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  • Minisinoo
    Continued directly from 18a.... ... *This is a DATE, a real DATE*, Scott Summers told himself as he tried to avoid cutting his chin with a razor. He was going
    Message 1 of 1 , May 16, 2003
      Continued directly from 18a....

      *This is a DATE, a real DATE*, Scott Summers told himself as he tried
      to avoid cutting his chin with a razor. He was going out with Jean
      Grey. After five years of waiting, he was finally going out with
      Jean Grey.

      His hands shook and his brain occasionally detoured into a youthful
      Neverland of what he wished could be, and he wound up cutting himself
      three times anyway, each a bright sting of pain like a stainless
      steel admonishment. Finally, he dropped the razor into the sudsy
      water with a plop, and leaned over to brace palms on cool porcelain.
      "Get a grip, Summers."

      At ten to seven, he was pacing, all nervous, in the wood-paneled den:
      over to the pool table, around the Ficus tree, across the Persian
      runner in front of the door, past the black leather couch, and back
      to the pool table. Francesco Placido, who was inelegantly sprawled
      over a florid-red Queen Anne seat, quit reading to watch him. "Chill
      out, Scott," he said.

      Scott paused, and smiled. "I'm having d�j�-vu." Frank smiled back,
      and Scott walked over to plop down on the couch. "Did you know?" he
      asked. "Five years ago?"

      Frank's eyebrows went up in a silent question.

      "When I took her to see PHANTOM, on Broadway, did you know then?"

      Frank's confusion became amusement. "There are many futures -- "

      "Oh, cut the TWILIGHT ZONE lines, Frank. Just answer the goddamn

      Frank laughed. "Yes, I knew it was likely." Then he dug in his back
      pocket for his wallet, pulled it free and fished inside, handing
      Scott a foil package. "You did not take this last time."

      Grinning, Scott accepted, more to acknowledge the gesture than
      because he thought he was likely to need it.

      When Jean finally appeared, Scott met her in the doorway. "Nice,"
      she said, patting the lapel of his leather jacket. "I hope I'm not
      under-dressed." She indicated her black shirt and khaki pants. "I
      figured, just for a movie -- "

      "You're fine," he interrupted, kissing her cheek and wondering why
      she was worried. Jean had a gift for making anything elegant. "I
      like your hair, and" -- he touched one of the rhinestone hoops --
      "when did you get your ears pierced?"

      She pulled the earring off and held it up. "Clips."

      "Oh." And it struck him how very different this time was than five
      years ago when he'd been a stuttering wreck, almost afraid to touch
      her. Now, they were discussing her fashion accessories. "You look

      "You're a flatterer," she replied, but blushed all the same, having
      spent an hour in the bathroom, and perhaps that was excessive when
      he'd seen her at her worst not long ago, but she'd wanted to be
      pretty for him tonight. For all her fierce attachment to her adult
      independence, her childhood programming of pink ruffles, Mary Janes,
      and Barbie dolls left her wanting to be the envy of other women. At
      least once in a while.

      "Come on, let's get out of here," he said, and with a hand at the
      small of her back, ushered her down the hall towards the garage.

      They took the Mercedes, because it was her favorite, and she drove,
      because he was pretending to be blind. It was a subterfuge EJ had
      invented, back at Berkeley, to keep people from staring at the guy
      wearing shades in a dark movie theater. Scott even had a red-tipped
      cane, and was good at the counterfeit after years of practice, but
      for dinner, he didn't use it. They ate at The Auberge Maxime, the
      priciest place in their region of Westchester but worth it for the
      ambiance, like a Proven�al cottage crossed with a fairy tale. They
      meandered through extensive gardens while they waited for their
      table. (Even with reservations, it took half an hour.) He got a
      kiss under the willow, and it was sweeter, he thought, than the scent
      of white moonflowers wrapped around garden trellises. The ma�tre 'd
      seated them outside on the terrace, and the waitress had to come back
      twice because they both kept forgetting to look at the menu, being so
      engrossed in looking at each other. The second time, at the woman's
      rolled-eyes, Jean said, "I think we'd better pick something," and
      turned her attention to the faux-leather carte du jour.

      "Do you read French?" he asked.

      "A little."

      "Then you order, because I haven't got a fucking clue what half this
      stuff is."

      She laughed, but she ordered. He got roast duck fillet with apples
      and Porto sauce. "People eat this?" he asked. "Quack, quack."

      "Philistine." She kicked him under the table.

