"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com
Part 6 of 27: Ollie North, Apple Pie, and American Dreamscapes
Tuesday evening. Wheeling. Fort Henry Motor Lodge. Room 37. 8:17 PM.
"And I see once more how everything
Must be up to me: here a calamity to be smoothed away
Like ringlets, there the luck of uncoding
This singular cipher of primary
And secondary colors, and the animals
With us in the ark, happy to be there as it settles
Into an always more violent sea."
Mulder flipped the little book of poetry across the bed and watched it skid over the
blanket. Such tremendous stuff in so slim a volume: the clockworks of a heart exposed and
laid bare to the world... It took guts for a man to do that. Mulder briefly entertained
the idea of writing Ashbery a letter-- an honest to God fan letter no less-- thanking him
for his courage and explaining how so many of his poems fit the pattern of life in
Mulderville.
Yep. Great idea, Fox. Could get a little complicated though: "Dear John, hey, you
don't know me, but I chase serial killers for a living and your poems really speak to
me..." Hell, the man would probably hire a bodyguard and give up writing altogether--
Well, saved *that* stamp.
Mulder rotated his head against the back of his chair and surveyed his situation: another
third rate motel room-- bed, chair, TV, end table with it's obligatory Gideon Bible and
equally obligatory listing of local, ah, entertainment outlets. The bed was empty. The
room was empty. Except for him, of course, but he couldn't very well count himself, could
he? What was the old story about the tree falling in a forest? If no one sees, does the
tree exist? If a man blows his brains out in a motel room and no one sees...
Mulder tore his eyes away from the gun on the nightstand and stared dutifully at the
television screen. He'd been sitting there for hours, still fully dressed, feet propped on
the bed, TV blaring. CNN had cycled through the headlines four times now and no matter how
many ways they told it, it was obvious the state of the Union was up for grabs. The
incidence of AIDS was rising rampantly in San Francisco. Donald Trump was buying up New
York and whining that the Japanese were trying to beat him to it. And in East Heller,
Montana the bodies of three children were found buried in a playground and no one knew
anything, but three blocks over, twenty six people were swearing they'd seen an image of
the Virgin Mary on a piece of burnt toast.
Jeezus, next thing you knew, they'd be running those hokey alien abduction claims on
"Meet the Press."
Mulder poked at the remote in disgust, watching the blur of channels until even the blurs
began to look familiar. He wound up back on CNN and the remote control joined the little
book on the bed with an apathetic thump. Maybe he needed to get some video tapes. Hell,
maybe he just needed to get out and get a life. Sure, like the Bureau'd give him time off
for that.
He grimaced at his reflection in the screen. What the hell was he doing here, anyway?
Every other profiler in the Bureau got to fly a desk in the basement at Quantico. Not Fox
Mulder, though. It was Patterson's credo: got a bad case? Haul Fox out and let him smell
the blood. Hell, he'll dig you up bodies you didn't know you had... He could solve cases
with finesse, dazzle the locals-- and the press. It played well with the penny-pinchers in
the Ways and Means Committee, too.
Never mind that good old Fox has developed night terrors, REM rebound and every symptom of
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder listed in the DSM-III. We'll just patch him back together
with massive doses of Seconal and a seventy-two hour involuntary committal. He'll bitch
like hell but he'll be so grateful to be out he'll make sure he stays vertical long enough
to get the next half dozen cases worked. Maybe.
Mulder scrubbed at his face fretfully, pushing the thoughts away. Hell, it was his own
fault. He should have told his recruitment officer to go to hell and finished out his
clinicals. But Mulder hadn't taken up psychology to figure out what made other people
tick. He'd been trying to wrestle his own demons, and had simply found too few answers for
himself to see psychiatry as a viable career. He just wasn't that good a liar.
| So, here he was, hunting down the psychos who believed
they were the Second Coming of Christ and the Charles Manson wannabes who said it with a
hatchet and a smile. And somewhere, early on, he'd discovered this latent talent, the
spook: the shivering, the occasional vomiting and the inevitable body in the ditch. And a
whole Bureau full of folks willing to pay him for such services, content to stand in awe
as he silently drowned in that ever more violent sea-- |
|
Mulder swore silently, fed up with his own morose mood. His legs had gone to sleep and the tingling would soon be unbearable. He ignored it.
