Not Normally...
by jenn

Author Notes: Diane Bellomo, who always gets me in the spirit of things. And a lovely story I read a few months ago.

So it's been awhile.

I don't consider myself ordinarily lustful, but it was one of those days--hell, weeks. Repairing disaster after disaster, thanks to the Borg. God, the navigational array alone...I pushed the memory aside and continued on my little pilgrimage, not without a shudder that possibly every department head shared whenever they thought of the sheer amount of damage that still had to be repaired. The power relays alone--

Not now. I walked into Engineering with my report, saw the exhausted engineers moving around at their random tasks with all the enthusiasm of kids going to school on Saturday.

They'd glance up, move a little more quickly, and my gaze followed theirs, brief though it was--though I couldn't see anyone, I knew exactly who was standing up there, single-handedly keeping engineering well ahead of any other department in repairs.

It would be bad tactics to announce my presence--that would give her time to wonder why on earth I was dithering down here when I could be doing something useful like--oh, recalibrating the new relays or, if she got creative, she'd put me on engineering duty and send me down to clean something out--maybe some secondary power nodes or gel packs--don't get me started on the nightmare that is cleaning gel packs.

Her staff, luckily, saw me and saw living hope. This could mean that there was light at the end of their shift.

I got up to the second level undetected and crept behind a console to check out what I'd be competing against in terms of attention. It wasn't promising.

She was leaning against a completely massacred upper console--obviously gutted by her own very strong hands, with pieces hanging like entrails down the sides of a disemboweled carcass. You might ask how a Fleet officer and spoiled space brat ever saw the inside of a living animal outside biology class and you *could* ask, but I'll be damned if I'll relive the experience of Survival Training 101 just to satisfy your curiosity.

For the record, fresh meat isn't quite as tasty when the aforementioned decapitated animal seems to be looking at you afterward from across the fire.

In any case, I took a moment, considering my strategy. There wasn't one--not a *real* one. But I had a few thoughts. I straightened, putting on my most ingratiating smile, and looked down at her.


She jumped--how she did it leaning half into a console with only the tips of the toes of one foot on the floor is beyond me, but there it was. In less time than it takes to draw a breath or whisper an apology, I had furious brown eyes staring straight into mine.

"What the hell do you want, Paris?"

Hmm. She was angry, flushed, and the last thing I should have been thinking of was the fact that her uniform jacket was on the floor and her shirt was tied around her waist, leaving--not much. The tank was damp, grease stained, and--clinging. The long, bare arms had a few scratches from being thrust into broken machinery and her upper chest was flushed.

And even those narrowed eyes couldn't stop me from staring right at her extremely exposed cleavage.

As I said, it's been awhile. Neither of us had been exactly up to fun and games before she left, and we hadn't had much time since she got back--the second, and I mean the *second* she got out of Sickbay, she was planted in engineering with a cup of coffee and a stack of reports, brooding over them with something very close to melancholy satisfaction that apparently, no one could keep engineering in shape like she could. Blame the Borg for the damage she would not--blame her absence she would.

And by extension, her beleaguered engineers. Poor bastards.

"The navigational report," I answered, slowly walking around the console, taking my time. She extended a preemptory hand and I handed it over. She glanced down it, eyes flickering up to look at me ominously, then back down.

"Good." She waited, possibly for me to leave, or maybe for a reason to chew my ass out for invading the sacredness that is repairs. I smiled again. It wouldn't help much, but it did give me something to do.

"When do you get off-shift?" I asked pleasantly, leaning my elbows on the edges of the console, careful not to disturb any of the work going on within. Two strikes were already against me--I existed and I'd come into engineering. Injuring her work area would be this side of suicide.

"When this is fixed." Her fingers swept out to include all engineering. We were talking weeks.

That was *way* too long.

Her full attention was back on her work, with periodic glances up at me to see if I was interested in departing. I tried to look fascinated with the circuit board, but I couldn't help but notice that the tank was loose in the front and I could easily see that she was *not* wearing a Starfleet issue bra.