      It was, he admitted later, very good, and a little tipsy on the wine,
      they walked around the gardens again after eating and didn't seek the
      concealment of willow branches to exchange kisses. "You taste like
      peppered duck," she told him, laughing. He chased her out to the
      car, and she drove them to the White Plains Rose Theater.
      Constructed in a 1920s art nouveau architectural style, it
      specialized these days in classics, and was open only on Thursdays,
      Fridays, and Saturdays, catering to local film connoisseurs. Scott
      had chosen it less for the film (Peter O'Toole and Katherine Hepburn
      in THE LION IN WINTER) and more for the fact that there wouldn't be
      much of a crowd on Thursday, and he could neck with Jean in a back
      row. He was right about the lack of a crowd, but not about the

      "I *love* Katherine Hepburn!" she said in delight, clapping her hands
      together when she discovered what film he'd chosen. "How did you

      He hadn't, but he smiled enigmatically, and she made them sit near
      the front, not in back. He had to watch the film because she wanted
      to. She did, at least, let him put an arm around her, and rested her
      head on his shoulder.

      Jean had ulterior motives for dragging Scott to the front of the
      theater, and they didn't owe to Katherine Hepburn. She knew very
      well what he wanted, could feel it in him, the press of desire. It
      had been like this ever since Sunday night. Whenever they were
      together, he became urgently physical, and if half of her reveled in
      it, the other half feared it. Just like every other man she'd ever
      dated, Scott wanted sex, but she wasn't too sure what to think of
      that because, this time, she wanted it almost as much. Her own lust
      scared her.

      Based on a play, the film was unusually long and midnight had passed
      by the time the theater emptied. Jean was aware of second glances as
      she led her "blind" boyfriend through the antique lobby, his cane
      tap-tapping in front of them, but she sensed only curiosity in the
      minds around them, or mild pity.

      Scott, however, was pensive. "What is it?" she asked as they exited
      out into the brisk night wind and the intermittent illumination of

      "It wasn't much of a date movie, was it?"

      She laughed at him. "I didn't mind. I told you, I love Katherine
      Hepburn and she won an Oscar for that performance."

      Scott didn't reply immediately and their steps slowed as they neared
      the little parking lot with its old, cracked blacktop. He didn't
      forget and look down even once, though it meant he stumbled over
      pavement breaks. People were still moving out of the theater, a soft
      shuffle of voices in half-heard conversations. Finally, Scott said,
      "You know, I'm not sure if he hated her or loved her. Henry, I

      "I think he felt both. That's the tragedy of it." She was silent a
      moment, then went on, "I remember this pair of professors who taught
      at Bard with Dad. The woman was on the history faculty, and her
      husband was in English, or philosophy, I don't remember now. Anyway,
      they lived on the same street we did, and were married for a while,
      then got a divorce, but the weird thing was that he used to come over
      to the house all the time after. He mowed her lawn. They had a
      daughter, sure, but it was more than that. I swear, they even still
      had sex. I asked Dad about it once and he said, 'They love each
      other, they just can't live together.'" They were silent for five
      more steps. "I think Henry and Eleanor were like that. Love's a
      strange thing. Sometimes people make their own arrangements, despite

      Only belatedly did she realize how that had sounded, but thankfully,
      he didn't comment. They'd reached the car and she turned to lean
      back against the passenger side so she could face him. He continued
      to play blind, not looking directly at her as others climbed into
      cars and drove away, a hum of motors and flash of headlights.
      "Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry Plantagenet met and fell in love when
      she was still married to her first husband," Jean said. Daughter of
      a British history professor, she knew all her kings and queens. "She
      was older than Henry by eleven years." Her lips quirked up. "She
      had quite the reputation, the Crusading Queen."

      "I kinda gathered that from the movie. Did she really have an affair
      with Henry's father?"

      "Who knows? She certainly had an affair with Henry." Jean laughed.
      "She was four months pregnant when they married, and they were
      married only two months after her marriage to Louis was annulled. Do
      the math. Anyway, according to legend, she helped him to his throne
      and they loved each other madly -- and fought like cats and dogs.
      She was very smart; that was part of the problem." She looked off.
      "Great kings look for equally great opponents, I think. But Henry
      didn't have an equal, unless it was his own wife."

      "So he locked her up and had affairs with a string of pretty girls?"

      "It was a different world, Scott. Men didn't take kindly to smart
      women with minds of their own."

