Hello all - hope you enjoy the new offering!
The flow of this one was hard to grasp. Obviously, the Cleopatra thing was just an excuse (for them, and for me), but I hope I didn't either beat it to death or let it drop too unnaturally. As always, let me know what you think!
A guttural expletive came forth from beneath the TARDIS console. Somewhat less surprised than perhaps she ought to have been, Martha Jones looked to the side of the magazine she was reading, her eyebrows raised. She was greeted by the singular sight of a pair of pin-striped legs attached to a matching torso which seemed to be headless, but for the giant column of gears and apparatuses above.
"Are you sure I can't be of help?" she asked for the third time.
The man answered with muffled, irritated grumblings in the negative.
She shrugged and made to shift her eyes back to her reading. But, before she did, and before she could stop herself, she indulged in the luxury of allowing her eyes to slide over his prone form.
Although, truly, it was his expressive, striking face that she loved most. He had sharp brown eyes that begged for gazing, and thick shocks of unruly dark hair that begged for tugging. He had miles of neck exposed above his dress collar and tie that begged for licking, and a supple, constantly-moving mouth that begged to be impeded by a kiss.
And of course, beyond and inside all of that, there was a powerful, intricate, tireless brain that saved worlds, manipulated time, and harboured horrors and joys beyond compare.
But with more than six feet of tightly-coiled Doctor plundering about, Martha reckoned that the bit above the shoulders was not all there was to be admired. And in this rare, unguarded moment, she did admire the rest. He hardly sported the sculpted, triangular physique of a Roman god, but long and lean, in Martha's mind, had its definite merits.
It was all wrapped in an extremely well-tailored chocolate brown suit. As usual, only the top two jacket buttons were fastened, and one flap gaped open as he worked. She received a rare peek at the actual waistband of his trousers, just below a powder blue dress shirt that fit taut against a flat stomach and narrow waist. She wondered at the flesh beyond that blue fabric. It was undoubtedly pale, but, she imagined, also hot, sensitive, sinewy…
On his feet, he wore a broken-in pair of Converse trainers, and occasionally they would grip at the floor for leverage while his hands worked up into the TARDIS' machinery. As he lay sprawled like this, she could see muscles moving inside the trousers in a way she had never noticed before. He seemed to have strong thighs, which she noted in the far reaches of her mind as a brand-new kind of torture, information with which she could torment herself as she lay alone in her bed.
And between the strong thighs and narrow waistband was a place where she almost never allowed herself to go. She desired to know the details, but thinking, imagining, it was usually too much to bear. But today, her mind was on a roll. He wasn't watching, and she was free to roam over his body and ruminate over what she couldn't see. The Doctor was long and lean and strong; every inch of him, she reckoned, must be long and lean and strong. He was passionate, hungry, intense. In every situation, she reckoned, he must be passionate, hungry and intense.
"Martha," she heard. "Helloooo?"
She gulped, caught. At least she'd had the good sense to avert her eyes from his trouser zip before she'd lingered too terribly long.
"Yes! What?" she said, just a little too quickly.
"Blimey, where were you just now?" he asked, his body twisted askew so that he could see her.
Where? Around your waist. In your trousers. Underneath you. Out of my mind.
Shame on the Doctor for having his head hidden and eyes not available for checking her baser urges. How was she supposed to carry on in decent company if he wasn't watching her?
"Fantasising," she said, without thinking it through. Immediately she regretted it and blushed.
A normal guy might have made a joke or an innuendo, or shown some sort of recognition that she had said something mildly racy.
But he wasn't a normal guy, and didn't she know it.
"Well, stop it. I need your help now."
"What do you need?"
"Can you hand me the Petaven Malane Winch? It's on the seat next to you."
She nodded, and handed him a mad-looking metal tool that, lo and behold, lay on the soft chair two inches from her bum. He thanked her, took the tool and she heard more sounds emanating from the sentient ship's main control station.
Another expletive broke the air.
"What's wrong now?" she asked.
