LACE (1/1)
By: Annie Sewell-Jennings (Auralissa@aol.com)

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully do not 
belong to me, but rather to the creator, Chris Carter, and his 
company, Ten Thirteen Productions. :)

SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully share a little food and a little sex. 
That's really it.

CATEGORY: VR. MSR. PWP.

RATING: NC-17.

SPOILERS: None.

ARCHIVING: This story will premiere on ATXCM, then go to ATXC, 
XAPEN, and my site: http://members.aol.com/auralissa/index.html.

If you would like to archive this story elsewhere, please request 
permission, first.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is sponsored by estrogen, the hormone 
of all smut champions. Now that I have fed her with mindless sex 
and booze, do you think she'll leave me alone so that I can write 
things with plots? Will you care if she keeps pestering me? ;)

Thanks to Kristin, Heather, Alanna, and Sharon for the great beta, and 
this story is dedicated to Heather, for being such a wonderful 
editor and friend -- I hope things work out for you, darling. 

*****

LACE

*****

She loved the taste of champagne. Brisk, fresh, lush with rich, 
dry grape and then laced with frilly bubbles. Champagne was a 
delicacy, a delicious indulgence, meant for savoring and smiling. 
Each sip was meant to tantalize and assault the palate, and to 
roll across the tongue with burning bliss and searing sensuality. 
One taste could light the skin on fire, and everything turned 
weighted and languid with just the tingle of its touch.
	
She loved the taste of champagne even more on Mulder's lips.
	
Curling her lips into a smile, Scully brushed her lips over his 
in the first stolen kiss, the first secret tryst of tongue and 
lip. Lower lip caressing upper, the light nip of teeth on the 
fleshy part of his mouth. She let a faint sigh whisper against 
his mouth in delicate desire, and her fingertips tapped over his 
collarbone through the fabric. Before Mulder could even turn his 
head to deepen the kiss, to add his own intensity to her murmured 
fire, Scully pulled back, letting his kiss remain on her lips in 
a subtle, smoky smile.
	
"Did you bring the champagne?" she asked, her voice a note lower 
and a shade huskier than usual.
	
As his eyes burned hazel intrigue, Mulder reached his hand from 
behind his back to show her the bottle of champagne. Long, 
slender fingers held the long, slender neck of the bottle, gold 
against green glass. "How could I forget?" he murmured, and a 
thrill danced up and down her spine at the sleepy sexiness in his 
voice. Like rumpled velvet and gossamer silk.
	
With an approving smile, she reached her hand out to take the 
bottle from him, her fingertips fluttering over his hand like a 
cascade of silk. "Mm," she murmured, and his heart was suddenly 
deep, beating out a darker rhythm and a swifter pulse at Scully's 
smile. "I'll get the glasses." Without another word, she took the 
bottle away and walked toward her kitchen, leaving Mulder to 
stand in her doorway, captivated by the sway of her hips.
	
It was not their first kiss, not their first night, and not their 
first seduction. But every night was a different game, a 
different expression, whether it was searing passion touched by 
genuine tears or a low, simmering seducement like this evening 
was turning out to be. But every time they met eyes, her blues 
the same shade of sizzling cerulean, the count reset itself. And 
the faint undertone of a kiss that she had just given him was the 
first of that night.
	
Arching his eyebrow in a fashion similar to his partner, Mulder 
peered through the hall to see her standing in the middle of the 
kitchen. Gazing at her made his mouth go dry. She wore something 
sexier than her usual office attire, but it managed to maintain 
the dignity and subtlety that was the essence of Dana Scully. She 
wore a light green sweater, dipping low enough to reveal the 
perfect blush of cleavage and a black skirt that fell around her 
knees. She was barefoot, something that was more than just a 
little appealing. A perfect blend of sexy, sporty, and Scully. 
Her hair was pulled back with tortoiseshell combs, and the wisps 
and tendrils looked like angel curls around her face. She held 
the bottle between her knees, and somehow this pose managed to 
look dignified and mature on Scully. Ribbons of red fell in her 
face, veiling her face with springs and coils of crimson.
	
