satisfaction is the agent
by Pares
She was fascinated by the flush of his cheeks, the
tension of his eyebrows, the way he sweated like a
child: tiny beads of perspiration on his smooth upper
lip, across the bridge of his nose.
His eyes remained closed, his mouth tight with
concentration.
She could see the reflection of her own palm in the
glass as she braced herself with her right hand. In
the mirror was a reversed twin with her own wide eyes
and hectic face, high spots of color in her cheeks
under the still-smooth patina of her makeup, her
un-kissed lipstick.
Even with her skirt rucked high around her hips, the
sink was strangely comfortable against her legs: it
had been finished with a roll of polished wood, so no
sharp edge dug into her skin, and it was low enough to
rest her knee on when Fraser spread her thighs. She
could hear her hair smear against the glass of the
medicine cabinet, and saw the cloud of her ragged
breath condense there.
He had made almost no sound. For the first time, she
heard a low, abbreviated grunt as he pushed into her.
In the mirror she saw an angry blonde in an expensive
suit, with a Mountie's arm strapped around her
ribcage, just below her breasts. His other hand held
her hip for leverage, and his motion was slow,
economical, rhythmic-- and frustrating.
Her left hand kneaded Fraser's forearm spasmodically;
he'd pushed the sleeves of his Henley up and she'd
been glad to let her nails bite into his bared flesh.
She didn't like him; she'd never liked him. Rocking
her hips again, Stella sought more pressure against
her mons, almost sliding against the unforgiving
surface of the sink counter. She let out a small,
frustrated groan like a cough and Fraser held still
behind her.
At the first, his arm had come around her like the
safety bar on some kind of carnal carnival ride, and
now she pulled, then pushed his hand toward to the
slick skin between her thighs.
He hid his face against her hair and moaned, a sound
shockingly loud in the small confines of the darkly
paneled bathroom, and she felt his fingers sink
against her flesh. The hand on her hip became an arm
slung around her hips, dragging her close and pinning
her with sensation: penetration and finally some--
Stella's head lolled back as two of Fraser's fingers
petted her clit with efficient strokes, just too
lightly. Gritting her teeth, she pushed back against
him, earning another startled moan.
When she opened her eyes again, Fraser's face was
gleaming as though he'd been oiled, and his mouth hung
open, soft and loose.
His careful, modulated fucking was losing its grace,
and she pressed back against him again, but
precariously, as she had only one high heel for
leverage. She wondered briefly is she'd find her
underwear and pantyhose neatly folded on the toilet
seat when they were done. If they were ever done. If
he'd let her come--
The precise touch between her legs became a dragging
see-saw against her swollen clit; it would have been
painful if she hadn't been so wet. As it was, she
could only toss her head and swallow audibly as he
worked her with more passion and less finesse.
She could feel him mouth her shoulder, his breath hot
through the tissue of her blouse. Now, another soft
grunt, and her thighs were trembling, shaking with
sensation and strain.
"God damn it--" she muttered, bucking sharply.
"Please--" It was the only word he'd said since he'd
let her in the consulate.
"Make me--" She let out a little hiss, and bit her
lower lip. She was boiling over, frantically
unsatisfied, half-climbing him as she arched her back
and clutched at his hand. "Make me come, get it? Make
me come. Make me come, constable."
He set his cheek against her hair. His knitted
eyebrows spoke of a willingness to provide her with
that outcome, but his body stammered against hers and
then re-set, and it was back to the mechanical
plunging he'd begun with. She wanted to shrug him off
and finish already, but instead she dug her nails into
the back of his hand, holding it still as she leaned
forward, her other hand squeaking on the glass as her
sweaty palm skidded down to find a new purchase on the
shoulder of the sink. This changed the angle of his
penetration and brought enough friction to make her
breath catch-- to make her shudder against him and
drop her head, so she was blinded by a curtain of her
own hair. And there, wedged between him and the cool
curves of the sink, in the midst of an uninspiring but
perfectly serviceable orgasm, there was a spike so
fierce her eyes flew open.
A low, hoarse cry was pressed out of her as Fraser
drew her closer and rose on his toes to hold her
still, and in that stillness, she felt the tension
snap like a rubber band. He pulsed into her and she
bit the back of her own wrist to stifle her groan. The
bite added an edge of feral satisfaction that made the
pleasure stand out in stark relief, and she came a
third time.
Still gasping, she felt his weight buckle against her
briefly, and she shifted with discomfort before he
composed himself and slipped out of her.
Her hands shook slightly as she pushed herself back
from the sink and gingerly set her foot down, trying
to stand on weak knees. Her left foot was asleep. She
looked down at her wrist and tried to tug her sleeve
down to hide the mark she'd left: it was a wet, raw
red, a bruised ellipse made of small chiseled
indentations. She wondered if the lozenge of her watch
would cover it.
Fraser's reflection had finally opened his eyes. He
looked fuck-drunk and vaguely surprised at himself.
At the consulate door, she could hear Ray's brisk
signature two-rap knuckle-dragging knock. Stumbling
back, Fraser straightened and ran a hand through his
hair, once, twice, plainly agitated.
In the mirror, Stella saw herself smile: fiercely,
finally satisfied.END
mail me
