Research

         Celeste stood behind her lab partner, reading the screen. The words seemed to blur. It was 3 a.m., and the cup of coffee she'd mainlined an hour ago seemed to have worn off. Michael must have felt it too. He rolled his neck painfully on the chair back.

         "What do you think, Celeste?" He tilted his head back to look at her upside down. She gazed down at him. His more-salt-than-peppered hair brushed the backs of her fingers where they propped her up on the chair back. She'd always been fascinated by that hair, by the unruly curls scattered with scant regard across the back of his collar. She had wondered for months if it was as soft as it looked. The rhythmic Celtic music that he loved seemed to pulse in her ears and all around her. Celeste didn't answer. A strange calm stole over her. Her body was so tired, so heavy. She let her mind float away, his question just one more leaf eddying on the river of her consciousness.

         Consciously closing her mind to the little voice that screamed impropriety, she closed her eyes in response, slowly splaying her fingers and feeling them sink deeper into his hair. The surprised hiss of his breath was barely audible. Her strong fingers began a rhythmic motion, gently releasing the tension in his neck and shoulders. The release of his held breath was a soft groan. She felt him relax beneath her hands, head moving with her motions like a sunflower following the sun. Her own eyes were closed and heavy, her consciousness suspended, her being concentrated in her hands, in the fingers that found every tired and sore spot of his neck.

         Her hands moved strongly, gently, surely. Having breached propriety, they were bold and knowing. Her fingers crept up his neck, cupping his strong jaw, tracing the planes of his jawbones and circling over his temples. She lifted his glasses away and traced cool healing across the expanse of his brow before coming to rest in the cornsilk of his hair.

         Celeste rested them there a moment, her eyes opening a shade. She contemplated Michael, his familiar face soft with pleasure. A smile tickled the corner of her mouth. She liked that look on him. He was a genuinely good person, one of the very few, and she was lucky to be working with him. He was a delight: smart, funny, and her best friend. Neither of them deserved hours like they were keeping tonight.

         Then, taking her by surprise, his hand crept to where hers was resting, lifting it. He laid its back against his slightly stubbly cheek, then turned it over. Her soft, moist palm was up, and Celeste saw it trembling. Her breath was caught in her chest, and she watched as he slowly ran his thumb across the sensitive plain of her palm. A shudder ran through her suddenly charged body. He swung the chair around to face her, and she stood looking down into his eyes: his soft eyes, his sad eyes, his laughing eyes. A fury of emotions swept her, leaving her weak. She sank down onto the floor between his knees, her eyes still searching that kindly face.

         "Don't kneel to me, 'Les." He said, his voice husky, lifting her hands. She rose to her knees in compromise, placing her hands against his chest for balance. The blood roared in her ears and she trembled, even as she could feel him quivering beneath her hands. She felt the heat of his hands on her back, the weight of his arms as they slid to encircle her, and she was gone.

         His lips were sweet; soft, gentle and tentative. Celeste was rocked by the rightness of his embrace. When the kiss ended, he sat back a little, looking at her still cradled in his arms. "Okay?" He asked. She nodded. He shook his head a little in disbelief with a wry smile. "Oh, Les...you are an angel." He murmured. "What the heck are you doing teasing this geeky old researcher?"

         Celeste grinned up at him. "How many times do I have to tell you what a great catch you are? I'm just putting my money where my mouth is. Or vice versa, as the case may be."

         Mike was suddenly serious. "Are you sure about this? I'm not what you deserve, Les."

         She caressed his cheek with a palm. "You are so much more than I deserve, Mike. You honor me."

         He raised his eyes to heaven. "And me so flustered I don't even have a snappy comeback."

         She worked at the buttons of his shirt, hushing his protests about his body. "No apologies." She admonished. Her hands and lips found the broad smooth expanse of his lightly muscled chest. "Beautiful..." She breathed. He shuddered as her lips trailed across his fevered skin.

         "The door," he got out, "...lock the door." She moved to do so, but when she turned, she found him behind her, eager hands on her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts. She closed her eyes, allowing her body to rest against his skin. His nimble fingers worked her buttons, and her dress, loosened, began to slip away. She clutched automatically at it, and his soft voice thrummed against her shoulder. "No apologies, remember?" She released her hold on the fabric and it slid from her, puddling at her feet. In an instant her breasts were freed, swollen and excited. She stood before him in her pantyhose and pumps, the quintessential workingman's secretary fantasy. Looking down at herself as she stripped off her nylons, she blushed crimson. She moved to cover them, but it was too late. Smiling SpongeBob faces peeped out from around her fingers. Why couldn't she have been wearing her sexy panties today? Why had she chosen THESE?

         "It's okay." He said, his voice grave. "I'm wearing my Smurfs." In the next moment he caught his breath. His jeans were becoming uncomfortable, a not-unfamiliar sensation when he was near her, even with her clothes on. He prayed for stamina as her fingers began to liberate him from his Levi's.

         She suddenly stopped. "Oh my God!" He heard her say in an amused tone as his jeans slipped down his legs. He opened his eyes.

         "What? Is it my chicken legs?"

         "You really ARE wearing Smurfs!" She grinned. He shrugged eloquently with a littleboy grin. "And from the look of things, I'd say Happy Smurf's glad to see me."

         Kicking free of the denim, he pulled her gently to him. His lips caressed the sensitive side of her neck, beneath her hair. "There is no Happy Smurf." He murmured, tickling the skin. She wriggled, giggling.

         "Grumpy? Sleepy?...Doc?" She breathed, barely able to concentrate.

         "Nope. Those are dwarves." His lips trailed across her jawline to her lips, making her tremble. She lost her train of thought.

         "...No..? Who is it then...?" She whispered weakly.

         "Just me." He shifted position suddenly, and placed the full extent of his arousal against the apex of her thighs, quivering against the thin fabric constraints of his boxers.

         "Oh Mike...please..." Her body was aflame, and the ache deep inside her suddenly seemed desperate, urgent. For a crazy, disjointed moment she felt as if she'd explode the moment he filled her. Her fingers tugged at his boxers, lifting them free. He was wonderful, very adequate and very eager to be exactly where she wanted him to be. "Where?" She asked, a little breathlessly.

         "Inside you." He quipped, but an edge of urgency had crept into his voice despite himself. She fixed him with a mock-stern look. "Okay, okay..." He looked around in desperation, and with a grin, let her go. "Excuse me." He took his suit jacket off the coat tree and spread it on the floor. "There you go, darlin. Can't think of a better use for the damned thing."

         He joined her on the floor. She took him in her arms, as hungry as a flytrap welcoming in a moth, until his slim hips were cradled in the saddle of her own, guiding him in. The warmup had been slow and wonderful; she was sleek and ready. Her body greeted him, savoring the great pleasure of the stretch to accomodate, the thrill of his hitting bottom. She heard his gasp of pleasure and felt it against her skin. Holding him close, she moved with him. Her senses were alive. The good male-smell of him was intoxicating.

         His breath caught, and she whispered "Yes.." She felt his pace stutter, his body tense. She placed a hand on his lower back, keeping him deep within her, and felt him go, like a thousand particles of shooting stars in the wake of a comet. In that single fine moment she was his all, his everything...the only woman on earth. She was all-powerful, and they were one. When he collapsed, spent, she held him within her, cradling his head on her shoulder and stroking his hair. As he slowly melted within her, she felt herself pulsing around him, the residue of her enjoyment. Her body felt heavy with her unspent orgasm, but she was peaceful and happy. There was a warm burn of love in her breast for this rare creature curled against her, this perfect man captured deep inside her.

         After a moment he propped himself up on one arm to study her. "I'm sorry." He said. "I didn't please you."

         "You pleased me, oh, yes." She said with a soft smile, caressing his face. "You please me. You." She placed a hand against his heart to demonstrate. Her eyes met his, warm with something new and naked.

         "Aw, dammit, Les..." He moaned, his voice unsteady. "You're gonna make me say something I don't wanna have to say..."

         "You don't wanna?" She asked, dismayed.

         "Nope."

         "...Why not?" She asked after a moment, nonplussed.

         "You're my best friend, and a damned good partner. What do I want to foul it up for?" He pointed down at himself. "And you shut up down there!"

         Celeste rolled, dumping him off and sitting on top of him. She grasped his face in both her hands. "I love you." She said, then smiled sweetly.