose-tipped finger dares to trail down the lapel of his
suit jacket, then up the other side, until it reaches the left
shoulder, where it pushes the rich cashmere wool aside.  Then it
travels to the other shoulder and repeats the gesture, causing the
garment to fall to the floor behind him.  It's a terrible way to
treat such fine material.  He'd tell her so, but truthfully he
doesn't care.  The light in her eyes just got a little bit
brighter... and that's all that matters.  Besides, it's his turn.

One lifted eyebrow and that cocky grin of his, and she knows exactly
what he wants.  Demurely she turns away from him and shivers just a
little bit when his warm hands press at the small of her back, smooth
up along the soft chiffon, searching out the zipper.  He eases it
down as leisurely as she removed his tie.  He also knows the value of
the slow torture... for she taught him, and quite well.  Eighteen
inches of tiny teeth move apart as he pulls; five fingers of want and
desire follow in its wake, caressing over bare skin softer than the
rose petals still caught in her hair.  Smooth and pale and perfect,
her back is beyond lovely.

When she turns to face him and lets the dress slip from her arms, to
fall in a silken heap at her feet, the front of her is a thousand
times more beautiful.

His eyes break their intense contact with hers, long enough to gaze
at her, following the curve of her body, from slim throat to high,
rounded breasts tipped with the same pale pink as her lips.  She's
wearing a scrap of silk that clings to her hips and rides each
slender thigh with a dainty piece of ribbon that looks as if it would
tear on a breath.  Or perhaps on his teeth... which is precisely his
long-range plan.  But first, there are so many other tiny goals he
has to obtain.  As does she.

"Too many clothes."  Her voice is low and raspy.  That feline purr
of hers has fueled his dreams for several years, the sound of it
curling his toes, even in his sleep.  It's no different now; he can
feel the reflexive movement in both of his shoes, as she reaches for
his shirt, her fingers becoming more urgent with each button they
release.  Five, then six... then she's tugging the crisp cotton free,
slipping it down his arms and dropping the shirt atop his tie.  He
refuses to comment on the way she treats Egyptian cotton... after
all, he was just as eager when he sent her dress south, to pool
around her shoes.  Her four-inch, stilletto-heeled shoes...

"Leave them on."  If anything, his voice is more of a thick rasp
than hers, honey and gritty sandpaper, smooth and rough and thrilling
to her ears.  She doesn't have to ask what he wants left on.  She
knows.  She stands there wearing french-cut panties and silk
stockings the same color as her creamy skin... and leaves her
fabulous, 'fuck me' heels in place on her small feet.  But she's got
a few requests of her own...

"Take them off."  It's a throaty demand from that sexy mouth of hers
that shoots a reactionary throb straight to his cashmere-covered
groin... and his hands reach for hers, and he presses all ten of her
fingers into his zipper and the hard ridge of flesh that pulses
there.  A one-sided smile, satisfied because she did this to him...
and she's unbuckling and unzipping, unsnapping and then taking.  

Taking him.

He's hot and silky smooth and so full of life, of need.  The male of
the species is so often the more beautiful and this male is the best
of the best.  The look of him has always left her breathless and
tonight is no different.  Especially tonight, because he's hers, at
last.  Hers to touch, to kiss, to hold.  Hers to love.  

"Mine."  The word is possessive as it leaves her lips and the hands
that cup him are warm and trembling.  The eyes that gaze at him are
adoring.  The want that pours from her is humbling...

When she drops to her knees, right on her costly silk and chiffon
dress, uncaring that she's wrinkling it, intent only on taking what's
hers, what's always been hers from the first moment they'd both been
aware that it was love and not just friendship... Fox Mulder realizes
that this isn't a dream; this isn't a late-night fantasy that will
end with him waking up alone, drenched in sweat and longing on his
lonely sofa in his cluttered little apartment.  This is real.  This
is happening.

This is his wedding night... the start of their lives, together.