olyabird | [oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

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[oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

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She still eats as if it is a privilege, a throwback to the many times when it was. Proteins first, to sustain the body, and yes, while battered poultry is a novelty, she still manages to enjoy it. Carbohydrates next, and fresh baked bread is fresh baked bread the world over. And finally, because it has a strange scent, and it looks to be rather messy to eat, finally she delves into the watermelon slices. Juice ran down her chin and she had a sense memory of eating apples fresh from the cider press, only this was more like pears, she thought. No, not at all like pears. Something completely new and different.

Not unlike the man seated next to her, his startlingly blue eyes glittering with mirth as she chased bite after bite with a swipe of her napkin.

"This should be served in a glass," she murmurs, taking another bite of the almost ethereal fruit. One could eat for days and never fill up. "What are you laughing at, hmm?"

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He makes a mental note of that - never let it be said that the boy can't learn. Pushing himself up, he slides his hands around her shoulders to suckle and nip urgently at her breasts. Her challenge is not going unanswered.

She smiles, her arms melting around his neck, her fingers dragging through his hair, looking down into those impossible blue eyes. She licks her lips and bares her teeth at him, urging him on, hunger radiating in every line of her body now. There's an urgency in her touch this time, and he has no one to blame for it but himself.

Oh, he will happily take the blame for this. And possibly every other time he provokes this sort of response as well. One hand stays firmly between her shoulder blades, but the second slides down over the curve of her ass. He bucks up to unsettle her, then twists, pressing her back down against the bed. Positions reversed, he mimics her fierce and brutal kiss, taking no prisoners.

Oh yes. This is one of those fantastic moments where she discovers that he knows exactly what she wants before she knows it herself. She yields without yielding, flexing beneath him, her fingers gripping in his hair, her heels dug into the backs of his thighs.

Her moan is considerably louder this time, poorly soundproofed walls be damned. She wants him to know just how much she's enjoying this.

He's already gotten her trousers off once today, and has learned the trick of the clasps. Dexterous fingers undo all of those tricksy closings, and he pushes back just enough that he can strip the unnecessary clothing off of her.

And, of course, to study his handiwork for a moment. Simply gorgeous.

She follows him up this time, her own hands a bit frantic as they make quick work of his own trousers. She has to fall back when he tugs hers off, a chuckle melting into a groan as he looks down at her.

Her smile turns decidedly wicked as he lingers a bit too long for an eye full, and she shimmies higher on the bed, making him reach for her.

His clothes drop to the floor, and he follows her, intent and driven and appreciating. Definitely appreciating.
"So, darlin'," He rumbles in her ear, "You like it a bit rough, do you?" One hand is still teasing those lovely breasts, but the other...

The other has ventured somewhere else entirely, sliding firmly, inexorably into her slick heat.

Her hands are hot on his skin and she gasps as he penetrates her, turning her head to muffle a sharp, decadent cry against his shoulder. Her hips rise off the bed and one questing hand curls around his cock in an equally assertive grip.

Her breath is ragged against his jaw. "Just like you, I like it when you tell me -- what you want."

He truly cannot stop the thrust against her hand, his breath coming out in a fierce, fervent, gasping curse.

"Just you, darlin'." He assures her, as he sets up a firm, steady, driving rhythm, his thumb pushing against her clit. He is demanding, relentless - if she wants the beast, he will do his damnedest to comply.

He is also going to plunder her mouth again, groaning his encouragement of the tightness of her nimble, talented hands.

It's too much, too much and not enough, all in the same breath. Her legs tangle with his as they try to find this new, savage rhythm. It's too much, and not enough, and she only knows one way to proceed. Her kiss slows, not losing any of the strength or passion, only moderating the tempo, guided by her hand and her hips.

"Be careful what you wish for," she growls, her voice thick with lust. Her power coils around her, unconscious as breathing, urging him to complete the circuit. She shifts beneath him, her hand guiding him to her cunt. Her breath shudders in a long groan as he slides along her slit, and her eyes roll back as he slides home with that same driving intensity.

The tight heat of her, the power, it has just as much detrimental effect to his logical thinking ability as before, as it probably will every time. But beyond that, above that - touching her, burying himself within her keep, it suddenly becomes nearly imperative. The effect is electrifying, maddening... it would be frightening, perhaps, if he were not willingly given over to it.
Less speed, but more power - she names the tune, and he plays it, the fingers of one slick hand still circling her clit, and doing the same to her breasts with tongue and teeth and fingers.

She curls around him, her chin tipped back, gloriously discordant waves of pleasure coiling through her body. Her palms smooth over his shoulders, urging him back for another kiss, deep and demanding. Each breath brings a shimmering cry up from her throat, each surging pulse, a whipstrike of white hot bliss. Her strong legs hold him close, and her hips meet his, stroke for stroke.

There'll be damage to show for this, he'd realize, if he were thinking. He might even be amused by it. Even a little smirkily self-satisfied.