She lifted her eyes at him, and the cork popped. Swiftly, she 
moved the bottle away from her as the foam spilled over the edges 
of the bottle, and it ran over her fingertips in a flush of 
liquid lace. A smile tugged at his mouth, and she arched an 
eyebrow at him. Never taking her eyes off of him, she poured the 
champagne and handed Mulder his flute. She then poured herself a 
glass and met his eye with both challenge and cheer. Toasts were 
unnecessary, interruptions in a flawless seduction. Neither one 
of them had ever been much for tradition.
	
Mulder drank first, letting his head fall back and his eyes 
close. From her close proximity, she could see him swallowing, 
his slender, appetizing throat golden and exposed. His eyelashes 
cast a star-shaped shadow on his cheeks, and she felt something 
in her shift and stir at his fingers curled around the stem of 
the glass.
	
Finally, he finished, and he relaxed his head to gaze at her 
again, but Scully only saw his mouth. Smooth, glistening with the 
light liquid and as plush as satin. "Your turn," he murmured, and 
the sound of his voice was a timbre lower than usual, a shade 
darker and a shade richer. He sounded like heavy velvet, and his 
mouth was spun from silk.
	
Without words, she approached him, and Scully stood close, so 
close that she could feel the heat of his skin and smell the 
champagne on his breath. He smelled like heavy sensuality, and he 
probably tasted the same way, too. Closing her eyes, she leaned 
her head up to his mouth, and he reflexively complied, lowering 
his head to meet her lips. But she did not kiss him.
	
Slowly, languidly, she licked his lower lip with a flicker of her 
tongue, capturing the faint taste of the champagne and the feel 
of his mouth beneath her tongue. A faint moan of appreciation 
rippled through her body, and she heard his sigh of contentment 
beneath her tongue. The tip of her tongue caressed the teardrop 
of Mulder's upper lip, and then she lavished attention on the 
corner of his sensual mouth.
	
Finally, she kissed him, and his response was made of gratitude 
and desire. 

Dry heat hit her tongue, fizzing and dancing across her palate, 
and his hands wrapped through her hair, fingertips twining around 
ribbons of red. An airy gasp fluttered through her mouth when she 
brushed her hands against his torso, and she lightly touched the 
roof of his mouth with her tongue. The kiss and the alcohol shot 
through her body with rosy warmth, and she purred underneath his 
touch, feeling his fingertips on her earlobes. Ah, God, he would 
have to start there...

Slowly, she pulled away, and the aftertaste of the kiss and the 
bouquet lingered, dark and throaty. Scully slowly savored the 
sensation, rolling her tongue around in her mouth and then slowly 
licking her lips. Eyes closed, sensuality and alcohol burned 
through her system, and she let her head fall to the side in 
appreciation of the champagne's swift work.
	
Unable to restrain a whimper, Mulder covered her forearms with 
his hands, watching the arousal brush across Scully's face with 
an artist's touch. Pale carnation glowed across the bridge of her 
nose, turning her smattering of freckles a light amber hue, like 
she was dusted with floral sunlight. A fond smile turned the 
corners of his mouth, and he leaned forward to kiss the soft 
bridge of cheek and nose.
	
Accepting his adoration, Scully tipped her head back and captured 
his mouth in hers once more, feeling the slow drunkenness of 
arousal and alcohol slowly sift through her body in a rose rush. 
His kiss was something addictive, something dangerously 
overpowering, and being kissed by Mulder was a sensation that 
could provide heady pleasure while doling out thick, divine 
desire. 

Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the kiss, and one strong, 
slender hand traced the line of her collar. The fabric against 
her skin was a flimsy caress, but the heat behind it was 
unmistakably Mulder. No material, from wispy gauze to heavy 
velvet could ever veil intensity like that. His fingers continued 
to tiptoe down her neckline, thumbs grazing her exposed skin and 
making her pulse jump, until he reached the bare shadow of her 
cleavage. Suddenly, another hand lifted her shirt to expose her 
midriff, and teasing fingertips outlined the cup of her bra, 
igniting satin and eliciting a moan.

