From: "e. b.e." <ebe1013@hotmail.com>
Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2000 19:45:12 GMT
Subject: That Night IV: Afternoon Delights (NC-17)
Source: direct

Spoilers: None I can think of, extremely mild if present

Category: MSR, Mulder POV

Rating: NC-17

Archive: You want it?  You got it!  Gossamer will be sent this
separately, although I'm not sure if that matters, since I sent them a
story a year (yes, a year!) ago and it still isn't out.  Anyway, feel free 
to grab this.  If you drop a line, I'll come visit my babies...

Summery: The continuing evolution of the personal relationship of
our favorite super heros.  Specifically, what happens when Mulder
gets fed up with the rules...

Disclaimer: Two words: As if.  If they were mine, Mulder would be
chained up in my basement.  Hell, Scully would be chained up in my
basement.  Fortunately for all involved, CC treats them a tiny bit
better.  I still think he should let them out for some fun, hence these 
stories...

Thanks: To that brave, patient soul who attempts to ensure that my
work doesn't read as if deranged monkeys have been tap dancing on
my keyboard: my beta reader, Bonnie.  Addicted2fanfic, if you are
still out there, your e-mail didn't work, but I'd love for you to still 
critique my stories.

Author's note: Obviously, this isn't the first story in the series.  It 
would make more sense read in sequence, but it's not necessary if
you keep in mind that Mulder and Scully are already involved.
Heavily, sweatily involved.  Think aroused prurient interests.

       That Night IV: Afternoon Delights

I am sick of following the rules.

For once, I am not referring to Bureau politics or regulations,
expense report justifications or request forms.  When I say I grow
weary of following the rules, I speak of Scully's rules.  Well, mine
too I suppose, but she was the primary author, and acquiescing was
so much more rewarding, at the time, than haggling over petty
details.

Note to self: Never, ever agree to stipulations while you and the
object of your affection are lying naked in a bed.

She should have known I'd rebel sooner or later.  It's in my nature,
and she could hardly claim ignorance of that fact.  How many times
have I defied protocol, disobeyed orders?  Too many to count, and
she is privy to most of my transgressions.  Arguably, she is party to
my upcoming rebellion by establishing the laws in the first place.

Some of them are obvious.  No fooling around in the office or while
on a case, things of that nature.  Fantasies about my desk aside, these 
rules present no problem; as much as I adore Scully, I'd be loathe to lose 
my job over an office romp.  No nooky, even as spectacular as nooky with 
Scully, is worth that.

But the other ordinances leave much to be desired.  That we do
nothing to announce our status as lovers, this one disturbed me most
of all, initially.  In typical male fashion, I wanted to show off this
new relationship, to throw it in the faces of all those people who
have snickered and pointed over the years.  Spooky Mulder managed
to do what they could only dream of: win the love of the beautiful,
intelligent Special Agent Dana Scully.

Alpha male behavior at its best (or worst), but I have never been
given the opportunity.  It still feels like we are hiding, but I risk the 
tremendous ire of a certain redhead to disregard this one.  Scully is still 
Scully, and despite our new found openness with each other she is still a 
very private person.  So my desire to lay a wet one on her in the bullpen 
just to rub it in the faces of my detractors is out, for now.  It would 
humiliate her terribly, and I could not hurt her like that intentionally.

Still, I chafe under these restrictions.  Especially the overly broad,
utterly evil rule she imposed that seems so innocent at first glance.
"Professional behavior" at all times.  It seemed so reasonable, and we
were both very, very naked.  And then she began applying it to every
conceivable situation.   Joking.  Flirting.  Touching.  Looking.  Hell, even 
my facial expressions are now subject to scrutiny and
subsequent admonishments.

I'm going out of my mind.  The tension coils tighter every day, a
spring just waiting to snap under the grinding pressure.  Granted, we
have sex, as often as we can find the time it seems.  But our office
relationship hasn't been this sterile since the tattoo fiasco.  Only now I 
am surrounded by the memories of her, the knowledge of how she
looks and smells and tastes.  This is torture, the ever present specter of 
our lust cloaked in Donna Karan and Armani, absolutely taboo while on the 
clock.  I watch her, sitting primly in her chair, glasses perched on that 
cute little nose, knowing she wants me as badly as I do her, and I can't do 
a damn thing.  Not a wink or a smile.  And it is literally driving me crazy.

This is ridiculous.  We are involved, and while I understand the need
for decorum I can't simply turn of my affection, my feelings, my
libido just because the building we stand in bares the letters FBI.
The strain is beginning to show.  Even on her, but she has always
been better than I at bottling up the storm inside, saving it for later.

I lasted a month, which I think deserves some credit.  But enough is
enough.  I have designed a plan, a little unprofessional indiscretion.  
Nothing too major, nothing public, nothing indecent.  But decidedly against 
the rules.  Anarchy at its finest, and victory will taste so sweet.

                     ________________________________

"Mulder?"

