The Game
Author: Diana Battis (All4Mulder@aol.com)
Distribution: Ok for Gossamer. Others just ask, I usually say yes.
Classification: Withheld at author's request
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Summary: Learning to play can be dangerous.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it!
Author's Comments: A big thank you to Kristy, beta par excellence, for her time, patience, and ruthlessness. This wouldn't have been possible without her!
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback!
E-mail me -- All4Mulder@aol.com
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Part One
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Watching me.
Someone is watching me.
My eyes scan the food court, searching for something, someone, to explain this sensation. And that's when I notice him, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest.
He is staring at me, his eyes probing. I feel as though they look through me, into me, seeing things not meant for public display. He nods to me, and I feel a shock of awareness as I meet his eyes.
I look away. But my eyes are drawn back to him.
He is still watching me. Though he isn't handsome in the classical sense, he has an interesting face. It looks "lived in". He's in his late-thirties, tall and lean, with dark hair. He is wearing jeans, tight jeans that hug his narrow hips and emphasize the strength of his legs. A dark jacket hangs open, exposing the white shirt underneath.
Straightening up, he moves away from the wall and walks toward me. His movements are loose and easy, but I sense his nervous energy beneath the surface.
"Hello. This is quite a place, isn't it. Do you come here often?" A half smile touches his mouth, and he tilts his head in inquiry. His tone is mocking, and I don't reply. I force myself to look away.
Big mistake. He takes my silence as an invitation, and falls in beside me. He is much taller than I am, and I notice he instantly matches his stride to mine.
We walk without speaking, the sound of footsteps our only communication. His body is relaxed, his movements graceful. I am not comfortable, and he is aware of my edginess. I think it amuses him.
My initial unease turns to embarrassment then annoyance in quick succession. Making up my mind, I stop and turn to face him. "Look, surely you have something better to do with your time. I have some errands to run, and I don't need your help." Turning on my heel, I veer to the right, heading for the nearest store, "Sweet Expressions". I walk past the banner exhorting us to "Remember Mom!" and enter the shop.
I am the only customer, and take the opportunity to examine the selections available. The display cases are filled with delicacies, and the aroma of chocolate is almost overwhelming. It is hard to decide what to buy, until I see the strawberries. They are large, deep red in color, with the tips dipped in dark and milk chocolate. My mom loves strawberries, and I think this may be just the gift I was searching for.
Someone enters the store and walks over to the counter to stand beside me. I don't pay any attention to the newcomer, since the clerk is ready to take my order. As she walks away to pack the berries, I casually glance up at the customer next to me. My shadow is back.
He is standing so close I can see the faint beginnings of stubble on his face. "You like strawberries? So do I." He leans in, his head dipping closer, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. "Those berries look tempting, very tempting." His voice is low and intimate. "Eating strawberries is almost a religious experience." He is not looking at the berries. Instead, his eyes are on me. "So red, and ripe, and luscious. You look at them, then you take a small taste. They're so sweet, so wet and juicy, and you want to savor the experience." As he speaks, his eyes fasten on my mouth. "One taste, and you crave another."
My lips are suddenly dry, and my tongue slides out to moisten them. Another mistake. His eyes narrow slightly as they follow the movement, and something else appears in them. Hunger. I don't think it is strawberries he craves.
"These are a gift for my mother. For Mother's Day," I add unnecessarily.
"Just the strawberries?" His hand reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear, before dropping to the counter.
"I haven't decided what else to get her."
The clerk is now back with my strawberries, and overhears the last part of our conversation. "What about flowers, dear? I know I love getting flowers. Why, when my husband was still alive he always sent me white roses for my birthday. They're my favorite."
"That's lovely," I reply. "Roses are my favorite flower, too, though I prefer yellow ones."
The woman turns to him. "Did you hear that, dear. Your girlfriend's favorite flowers are yellow roses." She winks at him. "You got to remember important things like that, you know."
"Oh, but I'm not...." I don't get a chance to finish.
"I'll keep it in mind." He answers her, but his eyes never leave my face.
It has been a while since a man has looked at me the way he does, with open admiration and something else -- desire. It forces me to remember who I am, and the choices I have consciously made. Trying to ignore him, I reach out to grab my package, and leave the shop.
I hurry through the mall, looking cautiously over my shoulder. There is no sign that I am being trailed.
I hear the soft sound of jazz as it spills out from a small music shop. It lures me inside. I love music, but I am mad about jazz. The muted wail of a trumpet, the smooth, smoky lament of a sax, the primitive throb of bass. That music speaks to the hidden Dana Scully, the one who lives deep inside me. The passionate one who feels.
The music is soothing, and the tension begins to drain out of me. I am actually enjoying myself. After choosing two discs I turn quickly, and walk right into another customer. As I raise my eyes to apologize, the words die in my throat. It is him.
I don't know how long he has been standing there, watching me. His hand reaches out to clasp my upper arm, steadying me, and I find myself pressed against the warmth of his chest. I am startled. I step away, my body burning from the momentary contact, and promptly drop my CDs.
He stoops to retrieve them, and inspects my choices before passing them back to me. His hands are beautiful, fingers long and sensitive, and they brush against mine in the exchange. I pull back as though I've been burned. I look at my hands, expecting to see tiny blisters forming from the contact, but they remain pale and unblemished. He notices my confusion, and smiles.