"Yeah," Mulder murmured in assent, and the hand that had been 
adoring her faint cleavage reached under her sweater to lavish 
her breasts with attention. Inching fingers reached around her 
ribcage, skipping over the sensitive spots with a teasing touch, 
until she felt practiced fingers unhooking the small clasp of her 
bra. Mildly amused, Scully marveled at how skilled he had become 
over the past few weeks. 

The simple truth was that he had become hopelessly hooked on 
Scully's skin. The soft, supple cream of it, the way that it 
looked in vibrant sunlight to the pattern that silver stars cast 
upon it, the violet of it when she was awash in indigo shadows, 
or just the rare carnation when she let herself become 
overwhelmed with color and arousal. The visual of her bare skin 
was stunning, but the texture of it was holy. Fine, satiny, like 
freshly spun silk. A trip down the length of Scully's spine could 
last hours, and often, when she was asleep, he watched the 
streetlights paint her skin in delicate cerulean electricity and 
could feel the sensation of starlight imbedded into her skin.

Now, her skin was ignited into sheer, scorching silk, hot and 
rippling underneath his feathery touch. He felt her muscles 
twitch and shudder beneath his fingertips, could feel how each 
airy caress affected her. It was wonderful, feeling the waves and 
tides of arousal careening and gliding underneath the thin layer 
of burning china skin. A contented, drowsy purr rumbled like 
languid thunder in her chest, and Mulder's head turned faint and 
light from the sound and sense of escalating desire. Trembling 
only mildly from the sensation of her body, he moved his hands 
around her body, grazing the side of her breast in an 
unintentional but effective motion. Scully gasped with the 
lightness of the touch, and Mulder dipped his head forward to 
faintly kiss the tip of her perfectly shaped nose.

Seduction with Mulder was all about a subtle assault on the 
senses. He liked to play with her, engulfing her in his kiss 
while trailing his hands up and down her thighs, or darting 
fingers around her clit to distract her from the sweet words in 
her ear. The thing was, he always managed to succeed in sneaking 
past hands or kisses by enrapturing her with one intense 
movement. Like now, as he fit his hands underneath her loose bra 
to cup her breasts in his palms, he was softly sighing and 
nuzzling the curve of her throat. She hadn't even noticed the 
kisses until he moved from her neck to a more passionate storm on 
her lips, sliding his tongue between her teeth. Scully wondered 
if he could taste the champagne on her tongue.

She wondered if she bubbled.

Slowly, the corner of her mouth upturned in a rare but sly smile, 
Scully pulled back from him, her skin awash in milk and roses, 
and picked up her flute of champagne. With one graceful curve of 
her wrist, she drank from her glass, the fizz and frill of the 
alcohol dancing on her tongue in a tempo that dared to rival 
Mulder's kiss. The two exotic ballets competed momentarily before 
she decided to fall into Mulder's lips again, just sweeping his 
mouth with her own before sipping delicately on the champagne.

He knew her game, and he could play it well. They were not 
enemies or competitors in this arena, but rather a team that 
worked extraordinarily well at a common interest -- romance. 
Romance was something achieved not through the sweetest rose or 
the most divine poem, but rather through passionate kissing and 
multicolored gazes.

Right now, she caught his gaze with her velvety midnight eyes 
that were sparked with lighter cerulean, and thick, ebony lashes 
hooded her sapphire splendor. He chuckled, and picked up his 
flute of champagne, tilting the empty glass to the side in a 
request for more. She agreed, pouring lacy liquid into his glass, 
and he drank with a blissfully happy sigh. Scully watched him, 
entranced by the elegant line of his throat, lightly beaded with 
perspiration.

She was finally noticing him outside of his skin and mouth, 
seeing his clothes and his demeanor in his attire. Slender black, 
a clinging long-sleeved shirt that hugged his shoulders and 
accentuated his firm muscles, but it still revealed that bare 
hint of a tummy that she found vulnerably appealing. Memories of 
spending nights with her hair fanned out on his bare stomach 
drifted to mind and a fonder flush sang in her body. //Why, I'm 
in love with him,// she thought, and even though she had known 
for a while, the revelation was always surprisingly thrilling.

