They had cooked supper together, eaten while soft music played, read poetry in several different languages, lit the candles and meditated. Now they lay spooned in his bed while she slept. The whole length of her lovely body lay pressed against him, his knees pressed into the crook of hers, his left arm across her body, clasping her left hand in his on the mattress in front of her, his right arm under the pillow and extended to clasp her right hand above and in front of her face. His jaw was clenched so tight that he might be grinding off tooth surface. No matter. He would endure. He would not forego this wonder, this feeling. He would stay in this position, unmoving, for as long as she slept, reveling in the feel of her against him. Her scent enveloped him. She wore no perfume, it was just the wonderful scent that was Nyota. He had it firmly in his memory, he would never forget it. In future years, when she was lost to him, he would be able to call it up and remember how it felt to hold her, to breath her in. He would be able to survive.

They were dressed in the loose pullover shirts and pants they always wore to meditate. The only skin touching was arms and hands. It was enough. It was never enough. It was all he would allow. All he could allow. He firmly subdued the link that tried to form each time he touched her, refusing to feel her thoughts, her emotions, refusing to let her feel his. He would not cause her to feel disgust for him. He would NOT.

In her sleep, she moved. Just a small amount. Her perfect round bottom brushed against that traitorous part of his body that he so firmly squelched. It was agony. It was ecstasy. He kept control - for now. It was more and more difficult to do. Soon, some time when he was not successful, his body would betray him to her and she would leave him in disgust and he would be alone with his shame, without her. The thought was unbearable.

Again she moved. So little that a human might not even be aware of it. But he was aware. In his attempt to control himself, he inadvertently squeezed her hands hard enough to wake her.

"Spock? Is it time to wake up?" Her sleepy voice mumbled and she stretched, pushing her body back against him. It was too much. Control was gone. He felt himself swelling, rising against her bottom, rubbing against her back. She would leave now. There would be no more cooking, reading, meditating. No more wonderful, glorious agony of bodies touching.

She froze against him. "Spock?"

Something in her tone that was different. Happy? She was happy?

"Oh, I was beginning to think that you really did not care, could not respond."

Not care? She thought he did not care? Not respond? When all he did was force himself to subdue his response? He was filled with confusion.

She moved against him again, this time with purpose. Her bottom rubbed against him, sending wave after wave of sensation flooding through him. She sighed, such a long, soft sigh. Her hands rubbed against his arms, stroking softly. And then she froze, her hands stilling. Now she would rise from the bed and leave him.

Instead, he heard her voice, questioning. "Spock, you're in pain? You... It feels.... " She did not finish her sentences. Instead her body drew away from him. Now indeed she was leaving him. Waves of pleasure were replaced by intense pain.

But she was not leaving. Instead she twisted about, turning to face him, throwing her right leg over his body, drawing his hips towards hers with her foot. Her breasts blazed against his chest, her face only millimeters from his. Both hands came up to cup his face. Her belly rubbed against him. He could not breath, he could not move. This once, this only, this wondrous time, he would let himself feel. He would have this to store away, to remember.

"Spock, I can fix this. I can help. Let me help."

Did she know some form of meditation he had not tried? Some discipline he could learn so that he could once more control himself and she would stay? If so, he would learn it, he would regain his control and keep her near him. "Help. Yes, I need help." His voice was low and heavy, distorted to his ear, vibrating.

That glorious smile lit up her face. He felt hands beneath his shirt, on his ribs, his back, his chest. Fire. Those hands slid around him, catching the waistband of his pants and quickly pushing them down and over his bottom. Those hands roamed over his buttocks, caressing, soothing, setting him ablaze. One hand dipped between his thighs and found his scrotum, fingers stroking, touching testicles. He gasped and surged against her. This was not helping, this was making things so very much worse! That part of him that he could no longer control twitched between them, rubbing against her belly. Those hands, those lovely hands, the hands he watched every day, longing to truly touch, to caress, to link through, those hands slid up and around and disentangled him and pushed his pants down, down to his thighs, freeing him so that he sprang free, distended and engorged. And then they TOUCHED him! Touched, stroked, squeezed, engulfed. He panted, he moaned, sweat gleamed all over his body. Never had he imagined what was happening, the feelings that surged throughout his body, the sensations she was causing. She moved back from him, her breasts no longer squeezed against his chest. Ah, no, come back! He panicked, reaching for her, trying to keep her close.

With a bubbling laugh she bent and moved against him, the top of her head brushing first his chin, then his chest, next his belly, leaving trails of fire upon him. And then her mouth, her beautiful, glorious mouth, that smiled at him and talked to him and kept him hypnotized, closed upon him. Her tongue swept over and curled about him. With indescribable sensations flooding his brain, he felt that mouth, that tongue, those teeth, touching, caressing, teasing, sucking. He bucked against her, shouting, growling, flooding her mouth with his essence.

When conscious thought returned, he tried to speak. No words emerged from his mouth. Her tongue laved against him, setting trails of fire on his sensitive skin. Her head rose from his body and she slid back against him, cradling him to her, raising her laughing face to his. "Nyota, what...?" There must be a word for this --- this wonder that she had caused.

"It's called a climax, Spock. And I think you just had a really, really, good one." She smiled up at him, her arms around him, holding him.

Not disgusted? Happy? Not leaving, instead holding closer? All his preconceived notions flew out the window. Vulcan logic did not apply here. "And we have been foregoing this?" The thought was spoken aloud without fore-thought. And was met with bubbling laughter and a very wide smile.


Note from author: Don't you just hate it when you wake up at 4:00 in the morning with something in your mind that MUST be written IMMEDIATELY!