Ghost of a Kiss
By Camilla Sandman
Disclaimer: Not mine. Boston Public is the property of David E. Kelley and
Fox, and I am certainly not either one. No money is being made on this and
it's only been written for my own amusement.
Summary: What could have happened the night Scott and Lauren agreed to
spend together? Minor drabble, S/L romance. (Post-season finale, second
Somewhere between awake and sleeping, fantasy and dream merged and she was
Lauren. Beautiful, elegant Lauren. Her hair fell loose around her face,
pale light in the darkness of the room. She stood by the door, her face
hidden in shadows, but he could feel the force of her gaze upon him. He
could feel his quilt slipping of the bed, but he did not care.
"Scott," she said and his name was a caress in her mouth. He wondered how
long she been standing there, if he had drooled in his sleep or something
"Lauren," he whispered, trying to work moisture into his mouth. Her
nightgown was dark, her skin milky white. He could see her chest rise and
fall as she breathed and he found himself breathing in sync.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, talking a hesitant step closer. He could
almost reach out and touch her now, and his skin tingled at the thought.
"Ah," he managed to reply. "Do you need another pillow?"
She shook her head.
She reached out, her hand carefully sliding across his cheek. He closed his
eyes at the touch, overwhelmed at the intensity. A moment later she pulled
back, and he had just a moment to feel a pang of sorrow before he heard her
sink down on the bed next to him.
And then warm, delicate lips brushed against his, an exquisite torture that
he wished would never end. At first it was just a gentle touch, but as it
lingered, he grew bold. Letting a hand wander to her neck, he deepened the
kiss and was amazed when she did not pull back.
She tasted slightly of minty toothpaste – *his* minty toothpaste. The
thought thrilled him, another little bond between them he could delight in.
He had no right to her, but still he sought bonds between them, his heart
hoping for what his mind denied him.
He laced his fingers through her hair, marvelling at the silky feel against
his skin. She let out a small sigh as he continued, and it seemed to him to
be the most erotic sound he had ever heard. A part of him wondered if he
was dreaming, a part of him didn't care. Her hand had wandered inside his t-
shirt, pressing against his chest, his heartbeats against her palm.
When she pulled back slightly, he finally dared open his eyes. Her bright
eyes were on his face; her lips had curved into a smile. Her hands tugged
at his shirt, and he lifted his arms and let her pull it off. Slowly, she
lifted her arms, inviting him to do the same. The silk of her gown was cool
against his skin, and his hands trembled slightly as he pulled it off.
His breath caught in his throat as he took in her beauty, every curve of
her perfection to his eyes.
"Are you..." he gulped, feeling his cheeks colour. "Are you sure? I'm no
Harry Senate... I mean, I... I don't want to make you feel..."
"I wasn't planning on sleeping with Harry tonight," she said, a touch of
amusement in her voice.
"Oh, good," he managed to reply. He dared to reach out for her, brushing a
finger over her hips, her abdomen, the underline of her breast. She arched
into his touch as he continued his slow exploration, her breath ragged and
her eyes hazed. He lowered her to the bed and she clung to him, her hair
tickling his skin, but that too was a pleasure. She closed her eyes when he
kissed her skin, writhed under him as he caressed every inch of her marble
He could not think, his heartbeats pounding in his head as he sank into
her. She gasped his name and he buried his head in her hair, overwhelmed by
the feel over her. His heart seemed to pound faster and faster, the
darkness becoming white light filling him and flaring like the sun. And
then a moment of perfect calm, void of anything but pleasure and warmth. He
was the sun, alive, alive, alive...
His senses returned with a long, shuddering breath and he looked down on
Lauren's shining face. Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark and long and
No man could own perfection. He had no right to her and his heart warned
him she would walk away one day and he would die a little. A dream did not
last, a fantasy did not last, and she was both. He had no right to her.
But he could still feel the ghost of her kiss upon his lips as she snuggled
against him, warm and soft still. And that ghost he would let his heart be
haunted by. Another little bond to her, another little hope.