New fic: Bonfire Night
Title: Bonfire Night
Characters: Nine/Rose
Content: Graphic Sex; Humour; PWP; Fireworks
Rating: Oh, adult, definately
Disclaimer: I do not possess the god-like genius that invented these characters, sadly.
Chapters: Complete
Summary:‘No,’ she panted to him. ‘Together.’
They did everything together. From the time they got up in the morning to the time they went to their separate beds at night they were almost never apart. They ate together, they ran together, they fell over and laughed and got up together. They lived together. The only thing that they emphatically, absolutely, did not do, was sleep together. There were some intimacies that just couldn’t be shared.
So being faced with the sight of a single bed in a single room in the single hotel with a single space left in town was something of a shock. Rose dumped her bag on the dingy floorboards next to the door and folded her arms. ‘Remind me why we’re here?’ she asked, giving the Doctor her best don’t-push-me stare.
He moved to the other side of the entrance, leaving the door open as an escape route, should he need to use it. He was familiar with the consequences of pushing her, and most of them involved shouting. He put his hands in his pockets, shrugged. ‘You asked me to take you to the biggest fireworks display in the universe - this is it. Or it will be later anyway. It’s just a bit busier than I remember.’
‘So you’ve been here before, but it still didn’t occur to you to book us a couple of rooms?’
He shook his head. ‘No, because I’m just so exciting and spontaneous?’ he offered hopefully.
She closed the door behind her, sealing them into the tiny, low ceilinged, brown walled, damp smelling room. His shoulders sagged slightly. ‘No, it didn’t occur to you because you never bother to plan ahead and you’re hopeless at anything practical.’
She glared at him. ‘Now, explain very slowly and carefully why we can’t just get in the TARDIS, travel back a couple of weeks and book into the best hotel in town.’ She raised a finger. ‘And if I hear the words ‘stuck in the timeline’ coming out of your mouth just once more, you’re sleeping on the floor.’
He looked disheartened, leaned back against the wall, adopting his air of put-upon gravitas. He had lost track of the number of times he’d gone through this with her. ‘Because now we’re part of events…,’
‘It’s a hotel room,’ she interjected, ‘it isn’t going to kill anyone.’
He ignored her. ‘If we go back and make any changes,’
‘Hotel room,’ she threw at him, tapping her foot on the floor in that way she had that made him slightly nervous.
‘We’ll cause a temporal...’
‘Right - enough.’ She stopped him. ‘You’ve just won yourself a lovely evening on the floorboards. Congratulations.’ She threw her bag on the bed and it was so hard that the mattress barely moved, making a dull thudding noise that promised hours of backache.
He sniggered, silencing himself as he caught her look. She pointed at the floor, brown painted, slightly oily, but possibly no more uncomfortable than the bed. He took a step forward, lifting his foot up off the bare boards slowly, listening to the sticky noise as whatever it was tried to keep his boot fastened to the floor. He gave her his most pitiful look, saw that she wasn’t going to fall for it, and gave up.
‘I’m going back to the TARDIS,’ he muttered, reaching for the handle.
‘Oh no you’re not,’ she replied, fumbling through the pockets of her jeans, retrieving a scrap of folded up paper. ‘You promised - and I even wrote it down - ‘local colour, lots of shopping, fireworks and no one trying to kill me’.’ She gestured at the paper - ‘I even underlined the last bit too. Besides, you said the party starts in a couple of hours, it took us ages to get here, and I’m really tired.’
This was her most pitiful look and as always, he felt his heart melt, shrugged his shoulders, completely unable to refuse her anything. She turned away with a tiny smile and he was sure she knew how far wrapped around her little finger he was.
She walked over, sat on the bed, feeling the coarse beige sheets under her fingers, testing the springs. He had certainly delivered on the local colour, she thought, even if most of it was brown. He was still rubbing his foot along the floor uncertainly as she started to unpack, putting her spare t-shirt and jeans on the three legged chair by the bed. They wouldn’t be here long anyway, just time to get a bit of sleep and then they were off to the most impressive fireworks display she had ever seen, followed by a night of street parties, dancing and all the sugar on a stick she could eat. Or so he had promised anyway.
