The Unicorn Tamed 7: Culmination

Maybe tonight?

Things had been going so well. Days spent working together, nights spent hanging out together, talking and laughing and sleeping together... everything but intercourse; it was the last remaining hurdle standing between himself and normal sexual function.

Oh, but what a hurdle it was.

Maybe tonight.

Once before, they'd gotten close, very very close, and he'd wanted it so badly -- and then the realization of what they were about to do had provoked a sudden tidal wave of fear; he'd lost his hard-on and his courage in the same heartbeat, and the resulting depression had been severe. He'd gotten out of bed, started pulling on clothes, wanting nothing more than to go back to his own apartment and nurse his bruised ego in private -- but Scully had coaxed him back to bed, with soft words and softer hands, soothing away the memory of failure so thoroughly that afterwards, he hadn't been bothered by the whole incident... much.

Of course, he hadn't tried again since then, either.

But maybe tonight. Maybe tonight.

It had been a long and busy work week. No cases to keep his mind occupied and take them out of town to little cozy motel rooms where they could be together, just the quarterly stack of paperwork that had to be completed -- piles and piles of mind-numbing boredom, keeping them tied to their desks for so many hours that the only thing he'd wanted to do afterwards was fall onto his couch and sleep. Yet there had been plenty of time for him to glance across his desk at the redhead on the other side of the office and let his mind wander... wishing he could let his hands and other things wander, into her clothes and between her legs and all over her...

'Horny' did not begin to describe what he was feeling, and cold showers weren't doing the job; and although the heavy petting they'd been doing had been wonderful, water after a long drought, it wasn't enough. Not anymore, and not now.

Maybe tonight, it would be different.

It was all he could think about, and paradoxically, something he didn't dare let himself consider -- the more he thought about it, the greater the chance that he'd freeze up, panic and fail. Not a trend he wanted to continue. For so many years, Phoebe's 'training' had crippled him; now he was almost, almost free... The last thing he wanted to do was perpetuate a pattern of failure.

But try as he might, it was very much on his mind as he drove over to her apartment.

Sex. Sexual intercourse. The insertion of Tab A into Slot B. Fucking... no, strike that last. It seemed somehow dishonorable, to apply an epithet to the act -- at least where she was concerned. You could fuck with someone's mind, you could fuck someone over... with Scully, it would be lovemaking: nothing less.

If he could manage it. If he could make it happen.

Maybe tonight. Maybe tonight.

There was traffic on the Beltway. Dammit. Every minute spent staring at the back bumper of the pickup truck in lane ahead of him was a minute in which he wasn't enjoying the sight of Scully's back bumper -- or front headlights -- or all the rest of her lovely chassis. The flowers he'd bought were wilting, and the wine was getting warm, and thinking of her was making his jeans progressively tighter, and all he could do was inch along in the lane, swearing between clenched teeth and wondering what she was doing... if she was thinking about him the way he was thinking about her... wanting him, and wondering if tonight would be the night...

It took forever to finally pass the three-car pileup in the left lane, and then he was moving again -- 'way above the speed limit, counting on fast reflexes to keep him from a similar fate, and the badge in his jacket to frighten away any cops who might decide to ticket him. The road seemed too damn long, when someone as sweet as Scully was waiting on the other end...

Three blocks away from her apartment complex, his cellphone rang. "Where are you?" said the voice on the other end, before he could so much as say his name.

"Almost there," he told her, savoring the sound of her voice, wishing devoutly that he'd chosen to wear a slightly less-snug pair of jeans. "I hit traffic on the way over."

"Well, hurry up. I miss you," and her voice dropped to a lower register, a sultry purr that brought his burgeoning hard-on to the point of pain.

"Oh, God..." Involuntarily, one hand dropped from the wheel to his crotch, adjusting things into a marginally less uncomfortable situation, massaging slightly to ease the growing ache. "I miss you, too. You have no idea how much." Finally: a quick left turn into the parking lot, and a miraculously empty parking space. He negotiated the car into the spot one-handed, slid the gearshift into 'park' and scooped up the wine and flowers, opened the car door and got out of the car -- had to stop halfway and readjust things yet again before he could stand up -- kicked the car door shut and headed for her apartment, still cradling the cellphone against his ear.

"So show me, Mulder," she murmured, still in that phone-sex voice.

