More Than You Think You Are Part ten
The food was great and I was having a hard time eating.
I had no idea what Skinner would like, so after we got home, had a quick grope session and put away my newest acquisitions, I found the phone, a take out menu, and went a little wild. I just kept ordering things that sounded good until Walter pulled the phone out of my hand and gave the Chinese restaurant our address. Forty-five minutes later, to my delight, he let me put the bill on my card, and then ended my thank you kiss as abruptly as my phone call earlier with a gentle complaint:
“Keep that up and we’ll be skipping supper.”
I didn’t seriously contemplate skipping the meal until we were both seated on the couch, and I was picking at ginger beef and watching Skinner eat. He moved his chopsticks with a kind of grace that was unexpected, at least to me. When I asked him where he had learned to use chopsticks, he simply said, “Vietnam,” and didn’t offer any more information than that.
I on the other hand, was using a fork.
I’d managed to put more sticky rice and vegetables on the couch, my t-shirt and those great purple sweatpants (which turned out to be just as comfy as I imagined they would) than I had into my mouth. After watching me struggle for only a couple of minutes, Skinner had abandoned his plate, gone to the kitchen, and returned moments later to hand me a bottle of beer and a fork, all without comment. I think I blushed anyway.
The beer was cold and delicious, and after a brief juggle, I took a far more confident bite out of a fork-speared bit of spicy meat and vegetables.
That’s when my head started playing tricks on me, and I started seriously thinking about bed.
I remembered Scully teasing me about not being able to use chopsticks.
I remembered that she loved lemon chicken, and always picked the water chestnuts out of her chop suey.
I remembered sitting next to her just as I was sitting next to Skinner now, talking about her—her brothers, I think. And my sister.
I remembered her flipping the cap off a cold Sam Adams with practiced ease, and laughing when I teased her about it like she’d teased me.
That’s when the food started to taste less appealing.
A small angry voice was berating me in my head, wanting to know why I could find all the specifics of dinner with a friend, and couldn’t remember that Skinner didn’t like mushrooms, as was evidenced by the growing mound of them pushed to the side of his plate. That same strident voice was suggesting I wasn’t much of a lover at all if I couldn’t bring up even one specific meal together. And then, quieter but no less hysterical, was that tiny hurt voice, the one that nothing seemed to drown out. The one that reminded me that Scully was dead and it was all my fault.
I set my plate down with enough force to make Skinner give me a questioning glance.
“Done.” I told him needlessly. I looked at his plate, looked at him, felt guilty, and wondered how to show him that even if I didn’t remember all the specifics of having him in my life, I knew how lucky I was now and that I was grateful.
I finished my beer in two huge swallows and took his mostly empty plate from him. He might have considered complaining, but didn’t argue when I straddled his lap and took his face in my hands. I barely had time to register the feel of bristly skin with my fingertips before he was pushing my hands away, leaving me hurting just long enough for that little voice to get a bit louder, and then he was removing his glasses with a crooked smile.
“I don’t need them for close work,” was all he said. I grinned back and let him pull me forward.
He tasted like beer and teriyaki and love and I dove in tongue first, discovering to my delight that I didn’t need glasses for close work either, and with only minor pauses for the occasional gasp or groan, we stayed joined at the lips while my fingers fumbled at his shirt buttons, and his hands kneaded my thighs like so much bread dough.
When his chest lay bare beneath my questing hands, I scratched softly through the crisp hair there and over nipples that peaked instantly at my touch. His arms came around me then, and he cupped my buttocks to pull me even closer. Our groins brushed and some sound came out of me, low and desperate as I pulled off his mouth and rested my face in the warm curve of his neck.
He murmured my name and rocked me forward and back across his lap; I could feel his cock growing harder each time he pulled me closer, and my own body responding in kind. Every gentle thrust of his hips lowered the volume on my inner voice, and when he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of my sweats to stroke and squeeze the naked flesh he found there, it shut up completely.
Gratified, but not satisfied, I tasted the heated skin of his neck, licked and bit and blew gently, feeling each move I made reflected in a tremor throughout his body and loving that as much as I was loving the taste of him, salty and warm. My palms were still braced against his chest, but not moving so much now that he had pulled me forward and not let me slide back, so they were pinned flat against him. In contrast, his hands were moving constantly, fingers dipping into the curve between my cheeks, and then out again, never in one place long enough for me to worry about it, just long enough to tease and make me dimly realize where this particular make out session might be leading.
And I knew it would be just the thing. To show him what he meant to me. And maybe put that nasty guilt laden voice to rest for good.
A sharp bite on his shoulder and a push just hard enough to put space between us, and then we were looking at each other. I panted into his face and he didn’t seem to mind, just gazed at me with eyes half closed, smoldering dark like November leaves.
“Bed?” I offered.
His response was more growl than real words, and he stood abruptly, now holding me up by my ass until I found my footing; it took a minute, and I wondered about bodies that were built with leg muscles that softened in direct proportion to the hardness of the dick between them. Then he was kissing away any thoughts I might have had that didn’t involve getting up the stairs as quick as possible, shedding clothes in a clumsy frantic manner along the way, and finally falling together onto the bed.
In moments his hands were back on my ass, our cocks were straining and clashing with one another, and his mouth was everywhere; on my lips, my eyelids, my cheeks, my nose. I struggled to get my hands between us, and Skinner pushed me onto my back, used one hand to push my arms up over my head and the other hand came to rest between my legs.
He was lying on his side next to me, and he kissed away every sound
I made as he stroked expertly a couple of times, then let his fingers dance
lightly over my balls and beneath them.
