Title: Home Trials Part 9b
Author: RoseKira@aol.com or firstname.lastname@example.org
Series: VOY Rating: R
Disclaimer: All characters herein owned by Paramount Studios and other entities. No infringement intended.
Note: All right, partly because I simply had to write a J/P angle on this and partly because I still want J/K and my body intact...I've written two part 9's. THIS is part b, my first foray into smut and the more unsettling of the two (for you J/K'ers at least). I should point out that both versions will flow into the rest of the story,which will be J/K as well, but this puts a slightly heavier J/P emphasis on it all.
The cries of hate are as loud as drums, untamed as the sky above; but among these raging cries you can hear the whisper of love." Margerat Classe.
Personal Log: Kathryn Janeway
Addresse: Paris, Tom
Breaking free of your unexpected kiss, I steadied myself, voice distant to my own ears. Any word at all seemed lucky accomplishment, in the moment, my mind was reeling. What exactly is that old saying...'a kiss is but a kiss'? Hardly, not in my case, not where you happened to be concerned. Annoyed, I looked up, even more disconcerted by the concentration in your gaze, absorbing, drinking...
"You taste like coffee."
"Of course I taste like coffee, I always taste like coffee, coffee is my..." The absurdity of the comment drove me to indignant exasperation.
I recall that you seemed amused by the impromptu tirade, catching my chin again, fingers drifting upward, canvassing, tangling in my hair. The second kiss was more thorough, slow, teasing. "You could put Sandrine out of business with the flavors in there, Admiral. You know, Harry has an outright discouraging lack of discernment for the finer nuances of flavor and class..."
"You throw a metaphorical insult on top of a erotic compliment. Somehow, I'm not surprised." The annoyance was stronger, but being vastly overridden by other thoughts, other, baser emotions. We had moved back into the corner by then, into the slanting rays of the sunlight, and you nudged my knees apart with one of your own,
pinning me, challenging. "Paris..."
"Forget Harry, I know. Forget Torres." And you wanted to, your eyes said it, you wanted to forget the rest of the universe as much as I. Perhaps you also wanted to forget friendships and devotions, give in to your anger for a moment, unleash it upon its target. I didn't blame you.
"If you can." There, they say, lies the conscientious decision, the plunge from accident to choice. From repeat mistake to active pursuit. I made it, grasping your shoulders, shutting out guilt brutally,
wondering if you could manage the same.
You did, moving on, jerking both thumbs under the waistband of my trousers, loosening the drawstring, pulling the material to the floor. Somehow, you led me out of the boots and stockings as well, beginning short work of the sweater with one hand, the other delving beneath the folds of the material, stroking, taunting...
I managed to catch your hands for a moment, mind whirling, but you caught my eyes, shattering the dignity I was striving for, and moved on, lower, lips finding the hollow at the base of my shoulder, that one spot...and yes, by then, the memory of that night on Voyager was strong, very strong, and I was very, very lost in the mood. "Tom..."
"Hold on, Admiral." There, you had steered me to the bedroom by then, catching my stumble backward and easily lifting me onto the bed, amongst still rumpled sheets. There was a scent, still there, of sex and Klingon, and I shelved the thought almost at once, but not before wondering if she would use those Klingon sensitivities to sniff out my presence upon her return, if he would be foolish enough to try and hide it, if Harry would be among the ones to know... I didn't
too much like the end result of that possibility, but was too far gone to stop.
By the time I shook out of the reverie, you had discarded your own clothing and made way beside me, lips delving lower, hands stroking, expectantly.
"This is wrong." My voice was firmer than I hoped, dry, almost up to command par, but you either weren't listening or didn't have the mind to care, merely nodding fractionally, tensely, face strained, eyes focused in their perusal. Giving up, I gripped your shoulders, crying out as you pressed for entry.
You laughed, softly, darkly, wryly, bruising my lips again to muffle it. "The neighbors, Admiral, the neighbors."
"What do they care?" Struggling not to break down into monosyllables, I lay still, experiencing the dimming, but extraordinary, waves of pleasure. "Your spouse is a Klingon, aren't they used to it?"
Once again, thoughts best left untouched, and your decidedly unsteady answer didn't help. "One of them is the Klingon's stoic Indian. The other is his on and off again Borg bride."
Oh, gods and saints. Sinking my teeth into your shoulder with bite enough to draw blood, I closed my eyes, cursing you whole-heartedly as the climax exploded. Afterward, you moved off to the side, pulling me with you, covering us both, disregarding the bite with seeming disaffection tinged with amusement. I supposed you were used to them and closed my eyes,curling away. "I could almost say I hate you."
You didn't disagree.
It was near dawn when I woke, alone, in the airy room, still covered. Silence, of course, fate had to accentuate the guilt. I contempelated not rising at all, but the idea of wallowing in self-pity in the beds of strangers never attracted me.
You were in the kitchen, at the retro style table, padds and coffee spread out before you, all early morning clean and efficiency. You rose at my approach, expression guarded. "Coffee, strong. You look like you need it. Afterward, the dermal regenerator. I know I needed it."
The half-hearted attempt at humor fell short. "Paris..." What was it I wanted to say to you?
You moved by me, dropping the dishes in a recycler. "Your clothing is after that. Dignity and what all. Then I'm supposed to fly you back to Command, Harry will be there with your new miss..."
"You told him I was still here?"
Your gaze was sharp, amused. "It seemed a better option than telling him you weren't. Half of the fleet would have been combing Earth for you."
I downed the offered coffee grimly. "What else did you tell him?"
"That we worked out our differences. We did."
You shrugged, giving the status quo. Another mistake, another notch in the woodwork. Move out, move on. You words fell right in. "A mistake, Admiral. He understood."
I knew my tones were cynical, dry, even as I spoke, staring out the window. There, was that a movement behind the shade? What were their early morning rituals? Meditation and regeneration? "The mistakes get nicer every time."
You smirked, barely, following my gaze, and replicated a uniform, passing it into my hands. "Your regalia. Wrinkles and sex don't make good command impressions on impressionable Lieutenents."
Yes, Tom, I could've very easily said I hated you at the moment. I didn't.