Disclaimer: I don't own Primeval or its characters…

Author's Note: This actually ended up not so dark as it originally had seemed like it would be in my head, but it's definitely not fluff. I started pondering a 'What if…?' What if Matt couldn't just send the distraction of Emily away?

Warning: SMUT. But nothing too graphic, I don't think (scold me if I'm wrong). Also, a tiny bit of coarse language.


Liquid and...Mm...sweet. Not the harsh overwhelming sweetness of sugar. More subtle, with complex undertones. Like...honey.

Warm honey on his lips, coating his tongue and mouth, spreading teasing, tingling pleasure throughout his body.

And the violent need he never should've unleashed. So intense, it was a physical ache deep down inside him.

Matt broke off the kiss, pulling away from the woman he had so fervently accosted as to force her across the room and against the wall. He hadn't exactly gotten permission to snog her. Nor had he even given her a chance to protest. He had simply knocked upon the door, she had let him into the room set up for her at the ARC, and then he, well, snapped and more or less jumped her.

It was a battle against his body -the majority of which continued to press eagerly into hers- but he needed to give her the chance to rebuke him. He wanted her to do so.

Slap me. Push me away. Say 'no.' Please.

Emily remained silent but for the deep draughts of air drawn by her heaving chest. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the encounter. Light glistened on her moist, rosy lips that were slightly swollen from his mouth's attentions. And her eyes...

She didn't want to say 'no.' She didn't want him to stop like he knew he should but was certain he couldn't. There was only one thing that could stir up the will to recage the voracious beast he'd let out; her refusal of him. He could never take a woman against her will no matter how intense the insanity of long-suppressed lust.

But Emily was nowhere near refusing him.

Her hand caressed his cheek, her fingers delicate, her skin soft. And then he was kissing her again, like she were air and he were a drowning man. It was not a one-sided encounter, though. He felt her respond quite fervently with her lips and tongue, but the avarice for satiation was too great in him to permit her to lead their sultry dance.

His hands slid from her waist over the curve of her hips, down the outside of her thighs as he pressed further into her. Her skin was sinfully warm and smooth as he slipped his hands under her maddeningly short skirt (thank you, Jess). His fingers slid over her bare hip and around to cup her bottom, only to discover a complete lack of underpants.

The revelation slowed his ravishing of her person briefly, as he realized he again had Jess to thank for the beyond-tempting (lack of) attire of the woman in his arms. Apparently the girl whose job it was to think of everything had not thought of everything. And Emily did not know any better to ask about the protocol of going entirely nude beneath the scant layer of clothing. For there was no way her Victorian drawers would fit under those -oh, god- tightly fitted skirts. And then Matt realized the same was true of his jeans that she had worn. Had he only thought of his clothing caressing her naked flesh in such an intimate way, how much earlier would this moment of insanity have occurred?

For certain, his own clothes could not feel any more restrictive than his jeans presently did.

He growled his need for her, breaking his mouth's contact with hers and searching out her eyes once more. Lust. Need. Invitation.

His craving was profound and Emily looked exactly like dinner.

Kissing her more gently he found the hem of her skirt and worked it up over her hips to sit at her waist. One last time he looked into her eyes. If she saw the faint uncertainty underneath the overpowering hunger, she said nothing. And he was powerless to heed the tiny voice in his barely rational mind that protested against the wisdom in the act. He was all sensation and powerful, primal, need. The need so intense, the brief hesitation was agony.

A quiet gasp escaped her parted lips as he penetrated her but she made no further sound, at least that he could hear, besides her laboured breathing, as he gave in to his rampant desire. He adored the feel of her soft, warm and perfectly resistant flesh as her body gave way to his presence. Adored the scent of her hair, obviously the result of some experimentally grapefruit shampoo. Savoured the taste of the exposed skin of her neck. Adored the way her thighs gripped his waist and her hands grasped at his shoulders. And he reveled in the sound of their entwined bodies rhythmically impacting the wall as he pushed deeper and deeper inside of her.

And he hated the sound of the thump thump thump as he pounded her body into the wall like a nail. Hated the overwhelmingly pleasurable feel of fucking the beautiful woman. Loathed the anticipation of the release he was so desperate for. Hated how he was using her as a means to an end, such a pointless, selfish, insignificant...glorious end that left him panting and gripping her flesh so tight he had probably bruised the pale skin when she arched into him, every muscle in her body tightening, and he climaxed deep inside of her.

Letting her right leg fall to the floor to support her weight, he placed his hand against the wall above her head in an attempt to steady himself as he recovered from the waves of ecstasy still coursing through him. Before the endorphin high had even begun to fade, the shame rose up, profound and choking. He could not look at her. He had not looked at her face, let alone into her eyes, since he'd first entered her body. And he found he still could not do so.