Now, her lover leaned his lanky form in the doorway, cocking his 
head at her and twirling the delicate stem of his glass in 
between his finger and thumb. "So, what are we celebrating 
tonight, Scully?" he asked, and his voice matched his eyes 
beautifully. Rich, endless brown velvet, ribbons of sensual 
forest satin, and then warm, loving flickers and glitters of 
gold; she could hear the colors rumble in his low bass.

"Celebrating?" she asked, arching her eyebrow, and he tapped his 
glass with his index finger.

"The champagne," he reminded, and she half-smiled, remembering 
the rareness with which they drank. An occasional bottle of wine, 
like their second night together (the first was spent with 
unadulterated appreciation, and had flown away with ecstasy) or 
on New Year's Eve. "What are we celebrating?"

She wondered if they were celebrating anything. No anniversaries, 
no birthdays, no survival... Perhaps that was it. Survival. 
Surviving six years of heartache, disappointment, and a million 
roadblocks soaked in innocent blood. Surviving their lives would 
be an accomplishment worth a thousand dollars worth of the finest 
champagne on earth.

But they had already celebrated survival. Each circling of 
fingers on flesh was enough of a jubilee, enough of an 
accomplishment, and plenty of party.

Scully tilted her head at him, her smile fonder and less sultry 
than it had been before. "Nothing, really," she murmured. "I just 
like champagne."

Somehow, this made his eyes light with deeper warmth, one beyond 
heady kisses and frothy champagne, and he leaned forward to 
capture one curled ribbon of red in his fingers. Tenderly, he 
wrapped the crimson coil around his ring finger, then released 
it, watching it spiral and fall in her eyes. "I like your hair," 
he complimented, and Scully smothered a chuckle. She had cut her 
hair weeks ago, styled it different long ago, but it made sense 
that he would comment on it now. It would take even more time for 
him to compliment her gossamer skirt or revealing sweater.

"Thanks," she murmured, and he leaned in again, his fingers 
slowly twining in the thicker parts of her hair, fleeing the 
wispy tendrils for the richer locks. Without another word, he 
kissed her hairline, where the finer hairs fell in her eyes, then 
tilted her head up with his fingertips to land his lips on hers 
again. Sultry seduction met her mouth, and she forgot earlier 
ruminations on survival and champagne in the solid reality of his 
kiss.

Kissing was dizzying, a spin of lips and tongue, and though it 
was wonderful to kiss her, he knew that it was just the first 
step in tonight's passion play. There had been nights where he 
could spend time just kissing her, letting his tongue wander free 
over her mouth, tasting every taste and sampling every flavor. 
There were nights where they were content to do nothing more than 
spoon on his couch, legs entwined, his hands covering her belly 
like a warm blanket, but there was more in store for them tonight 
than that. The rasp of bubbles and champagne across his tongue 
had let him know that she wanted him, and the way that she kissed 
him was a tease, a pull, as if he needed to be seduced by her.

He was lost in her seduction every time she said "hello".

Softly, Mulder pulled his hand away from her hair and let it fall 
to the valley of her breasts, his hands casting sensual shadows 
over the thin fabric and then creating phantom desires over her 
nipples. A low, appreciative moan rumbled underneath his hand, 
and he glanced up to see Scully's eyes blazing licks of cobalt 
flame. 

"You're so good at that," she murmured, and his hand continued 
lower, wrapping around to the small of her back. He had staked 
his claim there years ago, plotted the territory with his fingers 
every time he had the opportunity, and now it was one of the most 
erogenous spots on her body, sensitive to his touch. He slipped 
his fingers up underneath her shirt, gaining access to her 
uncovered skin, and Scully gasped when his palm caressed the base 
of her spine.

