Eight Days

Part II


Their next round is slower. Marginally.

He is standing, hands on her hips. The bed is a perfect height.

She engulfs him. Her slim ankles are crossed behind the small of his back, drawing her towards each new offensive.

His eyes are closed, but hers are open. Despite her need to just lose herself in the sensation of being completely, deliciously filled, she watches.

It’s his body: his chest lightly furred, his abdomen smooth, his skin luminous. The angles of his collarbone attract her notice too, and his forearms with the muscles tensing and relaxing each time he tugs her towards him. Best of all is his brow, furrowed in concentration -- and his lips, oh God, his lips.

He sees her eyes on him and smiles, but then loses the expression once she adds a new variation to her rhythm. A hiss escapes from between clenched teeth. Not yet!

He wants her to be first this time.

His hands slide up to her breasts: exquisite warm bundles with pebbled tips. He cups them, squeezes them. He leans forward to take them in his mouth, thumbing whichever is nipple is not receiving attention of teeth and lips and tongue. In less than a minute, he has her struggling in the throes of a climax, mewling, calling out to him.

But afterwards she’s even wilder than before.

She’s crazed, panting now, wanting to see and feel his release. It’ll take just a few more strokes to oblige her and -- there!

He brings her in tight, spine straight except for his head, which is thrown back as he loses himself in the grip of her pulsing velvet walls. Ah--

Afterwards he disengages, but only once their breathing has softened and their clasping arms have lost their urgency. She is light in this gravity field. It makes her easy to arrange so that they may lie side by side.

He brushes her hair back from her damp forehead, taking his turn to drink her in. At the touch, she opens her eyes and smiles up at him.

“Nemaiyo.”

He allows her a grin. “It is my pleasure.”

“Ma etek natyan teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo'uk do tum t'on.”

He lifts one perfectly formed brow. “Philosophy, Nyota? How very . . . stimulating.”

Her smile is radiant. “I’m catching on.”


I’m not sure where this restlessness is coming from. Normally, I can sit here and work just fine with Galia sashaying around getting ready for a night out. But tonight, she’s driving me spacey.

“Come on Uhura, take a break,” my roommate is facing our mirror, wearing just her bra and panties. She’s dusting her voluptuous body with a shimmery powder. It highlights her shoulders, collarbone, and the tops of her breasts, making her skin look ripe, touchable.

I turn back to my desk. “Wish I could. But I’ve got all these ethics papers to grade.”

“Are you even getting anything done? You’ve been fidgeting around all night.“

I frown at her. “I’m not fidgeting.”

“Call it something else then.” Galia is trying on shoes and checking herself in the mirror. I wonder about this. Is she seeing which ones work best with her underwear?

“Come out with me. I know this great club in the Haight. The guys are hotter than Sirius. Oh, and in case that’s too boring for you, they have this new DJ that’s totally climactic.”

I nearly cringe at the popular turn of phrase. Last night’s dream was so much clearer. Embarrassingly clear -- in every detail except for his face. But that’s moot. Because all day I’ve been thinking about how I bantered with the man in my dream, teasing him --

In fluent Vulcan.

I need to get out of here.

With an apology to Galia, I strip out of my day uniform and grab a PT outfit -- a simple tank top and running shorts. I throw on a warm-up jacket overtop and go striding out the door, into the night, and, hopefully away from conscious thought for awhile.

There are still too many people in the quads and crosswalks, so I head for the landscaped areas. The turf is easier on my feet anyway, and the paths take more concentration to navigate. After awhile I fall into an unthinking rhythm. I run, I breathe. The muscles in my back seem to lose some of their tension. I even start to get back a feeling of control.

But then I get to the end of the wooded path and see ahead of me the low building where the junior instructors are quartered.

How the -- ?

Now this is downright creepy. It’s as if my dream wasn’t proof enough that there was something weird going on with my subconscious.

I take a sharp turn to the right, down another path, hopefully onto one that’ll circle back on itself, back the way I came.

Instead, it turns to the left and brings me closer.

Fine then. I’ll sprint past.

I pick up the pace, muscles humming. It’s a wooded area, good for walking, but hard for running at night. And it’s not like I’ve been here often. Which is why I almost run right into him.

He catches me, spins me, drops his hands, and steps back. But not before he’s held me for a second or two.

“Commander,” I pant, swallowing. “ I’m so sorry!”

It’s late enough that the waning moon is up, showing Spock to be more unsettled than I’ve ever seen him. The angles of his cheekbones and jaw are all wrong. His gaze is unnervingly direct.

I lick my lips. “H-how are you this evening?”

He folds his hands behind him in that characteristic way. “I am . . . tolerably well, Uhura, thank you.”

It’s a lie. In the brief instant he held me, I could feel the heat pouring off of him. He’s still staring at me: wary, intent. And is that . . . perspriation on his forehead?

There’s a pause, and it lengthens, pulling me taut.

“I’m working on those freshman papers,” I blurt. “They’ll be ready tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. “

“That is acceptable.”

The abruptness of his answer confuses me. Normally he’s unfailingly polite, even gracious. He’s commented plenty of times on how he appreciates my work. This lack of praise now makes me feel hollow.

“Commander, I’m really sorry about running into you. I --”

“It is of no consequence.” He strides past me and into the shadows, his face a rigid mask.

I gaze open-mouthed at his retreating back. No goodbye? What’s wrong with him?

And, dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?


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