He knows he has been staring at her for the entire meeting. Not just staring - absorbing, and with no amount of furtiveness. She must have noticed - he didn't much mind that idea. It was impossible for him to tear his eyes away. The harsh lights of the battlestar never struck her viciously, only ever serving to cause her hair to glint redder. Today was no exception, a glow of reds warming her features.

She is stunning (always always always), but even more so today. He thinks it is because he has let her invade his thoughts so completely that he is seeing her so definitively now. He is hypnotised by the wisp of hair that she tucks so delicately behind her ear, by her eyes as they focus on the whoever is speaking (he has stopped listening long ago), by her tongue as it skims across her lips unconsciously (he can't imagine how he'd ever think again if she started doing it intentionally). The lines at her eyes, the creases around her mouth, the flyaway hairs that never sit still - she has flaws, imperfections that (to him) serve only to add to a utopian beauty that is only partly related to the external.

An awareness flutters into his mind, spreading its wings to brush conscious thought - it has been some time since he has kissed someone. He is not disregarding (how could he?) the press of his lips to hers when promotion and death were being held in their hands, but it has been a spell of time since he has kissed someone in passion, while in love, burning with fire (her hair a warm glow, beckons to him). The thought beats its wings, refusing to be ignored.

The meeting ends. She has already repacked her briefcase and is now leaning against the table, smiling, talking about some of the points raised but really just spinning out the words to extend their time. He can see her doing it. He is aware of his heartbeat (beating passion and love and fire) as he stands and rounds the table. She is relaxed and happy, her face soft and graced with a smile.

Her mouth (he is trying and failing not to stare) is still framing words about the meeting. He should be listening (he is, he isn't, he simply cannot hear her over the wing-beats), he loves how her mind works, how fast it is, how she knows how to get what she wants. He loves her mouth, that gate between her thoughts and her voice. He feels his own mouth turn up into a smile.

He wants to kiss her. Not because he has not kissed anyone in some time, but because he has not kissed her in the way his thoughts are reminding him of. It seems ridiculous in this moment that that is true. It seems ridiculous that he is not kissing her. He cannot think of a reason why he shouldn't be. (He can list off excuses: they're in a public meeting room, their ranks and titles, lack of time.) Ridiculous. He wants to kiss her.

So he does. He takes the two steps that he needs to breach her personal space, her face tilts up to keep his gaze as she continues talking. He catches her mid word. His mouth presses against hers, cutting her off at the start of "Quor." The kiss is soft, brief, but more than a peck, more than a hello, or goodbye or a friend kissing a friend. He pulls back and smiles at her, finding a distorted mirror of it on her face (confusion and surprise causing its edges to blur) as the "um" trips out of her lips, stumbling after the start of the word (though she may be umming now for a different reason entirely).

Her arm had been raised in a gesture, it continues to hang mid-air as she attempts to question him. He barely allows her to get his name out of her mouth before he takes advantage of her parted lips and kisses her again, the tip of his tongue flicking out to taste her lower lip. Her arm (and mouth and body) finally catch up to the situation as he feels it slam into her full force (causing her to slam into him) as she settles her palm on his neck (fingers in the short hair there) and pushes her body forward into his. Her mouth opens more and invites him in (he does not hesitate).

His tongue slides past her lips and seeks out hers, finds it, traces it, slides slowly against it. His hands are settled on her waist, thumbs (gently gently gently) stroking her hip bones through her skirt. His tongue retreats back into his own mouth, but a tiny flit against hers encourages her to follow. He feels her free arm reach to grasp his elbow, squeezing and circling as she presses closer (and closer and closer). His hand sweeps up her body and into her hair, fisting with possession (not enough to hurt, only to claim what she is giving him freely). Her hand at his elbow moves in gentle patterns up and down his forearm.

Her fingernails dig lightly into his neck as she arches, the curve in her back inviting his arm to circle around and fit against it. His fingers dance from one hip, along the contour of her back, to its match on her other side, his palm pressing her closer as fingers tap a silent tune through her shirt.

Her body starts to hum in response, singing to him as he plays her skin. He breaks away from her long enough for them to take a breath (joint, shared) before moving in again. But that hum that hum that hum.

His hand moves from her hair as he pulls back slightly - it traces down along her jaw, then underneath. The backs of two fingers run the path from her chin to the dip in her throat. He is searching searching searching  he will find where this hum starts. Her eyes are closed as he explores and she fairly vibrates under his hand. His fingers flip over as the pads trail lower lower lower. She is still humming, but it is not quite the note he is looking for.

He reaches the first button on her shirt and does not blink as he slides it free, repeats it with the second button as he continues to hunt. She is not exposed enough to be indecent (though he cannot think how he will explain his hand in her shirt should anyone walk in now), but enough so that he finds... the starting place of this glorious sound. He presses his fingers against her chest bone, just off centre in the divide between her breasts.

He follows the path his fingers have taken (they are lost in the warmth of her hair again) with his mouth and whispers "Found it" into her skin, more to himself than to her but she murmurs "What?" in response just as his mouth presses against its destination and she hums a pitch-perfect note, harmonising with a gasp as his tongue flicks out.

The hand at his neck slips down and around to undo the top button of his uniform, loosening the collar as her hand runs back up so that her fingers can push down the back, nails grasping, clutching. He feels the slide of his dog tags against her palm. He kisses the magical spot again before following it up her body. He feels the hum from start to finish. It is the most arousing sensation he as ever experienced. It rises up through her, reverberating into her mouth (as he closes his over) and passes through to his. It is music, a melody only she is capable of playing, and she plays it just for him, parts with it to let it sing within his own chest as he realises the hum he hears now is his own (or hers inside him. Theirs.)

She steps back (he steps forward), and they both balance her against the edge of the table. Music in both their ears as the hum passes back and forth, their mouths playing scales against each other. His tongue conducting a symphony with hers. No wrong notes, no misplaced beats. He had just meant to kiss her, because it had seemed unreal that they did not do this (how had that been their reality?) And now. Nothing could be more real (and surreal).

He feels her hand twirl up his arm to his wrist, tugging it softly from her hair, sliding her fingers along his into the gaps and drawing their duet of skin down her body to the hem of her skirt. She is splaying his hand against her thigh as he bites down on her lip, soothing it with delicate kisses afterwards.

He could push her onto the table, he could slide his hand higher up her leg and play her until her body crescendos. He could he could he could. But he does not want an allegro tempo with her, he wants andante, larghissimo. He wants her whole body to sing and dance and hum with music and love.

He had wanted to kiss her. He needs to make love (and music) with her.

His fingers curl over the seam of her skirt and tug it gently, once, his knuckles turning to graze her skin in slow, light sweeps as he slows his kisses to match. He draws back a little more, a little longer with each pass. The arm around her waist tightens and lifts her up from the table, back to the floor. Her drop in height confuses him for a moment until he realises she has discarded her shoes (as always - he loves that). He rests his forehead against hers as she withdraws her hand from his collar and breathes out, "That was... unexpected." She giggles quietly. He could gladly lose himself in every sound she makes.

His previous thoughts take flight and leave, sweeping clear the way things used to be. He will not need their feather-light encouragement to kiss this woman again.

He whispers a dinner invitation into her ear and they both hear only what he hasn't said.

His quarters, them - alone, a private concert.

Her body sings its yes in response.