His other hand gravitated toward her breast, and she let a moan 
flee from her body; she was torn between the fire he was tending 
in her breast and the slow coals he was stoking near her spine. 
As his hand covered her breast completely under her shirt, she 
felt him slowly test the weight of it, the texture, and his palm 
squeezed her. "Oh God!" she cried, unable to control his hands or 
the sensations that they invoked within her. As he focused in on 
her nipple, dragging his thumb across the needy peak, she felt 
Mulder's hand continue its slow designs on the small of her back, 
and Scully's head tossed back in a streamer of torrential red. 
She knew what he was doing, yes, thank God, she knew what he was 
doing. Teasing her like she had teased him. Slowly telling her 
with the skin of her spine what he would later do to her; he 
would attend to the aching, pulsing need between her legs, and...

The hand on her breast quickly darting down to caress her mons, 
rising over the hot arch and then settling between the V of her 
thighs, and Scully almost fell over at the back of his hand, 
resting so close, so damned close, to her swelling center. "Oh 
God," she whispered in a flurry of words, a snowstorm of sound, 
and Mulder's chuckle near her ear was the only sensual symphony 
she would ever require.

"Put the champagne on ice," he murmured, and with a soft, almost 
unnoticeable shift of his body, he brushed the tip of his cock 
against her leg. Hard, hot, like a silken inferno. "It can wait."

But when his index finger strayed lower, just barely grazing the 
source of her need through the thin layers of mint green panties 
and black paneled skirt, she arched her hips slightly against him 
and gave him her reply.

"I like warm champagne," she whispered, and she led him by the 
hand into the bedroom.

*****


He was intoxicated.
	
Inebriated, drowsy, just plain drunk. And the alcohol had nothing 
to do with this kind of inebriation, this kind of helpless 
addiction and blissful weakness. He was under the influence of 
Dana Scully and her bedroom eyes.
	
She did have bedroom eyes. Luxurious lashes fell to half-mast, 
veiling dark gemstone eyes, turned from turquoise to sapphire 
with the workings of champagne and seduction. Her eyes required 
no emphasis or assistance from any cosmetic; they were a 
commanding presence on their own. Their only complement was one 
slender, cinnamon eyebrow, arched invitingly and enticingly.
	
Just looking at her face, the vibrancy in her vivid eyes, the 
sultry curve of her figure that was caressed by the shadowy, 
subtle clothing, Mulder found himself falling deeper under her 
influence. But intoxication by Scully was absolutely, perfectly 
harmless. There was no danger in this attraction, and there was 
no possible way to become hooked on her.
	
Instead of developing an addiction, he had fallen in love.
	
A smile stretched across his face, and Scully's movements 
quickened at the copper sparks igniting his eyes, and their 
sudden, colorful flicker made her pulse quicken and her thighs 
turn electric under the shifting fabric of her skirt. Something 
he saw in her gaze excited him; the gold and copper melded 
together to form a metal so rich, so lustrous, that she found 
herself melting in the liquid bronze swimming through his mocha 
eyes. Every woman had a G-spot, an area especially sensitive to 
sexual arousal.
	
Her G-spot was definitely Mulder's eyes.
	
Keeping herself wrapped in the sensuality of Mulder's intensity, 
Scully began to back into her bedroom, making sure that her 
fingers stayed laced through his. Every step was colored with the 
rich, indefinable hues of Mulder's kaleidoscope eyes, and as the 
gaze continued, every whisper of motion against her skin was 
scorching. The soft gauze swirled around her legs in thin wisps 
of shadow, and her unhooked bra brushed her breasts with whispers 
of satin that made her nipples throb and long for his fingers.
	
Her tongue darted out to lick her warm, kiss-swollen lips, and 
Scully tasted the traces of bubbling champagne and the rich, 
darker passion of Fox Mulder. That one lingering memory of 
Mulder's mouth and the bubbling liquid brought her arousal up 
from simmering to smoldering, and she quickly began shedding her 
clothes, eager to taste that intensity in every inch of his skin.
	