Given her luck and his track record, the fireworks would turn out to the canons, or landmines, followed by hand to hand combat and rioting, at which stage someone would try to kill her. That was probably where the stick would come in. It was amazing just how many life threatening situations he had managed to get her into in the couple of months she’d known him. But the look on his face as he tried to scrape something off his shoe was so comical that she felt a surge of warmth towards him so strong it felt like someone had already lit a bonfire inside her.
Digging out her washbag she went to use the sink in the corner, splashed some water on her face and turned to find him carefully lining up his shoes and his folded up coat beside the dingy mattress. She had never watched him get undressed before, had sometimes wondered if he ever slept at all, but she discovered she had a pressing curiosity to find out what it was he wore in bed.
He had no intention of showing her. If he had to sleep on the floor he was going to do it with all the resentment he could muster and that included looking as uncomfortable as possible. He leant back against the wall, shivering slightly and closed his eyes just enough that he could still see her reaction. She was staring at him from a few feet away, her face shining with damp and an expression in her gaze he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. She seemed to realise she was watching him, turned to the window to pull back the mahogany striped curtain, raising the sash to let in some air and then walked over to switch off the light.
He detected a slight disappointment at not being able to see her take her clothes off, surprising himself that he was even interested in her body in more than a scientific sense. He shifted uneasily, crossing his legs, but silencing the movement as he heard her start to unlace her shoes in the dark, and then drew in a breath and held it at the sound of the zip of her jeans opening, the heavy thud as her trousers hit the floor, the rustle of material when she removed her top. He found his eyes wide open, drinking in all the moonlight shafting into the room, but catching only glimpses of her shimmering white flesh in the dim glow afforded by the tiny window. He shivered again, but with a completely different sort of chill and decided the crossed legs were a mistake.
She caught the noise he made and he heard the bed creak as she turned over to face him. ‘Are you cold?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied truthfully, telling himself he had no other motive whatsoever for wanting to share the covers with her.
She took pity on him, hearing the honesty in his voice and threw one of the thin pillows in his direction before rolling onto her back. ‘If you were a gentleman you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor,’ she noted, although feeling slightly more charitable towards him at the evidence of his suffering.
‘I wouldn’t mind giving up my bed for a lady,’ he retorted, putting the entirely useless pillow behind his head.
‘Are you saying I’m not a lady?’ asked Rose, a dangerous tone entering her voice, just daring him to agree. She heard him sigh tiredly, half wished she hadn’t been quite so confrontational.
‘You’re more than just a lady to me,’ he answered, deciding on a high risk strategy to get out of the sticky situation in which he found himself. He told her the truth. ‘Put it this way - you asked if it was better with two, and it is.’
She frowned in the dark, unsure if he had actually said what she thought she’d heard. That had sounded like an actual, unqualified compliment, and possibly more than a compliment too. She was intrigued, and suddenly, more than a little excited, her heart giving an unmistakeable twitch and spinning along noticeably faster. She tried to see his face through the gloom, failed, and steeled herself to be brave. She twitched back the covers, trying to contain her nerves within manageable levels.
They were friends after all, and only friends; they had held hands and hugged innocently more times that she could remember but there was still a slight quaver in her voice as she said: ‘OK, that buys you a get-into-bed free card.’ Friends could spend the night together and still just be friends in the morning, she considered. Probably.
He hesitated, propped up against the wall, but the choice between a bed with Rose in it, and a couple of hours on a cold floor wasn’t a difficult one to make. Just because they went to bed together didn’t mean that anything had to happen, he thought. Not if he didn’t want it to. He crept across the floor in the dark, slipped under the sheets, settled his weight on the mattress next to her.