"Open the door," he said breathlessly, and she did... and for a moment, all he could do was stare.

The dress was new, or at least, he'd never seen it before. It was the exact perfect shade of green to highlight her red-gold hair and creamy skin; there was just enough of it to be legal in most states, and it clung to every contour as if it had been spray-painted on, making it exquisitely clear that the dress was all she wore. Her scent wafted forth to greet him, a light spicy perfume mingling perfectly with the now-familiar scent of her arousal...

"Oh my god," he heard himself say, and was surprised: he hadn't thought himself capable of speech at that moment.

She smiled. "You like it?"

"I'm... speechless," he murmured.

Her eyes flickered briefly downward, taking in the wine and flowers and his very evident arousal in the same swift glance. "C'mon in," she said softly, making it far more than a simple invitation into her apartment.

He followed her into the apartment, so preoccupied with the way her hips and buttocks moved when she walked that he nearly collided with the sofa. She laughed as she took the wine and flowers from his nerveless hands -- not the kind of laughter that made him cringe, neither mocking nor derisive, but the sort that signified shared humor -- her eyes met his, and for long moments, they held a conversation without words. In silence, he told her how much he wanted her, and she conveyed the fact that she was just as eager to be with him: with his eyes, he mentioned how indescribably gorgeous she looked, and she answered with a complex combination of expressions that signaled shy pleasure at his appreciation, as well as the fact that she'd worn the dress purely for his enjoyment.

Then, smoothly and gracefully, she flowed into his arms...

Not just a kiss: it was lovemaking with clothes on, so intense and passionate that for a moment he thought he would climax right there -- the moment of urgency passed, but not the intimacy. Close, they were so close and it was so damn right that it was as if they'd been born to be together, crafted by some greater all-knowing Power to fit so perfectly into each other's lives and souls and arms that anything else, anyone else, would have been obscenely inadequate. For this intimacy, this intensity, he would have waited for weeks, months, years...

Had been waiting for years, actually. But in the space of that kiss -- despite all of the years of agony, of loneliness, of misfit alienation -- he was certain that it had all been worthwhile. The destination had been worth the endless frustration of the journey -- to be with this woman: for this woman to be his first.

When he could no longer bear the intensifying of the passion, he broke off the kiss and buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, feeling the contours of her body branding themselves into his, to be remembered for all eternity -- "God, I missed you."

"It's only been five days," in a voice that said eloquently that five days had been five days too long.

"It's been forever." An endless interval of Scullylessness, accentuated by her daily presence in his life -- in the office, in the oh-so-proper environs of work, where he couldn't reach out and touch her, hold her, kiss her. Torture. Every day, every moment, using the same control that had been so cruelly inscribed into his soul to keep himself from reacting to Scully's presence... but now the ordeal was over.

She was here, and gorgeous in that dress; and they were alone...

"That's an incredible dress," he said huskily. "Mind if I take it off?" Scully didn't respond at once, but a fractional change in her body language... "I made dinner," she said quietly.

"Oh." Damn. "I guess... we could eat first," he acceded, knowing that it was what he had to say, and not giving a damn about food; the only hunger he was feeling was centered somewhat lower than his stomach.

"It'll burn if we don't," she added, and her tone eased the tension within him -- it was apologetic, her voice, signifying that she knew what he was feeling, and understood. Soon, her expression promised him; and he knew that it was a promise she would keep.

He made himself eat slowly, without displaying his impatience -- and once his body had relaxed enough to allow him some modicum of comfort, he discovered that the food was delicious. He told her so, at length and in detail -- one quick glance into the kitchen had given him the impression that she'd worked hard to prepare the meal, and didn't deserve to have her efforts slighted just because his gonads were working overtime. She cooked for me, he thought, as he dug into the fettucine, ten to one she bought that dress for my benefit; she thinks I'm worthy of this sort of treatment, and I will by God be worthy of Scully. Even if my balls explode from the strain. No matter what it takes.

Gazing at her face across the table, warmed by flickering candlelight and the sparkle of her eyes and her smile, he thought, I love her so much.

"I love you so much," he told her, just for the pleasure of seeing her react to that, and hearing...

"Mulder, I love you, too," resonating through his soul.