"Thank you." I avert my gaze, the color rising in my cheeks. I know he is aware of my discomfort, that he enjoys it. I feel like a teenager with my first crush, tongue-tied and awkward.
"You're welcome." I hear the laughter in his voice. "Jazz. It's the one true American form of music." He moves in front of me, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jacket, blocking my path. "Great music for dancing. Not many opportunities to slow dance to Alternative, but jazz, that's another story." His words conjure up images in my mind. I see myself in his arms, our bodies pressed close together, moving in time with the music.
"I'm through here, I have to leave. I ... I'm meeting someone soon." I look at my watch to lend credence to my words. He hesitates for a moment, then gives a slight shrug and moves to let me pass. With a small nod in his direction, I walk to the front of the store to pay for my purchases. I hear him follow, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
I want him to follow. The thought pops into my head, and I know it's true. I like his attentions. He is attractive, and he makes me feel like a woman. It's been a long time since anyone has done that. I want him. I finally admit the truth to myself. I want him.
I don't come to this realization easily. I've struggled against it, but I am losing the battle.
Grabbing my bag from the counter, I run out of the store. The clerk calls to me, but I don't stop. I need to get out of here, before I do something I will regret later.
*****
It is a relief to get out into the fresh air. I find myself taking deep breaths, filling my lungs. Moving swiftly, I head for my car. It's late, and the parking lot is nearly empty. My car is the only one left in this area.
Placing my purchases in the trunk, I slam it shut and walk around to the driver's side. The key is in my hand, and I am fumbling for the lock when I feel someone come up behind me.
"You forgot this."
His hand appears over my shoulder, holding something in front of my face. It is the receipt from the music I'd purchased. I watch the white paper flutter in the night air, but make no move to take it from him. He holds it out a few seconds longer, then drops his hand to my jacket. I feel his fingers probing along my hip, caressing and warm. Stop it, I scream silently, and I know I really don't want him to stop. He reaches his goal, wedging the paper into my pocket. His fingers slide out, and trail slowly over my body to come to rest at my waist.
My breathing is shallow, and I shudder at his nearness. His head dips, and he whispers into my ear. "I'm sorry if I made you feel ... uncomfortable back there. That was never my intention."
His breath moves along my cheek, and his lips seek the lobe of my ear, tugging it gently before using his tongue to swirl along its shell-like shape.
Things are moving too fast. I need to think. But it's hard to be rational with his mouth moving over me. I can't help myself, I lean back against him, allowing him access to my throat. His lips travel down my neck, placing light kisses along its length, now and then stopping to nip at this sensitive area before using his tongue to soothe it. I fight back a moan as his mouth moves down to my shoulder, and his tongue explores the depression there.
"You know, this could be the start of a beautiful relationship." His lips are back at my ear, and his hand steals around my waist to pull me closer. I tremble in anticipation. I am losing myself, transforming, morphing into someone I don't know. A rebirth, and twice as scary. There is no guide around to teach me the rules. Only he is here.
Unable to stand the torment any longer, I turn in his arms. My eyes meet his, I am begging, without words, for an end to his teasing. He lowers his head to place small kisses on the corners of my mouth, and his tongue traces the fullness of my lower lip. Teasing, teasing ... would he never kiss me? I moan, "Please..." He smiles and covers my lips with his.
Passion erupts, white hot, and I struggle to get closer to him, like a moth to the flame. I cling to him, parting my lips to afford him full entry. His tongue slides smoothly into my mouth, to duel erotically with mine in a battle where no one is the loser.
Our bodies wedge tightly together, like two pieces of a puzzle that are finally connected. His hand moves, and I feel him tug the shirt from my jeans. I shudder as the warmth of his palm connects with my flesh. He moves his hand slowly, his fingers caressing my waist, then trailing around to my stomach. They push lower, working their way beneath the waistband of my jeans. His fingers circle my navel and skim over the lace of my panties, before gliding up to my breast.
My nipples are so tight, and my breasts, cupped by the silk bra, ache to have his hands there instead. Almost as if he can read my mind, I feel his fingers slip over the top of my bra before sliding under the silky material. They find their target, cupping my breast and slowly circling the nipple, and the hard nubbin of flesh puckers even more at his touch. He rubs his thumb over it, back and forth, each pass a pleasurable torment, driving me wild. And still we kiss. Hard and long, wet and sweet. We can't seem to get enough of each other.
His body crushes mine against the coldness of the car door. I grind my pelvis against him, aching for more. He groans in reaction, and presses tighter. I can feel his arousal now, and my core liquefies in response.
The glare of headlights catch us in its beams, and like startled deer we break for cover. I am gasping for breath, disoriented. I feel abandoned. He shields me from the light, and my hands, trembling badly, automatically move to adjust my clothes.
We are again covered by darkness. He pulls back from me completely, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, eyes half closed and breathing still erratic. I stand there, dazed by powerful emotions, incapable of rational thought. The facade of control I project is irretrievably shattered. It leaves me raw and exposed. His hand lifts, reaching for me, but I am afraid of his touch, of the desires it provokes. "No," I whisper. His hand falls.
Turning away, still trembling, I manage to unlock the car and get in. My fingers are awkward and clumsy, fumbling until I finally fit the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and the tires screech on the asphalt as I pull away.
Chancing a look in the mirror, I see him, arms folded across his chest, still standing where I'd left him. Watching me.
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End of part one
Go to part two
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