"Eugh," he groaned, disgusted with the whole situation. He pushed himself out from underneath and sat up, looking helplessly at the winch. "Not even this thing works! I can't fix the TARDIS without a Noriffran Cyllinder from storage. I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to that, but…"
"What's a Noriffran Cyllinder?"
"It's a kind of internal combustion facilitator for vehicles driven by intangible energy," he answered, getting slowly to his feet.
"Internal combustion of intangible energy?"
"It's all very… abstract."
"Never mind," she said, sighing, waving him off. "I wouldn't understand. Just tell me where to find it, and I'll get it for you."
"Nah," he said, dusting himself off. "I'll have to do it myself. I'm not sure which room it's in. I picked up a gross of them from some travelling merchants in the Saeldan Galaxy about, oh, four hundred and eight years ago. Give or take. The TARDIS has changed floor plans half a dozen times since then. I'll just have to start looking – all trial and error."
"So," he sighed. "Fancy a delve into the graver reaches of the TARDIS?"
"Okay," she told him. "Got no other plans."
"How many rooms are in this thing?" she asked, her voice echoing in hallways where not even the Doctor had set foot in years.
"No idea," he answered. "Two, maybe three thousand."
"Jesus," she breathed. She pointed to a door. "What's that?"
He pressed his ear to it, then inhaled quickly with realisation. "That is the Safari Simulator," he told her. "Poach a lion, guilt free."
"Lovely," she said, her nose wrinkling with distaste. She pointed to a door with a B written on, in calligraphy. "And that?"
"Mm, that… that, I think, is the Beethoven Suite," he answered with a smug smile. "He was only with me for two nights, but, you know… when a great man graces your corridors, you've got to name a room after him."
"Oh yes," he said, low and feigning seriousness.
"What about that door?"
"Erm, Cricket equipment storage," he said. "I can tell by the little ball and bat symbol on the door."
"Wow. And what's that one, the Entymology Wing? Day care centre?"
The Doctor stopped and stared at the set of double doors she was indicating. His eyes narrowed and he seemed to be in deep thought. "I don't know," he whispered slowly. "No indicators. I mean… well, it could be… I don't know."
"Hm," she said. "Well, seems as good a place to start as any, if you don't know what it is."
The Doctor shrugged. "Okay," he said, slurring the word so it didn't sound like a word at all. "Let's go in."
He led the way by opening the double doors. It was, apparently, a very deep room, because no light from the hallway reflected on anything within. Martha followed him into the room, and he seemed to search about for a light switch. He looked behind one of the doors, closing it in the process, though he was not successful.
"Martha, check behind that other door for a switch, would you, please?"
She did as he asked, also closing the door, and found a standard dimmer dial that turned on warm, bright lights all over the large, messy room. Clothes were strewn literally everywhere, some on hooks or hangers, some thrown over chairs and rails, but most in piles on the floor.
The Doctor's eyes lit up. "Blimey!" he exclaimed. "I haven't been in here in ages!"
Martha smiled as well. "This is so cool! It's like backstage!"
"It's the auxiliary wardrobe," he told her, his eyes sparkling with the yellow lights from above. "It's where I go when I need…"
"Period costume?" Martha asked, picking up a pink hoop dress from the floor. She held the shoulders of the gown up to her own shoulders and batted her eyelashes at the Doctor.
He chuckled. "Yes," he said. "Oh, put that thing down. You look like Little Bo Peep."
"Don't blame me," she said, dropping the garment to the floor once more. "It's not my auxiliary wardrobe, oh thou of eight hundred identical suits. Besides… this is so much better!"
She had found a grey 1920's-style hat, rounded at the top and flaring like a bell. She put it on, then searched the floor for something to match. She spotted a similarly-coloured wool suit jacket. She slipped it over her shoulders and buttoned it over her tank top and jeans, and struck a pose.
"Very nice," the Doctor said, emphatically. He looked about, and reached into a pile of men's clothing and came up holding an old-fashioned brimmed hat, from approximately the same era. He put it on his head and struck a pose similar to Martha's.