      He leaned into the car beside her, weight on his hip, facing her. "I
      like smart women with minds of their own."

      She could feel the heat in her face. "Do you? Have men really

      "I'd like to think so."

      "Then why were they never interested in me?" It was said sharply,
      and she raised her eyes to meet his behind quartz. He seemed to have
      forgotten he was supposed to be blind. "All they wanted was to get
      in my pants." It was, almost, a challenge.

      "Then they were stupid."

      "You don't want to get in my pants?" And that was a challenge.

      His smile was genuine, but also calculated to be charming. "I want
      in your pants, but I also want in your head."

      "You know just what to say, don't you?"

      "I'm not lying."

      And he wasn't. She knew he wasn't. But she grabbed him by the
      lapels of his jacket and shook him a little -- frustrated. She felt
      like crying. "I want to believe you."

      "You can read my mind, but you still doubt it?"

      "I *want* to believe. It's just . . . hard." She'd said the same
      thing in the Danger Room weeks ago and he put his arms around her,
      wrapping her up and hating the men who'd made her mistrust, who'd
      made her shy. But that also made him remember Phoebe -- pretty
      Phoebe who he hadn't thought about in ages, but now he recalled what
      he'd done, and the old guilt came crashing back. Jean sensed it and,
      troubled by doubts already, reached to discover the cause. For the
      first time, he flinched back mentally from her, yet he wasn't
      experienced enough to keep her out, and she -- clumsy with sudden
      alarm -- stripped him bare.

      Disillusioned, she pulled away to stare at him, and
      conscience-stricken, he dropped his gaze. He couldn't speak; shame
      had stopped his voice. He expected her to walk away and leave him
      there. But for Jean, it was the back handed confirmation she'd
      needed, the assurance that what he wanted from her was different.
      She *wasn't* Phoebe. And he wasn't Ted.

      "I can hardly throw stones, Scott," she whispered. Tentatively, she
      reached out to run her palm down the slick leather of his jacket.
      "It was a long time ago. You apologized -- which is a hell of a lot
      more than anyone ever did for me. You actually regret it."

      "I didn't mean to hurt her," he said.

      She studied his face. "I know," she said finally. "And I didn't
      mean to hurt Ted. But he wasn't you." She brushed his cheek with a
      fingertip. "I was waiting for you to grow up," she confessed.

      "I grew up."

      "Yeah, I noticed."

      "You fought it."

      "I did. But the age difference will never go away. I'll be forty
      when you're thirty-two. Will you still love me when I have gray in
      my hair and lines on my face and cellulose on my hips?"

      He made a choked sound, somewhere between pain and disgust. "Why do
      you keep coming back to that? Why do you think I give a damn? If I
      love you, I love you. I didn't fall in love with your hips, or your
      hair, or your face. I fell in love with you, okay? You keep
      reducing it to the outside and that's really insulting, y'know? Like
      I don't have a heart, or a brain in my head. How can you possibly
      say you love me if you think I'm that shallow?"

      She could feel the jagged, deep pain behind the question and, for the
      first time, spun her doubts around to look at them from his
      perspective. And he was right. It was insulting. "It may take me a
      while," she admitted finally. "I do believe you, Scott, or I
      wouldn't be here. I just . . . Be patient with me, okay? I have
      to learn to trust you." She swallowed, almost convulsively, and
      tilted her head. "It's like all those bad teen-flicks where the star
      quarterback asks the science geek to the prom. That doesn't happen
      in real life."

      Leaning in, he pushed his forehead against hers. "I was never a
      quarterback, okay? I'm just Scott, who loves Jean. Can we leave it
      at that?"

      It made her smile, and tear up (embarrassingly) for no good reason.
      "Yeah," she whispered.

      "Good. Now kiss me and unlock the door, so we can go home. You have
      to get up early."

      She did as he ordered, though it was rather difficult to find the
      keyhole when she couldn't look because he had hold of her and was
      kissing her hard in the (now empty) parking lot. And the hot flashes
      happened all over again in the pit of her belly and the backs of her
      knees. And he was just Scott. And she was just Jean. She wrapped
      her free arm around his neck as the alchemy of a kiss turned
      affection into raw carnality, and why, she wondered, did this scare
      her so much? That he could make her want him like this? She'd never
      felt this for anyone that she could recall, and some part of her was
      waking up from hibernation. Wasn't she allowed to feel this?