That was silk.

She finally decided that ignoring me would be the best option, since fighting would only keep me around longer and apparently, that wasn't on the schedule. Back on her toes, she dived into the gutted and dismembered console, and I admired the line of her spine, the curve of her ass--and then circled around, slowly, trying to get a thorough look at the territory available.

I'm not normally a lustful man, but this wasn't a normal time.

Carefully, I came up behind her, catching her waist. I heard her growl something, trying to straighten, and let her. She would have spun around, but the console and I caught her neatly. Head up, she turned her head, staring at me. The anger was off the scale, there was nothing in her face except shock.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I grinned disarmingly.

"Just wanted to see what you're doing, Lieutenant."

She stopped, considering.

"You aren't looking." She motioned at the console.

"Trust me, I'm looking." I bit her neck lightly, breathing in her ear, "I miss you."

She figured it out. She's smart, my little engineering genius. Her mouth set.

"This isn't the time."

Anytime is the time. Give me relative privacy (I don't require much), a few minutes, and minimal removal of clothing--a turbolift will work under the right circumstances. And relative privacy goes right out the window when its been over two weeks and I've been watching her wander around the ship in a tank top.

A *tank top*.

"I like your new hairstyle."

Men should notice these things. Notice the hair, clothes, shoes, new lipstick, and the fingernails. It's not hard and God knows, it's a hell of a lot easier than going to bed alone for a week. Or three.

She blinked, a little off-balance.

"Thanks." Wary.

"Can you take a break?" I asked, breathing it against her neck. Her head tilted, reading the mood--reading it in herself, too. I slipped a hand under her tank top and she didn't jerk away.

"This isn't the place."

I ground slightly into her, saw the dark eyes widen.

"You're serious." Nothing knocks her out of anger quicker than surprise. Without meaning to, she moved back against me, which was enough of an invitation.

I have to give it to her--she considered the benefit/risk, did the analysis, and it came up in my favor. She grinned slightly, that wondrous change in mood and demeanor that never fails to take my breath away, and wiggled back against me, running her free foot up my leg to my inner thigh.

"How quick can you make it, helmboy?" It was purr. Before I could answer, before I could even be relieved, she kissed me, biting down on my lower lip hard enough to tear the skin. She's done that seconds before walking into a briefing, minutes before I go on a mission, or worst of all, directly before shift, leaving me with an erection and a set of fantasies that impact poorly on my work performance for at least an hour--or ten. She wiggled again, settling herself against me to do it more conveniently, and I found her breast with one hand, making her growl softly.

"As fast as you want it, 'Lanna."

She reached up around my neck with one hand, drawing me down for another kiss, her other hand already loosening her pants. I helped with that, running my nails down her stomach, then a little harder when she leaned into it. Then a little farther down--

Dear God, she wasn't wearing underwear.

She grinned against my mouth and I kissed her neck, letting my teeth dig in a little, hearing her soft gasp. She shifted her hips and I pulled the pants down to just below her knees and she put more of her weight on the edge of the console.

"Hurry." It was an order. She does that sometime--my idea, suddenly it becomes hers when she agrees. Fortunately, we have an understanding--I obey, because, let's face it, most of the time, she gives orders I like. 'Take off your clothes, Tom', or 'Get the chocolate now, ensign'.

Who argues with that?

"Yes, ma'am." At least I'm not an ensign anymore and I get the fun of taking orders from a lower-ranking officer. She had a *great* time when I was ensign. I wonder if it will be as much of a turn-on now that I outrank her.

It bears thinking.

She groaned something and I pinched her nipple, heard her gasp. Over her shoulder, I could see her fingers digging into the console back before she braced her elbows on some machinery that we could only hope was stable enough for what we were about to do. She pressed her ass against mine and let out a breath when I got her bra unfastened.

