This isn’t happening.
He’s got her pinned against the bulkhead in the engine room, hands pulling her grungy coveralls away, exposing clear skin, lips pressed against hers, tongue delving into her sweet mouth. And she’s kissing him back.
There was a moment, not too long ago, he thinks, when he had a question, an important question, to ask her. So he climbed the stairs to her lair…
And she’s moaning, and pulling at his sweater, hands cool against skin, making him gasp. She giggles, and he mutters, “So that’s how it’s going to be…” before tracing a line along her jaw to her earlobe, nibbling gently, turning the tables, listening to her sudden intake of breath.
She was standing there, greasy cloth in hand, wiping sweat off her forehead, leaving a black trail. He smiled, she smiled back, and his heart leapt into his throat…
Her heart is beating underneath his hand. He’s almost got her shirt off, his hand sliding across the smooth skin, watching her closed eyes and half open mouth, and the shudders he causes when he brushes against a nipple. Smiling again, he leans down, and kisses the aureole gently.
It had been a while since he had really seen her. Sometimes he retreated into the doctor role, seeing a collection of parts. It had always been easy for him. Now, there she was, and he saw her, whole and glowing, and so damn beautiful…
She’s arching into him, fingers digging into his hair, as he traces lines across her belly with his mouth. His hands pull her hips closer, tongue tracing a faint scar, here, dipping into her navel, there. And he knows there was another question, but it doesn’t seem to bother him as much as this one does. He moves his mouth against her salty skin, tasting her shivers.
“Your room or mine?”