Notes: Mild R rating for sexual content. This is just a very short little M/R thing, with no real plot to speak of. Just some harmless fun.

Anticlimax

by Ijemanja

There is a soft bed beneath her - everything is warmth and softness and there is an unmistakable sense of supreme luxury to her surroundings. There is someone with her, and this is all familiar and foreign at the same time. Elusive, and not quite solid, but the sensations are tangible and intense and frantically she seeks fulfilment from the transitory, not-quite-solid flesh. But there are strong, broad, familiar shoulders to cling to, and the face she wants to see is above her, beside her - he is all around her - and a rising tension deep inside is the focus of everything until it grows to drown out everything else, even him…

Suddenly, Marguerite wakes, her mind still full of the dream. Worse, her body tingles with anticipation cut cruelly short, and she clenches her fists in frustration that is both mental and physical.

She shifts in bed, rolling to her side, and pulls at her nightgown in disgust. The material clings to her skin unpleasantly. She is drenched in sweat - the night is stifling and humid - and the dream helped matters none. There is also dampness of a different kind between her legs. Her mouth, though, is very dry and she swallows a few times with great  difficulty before any sort of moisture returns. She finds herself longing for a glass of water, and curses herself for not bringing one with her to bed.

No light is left on at this time of night, and she steals quietly through the dark, silent treehouse on tiptoes, not wanting to wake anyone.

In the kitchen area she relies on touch and memory rather than sight to find her way around, and is raising a cup gratefully to her lips when a voice suddenly emerges out the darkness behind her.

"Keeping odd hours Marguerite?"

She startles, spinning around, losing most of the water, though she doesn't drop the cup. Her hand pressed to her wildly thumping heart, she lets out an exasperated breath.

"Roxton," she hisses, "You scared me half to death. What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?"

"I was here the whole time - you're the one sneaking around."

She's a little disconcerted to think that she didn't notice him before, all but hidden by shadow, though now she can pick him out lounging against the bench not five feet away.

"I was trying not to wake anyone up - what's your excuse?"

"Just enjoying the peace and quiet."

Her eyes narrow, but it's too dark to see his face properly. She's not in the mood to deal with him - the images of her dream are still vivid in her mind. This is all too close for comfort.

"Well don't mind me, I'll be out of your hair in just a moment."

She turns back to replace her spilled water.

"I didn't mean-- you don't have to go."

Movement behind her, and suddenly he's closer.

"You should know your company is never unwelcome."

She knows that tone of voice - he's teasing her now. She doesn't know what's prompted this game, but it's one she knows how to play very well. She faces him again and as she turns he steps closer still, crowding her against the bench, invading her personal space, trying to intimidate her with his larger frame - a tactic she is all too familiar with.

"There are many who would disagree with you."

"Not me. It occurs to me Marguerite that we haven't been spending nearly enough time alone together of late."

As he speaks his breath faintly stirs her hair, she feels it at her temple and then all the way to her toes. She could not be more aware of the fact that he is bare from the waist up, unless perhaps that naked flesh was pressed to hers instead of separated by scant inches and the thin material of her nightgown.

"Oh?" is all she can manage. Her mouth is still dry.

"You haven't been avoiding me have you?"

"I could hardly avoid you if I wanted to - we do all live practically in each others pockets."

"Yes, that's part of the problem isn't it?"

"Well... you've got me all to yourself right now..."

It's a challenge, plain and simple, and she knows he'll accept it.

When his lips descend she meets them with light, teasing kisses, their mouths meeting and retreating in a tantalising dance.

This is exciting, the two of them obscured by the night, the other occupants of the treehouse sleeping nearby, with only the sound of their breathing and the cling and pull of their lips loud against the quiet.

"Is this what you were thinking about? Lurking there in the dark?"

His hand strokes her hair.

"You fell right into my trap."

With those words he kisses her again, really kisses her, more thoroughly than before, holding her in place with his hand cupping her head. The other hand sweeps down her back and rests at her waist, feeling the curve there, the soft flesh.

His hand is warm through the thin material, and she arches towards him and more of that warm contact.

And suddenly, they aren't playing anymore.

It's happening fast now, he's pressing against her, his hands on her breasts and sliding down over her body. And now, his hands on her thighs, moving upwards, taking the skirt of her nightgown with it. Hands grasping her hips and lifting. He steps between her legs.

It's fast but not overwhelming as he pulls her against him and sucks at her throat. She can't think of anything but that this is what she wants, what she dreams of, night after night, always this - always him. She wants more of him than that - she wants it for real, now, closer, all over her, inside and out.

His hands squeezing her bare bottom yank her fully against him where it matters, his trousers somehow out of the way, and he rubs against her so intimately, she gasps in wordless appreciation. His teeth are at her collarbone, her fingers are in his hair, and he's inside her. They're thrusting and clutching, moving in one writhing mass of pleasure and then she's throbbing, deep inside, frantic as it wells up to encompass every square inch of her, everything tenses towards that final release -

Suddenly, a rude noise above her, and Marguerite wakes with a start and a gasp, her mind still full of the dream. Throbbing, frustrated, unspent energy still coursing through her, she is breathing heavily and her hands are bunched in tight fists, her fingernails digging into her palms. Above her, creaking and muffled footfalls as someone crosses the floor upstairs.

Someone is up there banging around in the middle of the night, and suddenly Marguerite's thoughts turn from the lost images of her dream to ones of violence. Of all times to be woken up...

Her throat, rasping and now almost painfully dry, reminds her of her earlier intention to fetch some water from the kitchen. Memories of the vivid, almost waking dream she'd just experienced wash over her again. She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, and thinks that this time she will actually go and get the damn water, instead of just lying in bed thinking about it before falling back asleep.

Another sound from the floor over her head reminds her of the person to whom she is now harbouring murderous intentions. She listens again, more carefully, and realises she knows those footsteps...

Quickly she rises from bed and makes her way on silent tiptoes up the stairs.

After all, she thinks as she steals through the darkness, dreams may be well and good, but nothing beats the real thing.

end