But it was a single bed, made for single people, and not for couples who were trying their hardest not to touch each other. She wished she had left more than her underwear on, as the Doctor’s hand brushed against her side when she turned over, giving her an unexpected shudder as her skin overreacted to his glancing touch. Lying with her back to him she could feel the warmth of his body leaching out across the bare centimetres between them, the rough fabric of his jeans just grazing her silky underwear. She shivered again, and he reacted instantly, flipping over onto his side to face away from her. She yelped as his belt buckle scraped the flesh from her back.
He rolled flat on the bed again, nearly pushing her off. ‘Alright, this is ridiculous,’ he growled, ‘we didn’t travel halfway across time and space to spend all night avoiding each other.’
She felt the mattress shift and the covers spike upwards as he arched his hips, wriggling out of his jeans and the offending belt, kicking them onto the floor. He sat up, raising his jumper over his head and she caught a flash of the muscles in his chest outlined by the moonlight as he lay back down.
‘Come here,’ he said, more quietly, and she felt his arm stretching out beneath her neck.
She turned naturally into his embrace, her head coming to rest in the hollow of his shoulder like it was specially designed to fit there. His arm closed around her, his hand on her side and she rested her own hand over his chest, lifting her knee a little to support herself against his leg.
Just friends, she reminded herself, ignoring how hard his chest and stomach were under her arm, the impression of his underwear against her thigh, the thunder of his hearts that filled her ears.
Not together, he told himself sternly, repelling the urge to follow the smooth curve of her waist downwards, blanking out the insistent hardness of her nipple that her bra couldn’t quite disguise.
After a couple of minutes of pounding silence in which the jigsaw of their relationship seemed to be rearranging itself into a different picture, she remembered that he was her friend, and she smiled against his chest. ‘This isn’t awkward at all, is it?’ she asked, and he squeezed her side in response with an embarrassed chuckle.
‘Nah, I’m always in bed with beautiful women, me,’ he replied.
She felt the throwaway line lodge so deeply in her heart she suspected she would always remember it. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘How come you’re never so nice to me when I’ve got my clothes on?’
He laughed, properly this time, bending his head to drop a kiss onto her hair. ‘Maybe I like you better in your underwear?’ he replied teasingly, and she could feel the amusement radiating off him.
She bit her lip. ‘Are you flirting with me?’ she asked tentatively.
He laughed so hard he could feel his stomach starting to hurt. Here he was, the last of the Time Lords, heir to vast resources of arcane wisdom, stripped of his dignity, and most of his clothes, lying in a seedy hotel room being accused of flirting by a nineteen year old woman barely out of the trees. Of course he was flirting. He didn’t mind in the slightest.
‘No,’ he choked. ‘Are you flirting with me?’ He felt her shake her head against him.
‘Of course not. We’re just friends, we’re not, like, ‘together’ or anything.’
That sobered him up. ‘I didn’t really understand what together meant until I met you,’ he replied seriously.
Her entire body stilled against him, every reaction poised in silence. That wasn’t really the sort of thing that friends said to each other, he reflected. But then, maybe he didn’t really want to be her friend anymore.
She was finding it difficult to speak, having to moisten her lips several times. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered eventually, hardly daring to hear the answer.
He lay still for some time. Glaciers formed and melted, continents divided and joined, the world turned.
‘This,’ he said, reaching his free hand round to cup the side of her face, using his arm to pull her upwards so she was half lying on top of him. And he kissed her. Fixing her head in place he explored her mouth thoroughly, gently, deeply with his tongue. He sealed away her breath, the small cries she made as he pushed her lips wider to accept him in.
She clambered fully on top of him, her arms supporting her on either side of his head, his arm across her waist as his hand massaged her bottom. Every inch of his skin where she was touching him was dazzlingly, brightly alive, shouting at him about how soft she was, how warm, how willing. Her bra was an annoyance that he removed quickly, feeling her breasts hanging feely against his chest, her hard nipples taunting him, pressed just out of reach against his torso.