She sounds confused, a touch concerned.  Summoned to my
apartment by a cryptic phone call, entering to find the rooms
shrouded in afternoon gloom, apparently uninhabited.  She closes the
door quietly and locks it, slipping the keys into her pocket as she
glides into my living room.

Her eyes rove about, scanning for clues, signs of my presence or of
foul play.  I look on from the shadows, drinking in the sight of her,
the play of her muscles as she removes her trenchcoat and blazer.
She wore a sleeveless top under that tailored black jacket today, and
the pale skin of her bared arms glows in the faint light of the room.
"Mulder?" she says again, louder and more fearful.  Still I hide from
her, waiting and watching as she moves restlessly about the place,
searches my kitchen, my bedroom.  Only when her hand drifts to the
weapon at her back do I reveal myself to her.

"That won't be necessary, Agent Scully."

She gasps, turns to face me as I step from my hiding spot.  I can see
the relief, the slight irritation in her eyes.  She'll be even more
irritated when I tell her what I've done, my plans for this afternoon.  But 
not for too long...

"Mulder, what did you want to see me about?"

I circle around her, positioning myself between her and the door.  No
escape for her, for either of us.  "I've done something, Scully.
Something you may not like at first.  Something...unprofessional."

Her eyes narrow warily.  Hmm, so my choice of words does not go
unnoticed.  She tenses slightly, uneasy, unnerved by my curious
behavior.  It's nice to know I can still surprise her.

"What have you done," she whispers harshly, her tongue darting out
to moisten her lips.

My smile is feral, gleaming in the low light.  I move closer to her,
feel the uncertainty radiating off her body like heat.  This is a wicked 
pleasure, to see her so unsettled, to set her on edge.

"We aren't going back to work, Scully.  I called Skinner while you
were on your way here to tell him the new case would have to wait
until tomorrow.  I told him we were taking the afternoon off
for...personal reasons."

Perplexed, she turns this over in her mind.  What had she expected, I
wonder?  Given the circumstances, I doubt this was it.  Most likely
she had imagined conspiracies, intrigue, danger, not an afternoon
tryst.  Alien abductions don't hold a candle to this.

"What are you talking about, Mulder?  Are you crazy?  We've got
files to work on.  Besides, people will think we're..."

You can actually see the pieces fall into place.  "You took the
afternoon off, postponed an X-Files, so we could cut work and have
sex."  It's not a question, but a statement delivered in that flat, even 
tone I know so well.  She is masking her emotion, trying to maintain her 
infamous control.  I cannot resist the urge to goad her a little, rile her 
up.

"That's right, Scully.  A little extracurricular activity during school 
hours, and the principal knows.  He *knows*, Scully, I could hear it in his 
voice when I called."

That riled her a little more than I had intended.  The angry flush rises up 
her neck, across her cheeks.  She snatches her jackets off the couch, fixes 
flashing eyes on mine.  "I'm going back to work," she all but hisses, low 
and icy.  "I can't believe you would try to pull a stunt like this.  I 
thought we were clear on the boundaries, Mulder, but I guess I was wrong."

I allow her to pass me, her lithe body rigid as it brushes my own.
The sharp stiletto tap of her heels click on the hardwood of my floor,
quick measured signal of my supposed defeat.  She would leave in an
indignant huff, allow that cool fury to drift like an iceberg over the
day, ruining my plans.

Fortunately, I've always been good at making Scully melt.

I wait for that perfect moment, her guard lowered, her confidence in
her victory at its peak.  Then and only then do I strike.  My hands
capture her wrists, lift and pin them above her head while my body
slams into hers, driving us both against the door, her back to my
front, with a solid thump.  Her breath rushes out of her lungs in a
pained, audible gasp, the sudden shock leaving her soft and boneless
beneath me.

But not for long.  She begins to thrash, shoulders and hips twisting
and bucking against the wood.  Her legs alternate kicking backward
in a determined but ultimately vain effort to connect with my knee.  I
insinuate my feet between her own, forcing them further apart,
weakening her attempted blows.  As strong and capable as she is,
there is little she can do with my taller, heavier frame draped across
her.

Her words are angry, thin and red and spat from between grinding
teeth.  "Dammit, Mulder, let me go.  Just what the hell do you think
you're doing, you obnoxious bastard..."

I simply press against her harder, ignoring the string of curses that
explode from those sweet lips, absorb the futile struggle with my
bulk.  She can only fight for so long; eventually her movements
subside and she is quiescent and breathless, air whistling out in
ragged little puffs.  Only then do I make my move, bring my mouth
to hover just behind one soft pale seashell ear, my own breath
dancing over the sensitive flesh.  It's one of her erogenous zones,
those delicate curves hidden behind the silk of her hair.  I use this
knowledge to my advantage now, the rush of air as much calculated
to arouse as the words themselves.

"How do you do it, Scully?" I whisper, shifting against her, bringing
more of myself into contact with her.  So soft, she is, warm and
pliant.  I shiver slightly, my own excitement beginning to flow, my
heart starting that rapid thrum in my ears, my veins, my groin.

