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You always knew it would be this way, you think, as he bends you in his arms. He is hard and oh, so hot and he is kissing you with the primal gasp of the asphyxiating when life-support is unexpectedly returned. Your tongues race to explore each other and you parry yours with an obscene precision that would easily translate for any adult member of any humanoid race.

As always, he understands your unvoiced order, and now his hands are in your pants. He is kneading your ass and pressing you against himself the way you have ached to do to him. His breathing is ragged and his eyes roll back. He says the words you have always known but never heard--well, not from him. You would answer if you could, but now his mouth is swallowing yours again.

Somehow your shirt comes off and his hands are swirling over your skin. You move against him, but it is not enough. Your hands pull the clasp at his waist with too much force. Something tears, but he is in your hand at last.

"Jim!" He chokes your name into your mouth--at least you assume that is what he said. He drops his head and peppers your face, your neck, the lines of your chest with little kisses, repeating your name each time.

The bunk is right there, and so you fall onto it. You'd think two men of intelligence would have thought of that before. The clothes are long gone; you both are naked and in a tangle of skin and limbs, he is doing things to you that you have only known in dreams.

Using all your might, you break free and pull up where you want to be. Finally, after all his time, you wrap your lips around one luscious, pointed ear.

He groans and shivers down the length of his body. He jerks his head away from your mouth and casually shifts your weight. His fingers should hurt where they hold you, not that you would stop him if they did. You may not have the same strength of grip, but you have the same strength of need and you both have been deprived for far too long.

"Spock--?" you murmur.

"Yes," he says and turns over the way you like. The view is splendid, but the invitation is beyond resisting one moment longer. You stroke yourself once, and then you take him down.

You mount him and he calls out for you. You stop and hold him in your arms as best you can. His breathing slows just perceptibly.

"All right?" you ask.

"Please, Jim," he whispers, "I need you. Hurry." He squeezes himself tight around you, and so hurry you do.

He gasps into the pillow; you can't tell if it is from pleasure or distress, but you are much too far gone to care. Again, you will have to trust him to act for the good of both of you, because for you there is no more thought; he has reduced you to base, instinctive need. Time and space and have all gone blank and you have forgotten everything else except the incipient orgasm tearing at your gut.

And then you come. And then, falling into an abyss of darkness, you forget that too.

You jerk awake, snapping your neck as you look up from the desk. You are disoriented. Your heart is hammering and the warm ooze in your trousers is seeping down toward the chair.

What woke you? The door? "Come," you say, but there is no one there. No one entered; did someone leave?

Spock! He was here, briefing you---something about Flint? What was it? It's the damnedest thing; you can't quite remember. You look around, but your cabin is empty. You relax and let out a breath as you reach inward for your composure. Good thing he left; your command image doesn't need him seeing you in this state.

Let alone using that telepathy to discern why.

You shake your head at the weakness of your inner self. Maybe it was Flint's brandy. Maybe it was just the length of the day or maybe you even have a touch of the flu yourself. You are clammy with sweat. You hope that you aren't getting sick.

What was it that Spock had wanted?

You wipe your hand across your forehead and reach for some inchoate not-a-memory where the tingle of your brow tries it's best to aver that the flat of Spock's hand very recently had lain.

But that can't be; Spock would never-- Even if he had, surely you would have remembered--something of it.

You rise and walk to the back compartment to towel off and to change. The inside edge of the gold velour is moist as well. You wonder if some of Flint's secrets wore off on you; you haven't done that since you were seventeen.

On impulse, in place of the fresh uniform, you grab some sweat pants instead. Despite the dream, that power nap did wonders. You're feeling pretty good and should hit the gym while you have a chance.

Or maybe it was that shot of prophylactic fever medication McCoy made you take, you think, as you drape a towel around your neck. Around your neck. The towel rubs over the same sensitive skin that the spectral Spock had licked and nibbled and sucked and raked with his dry tongue....

Firmly, you push those thoughts aside. Doing so has become quite routine. The captain is not permitted that kind of feeling, even if Vulcans--well, even if half-Vulcans--were. And, of course, they aren't.

Right. Spock. He'd been here just a little bit ago. What was it he had come to tell you? Something about the ryetalyn?

Oddest thing, this. You never used to forget like this.
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