In the eagerness to feel his bare flesh against hers, Scully did 
not notice that she was the only one losing clothing. When she 
was down to a pair of mint-colored satin panties, she glanced at 
her lover to find him watching her with great interest, but still 
fully-clothed in the slim, form-fitting black he had been wearing 
all evening. The only difference in his appearance now was that 
the line of his erection could be seen visibly and quite 
impressively, and his hair was tousled and wayward from their 
previous foreplay.
	
She smirked at him, arching her eyebrow. "You're still dressed," 
she commented, and he shrugged lightly, a grin touching his 
mouth.
	
"I'm shy," he replied, and her brief, bright laugh was enough of 
an answer for the both of them. 

The truth was, he was enjoying watching her. She was poetry in 
motion, and it was absolute bliss to watch the elegance of her 
silent language. She was enchanting; seductive without being 
overtly sexual, and just watching the arch of her eyebrow, the 
tousled hair, the arousal-ripened fullness of her breasts, was 
exquisite eroticism to Mulder. The grace and fluidness of her 
motions when reaching up her arms to remove the thistle-colored 
sweater, arms going up and down, like bobbins weaving lace. But 
she was not creating lace; she was unraveling it.

And she was unraveling him in the process. 

It was why he had come to this apartment with a bottle of 
champagne and one other present.

His eyes caught hers again, and he watched the colors change from 
stormy Atlantic to vivid Pacific with the recognition of what he 
was pulling from his pocket. Her breath quickened; her cheeks 
turned a brighter rose, not from embarrassment, but from 
anticipation.

In his fingertips, Mulder held one long, slender vanilla-colored 
length of lace, embroidered through and through with delicate 
flowers and seashells.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips again, and this time, she 
luxuriated in the combined flavor of champagne, Mulder, and her 
own familiar arousal. "You're not shy," she said with a smirk, 
and he chuckled. Rich, low, beautifully throaty... Mulder had one 
of the best laughs in the history of the world.

"I never have been," he murmured, and he rubbed the edge of the 
intricate piece of lace with his fingertips, slowly, full of 
intrigue. "And neither are you."

A slow curl of her lips was all the agreement that he needed, and 
her body moved with slow arousal toward her bed. Every step she 
took was another flicker of electricity throughout her body, and 
Scully had to force herself not to think of the possibilities of 
Fox Mulder and a scrap of lace. The arousal shimmering throughout 
her veins and body was too much already; she actually had to 
stifle the sensuality to keep herself from going overboard.

"Stretch out on the bed," he murmured, and it was not an order. 
On any other man, it would be an order... Not Mulder. He knew 
better than to boss her around, and he didn't want to control 
her. He just wanted to enjoy her, to be with her, and the trust 
in that knowledge was as pleasing as the feel of the comforter 
against her bare skin.

"Like this," she murmured, lying flat on her back, her limbs 
sprawled out across her queen-sized bed. She placed her thumbs in 
her underwear, shivering slightly at the sensitivity of her hips, 
and divested herself of the panties, until she fully exposed. Her 
skin sang against the bedspread and the fabric, and her toes 
curled in anticipation. 

His eyes raked her body from head to toe, sighing in appreciation 
and admiration at the round, firm breasts, with their hard, 
waiting nipples, the color of dusky cinnamon and sunset fire. 
"Yeah," he said, and the tone of his voice was a compliment. 
"Now, just close your eyes, Scully." He caught her gaze just one 
more time, and she sighed at the want resting in his mocha eyes. 
Then, obediently, she shut her lids, and let herself fall into 
dark imagination.

There had often been nights where she had laid alone, languishing 
in that realm between awareness and dreams, when thoughts and 
walls blurred into a beautiful daze, and let the arousal build 
inside of herself with fantasies instead of touches. During these 
nights, anything could happen in the dark, and she never opened 
her eyes until she was ready to take reality into her own hands 
and pleasure herself until she came in midnight blackness. The 
electricity had always flickered and flashed then in waves of 
heat lightning, and the spark had always been amazingly sensual.