He had used her. Used her terribly.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, breathlessly into her neck. And then releasing her other thigh, he pulled out of her and turned his back, putting away that part of his anatomy whose impulses he should've never given in to. He took a few steps towards the door and stopped when he heard his name on her lips.

The desperate, pained utterance stabbed him in the gut and he closed his eyes tight, swallowing. He had hurt her.

Turning, he found her sliding down the wall, her body as fluid as the tears spilling over her cheeks as she crumpled to the floor. She did not look at him.

"Is that all you want of me?" she asked flatly, coldly, despite the apparent pain in every inch of her body.

Matt wanted to rush to her, to get down on his knees before her, to take her face in his hands and kiss her in a tender manner he had not yet done. He wanted to tell her that he desired nothing more than to spend every night of the rest of his life in her arms. To wake up every morning to her beautiful face. To see her smile and hear her laugh every single day. To make her tea and watch the serenity of her enjoying it. To have her back in his flat, sleeping in his bed, wearing his shirts. To make love to her in the worshipful manner she deserved. Or not, if she did not ever want him to touch her again. Just to see her everyday. They didn't have to have sex. He would gladly sleep in that uncomfortable chair, embrace the kink in his back just to have her near.

But he could have none of those things. He could say none of those things to the woman he cared more for than any other in the entirety of his life.

Instead, he helped her to her feet, and pulled her skirt down over her hips to cover her nakedness. He longed to do more for her. He wanted nothing more than to lay her upon the bed, undress her, take a cloth and clean away the viscous residue of their coupling from the inside her thighs, the sweat from her skin, his saliva from her neck, dress her in the button-down shirt of his he knew that she had kept, and to lie down beside her, cradling her close.

But he could do none of those things, either.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. His body felt good, relaxed for achieving the release it had craved. But his mind was turmoil. He was beginning to feel like he'd intended upon doing this when he decided to check in on her. It felt as if some dark, cold, logical part of himself had seen the threat in her and directed his repressed sexuality in her direction. That on some level, he wanted to treat her horribly, hurt her and distance her because she was getting too close.

At the same time, she was the only confidant he had, his closest friend despite the brevity of their acquaintanceship.

"Can you forget this happened?" he asked, steeling himself to finally look her in the eyes.

"No," she replied quietly, sitting down beside him. "It's too shameful to forget."

Oh, god. He had misread her silent acceptance as willingness. How stupid could he have been? She had been married to a man she did not love, but she was a Victorian lady, and dutiful to the core. True, she'd run away from that life, but he had seen the weight she had given to a sense of responsibility in her adamancy about recovering Ethan. He did not doubt that she gave in to her husband's sexual overtures whenever he made them, out of a sense of duty. Doubtless, she had even made him believe her willingness, feigned some interest. Matt couldn't help but think she had done the same with him, because she felt obligated to him in some way. Her orgasm had been real enough, quiet although it was, he had felt her body tighten and spasm around him, her back arching, her hands fisting in his shirt. Her pleasure had pulled him over the edge. But that didn't mean she had wanted it done to her in the first place.

"Why didn't you tell me to stop?" he asked mournfully, feeling sick.

"I wanted you in the most shameful way," she said quietly. "I know it wasn't right but I was weak..."

She trailed off as Matt processed her confession and practically sighed in relief. It wasn't that she hadn't desired him. Emily had simply been confused, felt guilty about her mixed emotions. And in a way, he had still taken advantage of her, and would only cause her further pain by prolonging matters.

He rose to his feet.

This, this brief, wonderful, blissful, mistake was all he could have. He shouldn't have allowed it to happen, but it had. There was no taking it back. And it had hurt, would hurt. But it was the way things had to be. Emily distracted him, so very much, and the future could not afford his falling in love. There were so many depending upon him, and it was wrong to only care about the well being of one woman. Besides, she'd be better off not getting involved with him any further.

Unfortunately, Emily did not seem to know this, for she again prevented his leaving by catching his arm and looking imploringly into his face.

"I can't," was all he could offer her. His burden was his own and he would not put it on her. Let her think him a bastard for whatever reasons she placed upon his rejection and using of her. Just don't let her get so close as to be irreparably hurt later on.

"I know," was her soft reply. He swallowed back the lump that formed in his throat over recognizing the understanding in her eyes. They both had their reasons to feel ashamed and guilty for their emotions, for giving into their intense physical attraction. They both knew it could never happen again, that they should stop themselves from feeling what they did for one another.

And they both knew as he left, that Matt would return to take her again and again. And that Emily would gladly welcome him thinking less and less of why she should be ashamed to do so.

A/N: So not wholly in-character. I don't see Matt really losing control, although he obviously had a soft spot for Emily. And he'd probably behave much more gentlemanly, but where's the fun in that?