"Me in grey wool and you in pin-stripes for a change. This is very Bonnie and Clyde of us," she said, horribly faking an American accent. "It's too bad we die in a hail of bullets looking like Swiss cheese."
"You said it, baby," he said, his American accent not much better. He sidled up close to her, tipping one charming eyebrow. "But at least I am able to impress you with my bad-boy attitude, and fast lifestyle!"
"Indeed!" she chirped back, laughing.
A surge of something found its way into the Doctor's chest and throat. A kind of happiness grabbed him, and a kind of youthful deliciousness that he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Then she spotted something else. "Ooh! What's this?"
She crossed to a cluster of clothing slung over a railing, bordering the top of a set of stairs which plunged into a larger area below. Her eyes had been drawn to a cornflower blue fabric, with black and navy blue vines spreading in tiny stripes with pink flowers. It was the bottom half of a 19th century ensemble, rather posh, quite conservative. She stepped into it, oohing and aahing over the quality of the fabric, and the stitching, and how nothing in 2007 was ever made that way.
"Well, look at that," she said, trying to hook up the back of what was, essentially, just a long skirt. "It doesn't quite fit – just a smidge too tight. Wait, I know."
She reached into the skirt and unbuttoned her jeans. She slipped them down discreetly, inside the garment, then was able to fasten the skirt. She tossed her jeans aside for the time being, then put her hands on her hips. "What do you think?"
"Lose the hat," he told her, doing likewise himself.
She took the advice, and tossed the grey hat to the floor. "So, am I more Queen Victoria, or more Cathy from Wuthering Heights? Minus the tank top and blazer, I mean."
"You? Martha Jones?" he asked. "You're more of a Marie Curie."
She smiled. "Oh yeah! I guess I am."
"Mother of Polonium and Radium, and…" the Doctor said with an exaggerated French accent, casting about. He pulled a white lab coat from a set of hooks nearby and pulled it on over his suit. "…and the first woman to win the Nobel Prize!"
Martha cleared her throat and tried her hand at a Polish accent. "Yez, my dear Pierrrre! We are the master and mistress of nuclear powerrrr!"
"Ah, Marie, my 'eart is rrrradioactif with l'amour," he drawled, putting one arm around her waist and pulling her close.
"In dat cazze," she responded, her eyes drooping with the melodramatic signs of love. "I'll heff to ask you to wear a rrrradia-ssshun suit before you may impose upon me zee Curie Point!"
"Madame Curie," the Doctor said, sotto voce, still affecting the French accent. "You have a contaminated mind!"
They both laughed and let go of each other. The Doctor felt that rush of something again. In spite of the odd subject matter, the flirtation was exciting, a little arousing. It felt nice to be frolicking, making innuendos, thinking...
...well, thinking about sex again. Even if it was only very indirectly.
Martha took hold of the long skirt she was wearing and carefully made her way down the stairs. Just behind a folding screen she saw something that made her gasp.
"What is it?" asked the Doctor, following her down.
"Oh, now this…" she said, moaning just a little. "This is gorgeous!"
She was staring at a headless, armless, legless dummy wearing a white linen and silk dress. She reached out and fingered the material, and it felt soft and silvery to the touch.
"Egyptian," the Doctor said, coming round the screen to see what she thought was so gorgeous. He took off the Pierre Curie lab coat and hung it on the back of a vanity chair nearby. "See the symbol of the Sun god Ra at the throat?"
She nodded. It was not the symbol she was used to seeing; to her it looked more like a sailboat made of beaded turquoise and a giant amber medallion in the middle.
She reached up and took the sash that tied round the back of the neck. Then she walked, entranced, behind the dummy and began unfastening the ties that held the dress together in back. The Doctor smiled at her, delighted, having never seen her grow so wistful over something pretty.
She discarded the Bonnie & Clyde blazer and put the white neck sash over her head, letting the dress hang in front of her. She held it out, marvelling at the soft fabric against her hands and forearms. She sighed and smiled, and looked at the Doctor for agreement.