But he is beyond thinking, God help him. This is basic, elemental, the fusion of two disparate wholes into something else entirely. There is only her beneath and around him goading and pushing him on. There is only a desperate, nearly blind need to be closer, deeper, to make those exultant noises louder in his ears. There is only the sting of his muscles as he shifts, bracing with his hands under her shoulders because she isn't quite close enough, never quite close enough, and the fire in his blood, his nerves, his brain burns hotter and fiercer and still, not quite enough.

His body covers her, as does his spirit, heat and light branding the part of her that never really finds a home in the flesh. She can't keep herself distant from such a need, burning so brightly. He asks and she answers, taking the moments between heartbeats to paint his longbones with the siren song of her name. Tendon and bone, muscle and nerve ache with the sweetness of it, and her body shivers up and over the brink.

Just like that, she's soaring, lost in a storm of sensation, totally given over to his tender mercies.

There's a gasp from him that isn't pain, isn't pleasure, but is a mixture of both that wracks him to his core. Somehow, impossibly, everything is more and she is finally close enough. Close enough that he cannot tell the difference between them, that he doesn't so much snap as shatter, his breath one near-stunned groan of release.

Blended yes, she is gloriously tangled in the strands of his awareness, feeling his pleasure as deeply as her own, feeding the sweet pulse of bliss back to him with every breath. But she is always aware of her discreteness, aware of where he ends and she begins. It is this that allows her to drown in this passion, this wonder of flesh and bone and blood, without drinking a single drop.

Gently, she draws the power back to herself, lingering along the still shimmering nerve endings, the touch of her power as soft as the brush of her hands along his back. Her eyes remain closed and her breath ragged, her hips still moving, twisting, instinct and her hunger unwilling to relinquish its hold just yet.

He smiles against her neck, whispering her name against her skin. Her movement is doing nothing to help allow his thoughts re-arrange themselves back into some sort of order, but he can be clear on one thing. If she is still wanting, he can joyfully still meet that need, one way or another.

Gently he pushes himself up and back, trailing reassuring kisses down her midline, over sternum and ribs and belly and down, questing fingers pushing into her to stroke and build that fire again. The smell, the taste of her is heady stuff, and he moans as he laps at her, firm and steady.

Slowly her breathing returns to normal. Her hands smooth over his shoulders, her fingers stroking over his skin, weaving in his hair. Every kiss brings a small sigh, a breathless quiet exhalation, her pleasure whispered now as he nestles between her thighs. She reaches for the headboard, and her toes curl as he reconnects, her head arching back into the pillows.

"Lyonya..."

The sweet tension coils up her spine and out of her mouth in a decadent, low cry.

He watches her, the sinuous fluidity of her movements - does she know just how gorgeous she is? Surely someone has told her, through the years, but does she know it, believe it?

He'll have to make sure of that. Right after he finishes his current self-appointed task, demanding that she surrender that iron-clad self control once again, his pace as steady and inexorable as the tide.

There's a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, and her throat, trailing down between her breasts. Her hips rise and fall against his mouth, and he can feel little shivers, temblors of pleasure, cascading down her long muscles.

It's a longer ascension this time, and more intense for it. He's not giving her any choice but to focus on the touch of his hands and his hungry mouth. She unravels slowly, her muscles growing taut until she's vibrating in his embrace, barely breathing at all. And then her thighs clamp tight around his ears, and she's quaking and bucking beneath him. Her climax rips through her small frame as she bites back another long keening moan.

McCoy gentles her back down, stroking the tense and shaking muscles. Once she releases him he eases back up her body, spooning around her, enjoying her warmth.

The dip between collarbone and neck is enticing, so he kisses it.
"So beautiful, Olga."

It takes a bit longer for her breathing to return to normal, and she gives him a bit of a breathless laugh. Her hand comes up to touch his cheek.

"Olya," she corrects gently, fondly. "Olga is -- more proper. Call me Olya."

"Olya." He tastes the word, testing the way it rolls off his tongue. It seems gentler somehow, and it suits this side of her. And it is a gift, he knows - she shied away from the topic of names before.

"I like it. Beautiful Olya."

Around her, imperceptible to his senses, the power of the name shimmers against her skin. Not enough to bind her, but a naming nonetheless.

He has a way of savouring it that makes her smile broaden. Her eyelids droop, and she shifts just enough to catch his mouth in a gentle kiss.

He hums in happy appreciation of the different tastes of her swirling over his tongue. Perhaps his crewmates wouldn't recognize the tense, near-furious doctor who has been doing his damnedest to keep things together the last day or two in the relaxed, sated man here... and that's just fine with him. They can keep, for now.

And every once in a while, like someone walking over his grave, he gets that same prickly back-of-the-neck feeling he does when he has to turn his back to the giant bay doors in shuttlebay. That same eerie sense that what's in front of him is just a very tiny part of something echoing and vast.

He finds that kissing her? Is an excellent distraction from that. It's an excellent distraction from most things.

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[oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

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