Dreamscape

The jacket portion of the pinstriped, navy suit was tossed over a chair even before the door of the hotel suite was completely shut, and Connor's fingers did the magic, mindless thing that freed him from his royal blue silk tie and the grey tailored dress shirt even as he crossed the suite to pull the drapes shut to the world. He lived for the road and sky, but the number of miles he'd spanned in the last 6 months were exhausting even for him. Glancing at the stainless steel Rolex on his left wrist, he groaned and made a lying little promise to himself that he'd take some time off after the next debriefing at "home." His Sig Sauer .45 he dropped into a drawer atop a Gideon Bible, and the .357 magnum ankle gun went under a hand towel on the back of the toilet. Rituals complete, he dropped down onto the end of the bed and began untying his shoes with one hand and flipping past the hotel suggested pay per view channels with the other. He sat with one sock on and the other off, absent-mindedly staring confusedly and fascinated at a television show that seemed to involve miniskirts, slapping, and young men with plucked eyebrows when there was a knock at the room's door.

His head turned from the television reluctantly and suspiciously. He couldn't think of a single good or welcome reason for anyone to be at his door, and he could think of several very bad and unwelcome reasons. He peeled his remaining sock off, eased the bedside drawer open, and plucked the Sig back out with a silent sigh. He walked silently toward the door and stepped sideways into the bathroom before calling out.

"Yeah?"

A woman's voice murmured something that he couldn't make out from the other side of the door but something about the tone and timbre rang familiar to him so he checked the door's peephole. A moment later, stunned and confused, he slid back the deadbolt and chain and opened the door to the only woman he'd ever completely surrendered his heart. She stood for just a moment in the hall, silhouetted in the doorway, and then brushed past him into the suite. In her heels, she was just short of his 6'1" inches, and her chestnut hair made a long wave around her face and fell down past her bare shoulders. The maroon dress that clung to her every curve and plane had thin straps that draped over her swimmer's shoulders and didn't hide the thin straps of her expensive black bra. He'd barely absorbed that the front of the dress plunged and hugged her heavy breasts and flat stomach before she was past him and his eyes were focused on the back of her neck where she swept her hair to the side and plucked the zipper of the dress in her bent fingers and tugged it downward.

Without a word she made one boneless shimmy and turned the perfectly fitting dress into a pool of fabric that seemed too insubstantial to have ever covered the amount of flesh that it had. And it was a lot of flesh. She was tall for a woman, and long of leg, lean muscle and soft curves joined perfectly along the frame of an athlete who could have modeled lingerie or a swimsuit model who could have won a freestyle race in a real pool. The black lace thong she wore matched the bra, and he knew enough about women to know that the set was elegant and expensive, but that knowledge didn't make him want to tear it off any less. Her legs and ass were as toned and perfect as he remembered; or more toned and matched to the ones that he carried around with him in his heart and imagination. She bent deliberately in front of him, one hand on the bed for balance, and the other unfastened the delicate buckle of her shoes, one after the other so that she could step free of them.

She reached behind herself and unhooked the bra to let it drop to the pool of fabric underneath her and then divested herself of the tiny thong with two quick movements of her thumbs. She never made eye contact or acknowledged that he was in the room until she'd slid into the hotel room bed covers. The look she gave him carried weight, history, and need, and then she rolled so that her back was to him. The gun went back into the drawer and his t-shirt pulled over his head in a practiced tug. His pants dropped onto an ottoman, and then he slid naked in beside her. He'd barely settled himself when she arched back into him so that her body lined up against his in a long, graceful curve and pulled his arm over her shoulder so that she could hold it against her chest. Once he was in place, she gave one more little squirm, took a deep breath, and seemed to be asleep almost immediately.

He lay there holding her a long time before he was able to drift off, the smell of her hair and her perfume faint in his nose, but somehow permeating the room. How much later he didn't know, he awoke with some alarm, not knowing where he was, or what had awakened him, but he found that she had turned in his arms so that she faced him, her face burrowed into his neck and one long leg draped over his. He felt her eyes open and shut, eyelashes against his skin, and felt her breathing as she tried to pretend it was regular, that she was asleep, but knowing that it wouldn't fool him. He waited, a hundred count, and then a thousand count, then he lost track. Finally, he felt her lips move against his neck instead of her eyelashes. Her heel against the back of his thigh made an almost imperceptible pressure that signaled her movement against him. She slid her leg up his and then back down, ran her foot across his outer thigh and then used her instep to push against his thigh and roll him to his back. Her fingers ran lightly across his chest as her inner thigh ran up and down and against his outer. Her knee bumped gently, over and over, against his groin.

Her mouth was against his ear, his jaw, his throat, and then with one movement, her leg kicked them both free from the bed covers. She used the heel of the same leg to hook his and pull herself astride him. She sat for a moment just above his knees and took his cock in a languid hand. He spasmed under her touch, his cock going from hard to rigid, and his breath coming in with a sharp sip. She smiled at his reaction and then posted up so that she could place the tip of his cock against the opening to her center. Her eyes locked with his and she slowly sank down onto his length. The velvet heat of her stole his thoughts, his memories, and his humanity and he was left with only the animal need to slam upward into her, but even that he somehow fought to prolong the exquisite torture of easing into her one millimeter at a time.

Time went away as she used her hands on his chest to gain leverage and grind against him. She didn't so much move up and down as she rolled liquidly above him. Her hard nipples drew his attention and he reached for them ran them delicately between his fingertips, and then harder until she moaned and her nails clenched into his chest. Then his hands were exploring softly and roughly, slowly and quickly, gently and with demand until he couldn't stand anything more than to clutch desperately at her ass and thighs and drive upward with his hips and heels. Later, much later, how much later neither of them knew except to notice the shortening shadows in the room as light snuck between them through the insecure drapes, with a gasp and the realization that he'd lost control and couldn't last a moment longer, a low vibration started within him.

She hasted then, bouncing and grinding harder and faster until his orgasm caught hold, gained strength, and flushed over him. The spurting and vibrating of him within her triggered her orgasm and the clenching of it caused some secondary yet greater sensation within him that was even greater than the orgasm that had only a moment gone seemed impossibly intense and pleasurable.

When they had both stopped moving, when breathing approached something like normalcy she eased off of him, and unexpectedly took his wet and still semi-hard cock into her moth for a moment and the unexpected sensation was too much to bear. He whimpered, but no sound came from him, and then he was trying to recover, dazed, spent, and covered in his sweat and hers.

When he settled once more, she was already wearing the dress again, and the heels were hooked on her fingers, dangling at her side. The bra and underwear she dismissed, and without a backward glance she disappeared from the room with the almost silent click of the door and light beginning to enter the room's corners in earnest. He stared at the ceiling, the evidence of their encounter more mental than physical now that he was licked clean, and pondered the thought that throughout the night neither of them had spoken a word, and that the whole thing could easily have been a dream.