Title: Recollection Author: drovar Email address: drovar@alltel.net Rating: NC-17 Summary: In love, unlike most other passions, the recollection of what you have had and lost is always better than what you can hope for in the future. tendhal (1783-1842), French author. De l'Amour, ch. 1 (1822). Category: Gen, AU Disclaimers: All hail CC, these pretty toys are his, not mine. Notes: Special thanks to Lopsided for very helpful and insightful comments and for Sandie and Kristina for cheering me up and on. His tie is long, thin and stylish. Broken loose from the collar of his officious blue dress shirt, it dangles down his bare chest like a leash. He catches her eye and with a grin cinches the tie up tight making bug-eyed gagging faces. He grins, his eyes wide and mellow. He's having a good time. That pleases her, more than he might know. Joy and laughter has been a long time creeping back into her life. He slips around the desk and she realizes that he's unbuttoned more than his shirt, and doffed more than his professional attitude. His naked flesh glows in the bright office light. It has to be the sheen of sweat on his body reflecting the lights; people don't glow. But as she stares at his perfect pale skin she's suddenly not sure. He seems more alive than ever as he gathers her in his arms and spins her through the office narrowly missing furniture and potted plants. She moans approvingly as he pulls her close, their bodies together and warm. So close and tight against him, no distance, little more than a breath between them. She can feel his hardness, rampant and large, wedged between them. It sends a shiver up from the base of her spine that races to her lips and escapes as a softly intake of breath. Sharp and quick, he notices and smiles. One final turn, and she is backed up against the desk. Its hard edge pressing against her soft flesh. The mirth in his eyes has become something a little darker, a little wilder. She's seen this before . . . she knows what to do, how the game is played. She gently brushes he hand along the strong curve of his jaw. His face is so full of character, so familiar, almost matching her memory. Her hand brushes gently over his eyelids closing them, and then down, pausing on his lips, soft and full. Like other lips, other times. She reaches down and slides his tie through her fingers, even as he thrusts his body against hers. The cool, slick fabric, gold, a bit flamboyant and so unlike him. She can smell his cologne, it's Brute mixed with the lingering scent of the shower after his lunchtime jog. The smell is both subtle and masculine. It suits him. His eyes snap open as she tugs on the tie. It tightens around his neck for real this time. She pulls him forward . . there is a spark of gentle fear in his wide eyes. He knows the game as well. He trusts, perhaps a bit too much. She kisses him then. Her lips meet his and she swears a shock passes between them. Something deep and full of need and power is wedded to the sheer lust of that moment. He presses forward, the game continues. She pushes back, her lips pressing hard against his. He moans just slightly and she knows she has him, his willing agreement, silent and full of tingling unease, singed in sweat, but there nonetheless. Another pull on his tie, stronger this time, breaks the kiss. He looks up at her confused and hesitant as her hands force him down to his knees. She sits down on the desk. He remains there kneeling, almost in supplication. She likes the view. His hair is tousled and damp with sweat. His nipples, dark and hard, peek out from the edge of his shirt as he sways slightly. The tie has become a wadded dangling mess of ruined silk. She reminds herself to replace it. She touches herself, slipping a small hand down to her thighs, slowly circling her own sweat-dampened flesh. Warmth spreads through her body as anticipation builds. She can see it in his face . . he knows her moods, knows her ways, knows what's next. Finally a hand slips between, she moans . .as does he. She looks down, her eyes travelling over the rangy muscles of his body, so like another. He looks painfully hard and aroused. His right hand is stroking his swollen flesh. She nudges his hand away from his cock with her foot, she is gentle at first. She follows that with a kick, nearly hard enough to bruise when he does it again. He recoils for a moment and looks at her with eyes gone smoky and dark, but he obeys. Finally she reaches out and cups his chin in her hand. His face is dark and strong, flush with character and warmth. He's not facile in the manner of effete Hollywood actors. His face is real and beautiful beyond all rights. Her hand moves behind his head nestles in the soft curls of his sweat-dampened hair and pulls him forward. He resists for a moment. He's not used to such demanding submission. . . but his eyes wander up her aroused body and meet her own. His dark chocolate eyes seem to reach into her soul. He knows she won't hurt him, he knows she can't, even though he's given her that permission. He relents, letting himself be drawn into the soft breach of her body. His lips touch her skin sending a wave of pleasure racing through she like electricity in water. It's harsh unrelenting and sets her nerves on fire. Each movement, each nuzzle, each lick, even his soft uneven breath against her flesh pleases her. She can feel the tension beginning to build in her body as he continues his work. He is industrious and eager, an exceptionally thorough agent. She decides to mention this in her report .. yes .. a good evaluation, to go with the tie . .yes, yes .. The word resounds in her brain as he drives her higher and higher, ever closer to the edge. Suddenly he's no longer there, he is only sensation and warmth wrapped in a blanket of skin and want. His desires fill her, reaching into every dark hidden spot of her soul. She writhes in his touch until finally the world shatters around her, wave after wave of pleasure races through her body rebounding, recoiling, rebuilding and crashing again. She finally stirs to find him dressed and standing at the end of the desk. She has no idea if his need still rages in him. He's donned his long trench coat, over his still crisp shirt and creased suit-pants. Only the tie gives him away. "Will that be all Ma'am?" he asks; a small quiver in his voice. She isn't sure what answer he needs. There will be a next, there must be, for both of them. His need for her quenches the fire in her for a while, a fire that can never truly be doused, not any more. But for a time, he eases her need. "That will all for now Senior Agent Spender," she says as she regains her composure and sits upright, straightening her clothes. "Thank you Ma'am," he says as he steps towards the door. "And Jeffrey?" She says as she slides off the desk. "Yes Ma'am?" "Don't call me ma'am." She steps over to him and touches her lips lightly to his. Whispering his name. He blushes at this, of all things. "AD Scully is fine." "Yes ma'am," he says as he closes the door.