Suddenly she turned her back and began to crawl out of her tank top. She manoeuvred her arms through, then pushed the shirt down to her waist. She pulled the front of the dress across her bust and looked back at the Doctor over her shoulder, with an easy half-smile.
"Help me?" she asked, holding two thin ties toward him. The sideways glance, the glint in her eye and the sight of parts of her bare skin he'd never seen before, he found, were tantalising. He was surprised at the strength of his reaction, as a spread of warmth came over him like a slow sunrise.
He took the ties and began to lace them together, knotting them in a brilliant white bow across her golden brown back, where a bra strap might have been, if she'd worn one today. She held toward him the next set of laces, and he tied them across the small of her back, just above the waistband of her Marie Curie skirt, now forgotten in favour of this delicate, silken gown.
She turned and faced him, and he watched with fascination as she modestly pushed herself out of the skirt, and pushed the tank top down her legs, all behind the curtain of the hanging, full white dress. Then she took two other sashes that seemed to act like a wrap-around skirt, pulled them over her hips and tied them in a loose knot across her abdomen. She made her way to a nearby full-length mirror and smiled.
"I love this," she sighed. She reached up and unclipped the messy bun she'd fastened this morning at the nape of her neck. Black hair fell across her shoulders and she ran her fingers through it, arranging it in a smooth, but slightly stringy array, framing her collar bone, her perfect lips and bright, wondering eyes. The amber and turquoise ornamentation brought out the gold flecks in her skin, and even matched the gold hoop earrings she happened to be wearing.
She turned, once again, and looked at the Doctor. "What do you think?" She put her hands on her hips and crooked one knee against the other. "Cleopatra?"
"Of course. Queen of the Nile," he mused. "The final, but most famous and truly beautiful of all Egypt's ancient monarchs."
"You can call me Cleo," she said grandly, jokingly, but pleased with herself. She pursed her lips and kissed the air, then laughed at her own silliness.
He began to walk toward her, and said, "The military concerns of a great soldier have been thrown asunder in favour of your loveliness, my queen."
She clasped her hands melodramatically at her chest and said, "I pray you, Mark Antony, do not return to battle! I fear I shall be lost without you!"
"But I must. Duty commands." He bent at the waist and bowed, rather in a Victorian fashion.
"You say that your military concerns have been tossed in my favour..."
"Indeed, but piracy reaches its peak in the Mediterranean, my dear. Our very lives depend upon my return and dispatching of the evildoers."
Her eyes flashed with violence and lust, and a contrived lust for violence. "Tell me how you shall strongarm them out of our midst, my virile soldier!"
His eyebrow cocked at her words as her voice grew low and husky. She was now close enough to touch.
"If I could, I should send you to beguile them with your feminine wiles," he told her. "Send them reeling, haunted by your beauty, and into my grasp."
"Mark Antony," she exclaimed. "My feminine wiles reserve their powers of persuasion for you, and you alone. Please allow me to use them to keep you at my side, forever serving your needs. I should soothe your troubled spirit and... and..." she was at a loss. She didn't feel as though she should say what was really on her mind, what needs she'd really like to serve. But it was all she could think of right now.
This improv thing was new to her! Her brain was mush with the pressure!
"And?" he wanted to know.
"And feed you grapes!"
The Doctor smiled. "Feed me grapes? Really?"
He laughed, genuinely amused and utterly charmed by this.
She continued, finding Cleopatra's voice once more. "Surely this must be preferable to your mouth filling with the blood of your heart and your once powerful body stopped by the unnecessary strangle of death!"
"It should be, truly, preferable," he agreed.
"Please stay, my Antony!"
He reached forward, and took her hand. Staring into her eyes, he said, "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale / Her infinite variety: other women cloy / The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry / Where most she satisfies."
Martha winked. "Does that mean it's working?"
"Feed me grapes, and we'll talk," he answered, suddenly losing once more the tone of Antony and expressing his own Doctorly whimsy.