"Lieutenant Torres?"

It wasn't happening, and I could actually feel something like deflation occur in my rapidly tightening pants--well, not as tight anymore.

"What is it, Carey?" Her voice sounded annoyed.

"I have the secondary warp coils tested and-"

"And what?" She realized I'd stopped and pushed back against me--hard. The wandering foot found my crotch without undue difficulty--and you may not know this about B'Elanna, but she has long toes. How she got her boot off is a question I may go to my grave never knowing.

God. I got one hand between us to unfasten them, still cupping her breast.

"Do you want to see the results?"

He sounded really close. Like, perhaps, at the bottom of the catwalk. I actually tried to care.

"Check them against Vorik's tolerance standards," she said evenly, but her voice sounded faint. I had the trousers at my ankles and the boxers followed quickly. She groaned softly when I rubbed against her.


Not so softly.

"What is it, Vorik?"

Damned Vulcan bastard.

"I need to recalculate--"

Whatever he said was lost when B'Elanna, realizing I was exposed, pushed back with an arch of her hips and I was an inch inside her. Catching her hips in one hand and bracing my feet, I pushed all the way. We breathed out together.

She was tight, she was hot, and--she was moving. One small foot on the floor, she bucked lightly against me, more to get my attention than to do any serious maneuvering--in her position, it wasn't easy. Taking a breath, Vorik's voice somewhere other than this eminently damp, warm, pleasant place, I pulled out and pushed inside her, harder. Her breath came out in a gasp that was almost a groan and she lifted herself higher on the console, her foot braced against my thigh.

"Good," she whispered.

"Lieutenant Torres?"

Nicoletti. What the hell do they do when she's not here?

"Yes." It came out breathy--perhaps to them she sounded angry. God, I hoped so.

"The plasma relays--"

"Need recalibrating."

How she could even think a straight thought was beyond me.

"They are recalibrated."

A pause. B'Elanna buried her face in her arm briefly--I wasn't quite sure whether it was in reaction to my fingers twisting her nipple or sheer frustration with the line of inane questions.

"Check the warp manifolds for debris from the warp shut-down," she said finally. I kissed the line of her bared spine--it was slick with sweat. She shuddered when I let her breast free to work a hand between her legs. "Bring your report back in five--five minutes. Now." She half turned her head and the flush on her face was telling. "Do it."

Not a problem.

Setting my feet, I pulled out, pushing in hard, forcing her body up suddenly. She groaned, back arching, as I took a firmer grip on her hip, licking my way up to her throat.


Harder. That I could do. My navigational array report bounced into the open console along with the hypospanner, and B'Elanna started whispering in Klingon. I found her mouth and she bit down into my lip again, her body trembling with the beginnings of orgasm as I pushed into her again, as hard as I could. Her fingers dug into the back of my neck as I fingered her clit lightly, rubbing it enough to make her growl, then pinching it between two fingers and she shook. And with every internal tightening, I shook right along with her. When I pulled away to breathe, she caught the corner of my jaw between her teeth, holding it so lightly--she bit down as she came, her body jerking hard against mine and I managed, somehow, not to crush her.

Just the cut of her teeth was enough. Three hard thrusts that jerked her feet off the floor and I was done, sagging against her, and we both found the floor, boots and pants tangled around our feet, unable to even see straight, much less put ourselves in some semblance of order.

"Lieutenant Torres?"

Had it been five minutes already?

"Yeah?" she answered, a little dazedly, before blinking.

"I have the report. Do you--do you want me to bring it up?" Nicoletti sounded--scared. I grinned, seeing B'Elanna glance down at herself briefly, then her head tilt.

"I'll be down to collect it before I go off shift," she answered, pushing damp hair from her forehead and giving me a slow smile. As I struggled into my pants, her hand cupped me for a minute--and as I said, I'm not normally a lustful man. Except today. "Wanna get something to eat, Tom?"

Only if she wanted chocolate.

The End