#usft cw

airflow rips through the soft curls of her hair - the brightness of the midday sun hanging high overhead accentuating the smell of hot leather, steel, and burning rubber. muted green, sixties model. complete with a cream coloured bench seat, which perfectly accommodates a constant craving of closeness. and fancy that - she'd been gracious enough to let him drive. but tucked beneath a bare arm, she can't help the restlessness that rises from the need to tease. close never quite feeling close enough . . . especially after some time away. she just can't help it! seeing him so casual, happy . . . in his element?

thin straps of her flowy, cropped tank slip from the perch of her shoulder - lip trapped between her teeth, while the idle motion of toying with his fingertips breaks to rest a hand upon his thigh. at first she simply runs a thumb along the hard muscle clearly defined there, noting the way it jumps beneath her touch while her head turns. hair whipping across her half-concealed expression. though as her dominant hand begins crossing further, she mindfully tucks her head underneath of his jaw. nipping at the skin there, until her tongue crudely soothes and traces the hard line. grin peaking against a shifting throat.

meanwhile, fingers dance along the inner part of his thigh - however patience allows for little preamble. slowly coming to slide them between his legs and grind a palm against the now subtle definition that she's quick to identify. "did'ja miss me, jay?" her own shoulders pull inward to aid in her bust-line falling lower, exposing her more readily while she leans back in time to catch his eye.

she tisks softly, proceeding to thumb along his length. opposite hand synchronously endeavouring to pop the button at his waist. "careful - be a good boy n' keep those pretty brown eyes on th'road fer me, mm'kay?"

"Easy, sweetheart."

a single exhale empties the vulcan's lungs - half, vulcan - fact so immeasurably apparent beneath the skillful hands of the doctor. torso made a sloped concave, crumpling in on itself as he submits his form to a rather violent shudder. if he so desired, naturally, spock could tap deeper into his subconscious, to . . . suppress the physical sensations inherent in the careful exploration made by the doctor's hands, tongue, and mouth. his curiosity, evidently, proving every bit as practiced as his hands. it could even be classed as rather clinical, the drifting of his eyes in probing study of each of spock's reactions. though there was very little that mccoy did which appreciably lacked a certain degree of . . . passion. even if it were, almost, tempting him to train himself more vehemently to resist. those clear, blue eyes are thoughtful as they stare up at him through the thicket of wiry chest hair, barely masking the obvious green flush of his skin. that which rises, even, to the tips of his upswept ears. however, the lack of said perception would undoubtedly render the purpose of this experience moot. difficult, as when certain feelings become too intense, he must inevitably stop himself from drawing from it even instinctively.

he forgets that he has not drawn another breath, until his cognizance processes the nature of the question. beginning to respire through his open mouth in great heaves of his torso. neck lifting his head as to better regard the doctor, with eyes further blackened by the dilation of his pupils remaining hidden by the lowering of his lids. spock nods, rushed. "yes, leonard." he confirms, his voice's register bottoming out. so too taking the form of a low, rough whisper. willing his jaw not to harden as lips remain parted. mccoy likely having produced his desired result. "i do, indeed." he swallows, brows lowered. and as his fluttering eyelashes bid head to meet again with the pillow below, his next exhale is rather audible. lungs filling the space between his ribs and vacating it again with each inhalation. for each touch of the doctor's hands, swept over hips, or otherwise places much more . . . intimate . . . bring with them a brand new rush of emotions, straining tantalizingly at his mind. the surge of human pride, of adoration. all directed towards him. every waking thought, every shimmer of brilliance the doctor having to offer breathing, singing, sighing - only for him. shamefully absorbing such a crystalline, cascading river that washes from the base of his chest, down to pulse alongside where the mess of him is being made - where his eyes have not the courage to consider - with an astounding greed. he welcomes them like never before. seeking them, as they never quite diminish. each bringing with it a new note to the chorus, soothing and overwhelming him all at once.

the tendons which line his hands relax as long, olive fingers of one will themselves to detach from where they clutched - near to snapping woven threads of the sheets below him. nerves endings alight while they seek to caress along the structure of the doctor's cheeks. trembling beneath the present stimulation of not only his body, but also his mind, wracking through his physical form. he even finds himself wishing - the thought almost shocking him entirely - that the doctor could sense his resounding internal replies. the tenderness, the trust. that he allows himself to feel. for him. "your mind is quite beautiful, doctor." he breathes, lowly. and it feels what he presumes to be like a release of some kind. far from what he'd like to say, but more than he'd have allowed himself, otherwise.