      Finally, she got the door open, but he didn't seem inclined to stop
      so he could get in. She had to pull away. She was panting. "Do you
      still want me to drive? Everyone's gone."

      "You've been driving since the beginning, Jean." He wasn't talking
      about the car.

      Embarrassed, she looked away and walked to the driver's side. He was
      right. She was driving, and she took them back to Salem Center from
      White Plains, but as they turned onto Greymalkin Lane, she headed
      right on a little-used access road off the main drive. "Why are you
      going to the lake?" he asked.

      She didn't answer, her hands tight on the wheel to keep them from
      shaking and her throat too dry to speak. Finally, she came to a stop
      on a little gravel drive leading to the boat house. It was pitch
      black out here away from the mansion or any town, and the car's
      lights reflected off the side of the building and caught the yellow
      flash of some animal's eyes as it scurried off. Her heart was
      beating fast and she was afraid to look at him, afraid to see his
      expression. "I've never done this 'park thing' before," she blurted,
      "unless you count by proxy." And she wasn't sure how much that
      mattered. In memory, she had a hundred times more experience than
      Scott, from a hundred different lives; but in her own reality, she
      had far, far less. Those lives weren't this life, those bodies
      weren't her body, and those men weren't this man. Just Jean. She
      had to be just Jean, and this night was hers. She couldn't let those
      other lives rob her of her own. "So what do we do now?"

      A momentary pause, then his voice came, sounding amused. "Well, I'd
      suggest getting in the back. Bucket seats don't make things very
      easy." Reassured by his tone, she glanced over to find him turned in
      the seat, watching her. The dashboard lights reflected off his
      glasses and high cheekbones. Sometimes, like now, the stark beauty
      of his face took her breath away, and she wondered (not for the first
      time) how much more shocking he would be, if she could see his eyes?
      She also wondered (not for the first time) if he'd have looked at her
      twice, had his life not been disrupted by his mutation? His last
      prom date had been the head cheerleader. But then she remembered his
      rebuke, outside the theater, not to forget he had a mind and a heart,
      and was it any less cruel to condemn others for their beauty, than
      for their homeliness or their age or their skin color?

      Scott watched her watching him, and if he couldn't guess the exact
      nature of her doubts, her distress was still plain to see in dark
      eyes huge like a deer's, and liquid. He felt nervous, too, but a
      thrumming excitement overshadowed it, and her boldness enchanted him,
      largely because it was so artless. Leaning over, he stroked her
      cheek with the back of his knuckles. "I've never done this 'park
      thing,' either," he told her.

      Her expression was startled. "Really?"

      "Really." He didn't think the experience in Lee's van with the crazy
      girl Pam counted. "Trust it, Jean," he said. "Trust yourself. It's
      not some performance, okay?" And reaching around, he unlocked the
      rear door on his side, got out, and climbed in back. Jean watched
      him over the top of her seat, then abruptly, did the same, joining
      him. She'd brought the keys with her and he snagged them away,
      leaning over the front seat to return them to the ignition so he
      could turn on the radio. The station was playing Bruce Springsteen,
      "Dancing in the Dark."

      You can't start a fire. You can't start a fire without a spark,
      This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark . .
      You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling

      He almost laughed at the serendipity, but when he settled back, she
      was sitting very demurely, half tucked into a corner, hands folded in
      her lap, eyes resting on them. *Christ*, he thought; she looked like
      a virgin on her wedding night, and that bothered him. "Jean, maybe
      we should just go back to the house. You do have to get up in about
      three hours, and -- "

      "*No!*" Then more calmly, "No, no." She raised her eyes. They
      didn't appear frightened, and they weren't demure, and whatever
      doubts he'd had vanished.

      Leaning across the space between them, palm cupping the back of her
      neck, he kissed her hard, and it was all fire inside, all sensation.
      His skin burned. There was no room for thinking, only feeling.
      "Trust this," he whispered between licking the corner of her mouth
      and sucking her bottom lip. "Trust your body. I won't hurt you. I
      won't do anything you don't want to do."

      *I know*, she replied, and without hesitation, slipped down on the
      leather seat beneath him, pulling him on top, between her knees. "Be
      careful of the glasses," she whispered.

      "They're tight," he whispered back. "And my eyes are shut."

      "Maybe we should just take them off -- "

      "No!" His turn to protest vehemently, and his whole body had tensed
      up. "No. It's not safe."

      "Okay. Shhh."

