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 series.)


Somewhere between awake and sleeping, fantasy and dream merged and she was there.

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 equally disgracing.

"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 skin.

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 perfect.

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.

He slept.