DISCLAIMER: I only borrowed them for a while. MGM and whoever can
have them back whenever they want.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
DEDICATED: to my muse and my love.
Before we got together, when she was giving me my physical, I used to wonder what it would be like. As she examined my skin, seemingly inch by inch for any unexplained blemish or bruise, as she ran her sure fingers over my bones, as she checked my breasts, my vagina for any sign of disease, as she held me, posed me, pulled off yet another miracle of medicine. What would it be like, I wondered, if this was not just a physical, what would it be like if she was really making love to me? Her meticulous touch.
Meticulous. A word to roll around the tongue, the brain. Like another word, a word that has taken on a life of its own between us. Libidinous. I felt it when she said that word. Libidinous. I couldn’t help myself as she kissed that airman, asking her if she felt like a woman now. The fire that flashed in her eyes as she wiped her hand across her mouth scorched me to the bone, the core. Her meticulous touch. Her libidinous eyes.
Before we got together, when I used to go to her lab to roust her out, make her rest, make her eat, I used to wonder what it would be like. As I watched her examine some piece of technology beneath her magnifier, take it apart piece by microscopic piece retroengineering it so that we could make use of it, performing one of her regular miracles of science, I used to wonder what it would be like to be under her magnifier myself. To have that level of attention, of absolute concentration lavished on me. Her meticulous touch.
Meticulous. I always loved the way that sounds, the way it feels in my mouth, on my tongue. It makes me feel… libidinous – a word that is now part of our secret shorthand. I remember being stuck in that cell with her when Hathor was doing her thing. Libidinous. The curiousity in her expression, the first time she looked on me as a puzzle to be solved. I remember the pale fire of jealousy in her eyes as I kissed the airman to distract him, the fierce joy that ran through me at her coolly loaded words. Did I feel like a woman? Hell, yes. One in particular. Her meticulous touch. Her libidinous mind.
Meticulous. Libidinous. We take it slow, We pay attention. Quickies are fun but this, this is love in its purest form, making it last as long as we can, touching and stroking. Feeling, above all else, feeling. Arms stretch, bodies curve, skin slides across skin, curves mirror, intersect. Blood heats the skin, the brain, words fall dizzy mouthing murmuring teeth scraping gently biting suckling. Fast to a crescendo and then slow again, sustaining the moment, the wave cresting over and through them until we fall back against the pillows, gasping, giggling, clutching at each other to kiss and kiss again. Libidinous. Meticulous.
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