“Oh, man….” I felt a full body tremor shudder its way through me as he played at my most intimate parts, and I swear I felt the whorls of his fingerprints burning into my skin. His fingers dipped and stroked and brushed and prodded, and when I spread my legs to grant him more access, he worked a finger right inside me. I yelped a little at the sudden invasion, and gripped the arm he still had over my head from when he’d pushed my hands back.
He froze, his face inches from mine, and his eyes were full of need, but the tic was back in his jaw. I took that moment to reclaim much needed oxygen and shift my hips a little to try and decide what I was feeling. Invaded? A little. Full? Not really. Vulnerable? Maybe. But there was no doubt where my focus was, and there wasn’t room for anything else. No survivor guilt here, no nagging doubts about Skinner or what he wanted. I moved again and raised my head just enough to taste the tension building in his jaw.
He turned fractionally, so his mouth met mine, and this time the sounds were louder but swallowed up in his kiss as he pressed forward inside me and sudden hot fireworks raced up my spine from my ass to explode simultaneously in my heart and my head. My back arched and a second spasm ripped through me. He did it again, this time putting more of his weight on me so that I thrashed less violently, pinned under his body. Again. And again and again and I groaned into his mouth and found myself bucking back into each thrust of his finger. Then he was pulling out of me, leaving me feeling dazed and hollow and frustrated.
“Easy, Mulder. We’re not done--not by a long shot. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
“I know.” He had worked his way up the bed to the nightstand, letting me keep my death grip on his one arm while he reached into the cabinet and pulled out a condom and a tube of lubricant. “I want this to be so good for you. Just trust me.”
‘Trust no one’ said the voice in my head.
“I do, I do. Just—just do—“ While I tried to decide what he should be doing, he made his way back down the bed and this time insinuated his whole body between my legs. Moments later I felt his touch on me again, this time cool and slick, and twice as intense. Two fingers, and it hurt a little. My breath hitched and Skinner’s other hand made soothing motions over my stomach, then found a slow rhythm up and down the length of my still painfully hard cock. Distracted just enough, I found myself bearing down a little, presumably to make room or something, and then he found that spot inside me again, and I groaned out his name while bucking into his fist.
“Mulder?” he sounded worried with just a hint of smug.
“Good. I’m good. That’s good—ohhh, yeah….”
Every time he brushed over my prostate, his other hand would tighten almost painfully on my cock, and I was just starting to wonder if my balls were actually going to explode when all his hands (the way my nerve endings were singing, I had begun to suspect he had about fifty of them, all groping their way in and out of my body) came away from me gently, leaving me open mouthed and heaving for breath, about as sexy as a fish flopping on the shore. Dimly I heard plastic tear, but couldn’t equate it with anything, and I started to wonder if begging to cum might be a viable option at this point. And then I felt two hands on the backs of my thighs, and something much larger than a finger or two nudging at my ass.
‘We’re going to do this,’ I thought. ‘He’s going to fuck me… I want him to fuck me. I want him to make love to me.’
He pushed my legs up higher, and I tried to help and I felt a jolt of pain as he pushed forward slow and relentless.
‘He’s going to tear me apart.’
I bit down hard on my lip with a low groan and thought ‘and I *liked* this?’ and then I felt a shift, and a slide, and I heard a muted appreciative sound as Walter embedded himself deep in my body.
Another slip, and a stunning hot friction deep inside me. My cock twitched, and some startled grunting noise slipped out of me, followed by a shaky moan as Walter moved back, then forward again.
“Yes, yes-please-please-oh-please--“ My nearly inarticulate babbling was his cue to speed up, apparently, and I felt stretched even wider.
“Oh—Oh God—Oh Fox—“ Walter panted out words in time with his strokes and I automatically raised my hips higher, meeting his movements and crying out every time his cock hit my prostate. The sensation was incredible, intoxicating, blinding in a blend of pain and pleasure that was nearly undoing me. I pawed frantically at his chest and belly, and then, when another series of brutal thrusts almost forced the breath from me, all I could do was drop my arms to my sides and clutch at the sheets with a shuddery moan. I thought I heard my knuckles crack as I strangled good linen between my fingers.
I whimpered deliriously, and it turned into some animalistic keening thing when Walter forced himself even deeper, held himself in place, and wrapped one of those big mitts of his around my cock. His technique was rough and fast and almost hurting.
I could feel Walter’s full length impaling me, marking me, making me his, and when that hard column of flesh inside me twitched once, twice, and then seemed to expand even more, I let loose with a wounded animal cry of release as my own orgasm seemed to force it’s way from his balls to my cock.
“Oh, shit…” I breathed deeply, snuffling great sobs through my nose as I felt tears wetting my cheeks. Dimly I thought to myself that I couldn’t have possibly forgotten feelings like this, no matter how hard the knock on my head. And yet, and yet…there was nothing familiar here, no spark of memory to cling to. Oh, it was unbelievable, for sure, satisfying, definitely, but…
I realized at once that my legs were starting to ache, and Walter’s weight was heavy on me.
“Walter…” the word slipped out of me on a sigh.
Walter’s head came up abruptly from the pillow he’d been making of my chest, and he gave me a dazed, almost overwhelmed look. His pupils were so dark they were almost black.
“Oh, hell!” He pushed off of me with a groan, and we both sighed as his cock slipped free. I don’t know if he was feeling the same combination of loss and relief that I was, but as he rolled to one side, and I gingerly lowered my legs, feeling a deep ache starting to build inside me, I did feel his hand groping around until he grasped mine. I thought maybe I should say something, tell him he was great, or some such shit, and found I was just too tired to care. I had to admit, though, the welcoming squeeze of his hand as our fingers entwined, and the sound of my name from his lips gave me almost as much satisfaction as our coupling had.
“I love you,” he whispered.
And that gave me even more.