      He shifted, moving his mouth down over her chin to her neck and
      across her chest to her right breast, impatiently pushing up the
      fabric to expose black lace. She was glad she'd taken the trouble to
      wear something other than cotton tonight, and maybe she should have
      been ashamed, but she couldn't summon the necessary remorse.
      Instead, she locked her ankles behind his legs and pressed his head
      against her chest. "Oh, God, oh, God," she muttered over and over,
      and he rose up a little on his knees, enough so that he could slide
      his hand over the crotch of her pants, pressing the seam of her
      khakis against her swollen labia. She rocked against his hand until
      he moved it, wiggling his fingers under the waistband while he
      switch attention from one breast to the other. But he was a little
      too eager, and missed his balance, shifting right when he should have
      shifted left.

      He fell off the seat onto the car floor, almost taking Jean with him.

      It startled them both so much, he sat with his jaw hanging open while
      she burst out laughing. That altered his expression from surprise to
      humiliation and she bit the back of her hand to stop giggling. "Oh,
      Scott, I'm not laughing at you. It's just *funny*!"

      And it was. Abruptly, he started laughing as well, then came up off
      the floor, grabbing her in his arms and tickling her. She squirmed
      and tickled back, and it ended with him on the bottom and all the
      tension of their uncertainties dissipated. They'd been too
      deliberate; he'd forgotten this was his best friend. Now, nose to
      nose, they smiled at each other in the dark. Just Jean. Just Scott.
      "Love you," he said.

      "Ditto," she replied, then straightened up, grabbing her shirt by the
      hem and yanking it over her head to fling it into the front seat.
      His jacket and shirt followed, and her bra. He wished he could see
      better in the dark, had to content himself with touch as his palms
      examined her body. "We're going to get cold," she told him.

      "I'll keep you warm."

      "That's a corny line, Scott."

      "Yeah, well, it's true, isn't it?"

      She considered that while he kissed her nipples and rubbed her ass
      through her pants. She could feel the cool metal of his glasses in
      contrast to the heat of her flesh. "Okay, it's true. Ah -- !" He
      was *biting*. Just a little. It felt good. And this time, he got
      her pants unzipped and his hand down her panties without either of
      them falling off the seat. His fingers explored her swollen
      slickness, sweet and jagged, and she moaned for him, rocking back and
      forth on his hand while he brought his other up to pinch and stroke
      her neglected breast. Sensation spiked in her, intense and quick,
      and she rocked harder, breath stopped and trembling on the edge of
      orgasm like a water droplet held distinct by surface tension. Scott
      was awed by the power of it. "Let go, Jean," he whispered against
      her pale flesh. "Let it go. Trust it. Trust your body." Body
      knowledge -- she couldn't *think* herself into this, and he wanted to
      take her there, wanted to give it to her. He slipped his fingers all
      the way inside her, stroking, seeking the small, ridged area on the
      front wall, but it was hard with his hand constrained by two layers
      of cloth. She raised herself a bit, trying to push the pants down.
      "Just a minute, just a minute," she said.

      He let her go, holding his wet hand apart as she slid her pants off
      without much formality and then worked on his, but she couldn't tug
      them past his thighs without him getting up and he wasn't inclined to
      do that. Instead, he pulled her back down on top of him so he could
      reach her breasts again, and her hand closed around his erection.
      *Don't!* he sent into her head. *I'll come!*

      *I thought that was the idea?*

      *Not yet. I don't want to come yet.*

      She let him go, reluctantly, and dragged her hand up over the side of
      his abdomen to the rise of his ribs. His own hand went back down
      between her legs, pushing her thighs wide so he could slide two
      fingers inside her again, looking for the right spot. Finding it
      this time, he shifted his hand until his thumb rubbed her sensitive
      nub and his fingers could press the magic spot inside, eliciting a
      shocked yell. Delighted, he began to fuck her with his fingers, in
      and out, in and out, and she arched back in the faint moonlight. It
      outlined her long abdomen and shallow breasts with an amethyst that
      turned crimson to his sight. She was all fever and fire, and she
      keened as she moved up and down on his hand. It was utterly raw, no
      thought, not even room for thought, and he could feel her wanting
      him. It excited him so much he thought he might ejaculate on the
      spot without any help beyond the sight and sound of her. *Touch
      yourself; show me how you touch yourself,* he begged, and she did,
      even as she slammed down on his hand to force his fingers deeper, her
      inner muscles clenching on him. Up and down, up and down, as she
      rubbed at her nipples with both hands. He watched, his mind fogged
      with lust and wonder. She was wild, like a raptor diving, and when
      she came, she shrieked. It wasn't ladylike at all. He loved it.

