Just in the Middle of a Dream
by ALC Punk!

When she grips the headboard and leans her forehead to the wall with him draped on her back, and she wonders if they're both more acrobatic than she'd ever imagined. A hand snakes across her abdomen, and she is suddenly very aware of the way he feels inside and out and she leans back, arching up. And the difference in height and body mass and taste and feeling all tumble up at once.

She hears him curse under his breath as a twist of her hips sends him crashing over the edge. And this is what she wanted.

Completely, utterly. To know that this is what she does to him (and this is what he does to her, but she wants to ignore the fingers climbing her skin and the tongue sliding over the nape of her neck), what it is possible to make him do.

He curses again and pries her fingers from the headboard, seperates from her and pulls at her until she falls backwards, boneless and completely and utterly submissive.

A hand glides across her breasts, and she moans as the nipples tighten, wanting more.

Laughter escapes him and then his mouth replaces his hands and she twists as he bites down and sucks and that tension she caused in him is now building harshly through her.

Fingers and thumb and then his mouth trades places again and she's suddenly clenching and unclenching and her hands are balled in the sheet.

When she screams, she can swear he laughs again, but there's too much sight and sound and feeling to really pay adequate attention (and this is what it's like to bank a F-13 at mach 3, the g-force slamming hard until the headrest nearly blacks you out), and then that's it.

Sight returns, sound slowly follows although she can hear her own pulse pounding steadily and there's cotton wool around her head.

"Wow."

"Yeah." She can agree, even if only in a soft whisper.

His hand trails across her stomach, then flattens there. His head settles on her shoulder, and automatically, her fingers slide into the hair, tweaking it this way and that, making sure it will take him at least fifteen minutes with a comb and hair gel to get correct.

It's supposed to be time for her to leave. She should be getting up and heading for the door, for the pile of clothes already neatly stacked in the bathroom so that she can shower and be done with it. But she suddenly doesn't want to.

Because his legs are tangled in hers and his hand is comfortable, and he already sounds like he might be snoring.

The realization scares the crap out of her, and she almost leaps from the bed and runs.

Of course it's not supposed to be like this. She's not supposed to fuck her commanding officer in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere.

She's also not supposed to want to stay afterwards. To feel so comfortable that the thought of leaving turns her limbs to lead and makes her brain try to shut itself down like a computer running Windows 95 on a 128k hard drive. Which, probably isn't possible.

Probably.

If there were a gun in her hands, she could be certain of something. A gadget, a piece of electronics, hell, even a small child. But not this man, and not the way he makes her feel. The way she sometimes catches him looking at her, the way the pit of her stomach twitches when she looks sideways at him.

The way she can't see either of them alive in ten years, except once or twice when she can see them so distant and far from each other that it makes her come back to this room.

Because this is not friendship or love or anything but sex. And they were agreed on that three years ago when it began.

She doesn't want to know that it's changed. Doesn't want to acknowledge that living a double life has turned her into a bitter and grasping hag. That she's warped her perceptions of what life is supposed to offer and ended up barren and wasted for the rest of her life. Simply because she couldn't keep it in her pants.

The bitter irony is that he didn't want this.

And yet he's settled on her and around her, and he can make her scream loud enough to wake the dead.

She doesn't want to leave anymore.

And maybe that will be enough.

-f-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!