She couldn’t believe what a good kisser he was, his tongue and his lips firm, determined - dry and controlling rather than wet and inexperienced, knowing where and when to apply pressure, and when to pull away. Tremors ran through her at every sweep of his hands down her back and the scratch of hair against the tight sensitivity of her nipples was almost painful to bear. She tensed as his hand pushed its way down inside her knickers, squeezing her bottom before his long fingers followed the curve of her cheeks downwards, and inside. She spread her legs across him slightly, allowing him a better entry, wanting nothing more, right at this moment, than the feel of his fingers within her. Only the very tip of one digit was able to reach round to play with her opening though, and it wasn’t enough. She fumbled with one hand, untidily helping him to push off her knickers, and split her legs apart so she was straddling him completely, hands now resting against his chest for support.
The hardness of his erection was pressed directly between her open thighs, a thin veil of fabric between them as she rocked herself up and down against his heat in more urgent waves. She kissed him harder, more desperately, felt both his hands slide down to grasp her bottom, controlling the drives as she rubbed herself against him. He stopped kissing her, pulled back his head, and she could see him watching the sweat and desire mount on her face as she felt her orgasm starting to build.
He gave her a long, lingering look, that she recognised as a reflection of her body’s own want. He stopped her movements with the pressure of his hands, lifting her hips up off him and purposefully shifting her forward as he inched down the bed towards her. She could tell what he wanted to do, the flash of his blue eyes the only thing she could see in the dark. She arched backwards with a cry when his tongue found her most secret place, his mouth pressed to the hair between her legs, his breath warming her from the inside.
She sat, spread open above him in the dim glow from the open window, the wetness she could feel pooling between her thighs mingling with the bittersweet taste of his mouth, the taste she could still feel against her teeth. She could easily have let go, surrendered to the skilful manipulation of his tongue, but she felt too far removed from him, lifted herself backwards, away from the pleasure he was giving her, back down his body.
‘No,’ she panted to him. ‘Together.’
She could feel the straining throb of his need in the air, the fire he was keeping reigned in as he focused on her. He tensed for a second, stroking her legs, gave his permission. ‘Together, then,’ he replied.
She moved, pivoting round, bending low over him to yank off the underwear she still hadn’t seen, gave her lips and her mouth something else to do.
He felt her heat enclose him as he reached up towards her again with this tongue, and it was all he could do to keep his concentration as he felt her draw him in deeply, hitting the roof of her mouth. It was a while before he regained enough awareness to match the sucking, biting, red-hot pressure with which she was torturing him to the gentle flicks of his tongue, the rhythm of his fingers inside her. He strained himself into her mouth, unable to stop reaching for the orgasm that perched just behind the last fragments of his self control, nearly lost it as he felt her start to contract against his fingers, tasted a renewed flood of her sweetness.
He stopped, pulling out, leaving her on hands and knees as he squirmed from underneath her body, taking his place behind her and driving into her at last. Her legs tensed to meet his thrusts, crying out with the glorious feel of him filling her, a satisfaction she craved, hungered for. She lost any attempt at skill or finesse, forcing herself back into him and so him into her, trusting that he would know how to take her into orgasm.
He knew, but he had forgotten, so overwhelmed by her tight heat that he abandoned himself to the demands of his body, his strokes increasingly fierce, increasingly wild.
They did everything together. They lived together, they slept together, they came together. Stars exploded across her vision as the white heat consumed her and he was deafened by the roar of the climax pouring out of him, releasing into her.
Her arms failed, they collapsed face down on the bed. At length, he removed himself gently, rolled her over onto her side, pressing himself against her back, his arm around her waist. From outside the window the sound of the first rockets screaming their way into the sky was followed by sunflowers of green, red, yellow sparks that cast spiky reflections across the ceiling of their room.
He kissed her neck. ‘Do you still want to go and see the fireworks?’ he asked.