It was the waiting like this that he hated the most. He could feel
her, that someone walking up behind. He'd sensed her presence when he'd first spotted the
photos on Harris' bulletin boards. She didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, though.
Well, why should she be? She'd waited this long. She could happily keep her secrets just a
bit longer if for no better reason than to tease him, stringing him along, enjoying the
attention.
It fascinated him how the personality endured death like that. How it continued to alter
the fragrance in a room long after the body had been stilled. He wondered if his own soul
would linger when his time came. It might be interesting to hang around and see who showed
up.
Yeah, and wouldn't it serve you right if no one did, you little bastard--
He stopped the thought without completing it. No. Someone would come, he was certain.
Someone from the living to claim the body. Someone from the dead for the soul. He wondered
if one of the someones would be his sister. Surely, Sam would come for him. Samantha would
be there, somehow, he was sure of it. But from which side of the living...
His left leg convulsed into a bitter cramp and Mulder staggered up, swearing and grabbing
at the pain in his thigh. Jeez, Fox, where are you digging up all this morbid shit from
anyway?
His perpetual headache probably wasn't helping much. It'd been running for months, a dull
persistent ache. Since Sunday though, it had taken to periodic explosions; he'd had to
pull over twice on his way to Fredricksburg, blinded temporarily by searing pulses of
light. Stress. Nervous tension. He knew the symptoms, and the aspirin he'd been popping
like breath mints wasn't helping any. Baez had prescribed Valium, the occasional moderate
dosage of Seconal or Thorazine-- Patterson's unholy Trinity of psychological domination.
Sauceda still carried the drugs, he was certain. But even for a simple Valium, Sauceda
would insist on a confessional: when did you eat last? Are you sleeping? You getting
enough protein? Mulder'd be damned before he'd surrender his life's history for the sake
of one little pill, no matter how bad it got.
Mulder hobbled to the open window and steadied himself against the frame as he looked out.
The breeze that brushed his face smelled alternately of asphalt and burger grease but he
was grateful for it all the same; it was the fragrance of freedom, of people living their
lives, unconscious of evil in their midst, unconcerned.
Somewhere across the parking lot, a child screamed. Mulder convulsed with the sound, his
mind galvanized by memory-- forty-six bodies in the past nine months. The scream echoed
again, subsiding quickly into a squeal of delight and then laughter. It took a full minute
for Mulder to identify the subtle change, then the relief hit him. It slammed into the
back of his knees, in fact: he collapsed, folding down to the floor, panting as his head
lolled against the windowsill.
For several minutes, he made no effort to rise. Every emotion, every bit of energy he
possessed had been expended by that little scream and he simply had nothing left.
He needed help. He'd needed it for weeks. The knowledge was certain-- one of the more
dubious advantages of his training. What Oxford had failed to tell him, however, was who
he could and couldn't trust. Patterson's psychological betrayals were a matter of record.
Purdue wasn't much better; he'd brought in Baez in Shreveport and threatened involuntary
committal if Mulder didn't cooperate in what was tantamount to mental rape.
And, hell, Mulder'd puked in front of Purude twice in as many months now. Purdue must
already think he was a total flake, a candidate for the Immaculate Order of Our Lady of
the Burnt Toast. Unbidden, an image crossed his mind: Purdue's face that night in Seattle,
right after Mulder had presented him with that body: that small, cold little form, face
down in the mud of a ditch beside the road, bathed in the headlights of the car. And
Purdue just sitting there, staring at Mulder, his dark hands shaking too hard to pull the
key out of the ignition...
Mulder finally managed to sit up and push himself away from the wall. His eyes fell on the
television screen, a gesture born of habit rather than real interest. Images of Poindexter
and Secord paraded across the screen followed by the scrolling text of the twenty-three
count indictment returned against them. Mulder watched it closely, staring without seeing.
Tonight, standing out there on the parking lot with Purdue, Mulder had envisioned the
latest victim quite clearly. But it was just a glimpse: a whiff of perfume, a snatch of
song just audible above the traffic, a glimpse of matted hair, and blood drying dark on
pallid skin. The next body he'd haul this ASAC out to see...
Mulder closed his eyes against the steady, dizzying flow of words on the screen. Shielded
by the bloody curtain of his own lids, only sound could reach him: CNN droning on, a
Senate panel speaker asking a question. Oliver North's tenor claiming "Senator, I do
not recall."