And the dinner he'd thought would be a chore became a pleasure -- flirting with her shamelessly across the table, every glance and word becoming foreplay, heightening the sense of expectancy. Not that the mood they shared needed enhancement... but it was nice. Very nice, to be with Scully, and know how the evening would end. No wondering, no worrying, just sweet anticipation.

Afterwards, he helped her clear the table and load the dishwasher, finding the simple domesticity as appealing as the candlelit dinner had been. It was as if they'd been doing it forever, an 'old married couple', familiar and comfortable with each other. And then...

...then it was over, and it was time for the next part of the evening to commence.

It would have been easier, he considered, if they'd gone straight from the front door into lovemaking; now, the transition was considerably more awkward. What now? he wondered -- and suddenly knew.

Moving toward her stereo, he thumbed the power button, flipped through a few stations before finding the one he wanted -- "Dance with me, Scully," he said, extending one arm to her.

She moved toward him, so sinuously that his breath caught in his throat, and took his hand; he drew her into his arms, and they danced.

Slow-dancing: another form of lovemaking, disguised as a social activity. In the dress she wore, it was almost as good as holding her nude body in his arms -- better, because he could think about what it would be like to peel it off her. The way her hips moved against his left no doubt about where the evening was heading, and he couldn't help but respond -- before long, he was hard enough to drill holes through steel, so aroused that the feel of her body pressed against him was nearly painful.

Yet he didn't want it to end. There was something magical in the act of dancing with Scully, swaying together to the music. A perfect moment, the sort that lives in memory, precious and vital, no matter how much time might intervene.

Years from now, when he and Scully had grown old together, he would remember this moment with the same clarity...

The music swelled and crested, and she gazed up at him with those crystalline eyes, and he needed to kiss her, as surely as he needed to breathe -- so he bent his head to meet her upturned face, and could swear that he felt a tangible crackle of electric passion as their lips met.

Perfect. It was perfect.

Her tongue greeted his like an old long-lost friend, her arms wrapping around his waist and holding on fiercely as if she feared he might pull away -- not much chance of that, he thought wryly. He could feel the heat of her through the layers of fabric separating them, and before long, that separation was more than he could bear; his hands located the concealed zipper of the dress and began to ease it downward, making it into a caress that ran the length of her spine. She arched into him as the zipper descended, then pulled away from him to let the dress fall away...

God.

The sight of her nude body was such glorious perfection that it seemed only natural, only right, to fall to his knees before her -- the better to worship at the Sacred Temple of Scully -- and once he was there, it occurred to him that there were certain forms of worship that she might appreciate more than others.

She gasped as his fingers found her pleasure center, moaned as his tongue joined in the fun, and grabbed hold of his shoulders to steady herself as he applied himself to the task.

He knew her so well, now, that he could tell exactly how far along she was by the way her body trembled, the tone and texture of her cries -- and they were so attuned that he was with her, sharing every spasm of pleasure that coursed through her. It was all he could do to keep from coming with her; he was so aroused, and she affected him so powerfully... but somehow, he hung on through the few crucial moments when it might have happened.

Licking his lips to catch the last traces of her flavor, he stood up -- very slowly -- lifted her in his arms before she could catch her breath enough to protest, and carried her to the bedroom.

She wriggled out of his arms before he could set her down on the bed, began undoing his shirt, and the feel of her hands against his chest working at the buttons was almost more than he could stand -- he caught her hands in his, kissed her fingers in silent apology, then finished the job himself. Then the jeans -- sweet relief, to be freed from the constraining fabric -- kicked off his shoes, left his pants in a crumpled heap on the floor, and climbed into bed, where she was waiting for him.

And for the first few minutes, it was the same as always: deep kisses, sensuous caresses, relishing the slow sinking into passion. But then somehow he was on top of her, and her legs were wrapping around his hips, and the moment was right, as it had never quite been before...

He gazed into Scully's eyes, seeking consensus; her gaze met his, steady and reassuring, and her lips formed a single, breathy word: "Yes."

The time was right. The time was now. Now. Tonight.

Yes.

And before his fears could catch up to his desire and smother it, he positioned himself and entered her.

Instant sensory overload.