She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Seen them already,’ she said.
Characters: Nine/Rose
Content: Graphic Sex; Humour; PWP; Fireworks
Rating: Oh, adult, definately
Disclaimer: I do not possess the god-like genius that invented these characters, sadly.
Chapters: Complete
Summary:‘No,’ she panted to him. ‘Together.’
They did everything together. From the time they got up in the morning to the time they went to their separate beds at night they were almost never apart. They ate together, they ran together, they fell over and laughed and got up together. They lived together. The only thing that they emphatically, absolutely, did not do, was sleep together. There were some intimacies that just couldn’t be shared.
So being faced with the sight of a single bed in a single room in the single hotel with a single space left in town was something of a shock. Rose dumped her bag on the dingy floorboards next to the door and folded her arms. ‘Remind me why we’re here?’ she asked, giving the Doctor her best don’t-push-me stare.
He moved to the other side of the entrance, leaving the door open as an escape route, should he need to use it. He was familiar with the consequences of pushing her, and most of them involved shouting. He put his hands in his pockets, shrugged. ‘You asked me to take you to the biggest fireworks display in the universe - this is it. Or it will be later anyway. It’s just a bit busier than I remember.’
‘So you’ve been here before, but it still didn’t occur to you to book us a couple of rooms?’
He shook his head. ‘No, because I’m just so exciting and spontaneous?’ he offered hopefully.
She closed the door behind her, sealing them into the tiny, low ceilinged, brown walled, damp smelling room. His shoulders sagged slightly. ‘No, it didn’t occur to you because you never bother to plan ahead and you’re hopeless at anything practical.’
She glared at him. ‘Now, explain very slowly and carefully why we can’t just get in the TARDIS, travel back a couple of weeks and book into the best hotel in town.’ She raised a finger. ‘And if I hear the words ‘stuck in the timeline’ coming out of your mouth just once more, you’re sleeping on the floor.’
He looked disheartened, leaned back against the wall, adopting his air of put-upon gravitas. He had lost track of the number of times he’d gone through this with her. ‘Because now we’re part of events…,’
‘It’s a hotel room,’ she interjected, ‘it isn’t going to kill anyone.’
He ignored her. ‘If we go back and make any changes,’
‘Hotel room,’ she threw at him, tapping her foot on the floor in that way she had that made him slightly nervous.
‘We’ll cause a temporal...’
‘Right - enough.’ She stopped him. ‘You’ve just won yourself a lovely evening on the floorboards. Congratulations.’ She threw her bag on the bed and it was so hard that the mattress barely moved, making a dull thudding noise that promised hours of backache.
He sniggered, silencing himself as he caught her look. She pointed at the floor, brown painted, slightly oily, but possibly no more uncomfortable than the bed. He took a step forward, lifting his foot up off the bare boards slowly, listening to the sticky noise as whatever it was tried to keep his boot fastened to the floor. He gave her his most pitiful look, saw that she wasn’t going to fall for it, and gave up.
‘I’m going back to the TARDIS,’ he muttered, reaching for the handle.
‘Oh no you’re not,’ she replied, fumbling through the pockets of her jeans, retrieving a scrap of folded up paper. ‘You promised - and I even wrote it down - ‘local colour, lots of shopping, fireworks and no one trying to kill me’.’ She gestured at the paper - ‘I even underlined the last bit too. Besides, you said the party starts in a couple of hours, it took us ages to get here, and I’m really tired.’
This was her most pitiful look and as always, he felt his heart melt, shrugged his shoulders, completely unable to refuse her anything. She turned away with a tiny smile and he was sure she knew how far wrapped around her little finger he was.
She walked over, sat on the bed, feeling the coarse beige sheets under her fingers, testing the springs. He had certainly delivered on the local colour, she thought, even if most of it was brown. He was still rubbing his foot along the floor uncertainly as she started to unpack, putting her spare t-shirt and jeans on the three legged chair by the bed. They wouldn’t be here long anyway, just time to get a bit of sleep and then they were off to the most impressive fireworks display she had ever seen, followed by a night of street parties, dancing and all the sugar on a stick she could eat. Or so he had promised anyway.
