DOLCE FAR NIENTE by Blackwood entreamis@yahoo.com RATING: NC17 CATEGORY: MSR, Vignette, AU, Mulder/Scully Married (!) SPOILERS: None ARCHIVE: With intact header and a note to me. SUMMARY: "How unlike me," she thinks... DISCLAIMER: Standard yadda yadda. ~*~*~*~ The scent of burnt toast and strong coffee wafts through the air while morning sun butters the windows. The Tech, Leisure and Sunday magazine, opened to the crossword half-done in pencil, are stacked on the coffee table in ordered formation. The rest of the Sunday paper is strewn on the floor and the side table and on the man that reclines on the sofa inspecting a glossy four-color advertisement with great intent. "Breathtaking locations, first-class dining, luxury accommodations.." he reads, longing coloring his voice. He sits up and hazel eyes lift above the shiny brochure to where she sits at the dining room table. Her head is bent towards the laptop screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. She's wearing her wire-rims, his Yankees tee-shirt and not much else, *if* he's lucky. "Whadya think?" "I think you're dreaming," she says without looking at him, brows furrowed at some item she reading. "Just listen a minute." His eyes scan the flier. "Tropical accents and fixtures highlight the colonial-style d‚cor while Asian and French influences infuse the airy dining room. Our chefs will tempt your palette while our spa soothes your body for maximum relaxation and renewal." He pauses and turns to her again, hopeful. "Sounds great, doesn't it?" he asks, his inner eye defining curves beneath the loose lines of the oversized shirt. "Sounds expensive," she retorts. He sighs at her implacable practicality. "We need a break." "I'm fine." "Well, *I* need a break," he says sitting up. "We haven't had much time alone lately." Fingers pause and her gaze shifts from the screen full of check numbers and ledger lines to the man she now calls husband. He's resting his chin on bare, lean muscled arms over the back of the sofa, the look in his eyes inviting challenge. She smiles at him over the lens' perched on her nose. "Miss me?" "Let me show you how much," he cajoles with a wag of his brow. She shakes her head and tries to look annoyed. "Wasn't last night enough for you?" "Never," he rejoins and rises, moving towards her at a slow pace. A half-smile plays about her lips as she remembers. He was generous with his time and talent last night, seducing her with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a plate of sugared raspberries for her birthday. Champagne always makes her lightheaded, but she loves the dry taste on her palette. He painted her body with the dark berries' juice then licked her clean. She felt playful and giddy and the sugar high was nothing compared to the flush he induced over her fair skin. William was with his grandmother and the apartment was locked. They resigned themselves to a life scrutinized by more than deep thought, although he knew she always considered it while they made love. Deep, languorous kisses eased her worries and dissipated self-consciousness. He coaxed her to tell him what she wanted. "Your mouth," she breathed into his ear like angel's breath. "On me." He didn't need to ask where. Laying a path of sloppy kisses from her chin to her stomach and beyond, she shivered with desire from his attentions. She forswore on silence when he plied her sex with lips and tongue and fingers, forgetting herself in the whirlwind of his impassioned grunts and her exhortations of 'yes' and 'more.' The earth swayed on its axis in the moment of climax, stars spinning in crazy orbital frenzy as she succumbed to waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. When she climaxed, she thought she would die from the sheer pleasure of it. And now she appraises his form with a critical-but-loving eye, noting with satisfaction the weight he's put on his lanky frame since he's moved in with her and their son. Middle age is making its acquaintance with him in attractive fashion. His stamina and strength are better than ever and she doesn't worry about him the way she did in those early weeks following his return from the dead. She wonders if she should. Her eyes drop as his arms enfold her from behind. She feels the warm, dry brush of his lips against her temple. Tipping back her head, she closes her eyes and waits. His lips are soft and warm, and she wills Time to slow in this moment of communion. It is a gift from God that brought him back to her and she knows she mustn't waste even a moment. Gentle slow nudges of his mouth against hers demolish resistance and she is, all at once, no longer interested in the checkbook that needs balancing or the grocery list that needs making or the baby clothes that need laundering. She is utterly refocused: in the taste of his mouth, the feel of his chest under her sliding hand and the quickening of her pulse as his hands move on her. She isn't conscious of being lifted to her feet or distracted from her work, but her lack of control over the situation doesn't disturb her in the least. "How unlike me," she thinks as she nuzzles his unshaven jaw, his skin salty-scratchy against her tongue. "You forget we have lots of catching up to do," he teases. Pulling back, she looks up into his mirth-filled gaze. "Catching up?" "I figure one actual roll in the hay for every serious consideration I've ever given the idea, hmmm?" he begins, a hand sliding from her waist, across the sculpted curve of her cotton-covered ass. He toys with the hem of her top before grazing bare skin beneath, a grin revealing his approval. She audibly sighs, pulse quickening. "And how much of your time was spent doing that?" "Statistically speaking, human males have a sexual thought on the average of once every 29 seconds." She waits. He squints, gazing over her shoulder, doing mental math while he kneads the soft, but solid flesh beneath his touch. "Let's see... three hundred sixty-five days... times ten years..." He bites