She was so wet, and hot, and tight... Nothing had ever felt like this, and no amount of studying literature or videotape had prepared him for the feeling. He was engulfed in the heat of her, consumed by the slow friction of that first tentative thrust, utterly overwhelmed. It was all he could do to hang on, to keep from being lost in the pleasure, as he buried himself within her -- then he was there, fully sheathed, gazing down into her eyes in wonder, that after all these years, it was actually happening...

Sweat sparkled on her skin; tears glistened in her eyes. "I love you so much," she whispered.

He would have echoed the sentiment, but speech was beyond him; and he had to move. Had to. Now.

If entry had been a revelation, the second thrust was an epiphany. Sensory overload, redoubled -- and then her muscles contracted around his cock, and the last remaining shreds of control he possessed went straight out the window. Nothing existed except for the feeling, the feeling; his hips found a rhythm and settled into it as if he'd been doing this for years, driven by the sudden ferocious need that was searing through his nervous system. Harder, faster, each thrust more intense than the last, pleasure building until he thought he would die, or explode, then building beyond that, until...

Every muscle in his body contracted simultaneously into a tight knot; dimly, he heard himself make a sound he'd never uttered before in his life.

And then the world shattered into a million fragments of ecstasy, as his body convulsed in an orgasm unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

It took a long time for him to come down; aftershocks quivered through him, tremors of residual pleasure echoing the intensity of his climax. Some vague awareness kept him propped up unsteadily on one arm, in a vain attempt to keep from falling against her like deadweight; beyond that, he couldn't move. It was all he could do to breathe.

"We did it," he whispered, thinking: I did it. I really did it.

Her lips brushed against his ear, forming a soft kiss. "Congratulations," she whispered back.

Then suddenly he was laughing, peals of laughter that felt halfway like sobs, an inarticulate outpouring of relief and love; and her arms wrapped tight around him, hugging him, sharing the celebration.

After awhile, by mutual unspoken agreement, they found a comfortable snuggle-position away from the wet spot; by that point, fatigue was washing over him in great waves, an instinctive primal urge as strong as his desire had been. He chuckled faintly at the thought: Og have sex. Now Og sleep. Life good.

"Thank you," he murmured, burying his face in her hair, reveling in the feeling of contentment that saturated every fiber of his being. "I owe you big time, Scully."

"You don't owe me anything," he heard her reply, in a voice only slightly less fatigued than his own. "I love you, Mulder."

The words were as sweet as the utter satiation; he took both with him into slumber.

Sometime later, in the small hours of night, he drifted back to consciousness. He hadn't slept nearly enough, yet somehow he felt more rested than he had in ages. I am no longer a virgin, was his first coherent thought.

God, I feel good, was the second.

My back teeth are floating, was the third.

He stumbled to the bathroom, then wandered naked into Scully's kitchen and located a package of chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of milk; by the time he'd finished replenishing the resources depleted by his earlier exertion, he'd awakened sufficiently to remember a promise he'd made a lifetime ago...

His cellphone was where he'd left it, in the pocket of the jacket he'd left on her couch. He retrieved it and dialed, speed-dial-oh-three; half a moment later, he heard Scully's home phone ring.

After four rings, she answered, her voice sleep-hazed and indistinct. "H'lo?"

"Scully, it's me."

"Mulder?" Bewilderment was evident in her voice, as she struggled to make sense of why he would be phoning her when he was supposed to be in bed with her...

"Guess what happened to me tonight?" he said, and waited.

It took her a second or two to put together the pieces; and once she had, her voice held warmth and tolerant amusement. "Tell me," she said.

"I finally lost my virginity," he told her gleefully, carrying the cellphone with him back to the bedroom.

"Congratulations," she said softly.

"Thank you." He opened the door, and there she was, stretched out on her back, phone propped into place between ear and shoulder and pillow.

Her eyes flickered upwards, met his. "So how was it?" she asked, into the phone.

"It was wonderful," he responded fervently, into the cellphone, as he slid under the covers. "It was incredible."

"I'm so glad," and her voice came at him twice, from the phone and from the other side of the bed.

"Scully?" he said into the phone, as he snuggled close beside her. "I love you so much."

A soft breath of laughter. "I know," she said, and hung up on him.

And rolled over to face him, as he thumbed the button that would terminate the call from his end; he reached past her to set the cellphone on the nightstand, then drew her into his arms and kissed her forehead.

Life had never been so good.

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