Warning: A PWP romp for a couple who's been together so long, seeing one another naked isn't an automatic turn-on. This story is ADULT. Please don't read it if you have a problem with graphic sexual description. Remember, movieverse Jean is a medical doctor who comfortably uses terminology that would send most of us running for a dictionary.

This fits into the same continuity as An Accidental Interception of Fate.

The quasi-companion piece - from Scott's point-of-view - about love and sex and romance novels, is called "101 (and not Dalmatians)."


The bedside light flicks on. "Jean?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you asleep?"

"I'm not now." I flop over onto my back and glare up at him. I know exactly what he wants. It's what he always wants when he gets me up this way after coming to bed past midnight. He's having trouble sleeping, and if he has a choice between using beer or sex for sleep inducement, he'll take sex every time. There are nights I really wish he'd take the beer.

He's rubbing my side and smiling at my obvious irritation, and he knows what that smile will get him. Flash the dimples and Jean just melts into a little puddle of goo. Reaching up to get hold of the back of his neck, I pull him down to meet his mouth, slip my tongue between his teeth and play touch-tag with his own tongue while my free hand caresses the front of his sleep shorts. I think I've surprised him, but I'm just too tired to mess with the usual coy games. If he wants sex, well, let's get on with it. I need my beauty rest.

And past an initial surprised grunt, he's not complaining, seems to think my enthusiastic response has its merits if the bulge under my hand is any indication. He rubs warm palms over the skin of my thighs while I grab the hem of his t-shirt and tug it over his head. It interrupts the kiss, which is fine, since I'd rather concentrate on other parts of his anatomy. He has wonderful shoulders. I nip the clavicle out to the shallow dip along the top, then follow the curve down his biceps until I reach the sensitive skin inside his elbow. After all these years, I know very well which of Scott's erogenous zones are more erogenous than others. The backs of his knees are simply ticklish, and so is his throat at the wrong time. And he doesn't like to have me stick my tongue in his ear - says its loud, not arousing. But the nape of his neck is very sensitive, and I think I could give him an orgasm just from licking and sucking the insides of his elbows. Direct current to his cock. He won't say that aloud - Scott's too prudish - but I've heard him think it often enough.

Right now, I've got him writhing on the bed, his hands trying to get hold of my hips. "Slow down, Jean!" he says. "Holy Christ!" But he's laughing, and finally gets enough of a grip to flip me over and land himself on top. I could flip him back if I wanted with just a thought, but where's the fun in that? Wrestling is so much more interesting. The strap of my nightgown has slid down my arm, half-baring my left breast. He goes right for it with his mouth while he holds both my wrists with one of his hands, and uses the other to push down the strap even further, exposing the nipple so he can latch on.

Now it's my turn to gasp. He's become so very good at this. Not that he was bad initially - he'd certainly racked up more practice in bed - but telepathy has real advantages when conveying the finer points of feminine sexual response to over-eager twenty-two year olds. And Scott was an enthusiastic student. We don't need the link much anymore; we know each other's bodies very well. And we've long gotten past the awkward days and the shy questions of "How much noise can I make without him thinking I'm a slut?" or "What would he say if I asked him to . . . ?"

Truth is, I have yet to hear him say 'no' to anything. Scott has a kinky streak, though it took me almost a year to coax it out of him. He's not kinky in the direction of leather, whips and handcuffs, but of the 'use the whole chicken instead of a feather' variety. Never underestimate the creativity of an intelligent man. The kitchen Corelleware has been put to uses for which the designers never intended it, and a lot can be done with a hot-water bottle, a Blue-Ice pack, a silk sheet, and a purple velour throw (which took two good washings before the sex smell came out because I couldn't use hot water). He even let me eat cookie-dough ice cream off of him once (which isn't particularly creative, but I've always wanted to do that). It melted a bit too fast and gave new meaning to sleeping in the wet spot. And he taught me what a body shot is - got very drunk demonstrating, in fact. He also has an odd tick for sex in unusual places as long as there's no danger of interruption. We've done it on an exam table in the lab, against the wall in the elevator, in a second story janitor's closet, in his pilot's seat on the Blackbird, and even once in the kitchen with me perched on a counter top - and those are just the places inside the mansion. It's the novelty of the position, not the danger of discovery that turns him on. Overt public display is a big, thick line in the sand for Scott, though in a house like this, it was inevitable that we'd be caught in flagrante delecto at least once - by Jubilee no less - and reminding him of that night is still the quickest way to score a blush. But our resident mansion gossip never told a soul. She knows discretion, or maybe she was just as embarrassed as he was. We're surrogate parents, and kids don't want to think about their parents having sex - certainly not panting sex in a bentwood rocker in the den at three in the morning. At least we'd had a blanket wrapped around us because it had been winter, but there hadn't been much doubt as to what we'd been doing with me perched on his lap facing in and moving in the apposite rhythm of the rocker. If not for Jubilee, the rocker would've been a very successful experiment, but I haven't gotten him back into it since.

