Good old 'Engineer and you' fic. ------------------------- "Hey." He always started calls out the same, no declaration of who it was, but that gorgeous southern drawl was enough to give it away. "Hey, stranger," you replied, "How much time do you have tonight?" You hated the fact that he was always so far away. From the moment he picked up that RED comission, you'd been against it. Then again, with the hefty sum he was getting paid, it was almost worth not seeing him. Almost. "About an hour. Everyone's already asleep," you heard him announce into the reciever, hinting. You knew what that meant, of course you did. It was the hilight if your week. It made all of the dreary machine work and fitful Texas nights bearable. "What're you wearin'?" You grinned. So it begins. "That white sundress you got me for my birthday. No shoes." You could almost hear the gears creaking in his head as the image of you - in his favorite outfit to see you in, no less - assembled itself in his mind. Upon hearing his sharp intake of breath, you close your eyes, imagining - willing - him to be behind you, whispering in your ear. There aren't mortgage payments to be made, no dishes to be cleaned right now, only him and you and the soft, crooning voice of Frank Sinatra pouring out of your kitchen radio. When your Engineer spoke again, you could tell he was grinning like a madman. "You know I love it when you wear that dress. It looks great on you," he mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear even though everyone else is asleep, "although I bet, right now, it'd look better on the floor." "Not so fast, cowboy," you teased, "You're gonna have to be a little more persuasive than a bad pick-up line." "Ah, that's right. I already picked you up." He chucked. You can feel his breath behind your ear. "What'll I have to do to keep you around?" This time, you're the one who's grinning from ear to ear. "I think you know exactly what I want. You just have to say the right words." "As you wish." he pauses, and you know the fun was just starting. "If I was home right now, you know what I'd do?" "Hm?" is all you can manage, already getting lost in that fantasy world he somehow manages to weave over the telephone. "Where are you?" "The kitchen." "If I were home right now, I'd be standin' behind you," he begins. "You'd be makin' supper, probably at the stove with some chicken in the fryin' pan." He pauses at the sound of clanking cookware, knowing you always liked to act out the scenes he talked out, even if he's not there. He always joked that your overactive imagination was a good thing. "I'd walk up behind you, put my hands on your hips, lean into your neck and ask if I can have dessert before supper." "But it'll spoil your appetite," you protest, "And then I would turn off the burner because I know better." "Then I'd nibble your ear and pull the bow on your apron apart." He stops while you gasp. "And then I'd spin you around so I can pick you up and set you on the kitchen table. And then, of course, we'd kiss. Long and slow, nice and deep and hot. Just the way you like it. You'd start to unbutton my shirt, just as slow as the kiss, and then I'd complain that you're bein' a tease. But that wouldn't make you loosen my buttons any faster. And then I'd kiss you again, and pull that ribbon out of your hair - don't think I don't know you always wear it, you'd rather have the yellow in your gorgeous hair than around that ol' oak tree by the mailbox - and I'd run my fingers through those curls of yours." By now, you've reached up and undone the ribbon yourself, your apron long discarded on the floor, and you're tossing your ringlets and finger-combing them, willing yourself to believe that your hand is his hand, with those larger, calloused hard-at-work fingers. You tug gently as he says he would, pushing your neckline aside, thinking of nothing but his hot kisses along your neck. "So then I would take my hand," his hand, your hand, twitching, waiting for the instruction, "and slide it up your thigh, under your dress - yeah, slowly, just to make you bite your lip," and you already have bit your lip, and you can hear his voice lowering in timbre as if he already knew that, "And - oh." He pauses, then half-groans, half-laughs. "No barrier to get through." And you know that he knows you planned it, because even when you were still dating you'd skip the panty drawer when getting dolled up to go out dancing. Just in case. He doesn't even have to tell you when to start touching yourself, it's more of a communal groan. "Yeah, just like that. You like it, don't you?" You respond with rocking back into your - his - hand, and he must be telepathic or omnipresent or something because he just knows what you're doing. You're leaning back on the kitchen table, absently glad you moved the vase off of it before he called home, legs spread just wide enough and resting on separate chairs. The ever present smell of him - in your kitchen, on your clothes, on your body from the bedsheets you can't bring yourself to wash - only fuels the fantasy that he's the one right there, touching you where he knows you love to be touched, in the exact, practiced way you love to be touched. You breathe in sharply when you hear his twang through the phone again, but you ignore the coming-from-miles-away static on the line and force yourself to focus only on his voice. It makes you think of devil's food chocolate cake with mousse and fudge icing - delicious all of the time, but truly best appreciated in the middle of the night - and you lay yourself back on the table now, body tingling, the ghosts of his hands rolling, pouring over your skin. "And then I push your legs apart," he begins, and his voice is starting to grow just a tad raspy, "and you look up just in time to see yourself swallow my cock." You've snaked three fingers into yourself. It's a start, but no real substitute. "And I will fuck you, slow and deep and just the way you like it." The table is groaning under your rocking, but the pitching is slow and continuous enough to cause no real effect on the furniture. "I kiss you, rolling into you, and the sight of seeing myself disappear and reappear again just gets me even more hot." Soon, you're angling your hips upward at the body that isn't there (he is, dammit, shut up, reason) and making that curling motion while he mutters "And then I put my arm under your back so I can get in even deeper," letting loose a moan that most likely woke up the dogs outside, but you don't care, you're not capable of caring less. You find yourself whispering improper things back, and he's not against it. He's just not used to hearing you talking dirty right back to him. He groans the first time he hears you whimper "Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby," into the receiver, and you know for a fact that just for that he takes a slow pull down his shaft - the one that you'd prefer was inside of you right now. "Make love to me," you correct yourself, and it just sounds even more erotic than the blunt cursing. You eventually arrive at the point where you can't even make heads or tails of your rambling, whether they are sexy or not, rocking back and forth against your hand (his cock) and release is close, that special moment when everything is all rainbows and supersenitivity and goosebumps and heat, you can hear it in his voice when he encourages you to come. "Come on, girl, give it to me," he chokes, and that absolutely does it, you curl your toes and feel the full-body spasm that orgasm brings. The entire kitchen smells like sex, but you don't even care to wipe up the moisture that managed to find its way onto the wooden table. Coming down from the high is something that you don't want to do, but you know it's inevitable. Relief, satisfaction, and longing is in his voice when you exchange goodnights and love you's, and no matter how much you don't want to hang up - you don't want him to leave you now, you're nearly naked in your kitchen, and the end of the phonecall is seriously bringing down your afterglow - but Scout needs to call his ma and wish a happy birthday. "Love you, goodnight, happy anniversary."