This is the M. The raunchy M, my friend.

R&I R&I R&I

Maura can't remember exactly how she got to be where she is.

She can recall Jane eating her own nachos in the cab.

She can see herself entering Jane's apartment, scooping salsa, sour cream and cheese onto a nacho, and sliding it into her mouth, then sucking her fingers.

She remembers Jane walking out the door with Jo Friday on a leash, saying she couldn't handle Maura's orgasmic groans.

The memory of stripping off her own clothes, crawling across Jane's bed, cradling her nachos is somewhat vague.

She can clearly recall Jo running into the bedroom, her nose sniffing the air, and her head tilting in the first stage of begging.

Then Jane had entered the room and tilted her head just like her dog, which had made Maura laugh mid-scoop and spill some gooey goodness onto her chest.

After that, the dog was gone, the door was closed, and Jane was licking the remnants of nacho cheese from her cleavage.

Now, Maura is on her knees facing the wall. She is gripping the headboard and her hips are gyrating at a phenomenal pace. She glances down to find chocolate eyes smiling up at her and she can feel herself grinning back.

Jane's tongue is doing amazing things to her. Slipping, sliding. Swirling, twirling.

If Jane is tracing letters or words against her flesh, she has no idea what they say because Maura has forgotten how to spell.

She only knows that those brown eyes are the center of her world, and where Jane's tongue and her body meet is the center of the universe.

Then Jane's tongue is inside her, a most welcome intrusion, invading and infiltrating the most intimate recesses of her body and soul.

She hears squeaking and banging. Someone is praying. Music is playing somewhere but she can't place the song.

None of it matters. All that matters is the feeling and the filling. The sound of Jane's grunts and groans. The grip of Jane's hands on her gluteus maximus encouraging her to grind down.

So she grinds down. It would be rude to refuse.

She rides Jane's mouth like the equestrian she is. Her spine is straight as her breasts bounce and her abs flex. She throws her head back as a moan escapes and a gush of fluid, she can't remember it's name, floods out of her.

She wonders if Jane can breathe. She worries if Jane will drown. So she leans back, revealing all of Jane's face. Jane's wet shiny smiling face, and she hears the deep chuckle that makes her heart metaphorically skip a beat.

Jane is laughing and Maura feels serpentine fingers filling the void Jane's tongue left behind. And as long slender phalanges reach improbable depths, Jane's lips have created a seal against Maura's flesh and said tongue is curled around her clitoris.

Someone is praying again. Praying to Jane. The squeaking and banging grows louder and faster. And Maura knows what is coming next.

If Jane continues thrusting and sucking at this rate, she won't last long. It's Jane's signature move. Her coup de grace that inevitably leads to Maura's petite mort. And she won't be hearing any poetry tonight.

But Maura accepts her fate. Jane gives her so much. She can't be greedy. She feels the need to reciprocate and lets go of the headboard with one hand and reaches behind herself blindly.

Jane has soaked the sheets and Maura marvels at the way the brunette gets off on getting her off.

She sinks two fingers inside and Jane's hips rise up eagerly. Maura tries to keep her thrusts in sync with Jane's. Rhythm never really was her thing, but judging by the writhing of Jane's hips in time with the rotation of her wrist, the blond thinks she is doing okay.

Maura no longer feels as if she is riding a thoroughbred down the homestretch of the Kentucky Derby. But rather a bucking bronco at the rodeo. She hopes she can last longer than 8 seconds.

Maura curls her fingers inside while simultaneously teasing Jane's clit with her thumb. She feels Jane's walls clamp down, milking her fingers and setting off a chain of events that leaves the blond dizzy and dazed.

Jane's orgasm kick starts her own, which prolongs Jane's, extending the blond's and creating a climactic cycle of legendary proportions.

And just when Maura thinks she is going to pass out, she finds herself on her back in the wet spot. Her knees are hanging over Jane's arms and the brunette is still knuckle deep inside her.

Someone is declaring their undying love and devotion to Jane, in faint gasping whispers.

A lone, long finger curls. Softly touching, gently teasing Maura's g-spot. The blond feels Jane's breath against her ear, just as her walls beging to flutter once more.

Jane puts her hips behind long, slow thrusts and Maura hears that voice she loves so much reciting a line of poetry with each and every excruciatingly slow thrust and withdrawal.

By the end of the sonnet, Maura's head is thrashing, her legs are a vice around Jane's body, and her back is arched so tightly she feels like a trebuchet about to launch.

And with a final, tiny tickle and a gruff "I love you... I can't get enough of you," she is gone.

R&I R&I R&I

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away

~ Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXV