155 word – ICE for Tali
It was two weeks after they’d made it back for Icy Cape, two weeks and the burn of his fingers along the nape of her neck was still searing her dreams. She almost didn’t believe it when she opened the door on a Sunday night, but there he was.
She was in her pajamas, and he was in jeans and T-shirt and he didn’t say he was sorry for coming over after midnight, only that he was sorry he waited so long. An eternal minute later, he crossed the threshold, shut the door and came toward her, “You have to be thinking about it, too.”
“Thinking about what?” She tried to keep up the pretense of detachment, but she couldn’t stop herself from stroking the back of her neck, her fingertips retracing what he’d already branded.
Closing the gap between them, he pulled her to him before she could think, before she could stop him, before she could dredge up a denial.
“This, Scully…” Then it was nothing else but the heat of his mouth on hers, hungry, insistent.
The Scully of sensible answers, and sensible suits was gone. There was only this Scully, feasting on his lips, snaking her hands under his shirt.
Mulder backed her against the wall, and kept kissing her, kissing her, kissing her as he undid the buttons of her top, pushing the silk aside to feel the satin of her skin.
Her eyes were wide and dusky blue, and she didn’t stop him, reaching for him instead, stroking the length of him under the denim of his jeans.
Time twisted and sped up and slowed down and they were on the floor, half dressed, half undone, working themselves into a slipknot of limbs and mingled breath. And then they stripped the last of the clothes away and he parted her open with his legs and she took in in her hand and guided him inside.
“This, Scully. This…” He was whispering and peppering her shoulder with starburst kisses.
“Only this.” It was all she could say. There was only the feeling of him, thrusting and her moving against him. Only hot, bright, wet, smooth, existed. No explanation or reason or theory. Only this spiraling pleasure pain, this wave that crested and took them under, leaving only the two of them, a double lock from this moment on.
diehard, who thought she better write this while she still had the inspiration.