Forget oysters.  Anticipation is the world's best aphrodisiac.

"How, Scully?  How do you sit in that office with me every day and
not go insane?"

I listen to her breathe in harshly, her restless motion stopping
completely.  She is utterly still; I can feel only the rapid rise and fall 
of her torso.  The sudden quiet is thick, humid, as she strains to catch my 
faint words, her concentration as palpable as my resolve.

"Every day," I continue, "I work with you, talk to you, even fight
with you in that place.  I can't turn around without some evidence of
your presence assailing my senses.  The sight of you, the smell..."  I
bury my nose into the nape of her neck, the fine short hairs there
tickling even as the aroma of her, perfume and soap and skin, fills
my nostrils, intoxicating in its sensual familiarity, the heated
memories it invokes.  I cannot repress the faint shudder that ripples
through me.

"And your voice.  You have such a sexy voice, Scully.  Low, smooth,
husky.  Even when you lecture me on autopsy findings and scientific
principles your voice is so poised, so beautiful it can turn me on."

She whimpers ever so slightly, the sound almost lost in the wood she
is flush against.  But I heard, and I smile to myself.  Too easy, this, to 
seduce a woman whose protests are as heartfelt as a promise made by the 
Smoking Man.  She wants this, wants me, and only some vapid pretext of 
professionalism prevents her from succumbing right now.

I bring her arms closer together, clasp both wrists now with one
hand.  Preposterous to think she could not break my hold now, that
she could not find the necessary leverage to free her hands, to fight
this game I play.  When she does not, my soul soars ever higher.  Ah,
shame on you, my love, to maintain this farce in the face of our
obvious desire.

My free hand drops to settle on the swell of her hip, fingering the
oddly silky material of her trousers.  This is her last defense, the
armor of my dutiful warrior.  These clothes she wears, tailored sleek
pantsuits, powerful yet not masculine, visual impression that she is
cool, collected, controlled.  Sharp contrasts, fire red hair and the inky 
black and crisp efficient white of blazers and shirts, tiny glint of gold at 
her throat.  None of the drab earth tones and flowery pastels she once wore. 
  Black and white, clearly delineated boundaries of right and wrong, science 
and faith.  Her shield, her badge, the code and credo she wraps herself in 
daily to remind everyone, her and I included, that she is strong, worthy of 
respect.  As if I could respect her any more.

Slowly, my hand moves upward, tracing the gentle dip where hip
becomes waist, where waist transforms to torso, where torso bleeds
into the heavy swell of her breast.  Higher still, my palm slides over
her arm, the heat from her scorching my hand, my body where it
touches hers.  At the journey's end I begin the descent, retracing the
path, the quiet rasp of cloth under my fingers excruciating in the
moist silence.

Again my mouth settles by her ear, my tongue snaking out to sample
the soft fleshy lobe before I speak.  "And the clothes, Scully.  Suits
that cling and conceal, cover you from my eyes.  I see you
everywhere, coifed and polished, and the image of your naked flesh
flashes before my eyes.  I want to rip them from you, remove
everything that would hide you from my view."

I can feel her breathing against my chest and stomach, feel it hitch
and start, feel the rapid shallow cadence.  She has resumed moving,
but not in protest.  I know these tremors, the impatient shifting of her 
weight, the subtle backward press of her bottom into the length of
my erection.

"So how do you do it, Scully?  I've tried to be professional, tried to
banish these thoughts, to save them for when we come together.  Is
there some switch you flip to turn it off, to stop these feelings from
surfacing at inappropriate moments?  Show me your tricks, your
secrets, show me how to stop wanting you every second we are
together..."

A bit of an exaggeration, I admit, but it certainly does the trick.  She 
moans into my door, wriggling against me.  "Jesus, Mulder, you
think just because I attempt to maintain some decorum that I don't
yearn for you, too?  I do, sometimes I think I'm going to explode, but
it's work and we can't just give in to our impulses..."

I laugh into the curve of her shoulder, nip gently at the tendon in her 
neck.  "But why not?  If I want to smile at you or hug you or kiss
you, when it's just you and me, why can't I?"  My lips tug at the
sweet skin of her throat, and I revel in the choked sob she tries and
fails to contain.  "Why can't I tell you I love you, Scully?"

Her words are dim, blurry, her resolve weakening.  "No, Mulder, not
at work.  I'm not sure I could deal with it, control it.  God Mulder, it 
just wouldn't be...wouldn't be..."

"Professional."

"Yes, not professional."

I smile again, press my mouth in a reverent prayer to her skin.  "Ah,
but there's the rub, Scully.  Eventually the pressure builds, the
tension.  You feel it, too, I know you do.  I can see it when you
almost caress me, hear it when you almost speak.  Each day the
spring compresses, winds us tighter and tighter, the friction of
wanting to let go and never doing so, and it builds and builds until
one of us..."

"Snaps!"