      She collapsed on him then and he couldn't stop grinning, though he
      could sense her surprise. "I've never come like that," she said.
      "Not the first time." That she didn't usually come at all the first
      time, he picked up from her mind; but this hadn't been about him.
      Maybe he was trying to prove something, he wasn't sure, but it hadn't
      been about him. After a minute, she added, "There really is a

      "There really is a G-spot," he replied, laughing and wiggling
      (sticky) fingers. It had taken a little time, a little patience, and
      some willing experimentation with Clarice to find it, but once he
      knew what he was looking for, it wasn't too hard to locate.

      She raised herself up enough to glare down at him, her lips pursed.
      "You're awfully pleased with yourself."

      "Shouldn't I be?"

      She thwacked him and sat up further. Her carefully teased hair was a
      mess and she felt so wet between her legs that she feared she would
      slick the leather seats. The whole car smelled of sex, and they'd
      have to do something about that before anyone else needed to use it.
      He seemed happy and relaxed, but not with the same post-orgasmic
      bonelessness she felt, and she remembered that he wasn't finished.
      Sliding off the seat onto the floor, she shook her hair over his
      chest and he laughed. "That tickles." She drew the hair lower,
      then, over his stomach, and lower to his groin -- heard him hiss in
      his breath. "Jean . . ." Raising her head, just a little, she used
      a hand to lift his cock and then licked it from base to tip. "Jean!"

      Her turn now, and she gave reign to her imagination, and the memories
      in her head. They were good for something. She blew over the cock
      head, then drew the flat of her tongue right across the slit, and if
      she'd never much cared for the taste of semen, she did like how he'd
      stopped talking and was gripping the door handle with one hand as he
      tried not to buck. She ran her tongue-tip all along the flared head
      and pressed it into the indentation of the frenulum, then swallowed
      him as far as she could and *hummed*. He shouted. She drew back to
      whisper, "I'm not on the pill. Not yet. Is it okay if we do it this

      His teeth were gritted. "I have a condom."


      "In my wallet, I have a condom."

      She licked him again, like a Popsicle. "Should I be offended by
      that, or do you always carry one?"

      "It was a joke," he replied, breathless. "Frank gave me one before
      we left. It was just a joke."

      "Frank would -- and how do you know it was a joke?" She stopped and
      stared at him down the length of his body; he'd raised his head
      enough to look back at her. "It's *Frank*, Scott."

      "Son of a bitch," he muttered, and she just laughed, pulling his
      pants off and fishing in his back pocket for his wallet, which she
      handed over to him. He got out the condom and tore it open, but let
      her put it on him. Then he sat up with his back against the seat and
      she settled on top, long legs to either side as he guided her down on
      top of him. She was amazed he didn't come instantly, he was so wound
      up. But he didn't, and she tried to hide the fact that it burned
      when he entered, but didn't think she succeeded; that was the
      downside of their link. "You okay?" he whispered.

      "I'm fine," she lied. And why, she wondered, did this still hurt?
      Shouldn't it have stopped hurting by now? It sure as hell wasn't the
      first time. Yet she wanted it more than the pain could put her off.
      He was *inside* her, and that was right; it was *right*.

      "Fuck me," she whispered, shocking herself with her own frankness.
      Ladies didn't say that, and he was shocked, too, but pleasantly. She
      decided that she liked being a woman better than being a lady.
      "*Fuck me*," she said again, louder, just to hear it, and he obliged,
      his hands warm on her hips, showing her his rhythm. It built in him,
      the wet slide and intense pressure, his balls clenching, his teeth
      clenching . . .


      The explosive uncoiling arched him up and raised her off the seat as
      he pumped into her in spurts. One, two, three ... four. A weak
      five. Subsiding on six. Her arms were strong around his neck and
      his were about her waist -- mouth to mouth, breathing each other.
      "*Good God*," he said when he was done, and then they didn't say
      anything, just sat until the blood was back where it belonged and his
      heart wasn't racing. He stroked her back compulsively, strumming the
      ridges of her spine with his thumb. "Love you," he said against her

      "Ditto," she replied, kissing the tip of his nose.

      Feedback is, as always welcome. :-)

      The Auburge Maxime is a real restaurant. The White Plains Rose
      Theater is not, however, a real theater.

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