"Very well," she said, regally. She pulled her hand free and pressed it against his lapel, stepped forward, closing the small space between them. She mimed rolling a grape between he thumb and index finger of her other hand, and gently pressed her fingertips against the Doctor's chin. He opened his mouth, dipping his head and allowing the fingers to slide in, then closed his lips and tongue around them.
A very real frisson of lust shot through Martha's body then, especially as he closed his eyes and seemed to pull tighter with his mouth. Slowly, she slid her hand backwards and allowed her fingers to slip free.
He, too, experienced a rush of need. He opened his eyes to find her staring back at him, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly parted and her breath coming with more effort now.
"There is no hint of grape," he whispered. "Only the salty sweet flavour of your skin, the supple texture of your flesh."
"It has occurred to me, sir, to feed you other than grapes," she whispered back.
"Oh yes. But I had hoped for the juices to age in your veins and to intoxicate you, forcing you to grow weak and to do my bidding."
He gently placed his hands on the gentle curve of her hips, then leaned forward and softly kissed her earlobe. Barely speaking now, he breathed, "Juices from the grapes are not the most likely to intoxicate me."
His breath and voice and words and the tiny kiss made her weak in the knees, and her eyes slid shut as she fell into a near swoon. Quite involuntarily, her entire body slumped against his, and he caught her. "It could have been a clever ruse, the wine..." she breathed, barely able to speak, or stand or keep her eyes focused on him.
Even in the short interval during which they'd been playing this most dangerous leg of the game, her arousal had become apparent, reaching his senses and clouding him. He shifted her weight to one arm and he pushed her hair back away from her neck and collar bone. He kissed the area; lips, tongue, teeth exploring and nipping at her sensitive skin, eliciting a sigh and a moan from her. With his free hand, he tugged at the loose knot she had made at her abdomen in the front of her dress. She didn't fight him. The fabric fell free and he snaked his hand inside the soft curtain, searching for heat.
"Agreed. But wine is not what I require as spur, my sweet," he murmured. He found her thigh, her knickers, her centre. He pushed the soaked lace aside and found a slick opening. He pushed his fingertips between the folds slowly, one gentle stroke against wet, distended flesh. "It is only this. Your ardour is plenty for me."
If she had been weak in the knees before, she now positively lost all of her footing. She moaned with total abandon and attempted to speak within the fantasy. "M... Mark..."
"Shhh," he told her softly.
"Doctor," she whispered, opening her clouded eyes, seeing sharp, knowing features gazing back at her.
He never broke eye contact. "Martha," he said back to her, and nodded subtly. He let his fingers slide all the way up her swollen clitoris, then back down again, and her body shook.
"Oh God," she hissed slowly, letting her eyes shut and her head fall back. One of her hands reached out blindly, grasped at his lapel and squeezed. He repeated the deft action with his fingers, and her body shook again, and her hand crawled up his jacket and shoulder, and her arm grasped him round the back of the neck, and she pulled her head up to look at him.
Her eyes penetrated his, and she demanded, "Do it again."
He did it again, and she shook.
"Again," she said. "Harder."
He obliged, and she shook.
Her busy hand then relocated. It found, and grasped, the hard shaft, growing in girth behind his trouser zip. She squeezed.
"Once more," she instructed. "Harder."
His own head swam in reaction, but his fingers remained adroit as ever, sliding firmly up and down as she had asked, then finishing by thrusting far inside the liquid curtain.
She responded with a high-pitched cry into the air, and he felt her insides grasp hard at his fingers as more of her own intoxicating wine flowed and made her even more open to him. Unable to contain himself, he bent down and locked his lips round hers and plunged his tongue into her mouth. She received it with vigour, sucking as though long-deprived, unabashed in her fervour, recovering from the fire.
In this moment, something really changed. Something was unlocked from within him, and it wasn't just lust.
Though he was feeling lust like he hadn't for ages. Whoa, nelly.
He moved his lips back to her ear, and whispered, "My head is floating, as though drunk, my queen."
"Yes," she answered.
"Your natural waters are intoxicating."