Finally she breaks my grip, tearing her arms free, whirling in my
embrace.  Her mouth is savage, brutal, devouring as it latches onto
my own, her tongue lancing forward to take dominance of the kiss.
All pretense of fight has fled, her chest molding to mine, one nimble
hand making its way down my stomach to rub my insistent flesh.  I
moan against her lips, arch into the burning heat of those skilled
fingers, the warmth and pressure filtering through cloth barriers to
stroke and arouse.

And the walls come tumbling down.  Never let it be said that Scully
is anything but passionate, and when she finally settles on a course of 
action, she is as driven and intense as I am accused of being.  And
right now, she seems intent on getting us both naked in the bedroom
as quickly and efficiently as she can.  Our clothes are flung in all
directions between the front door to the apartment and my bed, a
bizarre garish breadcrumb trail scattered in our wake.  She shoves
me to the bed with a playful growl and I tumble back amid the
sheets.  Watching, waiting as my lover's gaze roves up and down my
prone body, hunger burning wildly in those crystal blue depths.
Palpable like a touch, the caress of her eyes; my skin flushes, tingles 
where they pass and linger.

"See anything you like?"

Her eyes lock with mine, and I shudder deeply.  Sweet Jesus, the
look in her eyes.  Desire as naked as our bodies, all consuming in its
intensity.  Me, she looks at me that way, and I can't hear past the
blood churning in my ears.  Her mouth moves, words without sound,
a response to my quip maybe.  Don't know, don't care.

Because a second later, she has enveloped me with her mouth.

I didn't think it was humanly possible to move that fast.  Like a dying man 
in the desert given water she sucks in, great droughts, those sinfully 
talented lips trailing the length of my shaft, her equally talented tongue 
swirling, licking, tasting.  My reaction is just as swift, and before I 
fully realize what is happening my back arches and I howl for all the world 
to hear.

That's right, I howled, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.  I mean, for
the love of all that's holy.  The woman of my dreams, the woman I
love more than life itself, the woman who has been driving me
insane with her rules and her rationalizations, is sucking on my poor
overstimulated cock as if her life depends on it.  I think I deserve a
medal for not coming the instant her lips made contact.

But this is too much, oh God too much.  Not yet, please, it's too
soon.  So good, her mouth and teeth and finger stroking and probing
in all the right ways.  She knows what I like, how to touch me, where
and when to ease off, apply pressure.  Turnabout is fair play, I
suppose.  Being on the receiving ends certainly has its advantages.

"Scul...wait, stop..."  She pauses, still holding me in the hot wet
haven of her mouth, eyes alight with mischief.  Another wave ripples
through me at the picture she presents, all wide innocent eyes, hair in 
disarray, and her perfect red lips pursed around my cock.  When did I lose 
control of this situation?  When did I become the one pinned down, totally 
at the mercy of the pleasure she provides?

And, frankly, do I care?

"Scully...ahh, Jesus, Scully...this isn't what I had in mind....oooooh
yeah..."  Her mouth hollows and tugs, pulling at my flesh and my
sanity.  "I can't hold out much longer, Scully, please..."  My head
flops back, all of my body's reserves focused on the aching ecstasy
below my waist.  I tried, the heavens stand witness that I warned her,
but if she keeps this up I cannot hold out.

She withdraws then, releasing me, leaving me poised on the edge.  I
scramble to regain control, sucking in harsh pants of air, reaching to
pull her up to me.  But as my fingers brush her hair, I feel the cool
feather breeze of her breath flare across the moisture left behind, and her 
smile seals my fate.

"You can make it up to me later, Mulder, but for now just sit back
and enjoy the ride."

I do.  She surrounds me, engulfs me, slide of lips and tongue and
teeth.  My groans of pleasure are faint to my own ears, the buzz and
roar of blood drowning out the world.  And at the base of my spine,
the rapture swells, the pressure building to unbearable.  I try to warn her, 
one last pitiful gasp, but she never slows, and now it is I that snap.

My orgasm erupts, the waves swamping all my senses.  I am aware
only of each long, shuddering pulse, hot and wet, and that it is her,
only her accepting all of me.  When it is over lassitude encompasses
me; I feel as if I am melting, spilling out into a rippling puddle.  I am 
dimly aware of her crawling up to lay with me, the gentle kisses she presses 
against my chest, my neck, my face.  Ah, Scully, is it any
wonder that I love you so much?

"Very good....not what I intended, but very good..."  I sound fuzzy to
my own ears, my voice ragged and weak.  Already I can feel the tug
of sleep, that age old impulse to drift into the embrace of
unconsciousness.  How this trait managed to survive the march of
evolution I cannot fathom, but I am helpless to fight it now.
Fortunately, Scully has never felt the need for hours of post-coital
snuggling.  I feel her smile against my throat, and hear her reply
through the haze of my drowsiness.

"Get some rest, Mulder.  This afternoon has just begun..."

             ____________________________________

"So I understand the restrictions of our relationship have been
bothering you."