Tonight, though, isn't about experimental sex. It's plain, simple comfort sex. It's the do - what - I - like - because - you - know - better - than - anyone - and - I'm - feeling - too - tired - to - explain sex that you only get when you've slept beside a body long enough to forget you have moles and a fuzzy butt. He didn't believe that I had a fuzzy butt until he saw it. His, of course, is nicely smooth. There's something fundamentally unfair about that, but he says I have beautiful breasts, to make up for it.

And oh, he does know what to do with them, his tongue edge sawing all around the areola, circling rhythmically, then pausing to suckle while pressing a tongue tip to my nipple. He's taken off his night goggles and I adore the feel of his bare face against my skin although I know it's deadly dangerous. Sleeping with Scott is always dangerous, even if he works so hard to be careful. Accidents can happen, and if it were the wrong accident, I'd be dead before I knew what hit me - which makes it peculiar that I feel so safe in his arms, even with his glasses off. Right now, he's placed his nose square in the hollow of my sternum, mouth over my heart. He kisses the skin there, gives a little sigh. People might think it's the danger that thrills me, but that's not true. It's the trust. Not mine. His. It took him a long time to trust me to trust him like this, but when he did, the last wall came crashing down. The first night he placed his bare face to my chest this way is one that I will never, ever forget. Even if everything fell apart tomorrow, I'd treasure that memory. I held a dragon in my arms, and he was careful with me.

A sleepy dragon right now, who seems to have lost interest in doing anything more than mouthing my skin and snuggling down for a nap. "Hey," I whisper, tapping his jaw. "If you wake me up at" - I lift my head to glance at the green light of the clock - "one forty-two for sex, you'd better deliver, mister."

I can feel him smile against my skin. "You didn't seem so interested, ten minutes ago."

"That was before the mouth went south, babe. Finish what you started."

Laughing, he lifts himself on all fours to straddle my body and my hand worms inside his boxers to find his erection even as his mouth finds my other breast. I trace fingers over the contours from the root behind his scrotal sac past the roll of testicles, up the blood-warm shaft to the glans rim. He's completely average. Average width, average length, normal cant - but just perfect as far as I'm concerned. I love the spongy-hard feel of erectile tissue under a loose slide of skin. I run gentle fingers over the glans head and he grunts with his mouth full. Circling the urethral slit with the pad of my thumb gets a louder grunt and his penis twitches, and when I rub the little notch of the frenulum on the underside of the rim, he lets go of my breast with a gasp. "Mmm?" I ask, and he replies, "Mmm." This is typical sex-conversation for us. Forget the naughty talk. We do well to get past inarticulate monosyllabic mumbles.

He stops concentrating on me, lets me concentrate more fully on him. I get his boxers off and pump his shaft with one hand, fast on the down and slow on the up, while I squeeze the palm of my other hand gentle over the glans head. It's all tight and smooth, like the skin on a plum, a little slick with pre-ejaculate. His mouth is open and I kiss it, nipping at that pouty lower lip. Such a well-formed mouth. But after a moment, he pulls away to turn his head to the side - his automatic precaution - and his hips have started to move with my hand, his scrotum contracting against his body and his eyes squeezing tight. Reading the signs, I let him go before he makes a mess in my palm. After three deep breaths, he returns to work on me without protest, moves from my breasts down over my belly and I know what's coming when he drags off my panties. Every muscle in my groin constricts in anticipation and I spread my knees as wide as I can as I feel his breath stir my pubic hair. His fingers find my nipples, rub and roll and pinch them lightly, lightly, and then his tongue flicks over my clitoris. My hands fumble blindly to grip the slatted cherry headboard behind me and I keen. He draws his tongue up and down, a cat lapping cream, and it's all I can do not to push against his face until I smother him. I'm making completely incoherent noises, though I retain enough sensibility to send a mental command, Do it harder. He complies, takes a hand away from one breast to spread the lips wide, trace all along the creases. It's a wash of excruciatingly fine sensation that shivers my muscles and goosepimples my skin.

Scott is the only man who's ever done this for me. Not that I've had so many lovers, but the rest claimed exception based on the tuna-fish smell or musky taste. Even Scott doesn't do it often, but he's been in my head enough to know how it feels and he loves to please me. His is a generous soul. Right now, I can feel the spread of body wings as his mind reaches out to mine along our link to discover where I am, and what I need. Moving his lips up, he sucks at the engorged clitoris while his fingers slip inside me to locate a small fold in the wall just below the cervix, tickle it gentle-hard.

"OH GOD!" I scream, loud enough that I'm sure Ororo heard it three doors down, and buck involuntarily as my inner sky rips apart in a red-gold-green light show behind my eyes. I push my hips against his mouth because I simply can't help myself, and drum heels on his back.

