Author's website: http://unhinged.0catch.com

Disclaimer: Not mine; but it seems a shame to just leave them lying around and let all that potential go to waste.

Author's Notes: My first NC-17 Due South story. I'm so proud of myself.

Story Notes:

You barely make it inside the door before his mouth's on yours, warm and wet, tongue probing for entry, and you find yourself letting it in gladly, no resistance at all, none of the hesitance you felt whenever you tried to imagine what this would be like; to have Ray's mouth on yours, teeth clicking together as he apparently tries to devour you whole from the outside.

And dear God, why did you never realize this before? You can't be that stupid can you? You know what he's like, you've worked with him every day for almost three years. You know his impatience as well as you know your own stolidity.

Hands between your bodies now, his and yours, tugging at each others clothes as if you're going to die if you don't touch each other right, this very minute, and this too is strange, not at all what you'd dreamed of on those nights alone when the only hand you felt was you own.

Someone's growling low in their throat. You or him? He's managed to get your tunic unbuttoned, but he can't figure out the lanyard, and you have to abandon your questing under his t-shirt and undo it for him before he breaks it. You almost laugh at the thought of trying to explain to the Inspector and Turnbull how you managed to snap your own lanyard, but the laugh never makes it out because Ray Kowalski is not one to let an opportunity go past and he's already got the tunic off and on the floor, along with his jacket and boots, and his mouth still hasn't left yours.

His t-shirt is added to the pile shortly afterwards (by the simple expedient of ripping it off his body) and at last you're touching him, and oh Lord, this is nothing like you imagined; you could never adequately imagine how he would feel, hot and smooth, all lean hard muscle. He's trying to push your hands away so he can get the suspenders down and your Henley off, but you're reluctant to give up touching, afraid that perhaps you won't be allowed to do it again.

"Dammit, Frase!" He breaks the kiss finally and knocks your arms back. "If you don't let me get you outta that shirt I'm gonna fucking explode!" And of course you don't want that, so you stand passive as the suspenders are yanked down and the shirt comes off, and them he's on you again, hands running over your shoulders and down your back while his tongue dips into the hollow just below your Adam's apple, and this time you do groan out loud, and feel his laughter vibrate against your skin. "God, you are so easy."

More exploring now, exploring together, your lips occasionally meeting. You bite gently on the juncture where his shoulder joins his neck, and he slides his hands down inside the waistband of your uniform trousers.

By a process you'll never quite understand, you've managed to make it from the front door to halfway across the living room. He's working on the buttons to your pants, which makes you unaccountably angry, because you want his hands on your skin, and you push them out of the way and smoothly unbutton your fly (your uniform, after all; you can do it much faster than him). Finally they're undone, and his hand slides inside, fingers running up and down the length of your cock, feeling the hardness, then he takes hold of the waistband of your underwear and pushes it down and touches you for the first time.

And you know that fantasy could never come near reality, because whenever you dreamed this it was always your own hands touching you (blunt, square, practical hands). Ray's hands are nothing like yours; they're elegant and tapered, with long fingers. You could never adequately imagine what those fingers would feel like curling around your cock, stroking the length of you, and you'll never survive this, you'll never make it to the bedroom because you're already poised on the knife's edge.

Ray knows it somehow, knows your control is gone, and he gives you what you need; long hard strokes, fingers rubbing against the tip, sliding the foreskin back and forth, and you barely have time to think about it before your coming like you've never come in your life, and Ray's right there with you, whispering that it's okay, how hot it is you want him this much, how turned on it makes him that you couldn't wait.

You finally spiral down to realize you're still in the living room, your body a dead weight against Ray's, your pants and underwear down around your knees, and all you can think is there's no way in hell you'll be able to go any further until you get your boots off. For some reason this makes you laugh, and Ray laughs with you for a moment, then silences the laugh with another deep, wet kiss, and you feel the desire flaring up anew. You want him naked now, want to return the favor a dozen times over, want to make him feel as good as he's made you feel.

"Bedroom," he whispers in your ear, and you nod and manage to hobble in, sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing your boots while he leans against the doorframe and watches you through half-closed eyes. You can see his cock clearly outlined through his jeans, and you unlace all the faster because you have to touch him NOW, it's very likely you'll die if you don't touch him.

The boots are pulled off and dropped on the floor beside the bed, followed by the trousers and underwear, and you're totally naked but in no way embarrassed, you have only to look at Ray to tell he appreciates the view. You reach over and grab one of the belt loops on his jeans, pulling him towards you, and he snorts as you maneuver him between your knees and just 'look' at him, then begin to unbutton the 501's. Now it's your turn to be clumsy and his turn to help, then the jeans are undone and pulled down, taking the plaid boxer shorts he's wearing with them, and his cock's right in front of you. You reach out and take hold of it, and hear him moan.

And this is new as well; you've never touched anyone's cock but your own, aren't sure if you know how to do it right. And he's cut, which is different, and you take a moment to consider the dark purple crown that's right out where you can see it, a small bead of moisture at the tip, and you don't even think about what you're doing, just lean forward and take the tip in your mouth and lick.

Reality is so different from dreams; it's salty and a bit bitter, but not unpleasant. Essence of Ray, you decide, noticing he's got one hand tangled in your hair and is doing his level best not to thrust. His breath's coming in short gasps, and when you lick the head again he whimpers.

One last lick and you pull back, looking at him. You can't believe how beautiful he is, bronzed skin and wild hair, lips swollen from kissing, his eyes almost black, and you smile, because how many nights have you dreamed this and it always ended with you starting awake to your hand on yourself, alone on the cot in the office? But you're no longer alone, you somehow know you never will be again, and so you fall backwards on the bed, pulling him down on top of you, twisting around until you've settled in comfortably, spreading your legs and letting his cock slip between them. Oh yes, you know what he wants. One corner of his mouth quirks, then he leans forward to kiss you and starts thrusting against your thigh.

It's beyond good, beyond anything you've ever dreamed or imagined; the welcome heaviness of his body on yours, your cock rubbing against his lightly furred belly with every thrust, and you're back to playing dueling tongues. A mock fight for supremacy, because you've both won here, won the jackpot, won the whole fucking lottery.

The rhythm he falls into is hard and fast; he's not going to last much longer than you did, but who's keeping score? The notion of keeping score makes you laugh again, and he draws back to look at you, grinning, not quit understanding your laughter but happy you're here.

"Freak," he whispers affectionately, then leans down and bites your lower lip gently, picking up speed. He rests his forehead on your shoulder and he's panting like a marathon runner, making that little whimper you want to spend the rest of your life hearing him make (because it's you making him feel this way, you, real and present, body as solid as his). For a minute the rhythm loses its beat, becomes jerky and off-tempo, then he slams into you with his whole weight, and you feel him coming, feel it splattering on the bed, between your thighs, and your moans are a chorus now as you come again, slick and wet between you, and for just a second the world stands still and time ceases to exist...

And you float back down into the real world wrapped around each other, his head heavy against your shoulder, breath gradually slowing, and you wonder how you ever lived with the fantasy until now.

"Freak," his voice is low and vibrant; you smile at the way he can make what should be an insult a mark of affection. "Love you," he says softly, no hesitance, no stumbling over the words, but how could there be hesitance now that you've finally stepped over that invisible line in the sand you drew so long ago?

"And I you," you reply, bringing up a hand to stroke his unruly hair, feeling his body relax, knowing you'll be following him into dreamland very soon, wondering what you're going to dream about now that you've finally tasted reality.

FIN

End Reality by MR: psykaos42@yahoo.com

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