Screw this. Mulder's decision was abrupt. He had to get out.
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Mulder hadn't thought to change before leaving, though, and realized too late that he
wasn't really dressed for a long walk. Was a little overdressed, he imagined, for
Wal-Mart; besides, he couldn't recall needing anything right now. He briefly entertained
the thought of catching a cab and getting the driver to recommend a good bar, or one of
those better entertainment outlets.
He didn't really want a drink, though, and in the mood he was in, he honestly didn't think
he could work up enough lust to do the leering-animal routine. Between the headache and
the stress he was operating under, Mulder'd be no great prize anyway; put him in the room
with a willing woman and he'd probably just wind up humiliating himself-- even if he was
paying her enough not to say so.
Mulder scanned the highway forlornly and turned back to the parking lot. Hell, the diner
looked pretty quiet. He could order some pie. Maybe... He let the sound of his shoes
scuffing gravel drown out the rest of his tormented thoughts.
Chris' was nearly deserted when he ambled in. A couple in a booth were romancing over the
remains of chili dogs and cheese fries. An old man in denim was permanently installed at
the soda counter, nursing his iced tea like it was a whiskey sour--and not his first for
the night. Simply Red was on the jukebox. The singer's voice was hungry; the saxophone
backing him had the longing sigh of seduction. Mulder grimaced at his observations: for a
man who was just rating his achievable limits so dismally, he was feeling remarkably
lascivious. Mulder told himself to behave, staked out a corner booth and set his menu to
spinning lazily on the tabletop.
"Hi ya, Fox."
Mulder glanced up, surprised and surprisingly pleased. "Well, hi yourself, Kay. Don't
they ever let you go home?" He felt a warm flush at her smile; it was disturbing but
he held the self-analysis at bay, an easy reflex for him, perfected through years of
practice.
She maintained the smile as she filled his water glass. "Every day this month I'm on
from three to nine. Then I hit the day shift again."
"You close at nine?"
"Uh huh."
He checked his watch-- ten 'til-- and started up guiltily, "Jeez, I'm sorry--"
 |
She gave him a playful push back into the seat,
laughing. "Don't fret yourself, honey. If the FBI doesn't mind me borrowing you for a
while, I certainly don't mind having a little security on the premises while I count the
drawer down. And you gotta be hungry-- unless you'd like some more tea," she winked
mischievously, but her voice was soft with genuine concern. "Kitchen's closed but if
there's something on the menu you think you can keep down--" |
Mulder shrugged his shoulders against that glorious smile; her hand
on his chest as she'd pushed him back had radiated an intoxicating warmth. And the
realization hit him: he'd hoped she'd be here; he'd lied to himself that it was the pie
that had brought him across the parking lot...
He asked for it anyway, avoiding her eyes. She laid a knowing hand on his head, leisurely
brushing back a lock of dark hair.
"Oven's still warm," she said easily. "I'll pop one of the apple pies in
and get it hot. It's not half bad with ice-cream."
"I don't want you going to any trouble, Kay--" Oh, the convoluted layers, the
euphemisms of mutual need--
"So, who's being bothered?" Her voice was satin, cool and comforting against the
pounding in his brain. "By the time the crust is hot, I'll have herded these misfit
out and join you," she promised.
She had a great smile. And an even better laugh. He hadn't heard a lot of laughter
lately--
He shouldn't be here and he knew it. He'd be doing her a favor to just get up and walk
out. He looked up at her, to tell her so, saw suddenly in her face a glimpse of
blood-matted hair in a dark room-- and she smiled again and it was gone. He managed a
grimace in return.
"Sounds great," he said.
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Ten after nine and Kay had the place locked down tight and half the lights shut off. She'd
managed somehow to get that damned stupid hat off without making too big a mess of her
hair and he'd joined her at the soda counter as she counted down the register. He was
quiet as she concentrated, amusing himself with the spin of his pedestal stool.
She kept him in focus out of the corner of her eye: spinning on the seat like some kid
when his Momma wasn't looking. His eyes were striking-- you didn't see many men with hazel
eyes-- but the expression was distant and kind of sad unless he knew you were watching.
Probably that crappy job of his...
By nine-forty, the remains of pie and ice cream were scattered on the counter. They shared
an ashtray. He knew she was from Bridgeport across the river, had skipped college for a
marriage that didn't work, that it was a long time ago and she'd been at Chris' ever
since, no kids. She knew he was from Martha's Vineyard, had been to Oxford for a
psychology degree, was new to the Bureau, no kids. He'd pointedly not explained the ring.
