I'm baaaaa-aaaack!!!!! Didja miss me?? It's been forever since I've posted anything (okay, it's only been two months, but it felt like forever. To me, anyway). My muse decided to abandon me. Not cool. I've been desperately trying to overcome this little case of writer's block (it's an oxymoron to my penname, ya know), and I've got a dozen or so half-written stories on my hard drive right now, but it wasn't until yesterday that I finally finally finished something!! Yay! I still feel a little blocked though, and for some reason I don't feel as confident about this piece as I have felt about others in the past (maybe because it was so damn hard to write lol). So let me know how you like it, yes? I do hope to be posting more frequently now, 'cause I love to write and hopefully my muse will understand that. =]
Anyhoo, a little info about this piece. My intent was to make it a drabble, but those of you who peeped the word count before you opened this may have noticed my glaring FAILURE heehee…This thing is actually 1056 words. Oops. Someday I really am going to write a drabble though, because I really admire people who can produce a moving and enjoyable piece in only one hundred words (seriously, people who can do that amaze me). This is still the shortest thing I've ever posted though. Surely that counts for something, right?
Two last things: rated M and not mine.
I love making love to Temperance Brennan.
It's just so easy to turn her on, so easy to take her from cool, professional forensic anthropologist to hot, wild, pleaseSeeleyohGodSeeleymakelovetomenowSeeley woman. All she really needs is a couple of well-placed touches; a brush of my fingers across her nipples, a flick of my tongue over her earlobe and she's already a trembling mass of goo, cooing my name and clinging to my shoulders like she'll die if she ever lets me go.
And I love doing that to her. I love kissing her breathless, I love holding her tight in my arms, I love the soft weight of her breasts—those perky, sensitive little breasts she has—pressed against my chest. I love the heated look in her eyes when she's close to the edge, how they get all heavy lidded and thick with desire. I love nibbling at her ears, at her neck, at her collarbone…all the way down to that pretty little patch of curls, the one she keeps nice and neatly trimmed just for me. I love nibbling between her thighs as well. And licking. And sucking. And using my tongue to probe at her dripping wet folds until she totally, completely comes apart in my arms.
I love the feel of her trim little body underneath mine, flat on her back with those long, smooth legs of hers locked tight around my waist. I love how her hips always arch upwards to meet my erection, and how it's always so easy to slide into her slippery-wet core, to push myself in until her eyes have glazed over and fluttered shut, until her breathing comes in fast, labored bursts, until I can get no deeper. I love the way her walls clench around me, holding on to me nice and tight as I piston my manhood in and out of her. I love the expression—the pure ecstasy—on her face when I hit just the right spot. I love the way she says my name, the way it pours from her mouth in that breathless, husky tone of hers. And, Jesus, do I love the little noises she makes; the way she starts with that sexy kittenish mewling and purring, and escalates into deep-throated moaning and grunting before culminating with shrieks and screams of delight as the intensity of her orgasm overtakes her. I love how her entire body shakes and shudders as she climaxes, how her fingernails dig deep into my shoulders, how she explodes and coats my manhood with her sweet, thick juices and then goes limp in my arms, murmurs of pleasure still bubbling from her throat even as the aftershocks subside, the trembling eases, and her temperature returns to normal.
And I love the way she curls her body into mine when it's all over and done with, when we've both finished riding the waves of intense, mind-numbing orgasms. I love the way she buries her face in my chest and hooks one of her legs over both of mine, and I love how she can't fall asleep unless I've got the fingers of one hand curled in her hair and the other hand pressed against her back, holding her close. I love how I can't fall asleep without the feel of her breath coming in hot puffs against my chest and the warm vanilla scent of her shampoo overtaking my senses.
I love that only I can get her as hot, as crazy, as utterly beside herself with lust and arousal as she gets when she's with me. I love that there's no other man who can get her riled up like I can, there's no other man who can make her scream like I can, there's no other man who can give her the most thoroughly earth-shattering orgasms like I can. And she doesn't have to tell me that I'm the only one; I know it instinctively. I know it because she's also the only one for me. No other woman has ever had the ability to completely consume my mind, heart, and body when I'm with her, and no other woman has gotten me so responsive to the sight of her, to her touch, to her scent. Not like this woman does. The pleasure she brings me is ten times more intense than anything I've ever experienced before in my life. And I love that, too.
I love that I'm the only one who she's ever totally surrendered herself to, the only man to whom she's ever given up complete control. She's a strong woman, a dominant woman, an independent woman. No way she lets any other man seize control of her body the way she lets me. No way she lets go—absolutely, positively, one hundred percent lets go—of herself with anyone else the way she does with me.
No way she lets herself completely come apart in their arms the way she does in mine. No way she gives them all of herself. Not the way she gives herself to me. No fucking way.
The others before me, they didn't get to see her like I do. The internet guy, Sully, the deep-sea welder, and the gay botanist…all they got was a lonely doctor whose hormones had driven her to seek release. She never opened herself up to them like she does to me. They never knew her, never knew her dreams and fears and hopes and worries. They never heard any stories about a geeky little middle-school student or a terrified girl in foster care. She never spent the night in their beds, spilling her deepest, darkest secrets and maybe a few tears to go with them. They never held her while she cried, never made her laugh when she was sad, never had a pillowfight in bed with her or tickled her until she dissolved into mass of shrieks and giggles.
And it amazes me that only I can bring out that side of her, that I'm the only person who has gotten to see her so carefree and so herself since she was fifteen years old—and maybe even before that. Most people, what they see is Dr. Brennan. But me? I get Temperance. One hundred percent, absolutely pure Temperance.
And she's all mine.
That's what I love the most.