Given her luck and his track record, the fireworks would turn out to the canons, or landmines, followed by hand to hand combat and rioting, at which stage someone would try to kill her. That was probably where the stick would come in. It was amazing just how many life threatening situations he had managed to get her into in the couple of months she’d known him. But the look on his face as he tried to scrape something off his shoe was so comical that she felt a surge of warmth towards him so strong it felt like someone had already lit a bonfire inside her.
Digging out her washbag she went to use the sink in the corner, splashed some water on her face and turned to find him carefully lining up his shoes and his folded up coat beside the dingy mattress. She had never watched him get undressed before, had sometimes wondered if he ever slept at all, but she discovered she had a pressing curiosity to find out what it was he wore in bed.
He had no intention of showing her. If he had to sleep on the floor he was going to do it with all the resentment he could muster and that included looking as uncomfortable as possible. He leant back against the wall, shivering slightly and closed his eyes just enough that he could still see her reaction. She was staring at him from a few feet away, her face shining with damp and an expression in her gaze he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. She seemed to realise she was watching him, turned to the window to pull back the mahogany striped curtain, raising the sash to let in some air and then walked over to switch off the light.
He detected a slight disappointment at not being able to see her take her clothes off, surprising himself that he was even interested in her body in more than a scientific sense. He shifted uneasily, crossing his legs, but silencing the movement as he heard her start to unlace her shoes in the dark, and then drew in a breath and held it at the sound of the zip of her jeans opening, the heavy thud as her trousers hit the floor, the rustle of material when she removed her top. He found his eyes wide open, drinking in all the moonlight shafting into the room, but catching only glimpses of her shimmering white flesh in the dim glow afforded by the tiny window. He shivered again, but with a completely different sort of chill and decided the crossed legs were a mistake.
She caught the noise he made and he heard the bed creak as she turned over to face him. ‘Are you cold?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied truthfully, telling himself he had no other motive whatsoever for wanting to share the covers with her.
She took pity on him, hearing the honesty in his voice and threw one of the thin pillows in his direction before rolling onto her back. ‘If you were a gentleman you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor,’ she noted, although feeling slightly more charitable towards him at the evidence of his suffering.
‘I wouldn’t mind giving up my bed for a lady,’ he retorted, putting the entirely useless pillow behind his head.
‘Are you saying I’m not a lady?’ asked Rose, a dangerous tone entering her voice, just daring him to agree. She heard him sigh tiredly, half wished she hadn’t been quite so confrontational.
‘You’re more than just a lady to me,’ he answered, deciding on a high risk strategy to get out of the sticky situation in which he found himself. He told her the truth. ‘Put it this way - you asked if it was better with two, and it is.’
She frowned in the dark, unsure if he had actually said what she thought she’d heard. That had sounded like an actual, unqualified compliment, and possibly more than a compliment too. She was intrigued, and suddenly, more than a little excited, her heart giving an unmistakeable twitch and spinning along noticeably faster. She tried to see his face through the gloom, failed, and steeled herself to be brave. She twitched back the covers, trying to contain her nerves within manageable levels.
They were friends after all, and only friends; they had held hands and hugged innocently more times that she could remember but there was still a slight quaver in her voice as she said: ‘OK, that buys you a get-into-bed free card.’ Friends could spend the night together and still just be friends in the morning, she considered. Probably.
He hesitated, propped up against the wall, but the choice between a bed with Rose in it, and a couple of hours on a cold floor wasn’t a difficult one to make. Just because they went to bed together didn’t mean that anything had to happen, he thought. Not if he didn’t want it to. He crept across the floor in the dark, slipped under the sheets, settled his weight on the mattress next to her.
