[oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

[olyabird]

[ after this ]

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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[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.