This is it. The year only has twelve months. I'm sorry. Let us know if you enjoyed this round of fun. You never know when we may have another adventure under our sleeves. Thank you to Nerdielady, AquaSoulSis, Spockside, and EjectingTheCore for your contributions. A special thank you to Outtabreath and Hopefuladdict who read and confirmed the heat factor of each idea.

Now for the final month - December - brought to you by Nimoy's number one fan - Ejectingthecore

December - James T. Kirk

He reminds me of biting a cherry. The pure crimson burst of skin. The heat of the dark juice staining fingers, running down arms. The explosion. There's something sultry and graphic about it.

About him.

He's all I think about, alone in the night. Nothing else can do it for me, not anymore.

Just Jim.

He wears being a hero like a sweatshirt, nonchalantly fantastic. He can turn on brilliant, focused authority. Unstoppable by any force. But mostly he's soft and sweetly brooding. Chin in hand. I want to be that hand, feel the contours of his face, feel his sweat and skin on my fingers. Sweat. The sweat, the skin, my fingers.

The way he sits in the captain's chair is coiled power. He pushes his upper body to the side, straining at the boundaries of the chair. His knees are spread while he commands the ship. Black pants tight over toned thighs. Oh, spread. Thighs. Pants. Oh, I'd like to get down there, crawl to just right there, settle my body down between his dusty boots and just taste and touch, every centimeter of skin, every contour of him. He would love it. And then I would suck harder and with a steady rhythm and he would watch me.

Those eyes. A crystal point in black space.

I'd suck him senseless, and he would take it like a man and roar out his pleasure with strength and glory.

When I work on the bridge I watch him. Too much. He swivels in the chair, tightly wound. Stands, springs, a mountain lion of sex and energy. Always pacing, spinning the chair, running his hands along its arms. Massaging it. His hands. Oh, hands. Wrap around me any time. I find myself thinking about begging him. Slam me hard into your chest, Captain. Run your hands up my sides. Take my breasts, squeezing, stroking. Pull me into the chair. Spin me.

His lips are abundant, hot pink on his bruised face. Everyday evidence of fighting on him somewhere. Hands, wrists, face, neck. He fights always, if not in battle then in training. Cuts and bruises. Proof of strength. Aggression. More pleading. Push me down, Captain. Please. Push hot hands under my skirt. Slide a long bruised finger into my wetness. Slide in. Slide. A second finger. Dry thumb on my clit, raspy friction. Sandpaper stubble on my cheek. Blonde hair under my wandering fingers. Oh, wandering fingers. Slide his. Fingers.

My own fingers slide, and slide, and slide.

Next time I see him these fingers will innocently wave and I'll say "Hi."