olyabird | [oom] Room 3F 127

It's a holdover from his years as a resident, this ability to bounce from deep sleep to wakefulness at the slightest alarm. He always knows when she rises, and always wakes up again when she comes back, enough to welcome her back into the bed and to his arms, if she's settled enough to stay there.

Tonight is no different, when he hears her feet against the floor, he shifts, looking up at her as he pulls back the blankets for her, a sleepy smile on his face.

She lets her robe fall to the floor and insinuates herself back into his warm embrace. Her feet are cold against his shins, but the rest of her is merely cool.

Her fingers interlace with his, drawing his hand around her waist, and she rests her head against his arm.

A quiet hum of contentment slips from her lips.

McCoy is very glad he wakes up for this. In the pre-dawn darkness, the world is small - the size of the bed, or smaller; the space between his body and hers. He pulls her closer, to share warmth, to tangle his legs with hers.

To think what he'd miss just to sleep through the night. What a waste that would be.

She nestles back against him, savouring the feel of his body pressed against her from heel to nape. Her legs shift against his and she can't help the little shiver that runs down her spine.

"How are you feeling?"

He dips his head to press a kiss against her neck, breathing in the scent of her.
"Good. Slip something into my drink at dinner?" He jokes, since it's almost shocking how things don't hurt after a week and a half of first the virus, then the recovery from the virus plucking at his nerves.

She tips her chin up, and he can feel the goosebumps rise beneath his lips. Her hand rises to touch his cheek, her fingertips grazing along his stubbled jawline.

"Amazing what a little rest will do, hmm?"

He chuffs a soft laugh against her skin, rolling his eyes. He's fairly sure he's never going to hear the end of this, but that's just fine. There has been something fantastic about this time that almost makes contracting that virus a good thing.

Almost.

He still remembers falling, thinking he was dying. He could have done without that.

"Yes, doctor." He teases, sliding his hand up to cup her breast, humming satisfaction.

After days of keeping herself in check, his touch is like an electrical storm in her skin. She gasps, her back arching instinctively, her hips pressing back against his for a moment before she catches herself.

"You should -- ah -- rest more. A week, you said."

Sure, she has an iron will, but the key is in the wanting to resist temptation. This really isn't fair. Her breath hitches every time he strokes across the underside of her breast.

"I don't want to -- set back your recovery."

He sighs, not at all wanting to stop. She's right - this is usually when people set themselves back, try for too much too soon and go straight back to where they started.

But it is very, very hard. Here in this tiny world it is warm, and she is flush up against him, so very tempting.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asks, but he's not playing fair, gently worrying her skin with his teeth.

"Gods no," she breathes, hissing her appreciation at the feel of his mouth. He could map each area of sensitivity by touch alone, feeling how she tenses and shifts, hearing the soft sighs and breathless gasps that his attention to a specific spot induces.

It isn't fair at all. He has her utterly at his mercy like this. Again, her hips twitch backwards and her hand reaches up farther, her nails grazing along his scalp.

This is something he deeply enjoys - his hands were trained to serve almost as another pair of eyes, able to discover and explore and give him a whole world of information sight alone just cannot unveil. Here in the dark he cannot see, but he doesn't need to - his hands tell him everything he needs to know.

He uses a leg to pull her closer against her, humming happily against her skin as he continues to explore.

Her senses unreel slowly, her breath synchronising with his. He's touching her so gently, marking the swell of her breasts, the flat of her stomach and the swell of belly beneath. Her eyes are closed and she can't help herself. It's so simple, here in the darkness, so exquisite. She rocks back against him, a gentle undulation that rolls down her spine and grounds in her hips before curling back up her body. He has her well and truly captured, and she's loving every moment of it.

He's re-acquainting himself with her body slowly, despite the fire she's setting. He's missed this, and he has no intention of rushing in (even if, at this moment, there is definite desire to). There are certain things that require attention, like the shell of her ear and the fringe of shorter hairs at the nape of her neck, or the soft underside of her breasts or the curve of her ribs.

She can feel his definite desire, can feel the hard length of it against the cleft of her ass. She can feel his fire, shimmering along her skin, coiling along her nerves. Her hands hover over his, caressing, not guiding, and her legs shift restlessly against his. He finds her weakness is the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and the softest kiss can draw a decadent sigh from her.