She didn't mind too much; he laughed at her jokes. It was a nice laugh and she got the
impression he didn't get to use it much.
"So, how long you gonna be in town, Fox?"
His smile dissipated. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm in town just long enough to file a
report. Sometimes they keep me hanging out 'til the case is solved. Could be this week.
Could be next month."
"Ever get lonely traveling like that?"
He laughed. "Hell, I get lonely sitting at home."
"Ever thought of finding someone to sit in it with you?" He glanced up under his
brows and she waved off the innuendo. "I'm not proposing to you honey, just answer
the question."
He shrugged and laughed, trying to make this look easy. "Well, yeah. But, I work a
lot and..." He looked down at the puddle of ice cream on his plate and his voice got
soft and reluctant. "I have bad dreams sometimes." He smiled like a man with his
foot on a grenade, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "I have them a lot, actually.
Sometimes they're not so bad if someone's there to wake me. But that kind of thing tends
to freak women out." His laugh was painful, hollow, and he cut it short.
"You're going to have one of those dreams tonight, aren't you?"
The question shocked him into looking up at her. "What makes you say that?" he
whispered.
Her own voice was soft. "It's all over your face, honey."
Mulder studied his plate again and she made her voice light. "So, when you haul these
women home so they can keep the nightmares away, do you have sex with them? I mean, just
because they're expecting it and all?"
His head jerked up just before the blush set in, followed by the little smile as he looked
vaguely away over her shoulder. "Yeah, well," he mused, "the least I can do
is try to make it worth their time."
"And I bet you do, too."
He turned a brilliant shade of red and dropped his head again. She took the pressure off
by wiping up the crumbs from the counter.
After a minute he flicked his ashes and chuckled. "You know, I can just see that: me
walking up to a woman in a crowded bar and drawling, 'Hey, babe, I'm about to have one
hellacious dream. Whatdoyasay we go back to my place and see if we can fight off the
boogie man?'" He pretended a frown. "Actually, I know some bars where that just
might work." He gave her a self-effacing shrug and tapped his fork at the crumbs in
his saucer.
"It works for me," she said.
He caught his breath, too stunned to blush, too scared suddenly to drop his head. He
dropped his fork instead.
"You're not going to disappoint me by being one of those men who're
all-talk-and-no-do, are you, Fox?"
The sensation of her hand on his arm must have set off an electric charge. He practically
flinched. You didn't have to be a psychologist to appreciate his situation: a single male,
living alone and on the road, too strung out to expend necessary energy on a long term
relationship, pretty much tactilely deprived. Add to that the pressures of a nightmare of
a job and you had a very young man overly sensitive to even the slightest physical
contact. And she knew enough about men to know no Oxford degree was going to alleviate his
physical reality. Still, she wasn't certain she was really ready for this kind of thing.
It'd been an awfully long time...
She released his arm abruptly, leaving him to deal with the decision for her as she hauled
the plates and pie tin to the sink in the back. She took her time with it, running the
water until it was hot, watching the dish liquid bubble up her reflection a hundred-fold.
And she wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She certainly knew what *she* saw in
that mass of reflections: an only moderately-pretty woman on the wrong side of thirty--
with far too little to show for the years.
She shook her head, slamming off the tap.
And he'd come wandering in like she was his best option, talked to her with respect and
concern, like she was his only option. Like there was no one else in the world willing to
just be good to him for a while-- Beautiful man like that and he had come to her. It made
you wonder just what was wrong with the world....
When she emerged, she knew the decision had been made-- and exactly what that decision
was. He was standing at her side of the soda counter. He wasn't blushing but with that
look on his face he should have been; she did it for him, suddenly and inexplicably shy.
He smiled at that. He apparently had no idea what kind of damage that little smile could
do when he put some real interest in it.
He moved closer and she backed into the wall involuntarily. He slowed but didn't stop,
watching her concentrate on her breathing.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head, suddenly speechless after talking his ear off for an hour...
