By Mickey M.
Another Kiss Ficlet, based on "The Art of
Kissing", by William Cane.
"I think you're getting way too used to this."
You leaned back and nudged Lance's thigh with the back of your head, grinning
when all he did was rumble a soft agreement.
"Mmhmm."
It'd become a post-show habit, all of you collapsed around
the room, piled over one another on the beds, or the floor, whatever surface
was handy. Joey'd been the first one to shove his feet into your lap one night,
asking if you could rub his feet, the muscles aching with too many hours of
practice and performance. You'd teased about foot odor and catching strange
diseases, but it wasn't a problem to help him out. He returned the favor
without blinking, then moved away to curl up with JC, Justin stretched out in
their laps, watching TV with eyes mostly closed.
Lance followed Joey a few nights later, hesitant and shy, like
he was asking a big deal out of you. You'd assured him it was no big deal; his
feet weren't any worse than Joe's, after all -- after a shower -- and gave him
a quick, thorough massage.
And it gave you a chance to touch him, which was all you
asked for these days. You lived for the moments when you got to stroke that
warm, smooth, nearly flawless skin, with no one the wiser, including Lance.
Once in a while became every night. Which landed you
straddling the knife edge of pleasure and pain. Pleasure, to touch him; pain,
because it was a freakin' foot massage.
And then he got creative with positions, eschewing the
standard feet-in-lap formula. Which was where you were now, completely in hell,
surrounded by Lance, alone with Lance. One small couch in the room, and he was
on it, his legs draped over your shoulders so you both could face the TV, could
both watch the badly-dubbed Star Trek marathon currently playing. With Lance
wearing shorts. While you massaged his feet. Life was horribly unfair at times,
you decided, still rubbing and stroking his feet, trying to concentrate on
Worf's speech about Klingon honor.
Unfair or no, you couldn't think of one other place you'd
rather be. If his feet were all you got to touch, so be it. It was better than
nothing, right? And--bonus, tonight. None of the J's were present. Just you,
Lance, and a foot rub.
Lance's fingers tickled your head, twirling through the
dreads that were your current fashion statement -- mostly because management
hated them. "But you're good at it." A pause, the length of a couple
heart-beats, and he twirled another dread, his voice a half an octave lower
when he added, "It feels good, too. Your, um. Hands."
This time you laughed out right, trying to ignore the
catch in your chest. His voice. Fuck, you wanted to worship when he rumbled
like that. "Got a massage fetish, Bass?" You kneaded his feet again
and he laughed with you. If his voice were higher you'd call it a giggle, but
voices like Lance had didn't giggle. It just didn't work.
"If you were the masseuse, I might develop one."
You tilted your head back to see his face, wondering if
you heard what you thought you heard in his voice, but he was concentrating on
the TV, only the faintest tinge on his cheeks giving anything away. Interesting.
Too bad he didn't appear inclined to move so you could, say, climb up over him
and kiss him senseless.
The sound of his breathing increased slightly, a little
louder, a little harsher. He shifted his legs once, restlessly, and warm skin,
lightly roughened with fair hairs, brushed your cheek. His natural body musk
was all around you, a combination of salt and sweat, and heat and soap, and you
took a deep breath, filling your lungs. Your stomach coiled tightly when he
moved again, and you found yourself sliding your hands up his calves, stroking
him lightly. Above you, all movement and sound ceased; the only thing you could
hear now was Captain Picard shouting something to Riker and Data. You didn't
think Lance was even breathing, right now.
You turned your head just a little, fingers still teasing
gently at the soft spot behind his right knee, and pressed your lips to that
spot, open and vulnerable, and so sweet-tasting you wanted more instantly. He
moaned softly and twitched under your lips when you increased the pressure,
sucking lightly on his skin, a wet, open-mouthed kiss to sensitive skin. His
fingers tightened in your hair.
"Chris--"
Fuck. His voice was hoarse, rough with--something. You
pulled back and licked where you'd kissed, then kissed once more, further up on
the side of his thigh, conveniently bared to you. His skin was warm beneath
your lips, so warm, and you wanted to see if his mouth was just as warm. If it
was slick and hot and welcoming. You pressed one more kiss to his inner thigh,
breathing in deeply, and the sound of his strangled moan -- your name -- ripped
through you like a lightning bolt. You twisted around and pushed up onto your
knees, his legs falling away, and he met you halfway, his mouth already partly
open, more than ready for you.
It was as hot and wet and wonderful as you'd imagined, his
mouth open and inviting, tongue stroking over yours teasingly, darting around
your mouth eagerly. You loved the sounds he made when you pressed him back on
the couch, Star Trek forgotten, nothing for either of you just now but the two
of you pressed together, mouths feeding off each other.
But you thought you might always like kissing the back of
his knee, just for the reaction it got that first time, when it was unexpected,
and brand-new.
~fin~