"Mmmm, good," she answered. Her eyes flew wide open once more and locked on his. "Now, give me yours."
He'd wanted her to say that. He'd wanted her to tell him to take her, just there, in the wardrobe.
Still, he hesitated. Their time together had been too precious to toss into a moment of mad fever. Months of platonic friendship thrown to the wind... Martha might not be ready to let go of that for a few minutes of imprudent chaos.
In the guise of the fantasy, he warned her. "Are you certain? There are wines which, once imbibed, can never be expelled from the system. Not even by time."
She looked him squarely in the eyes. "Your aroma and bouquet are already part of my system," she insisted, whispering under the same guise, with all the intensity of a bolt of lightning. "Now, let me taste you. Fill me up. Let me come undone with drink."
He held onto her tightly and began to guide her backwards. She would have stumbled if he hadn't had a grip on her. They were, she knew, about ten feet from a wall, and before she knew it, she felt the hard surface against her back. She grabbed for his waistband with both hands and nearly broke the trouser hook pulling it apart. And the stitching round the zip nearly lost its integrity as she ripped it open and his cock sprang into her hand.
He pushed both hands up under the billowy dress and found her hips. He tugged her knickers roughly down her legs and she wasted no time kicking them off. He grasped her round the waist and lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around him, and when she came down again, he was slowly sliding inside her. She closed her eyes as the intoxicating swirl came back, and leaned her head back against the wall.
Long and lean, she mused in her mind, as it felt like the ingress would never stop. She felt as if the moment were happening in slow motion, this moment that she'd desired for so long and had imagined so many times. Millimetre by millimetre, he pushed inside, overtaking her in a way that only he could, and the look in his eye was one she recognised. Passionate, hungry, intense, he was, and his body was answering a call now, in the only way it knew how.
For him, though, the moment was over in a flash. He wanted her, she gave him the invitation he needed, so he stormed the breach. He was on fire everywhere, and in every way. The coquettish role-play had been surprising; it was flirtatious and arousing. It had been the unveiling of a new side of Martha Jones, and the discovery of a whole hidden set of feelings on his part. Seeing her in the white linen dress with her hair down and wild and her skin laid bare, that had made him positively light-headed. But the little blip of insanity a few minutes ago, watching her loose her footing, go flush with pleasure and come loose with his fingers buried inside her, that had almost broken him in half. Urgency had struck him then, and a certain pent-up, long-incubating desire, not just for her body but her soul.
After this, he told himself, I'm taking her to bed, and we're going to do this right.
If she'll have me, once the euphoria has dissipated... but oh, what if she won't?
But in the here and now, he couldn't afford those thoughts. There was a time bomb in his system, and he was headed toward detonation. Anything that was not her, right now, was in the far future, and could wait.
And in his action of pulling back, driving through once more to her centre, suddenly she caught up. The slow burn was fanned all in one instant, and she felt the here and now about him, the heat and its need to consume.
This time, he touched her further inside than before, and making her moan again from somewhere profound. Then he did it again, then again, finding still deeper reaches of her body, sinking deeper into desire. It seemed the more he took, the more he wanted, the harder he pushed, the greater the drive to keep going. And so each thrust was harder, each grunt was lower, pulled from a place more entrenched within, more expressive of want and awareness of an oncoming storm. His fingers dug into her bum, and his teeth gritted, leverage for the long haul.
Martha could feel herself coiling and climbing again, winding up tighter and tighter as the Doctor lunged, prepared to cut her loose once more with deft strokes and his infernally penetrating, desirous eyes. She tried to feel the entire moment, all of the pieces of the sensational puzzle, not just the hurricane gathering at her core. She let herself get lost in his eyes, and tightened her fingers around the Doctor's upper arms. She felt the movement underneath the suit jacket as he used every muscle in his body to drive forward to claim her, satisfy them both. She felt the unforgiving surface against her back and the unique deliciousness of feeling nailed to it, pressed between it and him, each moment harder and flatter and more raw.