She was beginning to experience that same level of sensuality 
now, trying to predict the first place that the lace would 
touch... He wouldn't go for her face, knowing that she would beg 
for the feel of the fabric against her cheek. Her ears were 
too sensitive; he wouldn't want to start there, when one wisp of 
material against her fleshy lobes would bring her near ecstasy. 
The breasts... A moan escaped her lips at the thought of lace 
tracing the underside of her breasts, of the nipples being 
caressed by cool cloth in sharp contrast to the heat gathering 
between her thighs.

God, she didn't even want to imagine the lace running up and down 
her thighs, brushing her...

A sharp gasp interrupted her thoughts, because Mulder had used 
the lace for the first time.

A caress, bare and wispy, landed on the ball of her palm, 
fluttering the embroidery on the underside of her hand, and 
Scully moaned, shifting on the bed with simmering excitement. The 
lace was so soft, so fragile... It was like a kiss, only cool and 
refreshing instead of intense and passionate. Her fingers flexed, 
her hips circled slightly, and a moan came from deep within her 
belly. "Like that?" he chuckled, and she sighed. He *knew* that 
her hands were sensitive.

The lace traced every finger, twirling on her fingertip, before 
fluttering past her wrist and traveling down the length of her 
outstretched arm. Her breath came in spurts and fits, sighs and 
moans, as he brushed the line of her jaw, painting her throat 
with fiery watercolor. Gasping for air, Scully moaned, arching 
her hips as the lace continued its journey, stopping briefly to 
kiss her cheek. "I love watching this, Scully," Mulder murmured, 
and she sighed; her lips were being tantalized by the fragment of 
lace. "You look good in sex."

The poetic romanticism of his words was lost on her; she only 
wanted the lace and him. "I know," he said, and the lace swooped 
down, tickling the tops of her breasts, outlining them as though 
they were Mulder's fingers, cupping them and testing their 
weight, their texture... Licks of flames substituted for his 
tongue, caressing the underside and then traversing up toward the 
center. A strangled cry was dragged from her lips, and her back 
arched as one nipple experienced the silken simplicity of being 
caressed by the lace. "Oh, God!" she cried, and the lace twirled, 
performing pirouettes and other dances on the swollen, hard 
nipple, lavishing the area. "Oh..."

The lace danced from nipple to nipple, as faint and floating as 
frilly champagne, and Scully's hips circled with faster urgency 
in the air. Her clit swelled and pleaded for attention between 
her legs, and she let her hand fall downward, descending down her 
belly in small, tentative steps, caressing her flat stomach as 
she made her move toward the patch of damp curls and the 
contracting wetness that demanded satisfaction.

But the lace was running a race with her fingers, and a swirl of 
fabric caressed her navel lovingly, making her pause. Slow, 
agonizingly soft slides of lace caressed her belly button, and 
her hips arched with the sensation. Oh, she knew what he was 
doing. Mulder was making promises, that his tongue would give the 
same performance that this piece of lace was doing right now. Her 
clitoris, singing and yearning for touch, would feel the ecstasy 
that he was inducing on her navel.

"Patience," he murmured, and she let herself imagine that the 
lace was his lips, that the belly button he was teasing was 
really that needy bundle of nerves, sliding up and down, barely 
caressing the knot... A cry fell from her body, and her hand 
stilled on its southbound path.

Finally, the lace left her navel, and she was left in the open 
air only for a moment before it landed on the inside of her 
thighs. This time, her cry was louder, needier, and the trickles 
of fine fabric chased the wetness on her legs, causing her thighs 
to spread apart to allow better access. "Thank you," he said, and 
the lace traveled upward, until the fragments were caressing the 
curls, and she was rising on the bed, begging him to take part, 
demanding that he drop the lace and let his fingers, his mouth, 
his cock take care of the rest.

The lace was insistent; it slowly licked the creamy, electric 
inner thigh, then moved closer to the source of her wetness. One 
whisper of the cloth against her opening, and she was crying out 
his name, her breasts throbbing and aching for hands, and her 
swollen clit pulsed with need and want. And he did not forgot.