When I can think and hear and see again, he's sitting back on his calves, laughing and trying to wipe off his mouth with the topsheet. "Sorry," I mutter, a little embarrassed. I hadn't intended to grind his face in it.

"Don't be. I love to make you scream." And he flops down beside me, feeling for his goggles on the nightstand and putting them on. Then he reaches out to trace a finger over my cheek, the smile still lighting his mouth. "Making you scream does great things for my ego, and the kids are a floor away."

I hit at his shoulder, but only half-heartedly. "Like your ego needs to be bigger?"

He just laughs once more and pulls me in, tucks my head into the hollow made for it on his shoulder and threads fingers through my hair, even while I'm aware that he's wondering how long is long enough before we can get back down to business. And maybe that's the true measure of love. He holds me afterwards because I revel in the contact, and I give him sex at two in the morning because it makes him less cranky the next day.

After a minute or two, I lift myself up on an elbow to sweep the bangs off his forehead, kiss the end of his nose. That's my signal that I'm ready for round two and he settles me on top because this position is so much easier when we're both tired already. I slide my wet folds all along his erection, just enough to coat him well, then rise up to angle him into me. We don't stop to put on a condom. Six months ago, we quit using them. If we aren't actively trying to get pregnant, we aren't actively avoiding it any more, either - a compromise position between the ticking of my biological clock past thirty-five and his uncertainty as to whether or not he's ready to be a father.

But right now, the possibility of making a new generation of X-Men isn't on his mind. His lips are parted, his brows drawn together above the goggles and I can tell that his eyes are shut because there are no glinting points of red in the lenses. Leaning down a little, I let my hair fall over his face, drag it soft across throat and chin. Strands catch on scratchy stubble and he's laughing. "That tickles, hon." I sit up and shake my hair back over my shoulders, smile down at him. "Love you," he mouths as his hands rise to cup my breasts, weigh and knead them with a kind of dim reverence. I start to move, leaning to brace hands on his shoulders as his own fall to my hips with just the lightest pressure to tell me how fast to go for him. This, too, is a measure of love. I surrendered my body to him earlier. Now he surrenders his to me, lets himself be a bit vulnerable, and I'm careful not to strip him wholly bare. Scott needs his dignity even in sex, even in our sillier moments of eating ice cream off a chest or drinking Sambuca out of a belly-button. He's a proud man - the kind who'll fit himself better at thirty-eight than twenty-eight.

And at fifty? I want to see him at fifty with gray in his hair and lines on his face from an authority earned and wisdom accrued. His edges are a little rough now because he's too young for the mantle that sits on his shoulders. But oh, in another ten years . . . .

He's finally started to move under me, and his hands have crept up my back as I crouch above. The wet friction slide of him in and out is pleasant, but I'm not going to climax again tonight. His breathing hitches once, twice, a third time. "Come on," I whisper, "Come on," and kiss him, play fencing games with his tongue and then lick all over his lips and chin. We've pierced through into the realm of no-thought sex, where how it feels matters more than how we think it looks. His hips are slamming into me a little rough and he's panting heavy, like he's reaching for something he can't quite touch. He's held back all evening and I hope he hasn't pushed himself past pleasure into numbness. It's happened before, and he gets frustrated and embarrassed. I tighten kegel muscles rhythmically to increase his sensation. "Come on, babe," I whisper against his mouth. "Come on."

And abruptly, he's there. His hips jerk in convulsive thrusts and he bites at my lips, then presses his head back into the pillow and grits his teeth as he gasps out, "Oh-Jean-oh-Jean-oh-Jean-oh !" as if I were his personal deity. I stare at the white expanse of his throat and press my mouth to his adam's apple as he collapses back, shudders once, and is still. His arms come up around me and I play fingers over those splendid shoulders, rub them. We don't speak for a long time, just snuggle until he asks, "Do you think we made a baby tonight?"

It's the first time he's ever inquired. "I doubt it," I reply. "Why?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and I listen to him breathe, feel the rise and fall of his chest under my cheek. Finally, he says, "I was counting. I thought maybe - It's been fourteen days since your period started. But then, what do I know about these things?" I can hear the embarrassed smile in his voice.

For a full minute, I can't speak. He was counting. He'd come to me tonight because he was counting. I know my eyes have started to tear and I hope he can't feel that on his skin, or hear it in my voice when I say, "You're a little early. You count fourteen days from the next period, not the previous one. My cycle is about five weeks."

"Oh. So we get to do this again soon, huh?"

"In about four days."

"Groovy."

I rise up to look at him. "Groovy?"

"Hey - it's coming back."

"You spend too much time with the kids." I settle back down, then add, "Scott?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you."

I feel his arm tighten around me briefly. "I love you, too, hon." And then he releases me, rolls over, turns out the light, and goes to sleep.

I smile into the dark for a long time after. He was counting.