Her quiet, conversational words are piercing in the soft lazy silence
that has existed since we awoke.  I roll onto my side, propping my
head on my hand so I can watch her as we talk.  She says as much, if
not more, with her face as she does with her words, so I find it
advantageous to have a good view of her at times like this.

And the view is spectacular, I must say.  She is nude, of course, fully 
relaxed, sprawled out on her back, one arm flung out above her head.  Her 
eyes are open but sleepy; her hair is delightfully mussed and all traces of 
makeup have been smudged from her face.  She is soft, youthful, beautiful.

I play with her hair absently, twining strands around my fingers.
"You could say that, yes.  They've been a nuisance, to say the least."

She sighs as my fingers work their way to her scalp, sifting and
massaging.  "You know, you could have said something."

I smile as her eyes slip closed and a low murmur drops from her lips;
she loves it when I play with her hair.  "I could have.  But you have
to admit, this is a hell of a lot more fun."

Her eyes are wide open now, boring into mine.  "More dangerous,
too.  People could find out."

"Find out what?  That we're together.  I thought we agreed we
weren't going to hide this."

Her head turns slightly so that I cannot read her expression.  So like
my Scully to try and hide what she is feeling until she can quantify,
explain, condense everything into neat, detached facts.

"We did," she admits grudgingly, "but we also agreed to be
professional, and I hardly think that leaving work in the middle of
the day for a secret rendezvous qualifies as such."

"Scully, you are fighting a losing battle."

"How so?"

"Strict adherence to the rules as you have heretofore defined them is
counterproductive, opaque, and ultimately doomed to failure."

Her brow furrows, eyes narrowing.  "Explain."

"Although designed to maintain an optimum working environment,
to eliminate distractions, as it were, we've so far accomplished the
exact opposite.  Instead of concentrating on my work I find myself
holding back, censoring the next thing I say or do for fear of being
labeled 'unprofessional'."

The suspicious look fades from her face, replaced by curious interest.  
"Continue."

"I also think these rules undermine your covert goal of keeping our
relationship a secret."

Her head cocks to the side, an eyebrow arching.  "Insisting that you
behave in a decorous fashion somehow announces that fact that
we're sleeping together?"

"Think about it, Scully.  Since when have I behaved in a wholly
appropriate manner?"

That gives her pause.

"I've always joked with you, touched you in little ways.  Frankly, I
can think of no bigger tip-off that our relationship has changed than
to alter our established pattern of behavior."

She is quiet, finding no immediate comeback.  Her mouth parts as if
to speak but no words emerge.  I search her eyes, find them cloudy
and confused.  Worst of all, I think I see traces of pain there, black
flecks against the murky blue.

"This bothers you, doesn't it?  It bothers you that people might
know, might find out about us."

Her face answers before she can.  "Yes, it does."

"But why?  There have been rumors going around about us for years.
Why does it matter if all those gossiping idiots find out the truth?"

She turns away again, her expression all troubled shadows.  I sidle
closer, lean down and kiss her shoulder tenderly, trying to reassure
her.  Of what, I'm not sure.  That I love her.  That I'm here for her.  That 
she can tell me anything.  "Scully..."

She rolls up onto her side, mimicking my position, and nestles closer
so that we are spooned together.  I feel as well as hear her deep
shuddering breath, the little tremor that vibrates her body as well as
mine.  Whatever this is about, it has me a little worried now.  But
will she tell me, or dismiss this out of hand?

"Everyone knew about me and Jack," she says suddenly, her hands
sliding nervously over my arm, the one I have used to anchor her to
me.  "When things went bad, I couldn't avoid their stares, their
whispers, their innuendos.  The break-up was a difficult one to begin
with; there were bitter feelings and harsh words on both our parts.
To have it happen under a microscope..."

She trails off, but I don't need to hear anymore.  I should have
remembered about Jack, that she'd already had a Bureau affair, and
one that went sour at that.  The ending of a relationship is hard
enough, especially a messy one.  For someone like Scully, having it
happen out in the open, the dirty laundry hung out for the world to
see, would have been adding insult to injury.  No wonder then that
she is wary of subjecting another one to the fish bowl of the office.

I press my lips to her temple and her hands cease to worry at my
forearm.  "I understand," I whisper into her hair, squeezing her
gently.  "I should have remembered.  I just hate feeling guilty about
loving you, as if we were doing something shameful or wrong.  That
I embarrass you in some way because I love you."

"I never intended to make you feel that way.  Hiding this was for my
own comfort, my own privacy.  We seem to have
miscommunicated."

"Again," I smile against her ear.  "Still.  But to our credit, we are
willing to work at it."

She laughs a little, the slight movement pressing her to me.  "Well,
we do need a lot of work, Mulder.  Between your guilt complex and
my natural reserve..."

"Don't forget your skepticism and emotional detachment."

"Or your obsessive compulsive disorder and narcissistic tendencies,"
she retorts.  "But my point is that we certainly need a lot of work."