Agonizingly, he dragged the scrap of fabric across the jangled 
bunch of nerves, and Scully threw her head back with a cry of 
ecstasy. "Mulder!" she cried, and another deliciously slow caress 
landed there. Over and over, he circled her clit with the 
embroidered material, until she was throbbing, thrusting, 
spinning her hips in the air and crying out for release. The 
orgasm simmered in her chest, and every inch of skin was smitten 
with him. "Mulder!"

One finger slowly caressed the wet entrance to her, and she 
gasped at the synchrony of the lace and Mulder's hand. And then 
he pushed inside, one finger, two fingers, and thrust in time to 
the scrap of lace, and Scully forgot to cry out; just gasping 
with the intensity and delicacy of the feeling.

"Mulder, Mulder," she whispered over and over, and his fingers 
drew up inside of her. She clenched around him, and the orgasm 
shattered her, scattering her like fragments of lace as she came.

Then his fingers were gone, and she opened her eyes to see Mulder 
standing before her, the lace fluttering from his fingertips like 
a bit of cloud. "Wow," he whispered, and she noticed the wildness 
of pleasure and arousal in his eyes.

"Your turn," she quickly said, and she had never seen him take 
his clothes off with such speed before.

Entering Scully was like falling into heaven, only paradise could 
not sigh or moan with the elegance and abandon that she mustered. 
She contracted around him instantly, the wet heat working like a 
velvet glove, and his hands gravitated toward her exposed 
breasts, caressing them and massaging the globes of flesh as he 
drew in and out of her, plunging deeply into her as she moaned 
her approval.

She seemed to sense his arousal culminating into orgasm, and she 
reached up to whisper in his ear. "Don't worry about me," she 
murmured. "Just let it all go, Mulder..." A chuckle rang out. 
"You gave me everything I wanted tonight." The whisper lowered, 
darkened a shade, until it was rich and ripe with meaning. "I am 
fulfilled."

With a groan and a final thrust, he climaxed, and his head threw 
back with a rapturous smile at the sensitivity and kindness of 
her words.

After the starlight had faded from her vision, the two tumbled 
into the bed together in a mess of tangled limbs, his hands 
remaining on her breasts while her legs threaded through his. His 
lips murmured against the palm of her hand as he spoke. "The 
champagne's probably still chilled," he pointed out, and a 
genuine smile broke out on her face, stunning in its happiness.

"Not necessary," she said, and he chuckled. They'd had enough 
celebration for one night.

As he fell into slumber, his cheek resting on her breast, Scully 
kissed the top of his tousled hair, grinning as the spikes 
tickled her lips. She noticed the scrap of lace resting on his 
shoulder, and she leaned over to pick up the fragile fabric that 
had brought her to wonderful heights that evening.

It was laced through and through with conch shells and wisteria. 
Wisteria... Her favorite flower... It was so delicate, both in 
coloration and in presentation, a faint lavender that managed to 
be both subtle and vivid. How appropriate that Mulder would use 
this particular shred of lace; he knew how she loved that 
particular blossom.

And come to think of it, how appropriate that he had used lace. 
Their relationship, their romance, was quite similar to that wisp 
of material. Soft, beautiful, intricately made and well-loved, 
seemingly fragile but made strong by its thousands of 
interlocking threads. Lace could survive anything, and remain 
beautiful in the process.

Smiling, Scully placed the piece of lace on her nightstand, 
knowing that no matter what happened tomorrow, she would treasure 
that little bit of lace.

A rumble of velvet caressed her bare breasts, and she was 
surprised to find that Mulder was still awake. "Hey, Scully," he 
murmured, and she arched her eyebrow, a small grin still 
decorating her features.

"Hey, what?" she asked, and she felt Mulder smile on her skin.

"I really liked your skirt."

With that, she threw her head back with delight, and her laughter 
bubbled forth like fresh champagne.

*****

(end)

*****

Well, that's it, folks! I would love for some feedback if you 
have any for me, and I'll read and reply at Auralissa@aol.com. 
Thanks again to my gracious and talented editors: Heather, 
Alanna, and Sharon! :)