He closed the distance between them much too slowly, but she didn't rush him, enjoying the
fluid motion of his body in the dimmed lights of the diner. And then he stopped, finally,
very close, so close she could feel his breath against her hair. He stood there a long
moment, watching her silently, but he didn't touch her. Her own hands were shaking too
much to trust them just then and she waited him out. Jeezus, it had been way too long--
Slowly, leisurely, he placed first one hand, then the other on the wall to either side of
her. She wished she was taller suddenly, tall enough leave both her feet flat on the floor
and still reach his mouth, tall enough to feel his breath on her face-- He still wasn't
touching her but she could feel him like he was all over her.
"I'm, ahm, I'm afraid I'm one of those all-talk-and-little-do types, Fox. Pretty
small town to boot. I--"
He leaned down and she offered her mouth in welcome, blinked rapidly when he moved her
chin aside, nuzzling it upward. His evening stubble rasped lightly against her jaw, his
lips brushing her neck, searching, sure of their destination. She felt his mouth open
against the soft vulnerable skin beneath her jaw and she held her breath, unable to
comprehend his intention. Mulder's lips and his check brushing her were his only point of
contact; her entire body trembled.
She'd never known a man who went straight for the throat: the mouth, the side of the neck,
the ear, perhaps, but not the throat. The movement was amazingly sensual, frighteningly
predatory, as though his passion, tightly reigned, cloaked another desire entirely,
concealed and threatening as a switchblade. She gasped at the intimacy of such a caress,
and at the complete abandonment with which he accepted her.
His breath was trembling and measured, burning as his mouth pressed gently against the
cage of tendons that protected her windpipe. He slid his lips-- just his lips, dry and
hot-- down the ridge of her throat, closing his mouth at last to lightly touch the little
hollow where her collar bones rested. He lingered and his breath down her dress sent a
shiver over her body that lit up everything it passed through. She knew he felt it and
felt him smile as he moved up, now along the side of her neck, planting almost-kisses,
demure and sweet, as he went. He paused again, brushing her earlobe now, a soft chaste
caress that made her feel anything but. A gentle kiss at her jaw. Slowly, slowly. Another
tender kiss on her neck.
He was definitely not small town. Any man from Belmont County would have had her groped by
now and been halfway to touch down, but this man was obviously in no hurry. It was
wonderfully infuriating. Her heart was pounding in her ears, drowning out all other
thought but the sensation of that mouth against her skin.
The kiss under her jaw repeated itself and her breath escaped as a whimper. She felt him
smile again. He knew exactly what he was doing, and she was powerless, completely
unwilling to prevent him from taking from her whatever he deemed necessary.
A gentle caress on her collarbone that lingered and she finally reached for his arms,
pulling his hands to her waist. He accepted their placement but left them there, light and
hot, still concentrating on her neck and ear. The heat of his fingers burned through the
cloth of her dress and she was kissing his neck, infuriated that he wouldn't give her his
mouth. She unknotted his tie with difficulty and he made no attempt to make it easier for
her.
More kisses, his breath too warm on the side of her neck as she tried to remember how to
breathe, how to work the buttons on his shirt. She had four managed when his hands began
to move, easing down to her hips, his thumbs dragging along her flanks, tracing where his
palms had been. He reached her hips as the fifth button finally surrendered and she gasped
as his hands moved back and stroked softly well below the bow of her apron.
He chose that moment to kiss her mouth, deepened the kiss as she rose to tip-toe to feed
on his breath. She ran her hands under his suit jacket eager and insistent, and flinched
when she found the holstered weapon. He stiffened.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against her mouth. The voice was low and rough but
very quiet, truly regretful.
Kay caught his mouth again as he pulled away, even as she tried to speak, "It's
alright. I'm not afraid--" she lied.
He gasped at the ferocity of her kiss, the intimacy of her hands, the intimacy of his own.
She grasped his belt loops and pulled him against her, feeling his breath catch with the
pressure of her stomach against the reaction of his body. The sudden hesitation in his
eyes made her shiver with greed for him.
He misinterpreted the response and pulled away abruptly. Kay lost her balance in his
sudden motion; he caught her instinctively even as she bumped into the wall. She laughed
at his fear-- losing her own at last-- and pulled him to her again, pushing his shirt open
and laying feather soft kisses on his chest. It was his turn to tremble.
He shifted to hold her hips at bay despite her protests, finally pushing her away
entirely, holding her to the wall with his hands on her arms. He was panting, eyes closed,
head turned away. She waited, fascinated by the trek of a single drop of perspiration
making it's way down his temple and across his cheek. When he looked back again, his
breathing had eased and his eyes were still but it was the kind of stillness you find in
the eye of a hurricane: electric and alive, and cast in livid green.