"So do those rules."

She sighs gustily, but it is one of resignation.  "What do you
propose?"

"That we find some middle ground.  Something between sterility and
indecency.  I promise, I won't slobber on you or accost you at the
office, and I won't do anything to ruffle that infamous dignity of
yours."

She nods, the top of her head rasping across my evening stubble.
"I'm willing to try.  But I still have veto power if I think you are
getting out of hand."

"Trust me, I am firmly in your hand."

"Not yet, but I'm sure you will be soon."

She turns in my arms and nuzzles into my chest, the warm air as she
exhales feathering over hair and skin.  I shiver a little, trace slow
intricate patterns over her smooth back.  So warm, so soft my Scully.
Strong yet fragile.  Logical yet emotional.  A constant contradiction,
and a delightful one at that.

"Do you really think they already know?" she asks hesitantly.  My
mind replays snippets of overheard chatter, the instances of abruptly
halted conversations, the odd suggestive comment.  Granted, these
aren't atypical behavior for the other agents where I am concerned,
but when you factor everything together, the evidence is compelling.
I don't think she'll be happy, but I can't deceive her about this.

"I think that suspicions around the office are considerably
heightened, yes.  No one has any proof, of course, but the impression
I've received is that even the sceptics are more inclined to give the
notion credence these past few weeks."

"We've converted them, you mean."

"In a manner of speaking.  It seems we've both been happier, if a
little edgy.  Oh, and scuttlebutt has it you were seen in the woman's
room applying concealer to a suspicious looking bruise on your
neck."

"That damn hickey you gave me."  She bites my neck lightly in
recrimination, and I fake a growl in response.  "Do you really think
Skinner suspects as well, or did you just say that to annoy me?"

I recall my conversation with our boss, the exact wording and
inflection of his response when I informed him we were taking a
half-day.  "In my opinion, yes.  Given that his wager, as well as
pretty much everyone else's, has gone up in the office pool."

She snorts absently, circling one of my nipples with the tip of her
finger.  "What the pot up to now?" she wonders while icy spiders
race up my spine, raising goose bumps over my flesh, sparking radio
static to tingle across my scalp.  Her lips replace her finger and she
suckles at the taut little peak.

"Scully, are you trying to seduce me?"

She grins up at me.  "Hey, G-man, this afternoon was your idea.
And someone here, not that we'll mention names, hasn't gotten any
yet."

"Awww, is my G-woman horny?"

She laughs, a light joyful sound, and resumes her oral assualt.
Tiny darting laps and carefully applied teeth assail my skin, my
senses as she alternates between both puckered nubs, her fingers
tugging rhythmically at the hair sprinkled between.  Slowly her
mouth trails lower, nibbling at my ribs, tickling the sensitive flesh on my 
belly.  Through the buzz of my rapidly swelling arousal I can
hear my breathing falter, quicken as she laves the prominent ridge of
bone at my hip.

"Who's horny now?" she teases, moving up for a deep, sensual kiss.
I moan my response into the heat of her mouth, rolling to position
her compact body beneath mine.  My lips pull at hers, tasting,
seeking, delving, while my own hands, finally, get into the game.
Her breasts fill my palms, the tips hardening immediately as I roll
them between my fingers.

"Your turn now," I mutter into her neck, finding the cool spot below
her ear that never fails to elicit a response.  She does not disappoint, her 
breathless gasp accompanied by the sudden arch of her back.  I grin, blow 
softly on the now moist patch of skin, and revel as she shivers in my arms.

My Scully tastes so good, everywhere.  She is a veritable buffet; tang
and sweet, salt and musk.  I can't get enough of her, my mouth
skimming from one succulent spot to the next to sample and devour.
Her pale tart throat and soft swollen candy breasts and milk smooth
belly, all are paid their just dues.

Ah, and the wet honey between her legs, her powerful thighs pressed
tightly to my ears from the first moments my mouth makes contact
with her quivering flesh.  Not that I can't hear her cries and
whimpers as I stroke, probe the slick flushed folds, suck at the
engorged pinnacle of her pleasure.  Her essence washes over my
palate, floods every crevice as I drink from her.  I know her so well,
know that this gasp indicates surprise, that groan intense approval.
She trembles under me, the high keening wail of her release almost
lost in the pounding surf of rushing blood, lost in my own delight as
she fills me with her nectar.

Up her quavering body I slide, reverent lips singing praises against
her salt sweat skin.  Her mouth opens under mine and my tongue is
coated with her flavor, wine of her lips, liquor of her rapture.  She
welcomes my invading tongue and surely she must taste it, too, the
spice of all that she is coalescing in the texture of our kiss.

Her arms and legs wind around me, loose but insistent, her pelvis
rolling gently toward my own.  My cock throbs against her, pushing
into her leg, her hip, straining as if independent of my will to sheathe 
itself inside her body.  I can hear her throaty hum as she tilts upward 
again, blindly seeking, reaching for that same goal.

