Blair moves cautiously, confined by his location, but his elbows strike the side of the coffin again. It's padded, and disturbingly comfortable, but he's getting claustrophobic. He likes a bed he can sprawl out in, own.
"Can't we move this to the bed?" he begs.
Abby clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "This is a bed."
"For a corpse." Blair wants to struggle up to a sitting position, hell, he just wants out, but Abby's breasts, full, pale, pink-tipped, are close enough to be nuzzled and nipped and when he gets distracted and does just that, catching each nipple between his teeth with the tiniest of tugs, she makes the most deliciously appreciative sounds. "I'm alive."
Abby slides up and down, slow and slick, all silky heat and wet, so very fucking wet, and he can't spread his legs wide enough to thrust up into that waiting, welcoming lushness and it's killing him to just lie there, but he doesn't have any choice. He's a sardine.
The candlelight (black candles; who has black -- never mind) catches the studs on her collar and makes steel glitter fiercely.
"You want to die happy?"
"Are we talking little death here?" Blair asks hopefully. She hasn't told him much about herself and what she has he doesn't believe, but it's not like he's been entirely frank with her himself. Pick-up lines in bars don't count; let her pretend she gets to hang out in morgues and do funky experiments with guts and guns if it gets her off.
He's kissed most of the black lipstick off her mouth, but traces of it still cling, dark, like blood. He's certain she's not a vampire, but in the warm, dim room that smells of incense (prickles his nose) with the wild, vivid photographs on the wall the only touch of color, she could be, oh, she could. He'll pretend she is.
He comes when she bites his neck as her only reply to his question, surging up, screaming in an atavistic reaction to a danger he's whipped up from a dozen fantasies. He makes her tighten around him and gasp out his name and he wishes he'd told her his real one.
It's almost a disappointment to wake up the next morning with a hickey he's going to get teased about and bruised elbows and see her dress for work in the sunlight, her eyes sleepy and satisfied as she slings a security pass around her neck. It smacks him on the nose as she leans into the coffin for a final kiss and he spends the cab ride back to the hotel (he's missed the free breakfast all the conference attendees get but he's also too late to attend the talk on riot control that Jim was all gung-ho about, so it's not all bad) trying to work out what NCIS stands for.
He's certain about one thing; Abby might wear a habit to bed, but the 'N' isn't for 'nun'.
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