But it was a single bed, made for single people, and not for couples who were trying their hardest not to touch each other. She wished she had left more than her underwear on, as the Doctor’s hand brushed against her side when she turned over, giving her an unexpected shudder as her skin overreacted to his glancing touch. Lying with her back to him she could feel the warmth of his body leaching out across the bare centimetres between them, the rough fabric of his jeans just grazing her silky underwear. She shivered again, and he reacted instantly, flipping over onto his side to face away from her. She yelped as his belt buckle scraped the flesh from her back.
He rolled flat on the bed again, nearly pushing her off. ‘Alright, this is ridiculous,’ he growled, ‘we didn’t travel halfway across time and space to spend all night avoiding each other.’
She felt the mattress shift and the covers spike upwards as he arched his hips, wriggling out of his jeans and the offending belt, kicking them onto the floor. He sat up, raising his jumper over his head and she caught a flash of the muscles in his chest outlined by the moonlight as he lay back down.
‘Come here,’ he said, more quietly, and she felt his arm stretching out beneath her neck.
She turned naturally into his embrace, her head coming to rest in the hollow of his shoulder like it was specially designed to fit there. His arm closed around her, his hand on her side and she rested her own hand over his chest, lifting her knee a little to support herself against his leg.
Just friends, she reminded herself, ignoring how hard his chest and stomach were under her arm, the impression of his underwear against her thigh, the thunder of his hearts that filled her ears.
Not together, he told himself sternly, repelling the urge to follow the smooth curve of her waist downwards, blanking out the insistent hardness of her nipple that her bra couldn’t quite disguise.
After a couple of minutes of pounding silence in which the jigsaw of their relationship seemed to be rearranging itself into a different picture, she remembered that he was her friend, and she smiled against his chest. ‘This isn’t awkward at all, is it?’ she asked, and he squeezed her side in response with an embarrassed chuckle.
‘Nah, I’m always in bed with beautiful women, me,’ he replied.
She felt the throwaway line lodge so deeply in her heart she suspected she would always remember it. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘How come you’re never so nice to me when I’ve got my clothes on?’
He laughed, properly this time, bending his head to drop a kiss onto her hair. ‘Maybe I like you better in your underwear?’ he replied teasingly, and she could feel the amusement radiating off him.
She bit her lip. ‘Are you flirting with me?’ she asked tentatively.
He laughed so hard he could feel his stomach starting to hurt. Here he was, the last of the Time Lords, heir to vast resources of arcane wisdom, stripped of his dignity, and most of his clothes, lying in a seedy hotel room being accused of flirting by a nineteen year old woman barely out of the trees. Of course he was flirting. He didn’t mind in the slightest.
‘No,’ he choked. ‘Are you flirting with me?’ He felt her shake her head against him.
‘Of course not. We’re just friends, we’re not, like, ‘together’ or anything.’
That sobered him up. ‘I didn’t really understand what together meant until I met you,’ he replied seriously.
Her entire body stilled against him, every reaction poised in silence. That wasn’t really the sort of thing that friends said to each other, he reflected. But then, maybe he didn’t really want to be her friend anymore.
She was finding it difficult to speak, having to moisten her lips several times. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered eventually, hardly daring to hear the answer.
He lay still for some time. Glaciers formed and melted, continents divided and joined, the world turned.
‘This,’ he said, reaching his free hand round to cup the side of her face, using his arm to pull her upwards so she was half lying on top of him. And he kissed her. Fixing her head in place he explored her mouth thoroughly, gently, deeply with his tongue. He sealed away her breath, the small cries she made as he pushed her lips wider to accept him in.
She clambered fully on top of him, her arms supporting her on either side of his head, his arm across her waist as his hand massaged her bottom. Every inch of his skin where she was touching him was dazzlingly, brightly alive, shouting at him about how soft she was, how warm, how willing. Her bra was an annoyance that he removed quickly, feeling her breasts hanging feely against his chest, her hard nipples taunting him, pressed just out of reach against his torso.