"Now," she mutters, her teeth scraping the tender skin of my neck,
one bold hand reaching between us to grasp the shaft, position the
head at her entrance.  "Now, Mulder..."

One firm push and I am inside her, slick plush velvet.  Always that
first moment steals my breath away; how can anything feel this
good?  But it does, so good I wallow in the bliss of it.  Such a basic, 
primal thing, this, biological reactions and instincts, internal imperative 
to ensure the survival of the species.  For all the theories spawned by 
theologians and sociologists, the casual dalliances for power or 
entertainment, in the end all it boils down to is ancient drives and the 
sheer simplistic ecstasy of it.

I, for one, have always found the simple pleasures in life to be the
best ones.

We are good at this, familiarity breeding anything but contempt.  Our
hips rise and fall in perfect rhythm, our own little tricks like icing on 
the cake; here I grind purposefully against her clitoris, there she 
contracts her inner muscles.  In unison we alter pace, picking up speed, and 
her arms now grip me fiercely, her heels encouraging each frantic thrust.

She's making those noises I love, deep in her throat, something
between a sob and a groan and half a dozen other cliche noises.  It is
her sound, her signal to me that she is close to the edge, close to that 
elusive ending.  It's one of the perks, she once told me, of being fair 
skinned.  She perceives stimulation powerfully and rapidly, more quickly 
than any other woman I have ever been with.  She can achieve orgasm more 
easily than many; she is one of the few, the proud, the multi-orgasmic 
women.  And she is almost there now, her
insides seizing and fluttering, her movements frenzied, jerky beneath
me.

"Close, Mulder, just a little more, please..." she pleads, eyes wild.
"With me, come with me, yes Mulder..."  She is rambling, begging,
desperate, the sensations overwhelming her normally eloquent
speech patterns.  My own eyes flutter closed as I thrust erratically,
finesse giving way to the burning need to complete this.  I, too, am
dangling on the precipice of pleasure, teetering, ready and willing to
plummet as hard as I can.

I've never been a believer in the concept of simultaneous orgasms.
A previous lover thought it was romantic, insisting that I try to hold
off so that we could climax together in a perfect, fairy tale moment
of euphoria.  Not once did it happen; I was either incapable of
holding off or, having been prolonging the inevitable for so long,
unable to finally let go when, finally, she did.  Since then I have not once 
attempted this illusion of perfection, and the letters in the
magazines that aren't mine that proclaim this event as commonplace
always make me laugh.

And then here we are, the two of us at the brink, together, and she is
hot and wet and clutching at me, every part of me.  For a fleeting
instant I consider trying to prolong this, chase the elusive butterfly, but 
I can't, I'm there, my whole body tightening in preparation.  It fills me, 
swelling beyond my power to contain, and I surge forward to bury myself in 
her, forgive me Scully...

But miracle of miracles, just as I am rendered asunder I feel her
twitch around me, contracting around my expanding hardness as I
spill hot white inside her.  We thrash and cry out in unison, the feel
of her spasms drawing out my pleasure, triggering wave after wave
of delirium until starbursts explode behind my closed eyes and I
slump, exhausted but elated, on top of my still writhing partner.

Gradually my eyes flutter open, my breathing approaching something
like normal.  I am not exaggerated when I say this: that was the most
intense sexual experience of my life.  My body is still trembling from
the aftermath, as is hers, the ripples from our overtaxed muscles
shuddering between our sweaty, gasping bodies.  Even as my spent
sex slips from her I can feel the random flutters deep inside her,
confirming that it wasn't my imagination, she came as well, came
with me.

As nice as it is to lay atop her, our current arrangement is hardly
conducive to her comfort, and I flop unceremoniously onto the bed
beside her, my heart still racing in my chest.  Before I can even feel
bereft she is in my arms, head cushioned in my shoulder, brushing
her lips to my jaw.

"Mulder, that was...incredible."

"I was thinking transcendent."

"That may be more accurate.  What we just experienced borders on
an X-File."

I chuckle into her hair, kissing the crown of her head.  "Maybe we
should do more research."

She wriggles against me, almost as if she wants to burrow under my
skin, crawl inside me.  Which would be fair, I suppose, since I do so
enjoy being inside her.  "Maybe," she yawns, "but I think we've done
enough field work for today."

"Oh, yeah.  I don't think I could do any more research today if I
tried."

She snickers and settles in, idly stroking my chest as her eyelids
droop and flicker.  "Oh, and Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Once in a while, you have my permission to behave in an
unprofessional manner similar to the one you did today."

             ______________________________________

"Are you sure about this, Scully?"

"If you keep asking that, I'm going to change my mind."

"My lips are sealed."

We wait patiently for Skinner to grant us entrance, sitting on the
couch in his outer office.  I am unaccountably nervous.  This is the
realization of a dream, something I've been fantasizing about for
ages, and now that the moment is at hand I find that my palms are
sweaty, my pulse racing.  Scully, of course, is picture perfect,
composed, no trace of my anxiety showing.  I am envious, wishing
not for the first time that I could cloak my emotions as easily as she
does.