at his lower lip and she ponders it before lifting her amused gaze to his. "You're telling me you've thought about IT since we've known each other?" He shrugs. "It's a guy thing. We're programmed that way." She nods and stifles a grin. "What happened to friendship, respect and professionalism?" "We can do that, too." "We?" "The male species." "I meant you and I." "I've *always* treated you like a professional." She arches one perfect brow. "Haven't I?" She chuffs at him. "Let's just say I'm the forgiving sort, shall we?" "Let's. Now," he commands, turning her about and shuffling her before him, "How's about we cut the chitchat and get busy?" "You think it's that easy?" she throws at him over her shoulder, providing no resistance to his purposeful direction towards the bedroom. "I do." "That I'll just go along with whatever you decide?" "When I'm right, you do." Their pace increases as they near the four-posted featherbed that dominates the room -- an impetuous honeymoon purchase they've yet to regret. Twenty naked toes swish through the lush lambskin carpet that underlies the bed. She scrambles onto the tufted mattress and turns on her back to face him. He's already straddling her, pushing the loose tee upwards until a succulent breast is exposed. "Breakfast of Champions," he murmurs, his head lowering to latch onto an already stiff nipple. She arches her back as she reclines, purring with contentment. Wrapping her right leg around his torso, she caresses his lower back. They roll onto their sides and she melts into him like Belgian chocolate left in the sun too long. Small kisses are left like gifts along the ridge of his brow, down his too-large nose. When she nips the tip, he laughs, lifting his face to claim her sweet mouth. She tastes like everything he never had and always wanted. He feels like Christmas morning in July and she anticipates the feel of him inside her, raising coarse goosebumps over her superheated skin. She loves this part of lovemaking -- the power she feels at arousing his needs and then sating them. She never thought she would feel this way about simple human mechanics, but she loves the fact that it is so. At last. The tenting of fabric at his groin tells her he's hard and erect. She reaches between them and tugs at the elastic of his pajamas. Shifting weight onto a knee, he pushes the offending garment over his hips. Sitting upright, she removes her glasses and discards the last barrier between them. "Get back here," he admonishes, spreading her legs with a sudden roughness so that she topples onto her back into downy pillows. He kneels between her parted limbs, his gaze raking the daylit contours of her body. Her upper lips glisten with his saliva; lower lips slick with her arousal. Taking his tool in hand, he slowly runs the tip back and forth across her clit, savoring the twitch of her body and the pant of her breath at the action. Anticipation heightens and they pause. His eyes tell her what she needs to know -- he loves her, he adores her, he can't live without her. Moving gently, slowly, he pushes into her welcoming heat. Ever the student, he tries to analyze the sensations that rush through him: heart rate strong and steady, blood tingling the skin, breath deep. His instinct is to thrust, parry, inseminate and leave. His intellect argues to loiter, pulse, stroke and savor. Her emotions frighten her with their intensity. Passion is an infrequent visitor in her carefully ordered life and what she feels for this man defies definition. He is flame and she is air. Surely the room is shimmering with the glow from their bodies. Her hands caress the muscled torso that rises and falls above her while their breath conjoins in the space between. Spirit conjures the illusion of separation while Nature reminds that they are one and the same. There are no words adequate for this intimate language of flesh. Only skin can speak to skin and their dialogue is wondrous, poetic and deep. Tempos run in counterpoint, then synchronize of their own volition. Reality turns inward to the connection of the soul as their passion arcs with unwanted haste; and before either is ready to succumb, they are There in rare unexpected unison. His breath, his touch, his every molecule of being is pressed against her and she strains to draw air. Already incoherent, she struggles for balance in the wake of his deepening penetration and the singular point of pleasure that rockets her past sense and reason into the realm of primal instinct. "Like that," she thinks. "Like that. Don't stop. Yes. Yess." She breathes aloud simply, "Ohhh--" Her simple exhalation permits him release and he pays homage, sacrificing his pride, his strength, his self-control; all for the sensation of divinity: its grace, its power, its fire. He groans at the glorious peak, body pounding in a slow continuous loop of motion that draws every ounce of potency from within, replacing it with complete and utter relaxation. Limp and quiet in the afterglow, he withdraws. Satiation brings lethargy and, for a time, they drowse. At last, he murmurs against her damp brow, "So, whadya say?" "About?" "Making time." "Isn't that what we just did?" She feels his smile. "I meant getting away and sharing more than the usual routine." "There's nothing usual about our routine, Mulder." "But it *is* equitably distributed, yes?" "In the grand scheme, I suppose." "That sounds equivocal." "I just mean that we each have strengths and weaknesses that we bring to the arena in which we might be operative." "Love that dirty talk, Scully." Grinning, she looks up into his tender gaze. "You really are impossible." His look says, "Who, me?" "But," she continues, "You're cute when you're sleeping, so I guess I'll keep you for now." "What about friendship, respect and professionalism?" "We can do that." "We?" "The female species." "I meant you and I." "Partners in all things, right?" "All things," he parrots with soft assurance before kissing her most soundly. END April 2002