She couldn’t believe what a good kisser he was, his tongue and his lips firm, determined - dry and controlling rather than wet and inexperienced, knowing where and when to apply pressure, and when to pull away. Tremors ran through her at every sweep of his hands down her back and the scratch of hair against the tight sensitivity of her nipples was almost painful to bear. She tensed as his hand pushed its way down inside her knickers, squeezing her bottom before his long fingers followed the curve of her cheeks downwards, and inside. She spread her legs across him slightly, allowing him a better entry, wanting nothing more, right at this moment, than the feel of his fingers within her. Only the very tip of one digit was able to reach round to play with her opening though, and it wasn’t enough. She fumbled with one hand, untidily helping him to push off her knickers, and split her legs apart so she was straddling him completely, hands now resting against his chest for support.
The hardness of his erection was pressed directly between her open thighs, a thin veil of fabric between them as she rocked herself up and down against his heat in more urgent waves. She kissed him harder, more desperately, felt both his hands slide down to grasp her bottom, controlling the drives as she rubbed herself against him. He stopped kissing her, pulled back his head, and she could see him watching the sweat and desire mount on her face as she felt her orgasm starting to build.
He gave her a long, lingering look, that she recognised as a reflection of her body’s own want. He stopped her movements with the pressure of his hands, lifting her hips up off him and purposefully shifting her forward as he inched down the bed towards her. She could tell what he wanted to do, the flash of his blue eyes the only thing she could see in the dark. She arched backwards with a cry when his tongue found her most secret place, his mouth pressed to the hair between her legs, his breath warming her from the inside.
She sat, spread open above him in the dim glow from the open window, the wetness she could feel pooling between her thighs mingling with the bittersweet taste of his mouth, the taste she could still feel against her teeth. She could easily have let go, surrendered to the skilful manipulation of his tongue, but she felt too far removed from him, lifted herself backwards, away from the pleasure he was giving her, back down his body.
‘No,’ she panted to him. ‘Together.’
She could feel the straining throb of his need in the air, the fire he was keeping reigned in as he focused on her. He tensed for a second, stroking her legs, gave his permission. ‘Together, then,’ he replied.
She moved, pivoting round, bending low over him to yank off the underwear she still hadn’t seen, gave her lips and her mouth something else to do.
He felt her heat enclose him as he reached up towards her again with this tongue, and it was all he could do to keep his concentration as he felt her draw him in deeply, hitting the roof of her mouth. It was a while before he regained enough awareness to match the sucking, biting, red-hot pressure with which she was torturing him to the gentle flicks of his tongue, the rhythm of his fingers inside her. He strained himself into her mouth, unable to stop reaching for the orgasm that perched just behind the last fragments of his self control, nearly lost it as he felt her start to contract against his fingers, tasted a renewed flood of her sweetness.
He stopped, pulling out, leaving her on hands and knees as he squirmed from underneath her body, taking his place behind her and driving into her at last. Her legs tensed to meet his thrusts, crying out with the glorious feel of him filling her, a satisfaction she craved, hungered for. She lost any attempt at skill or finesse, forcing herself back into him and so him into her, trusting that he would know how to take her into orgasm.
He knew, but he had forgotten, so overwhelmed by her tight heat that he abandoned himself to the demands of his body, his strokes increasingly fierce, increasingly wild.
They did everything together. They lived together, they slept together, they came together. Stars exploded across her vision as the white heat consumed her and he was deafened by the roar of the climax pouring out of him, releasing into her.
Her arms failed, they collapsed face down on the bed. At length, he removed himself gently, rolled her over onto her side, pressing himself against her back, his arm around her waist. From outside the window the sound of the first rockets screaming their way into the sky was followed by sunflowers of green, red, yellow sparks that cast spiky reflections across the ceiling of their room.
He kissed her neck. ‘Do you still want to go and see the fireworks?’ he asked.
She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Seen them already,’ she said.