"Martha," he hissed, just before kissing her heartily, seven or eight times. He was beginning the serious climb along with her. "You feel perfect... I don't want to stop, ever," he said to her between kisses.
She moved her arms up to rest against his shoulders and around his neck. She kissed back, and pulled him in for more, when it looked like he might pull away. "But I want you to reach the end, Doctor," she replied, also between kisses.
"There's no end," he said, though it's almost as though his hearts were speaking for him, his lips acting without his mind's consent. He began planting hungry kisses across her cheek and down her neck, behind her ear, across her throat. "No end... no end..."
"But there is," she protested breathlessly. "I can feel it, it's rising! And it's good, it's so good." She was on the edge, moments from coming apart at the seams. She wanted to close her eyes and lean back and relax and let her body float her in on the tide. But this was such a longed-for encounter, such a rare, beautiful, searing moment with the Doctor... she may not be able to prevent the end from arriving, but she could relish it, to keep it with her forever. In case she never had this chance again, she kept her eyes and hands open, imprinting each sight and texture upon her memory.
"It's good," he agreed with a pant, now giving up on kisses. He just pressed his forehead against hers as his body continued to thrust, his member still finding gorgeous places to touch within her. He gulped. "It's good... but too soon."
"It's the perfect time," she said, taking his face in her hands. "You want it... we both want it, to get to the end..."
"But it'll be over." His lower lip went slack and she could see his lower teeth gritting against his upper.
"But it'll be brilliant," she insisted, now gritting her teeth herself. "And it will be ours for always."
"But it will be over," he protested again. He shut his eyes tight. "I don't want it to be over!"
"Oh, but I'm already there, Doctor," she told him. He felt her hands slip into his hair and grip, and her insides pull tight and begin to pulse. "I'm at the end... and it's good... so good... come with me!"
With this, he couldn't slow any further, couldn't hold back any more – he felt himself exploding. And with a harsh, almost angry, groan, he braced his hands against the wall and drove in so hard it hurt, filling her up with his own intoxication, driving her straight into her own madness. She cried out inarticulately as her whole world snapped, then spun, then seemed to turn to liquid air. Everything in their bodies seemed to melt down at the same time, their veins turning to lava, their joints turning to jelly.
Spent for the moment, he slumped forward, against the wall, against her. After a pause, he muttered into her shoulder, "You are spectacular."
She smiled. "Thanks, but I didn't do anything."
"Oh, yes you did," he moaned at her, kissing the shoulder where his lips were pressed. "This is all you."
Her skin hummed all over and she felt sensitive. As he began another tirade of kisses over her flesh, she shivered pleasantly. "Mmm," she sighed. "If you say so."
"I say so," he said. "Egyptian white... on you... is..." He groaned in lieu of words, and she could feel him stirring inside of her as his mouth opened and seemed to want to devour the perfect brown skin of her neck.
She giggled. "Thank you, sir," she said. "May I now assume that you will remain with me, and not go to fight the fleets of pirates at sea?"
"I can't fight now," he said, his voice sounding exhausted, his kisses exhibiting no such thing. "Not against them, nor against you."
She giggled again. "I'm very powerful," she declared.
"No, I'm serious. I'm knackered," he told her, looking at her finally.
"Then, why don't you pull away from me?" she asked sofly. "Let me put my feet on the floor so you don't have to continue to hold me? Then you could sit."
"Why? Because then it really will be over." His voice was low. "And I'm afraid..."
He had trailed off in favour of admiring her beautiful eyes, and gently pushing her hair out of her face.
"You're afraid of what?" she asked.
"I'm afraid that I'll never have this chance again. I'm afraid that we'll never get to do this right. I'm afraid that I'll have to live with wanting something I'll never have."
She smiled, and almost cried. "Doctor. I can't believe I'm hearing this."
"I'm afraid, Martha," he said, very seriously. "I didn't even know it until ten minutes ago, but... well there it is. I think I love you, and I'm terrified."
"Well, then," she said, running one hand through his hair. "Let's find a bedroom, because I have some very good news for you.