"He's ready for you now," the assistant informs us, gesturing toward
Skinner's door.  Taking a deep, cleansing breath I follow her inside,
closing the door behind me.  Our boss looks up, expression never
altering as we take our customary seats.  He waits expectantly,
absently rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Well, agents, what is it you wanted to see me about?  I thought
you'd be out investigating that case by now."

I glance over at Scully, note the tell tale bob of her throat as she
swallows, steels herself.  I allow her to take the lead; after all, this was 
her idea.  Never in a million years would I have taken this
approach.

"Sir, we have something we need to tell you."

I can almost see his mind working, wondering what bomb we are
going to drop next.  We don't exactly have a great track record when
it comes to surprise meetings with Skinner.  Today will be a definite
first, in more ways than one.

"Do I dare ask what it is you need to say?"

Scully stands abruptly, grips the edge of the his desk.  "Sir, Mulder
and I have been aware that there is an office pool concerning our
relationship, or lack thereof, for quite some time."

Clearly startled, he leans back in his chair, forehead wrinkling in
confusion.  His eyes dart to me but I remain in my seat, passively
waiting for my cue.  Frankly, I am really, really enjoying myself, my
previous nervousness quickly giving way to childlike glee.

"Agent Scully, I'm not sure what you are getting at here..."

"Not only that, sir, but we are aware that you personally have money
invested in said pool."

I wouldn't have thought it possible to make Skinner blush but he
does, the redness creeping over his scalp.  His jaw literally drops,
and unless I miss my guess he's beginning to sweat a little, the sheen
dotting his upper lip.  "I hardly think this is appropriate..."

"Neither is wagering on your subordinate's sex lives."

His face closes off again, regaining its normal reserve.  "What is it
you've come here for today, agents?  If you are looking for an
apology..."

She waves him off with her hand, the corners of her mouth twitching
slightly as she struggles to maintain her poker face.  "It's nothing like 
that, sir.  Mulder and I were just curious, how would one go about winning 
the money?"

His forehead wrinkles, a hand raising to absently stroke his chin.
"You would need concrete evidence that the two of you have taken
your relationship to the next level."

"And what, exactly, would constitute 'concrete evidence'?"

"I believe it was decided that the evidence would be examined at the
time it came forward.  There were no exact specifications."

The corners of her eyes crinkle now, the smile she tried to conceal
curling upward.  She's having fun with this, too, toying with our
superior, making him uncomfortable with the uncertainty of where
this game is headed.  He's taken the bait, all she has to do now is reel him 
in...

"Would, say, a photograph suffice?" And as she speaks removes an
item from her briefcase, slides it across the polished wood surface.
Skinner blinks, then openly gawks at the Polaroid camera, and all
that it implies.

Hook, line, and sinker.

I stand now, take her hand in mine.  She turns to face me, slides her
arms around my neck, her fingers sinking into the hair on the back of
my head.  I smile into her laughing eyes, giddy with this play.  And
as she tugs my head down she speaks, but while her words are for
Skinner, everything else that she is belongs to me.

"They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  Although in this
case, I'd say it's more like a thousand bucks..."  And then she bridges the 
space between us, her lips connecting with mine in a sweet slow kiss.  
Nothing lurid, no groping, no tongue, but soft, beautiful.  My mind turns 
cartwheels as she sighs against my mouth.  This may not be the bullpen, but 
now everyone, everyone will know that this amazing, sexy woman is with me.  
I am a happy man.

I hear the click and whir of the camera, perceive the flash out of the
corner of my closed eye.  She breaks the kiss then, pressing one more
to my cheek before she pulls back.  I whisper to her, words meant for
her ears alone and then we separate fully, resume our professional
stances.

"Thank you..."

Skinner fans the still darkened photo and hands the camera back to
Scully.  While his face is as stoic as ever, his eyes positively gleam
with delight.  "Thank you, agents.  If there is anything else I can do
for you today, please don't hesitate to ask."

Scully laughs, brushes my hand, her own eyes twinkling as well.  In a
low, conspiratorial tone she offers, "Well, how about a cut of the
cash?"

God, I love this woman.

             _____________________________________

Final author's notes: The end scene was mostly intended as my point
of view on the whole "they can't be together because they work
together" frame of mind.  There is no such rule in the FBI.  If they
did choose to hide a relationship (which is all theoretical, because as we 
are all well aware, they don't...yet!), I think it would be for
personal reasons.  Scully had Jack.  Mulder had Diana.  Some
reasons to keep it secret, maybe?

Well, what do you think?  All comments, good or bad, will be
carefully read.  Although I can't guarantee I'll read the bad ones with my 
glasses on.  Please send all correspondence in a self-addressed stamped 
envelope (or an e-mail, whichever you prefer) to the
following address:

ebe1013@hotmail.com

The next installment is in the works.  Look for the colorful insert in
this weeks magazine!