She knew her eyes were smiling. He smiled back.
"Okay now, Fox?"
He nodded hesitantly.
"You place or mine?" She smiled, her words a breathless whisper.
"Mine's closer." His voice was a bit harsher than he'd probably intended and his
smile faded as he searched her face. She ran her hand down his arm, laughing softly,
reassuringly. He closed his eyes, concentrating again and she was merciful, pulling her
hand away and slipping under his arm. He looked around to the rattle of her keys.
He held her hand as they walked across the parking lot, apparently not trusting himself to
touch her further until they were in his room. Then she kissed him again.
It was some time later, with the world finally quiet and still, when he realized he had
made love to her while still dressed: suit, jacket, tie hanging loose around his neck.
Kay laughed at his amazement. And helped him rectify the oversight.
XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX
4:03 AM.
She woke to the pressure of his body shuddering against her. Kay smiled, turning to greet
him with a low moan of pleasure, then realized his eyes were not closed in desire. He was
asleep. Sweat was pouring off him.
She remembered his warning and pulled him close, hugging him tightly, staying under his
arms in case he woke fighting.
Fox gasped, moving vaguely and she rubbed his back, keeping her voice low and calm,
coaxing him back from the land of dementia.
He struggled to respond, his body tensed in desperation, like it had when he'd first laid
her on the bed. His hands then had spoken of too much death, of blood cold and dried on
children's faces. Of the need to feel life, and love-- or at least it's sister, mercy.
Kay stayed tucked tightly against him now, her voice at his ear soft and steady. She was
listening, too: to his heartbeat as it calmed its frantic hammering, his breathing as it
eased. His struggling ceased, though the trembling had not lessened.
She felt his hands on her, light, tentative and questioning, then firmer, reassuring
himself. Reassuring her.
"Okay?" she whispered against his neck. She felt him nod hesitantly. *Okay.*
She sat up, pushing with her hand on his chest and he rolled onto his back, his eyes quiet
in the wounded face. She leaned down and kissed his eyelids, her hair cascading about his
face, a shield, soft and merciful, against all he had seen. He allowed the kisses, turning
his face to make it easier for her, but left his arms laying still, one flung to her side
of the bed, the other laid across his ribs.
She watched his eyes, moving her hand on his chest, feeling the dark hair curling beneath
her fingers. She could feel his heart pounding bare inches below her palm, his breath
shuddering to escape it's precious cage, and then returning anxiously. Her hand slid
lower, comforting, caressing, and there was the contour of his ribs, the flatness of his
stomach. And still he was quiet, watching her, but unmoving, unresponsive.
She smiled and had resumed the slow downward slide of her hand when another wave of
trembling shook him.
"Fox?"
He closed his eyes against her fear. There was little else he could do, she supposed. Kay
pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, then covered him with it, with her, as she lay
down upon him. The trembling subsided after a moment and he wrapped his arms around her,
pulling her to fit against him less awkwardly. He released his hold, sliding his hands to
her thighs where they straddled him, searching her face. Kay gave him the smile he sought
and felt the tension recede from the muscles across his abdomen, from his arms.
She settled her hips gently and leaned to kiss his neck. Softly. Softly. She continued the
caresses along his collarbone, his chest, going slow, trying to remember how he had begun
the seduction so many hours before. He lay quietly under her, under her hands and mouth, a
shiver taking him sporadically. She knew he could feel her reaction to his body beneath
her, given her position it was impossible to hide. Yet he remained so utterly still...
Her kisses became less chaste. She moved her mouth to his nipple, tugged insistently,
teasing it with her tongue. She felt it harden beneath her lips and smiled again. Laughed
softly when the hands on her thighs moved back up her hips.
Mulder rolled her onto her back gently, finally responding to her kisses with soft ones of
his own, pausing to breathe quietly against her as a final spasm shook him. It ceased and
he moved his hands over her, slow and intimate and then suddenly she was spasming beneath
him, feeling him warm and alive and glad to be alive, no longer desperate or frantic but
slowly luxuriating in the power of life.
She moaned her delight at the soft resonance of his laughter and covered his chest with
feather kisses.
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Photos courtesy of TexxasRose's Fox
Mulder Gallery