"More," she pleads.

He capitulates as soon as she asks, guiding himself into her, gasping softly against her skin. She's so warm. After a moment of stunned pleasure he moves, slow purposeful strokes inside and out - he's still revisiting, remembering her favorites and adding to the list as he goes.

She arches her back like a dancer, her thighs parting to receive him, a wanton cry caught in the back of her throat. He pierces her through and through, in ways he cannot begin to understand. He's inside her, moving so slowly, and it's all she can do to draw a breath.

She guides his hand down between her legs, her fingers mingling with his over honey slick flesh, showing him precisely how she wants to be touched. He doesn't need to be told, he already knows how to make her groan and shudder. His reward for his mastery is the long, luscious pulse of her cunt around him. Slow, purposeful pulses, timed to his strokes.

She is in no rush to see this dance end too quickly, or ever, really. He feels so good.

He whispers her name against the back of her neck, his breath stuttered and strained, heavy as if drugged. He presses kisses, slow and deliberate and each one its own separate moment in time with the constant and growing burn, at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He wonders if anyone has ever told her just how marvelous she is.

He wonders how many times he'll have to say it before she believes it as simple truth.

Hopefully not too many. He might be forced to be creative about it.

She is beyond language. He has dismantled her capacity for rational thought. She clings to his arm around her chest, using it as leverage to arch harder against him, pressing him deeper still.

He whispers her name, and the part of her that is made of wings and ashes and twilight twists, reaching for him, bleeding along his skin like hoary frost on the surface of a lake, sinking deeper with every breath, every thrust. He delineates between each kiss, and she feels each one taking down another layer of warding, sliding passed another layer of her armour.

He pours himself over her and she slowly unwinds, the hardest parts of her falling away until she can do nothing but drown in the impossible sweetness of his regard.

Perhaps she finds it, somewhere deep within - that emotion he hasn't yet allowed himself to name, new and fragile, but with potential, very good potential. He hasn't thought about it, almost-not-quite purposefully. If he considers it, defines it, it could turn to ashes and bitterness and pain, and he's just not ready to risk it.

But it's there.

Growing.

Waiting.

What's not waiting is the firestorm he knows is just moments, breaths away, held at bay by the last thin threads of control he has in him.

She's felt it, every day for the last four days. She's felt it every time he looks at her, every time he touches her. She feels it now, like moonlight on her skin. A promise of something unfathomable. Something rare.

They shift from languorous to intent, and now she is striving, chasing that thin thread of flame coiling in her belly, muscles growing tight. Still a measured pace, strong and steady, twisting her so tight around him, she loses track of where she ends and he begins.

He can feel the first tremors and he holds, waiting, pulling her on. His breath comes in gasps, and he buries his face against her neck, still pulled tight up against her (oh, please), feeling the shift and tension in her muscles (please) beneath and around him.

A hard shudder takes her, her whole body arching as it grips her, and another, and another, until she's gasping aloud, her thighs quivering, her heat clenching around him so impossibly tight, thrumming with bliss.

His name is on her lips, her voice strained and honey dark, begging him to join her.

He falls at her bidding, her moaned name vibrating against her skin, his body tense and shivering against her.

At the moment, with what ability he has to wonder left to him, he does wonder why this wasn't a good idea earlier.

He'll remember.

Much later.

She soars with him, feeling the moment stretch until it can no longer hold, and only then does she reluctantly let it go. Bliss, heavy and sweet, pools in her limbs and she sags in his arms.

She clings to what little of him she can reach, her breathing slowly returning to normal. Her senses linger, holding him close, the boundaries between them blurred comfortably.

It is a long time before she finds the words to ask.

"Is this all right?" The question is accompanied by a shifting presence, just enough to let him know she's there, still inside him.

"Mmmhmm." The answering hum is languid, endorphins erasing any pain (for the time being). He's still getting used to that sensation of her in his space, still not quite able to translate that feeling into something he could describe with any coherency. But it's not bad. It's not bad, and it has the potential of being very good, so he has no protests at all, other than wishing he had he words to define it, if only in his own head.
"Thank you, darlin'." It would have been sheer torture if she'd refused him.

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