When the his office door chimed well after office hours two days before the end of exams, Spock expected the usual panicked cadet seeking him out to beg for eleventh-hour assistance. He was therefore very surprised to find instead, the smiling green face of Cadet Gaila, who had already taken her Advanced Systems Programming exam and turned in her final project.

The Orion entered his office in a lively manner quite dissimilar to that of most who sought out his company there. In fact, Spock could not remember a single instance before where anyone had bounced, as a human might say, into this particular room situated in the Hsu Lang Computer Sciences Building.

"Oh good, Lieutenant," she said as she approached his desk, swinging a large cloth bag. Her steps lost none of their exuberance in deference for the small space, "I'm so glad I found you here! I was afraid I was going to have to head all the way over to your quarters. Looks like I dodged Zetlek's arrow this time." She smiled even wider, dropped her bag on the floor and abruptly made use of the chair before his desk by means of thrusting her buttocks back while (apparently simultaneously) lifting both of her feet from the floor. She landed in the seat with a faint thud.

Spock lifted a highly mobile eyebrow.

"Cadet," he said, "as you have already completed your coursework and examinations for Advanced Systems Programming, I cannot help wondering what brings you to my office today." He eyed the bag on the floor warily.

Cadet Gaila winked at him.

"But I'll bet you can give a pretty good guess," she said with a little laugh.

He did not sigh. He wanted to of course — Cadet Gaila had that effect on many in her acquaintance — but he refused to give in to the urge.

"If pressed to speculate, I would presume that your visit had something to do with the small gold-colored box protruding from your bag," he told her in his customarily flat tones.

"You would presume right!" she exclaimed, smiling broadly.

Then she snatched the box from the bag and leapt to her feet. With what Spock did not doubt was a valiant attempt at looking solemn, the red-haired cadet stepped up to his desk and presented the box to him in two outstretched hands.

"I hope you will find this small token of my appreciation and of my faith in you useful, sir," she said in an equally valiant attempt to sound as solemn as she had attempted to appear. Unfortunately for the cadet, her voice was still laced with laughter and traces of a smile remained on her lips.

Spock accepted the box and thanked her anyway.

Cadet Gaila pivoted smoothly and bent to pick up her bag, giving him an unasked-for view of her red uniform briefs in the process. (Prudently, he turned away before she glanced back to see if her was looking.) She straightened up and headed for the door.

Just before exiting, she looked back at him over her shoulder.

"Open that before you see Ny on Thursday, sir, but don't open it here," she ordered. With another wink, she left Spock alone in his office.

"Gods, Gaila! I'm being so stupid. Again!" Uhura slammed the top drawer of her bureau closed. "It's just dinner with Spock. Just like every other blasted Thursday." She swung and fell back against the bureau, arms folded tightly over her chest. And growled.

Her roommate grinned from her perch on the bed across the room.

"First of all, sweetie, you are not being stupid. You are, in fact, being smart about this for the very first time since you set foot on Academy property. I talked to your sister and she says you used to know what you were doing!" Gaila stood and walked over to Uhura. "Secondly, this is not 'just dinner with Spock.' It is the last dinner you will ever have with him as a Spock-virgin, and therefore a momentous event. Let's face it, it's probably also the last time — for a while, anyway — that you can confidently wear something pretty over to his place without the fear of him ripping it to shreds." She slipped an arm around her friends shoulder and directed her over to the closet doors. "Vulcans are strong, Ny. Passionate under that cold, stiff façade. And this particular Vulcan wants to eat you up. So, it's only logical to want to dress up the feast, so to speak."

With a sigh, Uhura watched as Gaila slid open the door and began rifling through the clothes inside.

"Upenda said you used to have some really nice things, but that you gave them all away when you left for the Academy," the Orion commented, her head buried among colorful clothing. "I'd call it a waste, but you've got all those muscles now — Zetlek! You were a skinny brat when we first got here — so they probably wouldn't fit you now, anyway. Lucky for you, these days I do my shopping with you in mind."

The last elicited a startled harrumph out of Uhura.

"Gai, we're hardly the same size," she protested.

Gaila shook her head, but didn't turn around or pause in her inspection of the closet's contents.

"A few inches here or there doesn't matter when it's all vertical, sweetie," she said. "In fact, those Jolly Brown Giantess legs of yours only make a mini that much more aesthetically pleasing. Spock's eyeballs would probably pop out of his head if he didn't already see you in a barely-there skirt everyday.

"So, this is my strategy: cover you up, but leave everything exposed – to his imagination. Thank Tarliv for stretchy fabrics!"

It was her turn to cook. Spock had hoped she would prepare the lentil dish she had made the first time he had touched her bare flesh, but the assortment of vegetables in her cloth grocery sack and her declaration that tonight was "Late Twentieth Century America Night" suggested his hopes were in vain. Salads, in his opinion, were not sexually stimulating.

She smiled at him from the other side of the work surface as she tore up various greens and tossed them into a device meant to spin them dry. When she was finished with the greens, she carried the perforated inner tub of the device, over to the sink and carefully rinsed all traces of her touch from torn leaves. She reassembled the device, and activated the manual pump embedded in its cover to start the spinning.

"If you would finish this," she told him, "I'll get started on the other veggies. The sooner everything is ready, the sooner we can eat."

He was not particularly interested in eating at the moment — the garment she wore covered her from neck to wrist to ankle, but clung to every millimeter of flesh it outlined. It subtly shimmered and was nearly the same brown as her beautiful skin. To human eyes, he suspected, there would be no difference between the two. She would appear nearly naked. (It was, in fact, made of the same fabric as Nyota-doll's "skin.")

His breath had caught in his throat when she had shed the green knee-length vest she had been wearing over it when she arrived at his quarters. The garment had no seams that he could immediately detect, and he had found himself preoccupied with deducing the method of its removal.

Spock was certain she'd worn the garment with the express purpose of increasing his anticipation; he suspected Cadet Gaila had a hand in choosing Nyota's clothing.

He moved around the work surface to operate the device as she began to chop up the rest of her ingredients.

They ate on his sofa. She had not expressed surprise at his choice of dining location. Each of the two preceding meals had taken place, in some part, in the sitting area of his quarters. The sofa, he found, was especially conducive to facilitating closer contact with Nyota. She liked to "snuggle" with him there while they discussed whatever culture they were observing on a given Thursday.

For "Late Twentieth Century America Night," she had selected a vid she had heard was a nearly accurate representation of the dominant culture of the time and place. He knew it would afford significant opportunity for snuggling.

"I believe that your expert on late twentieth century film may need to reassess his or her understanding of the United States during that period of time," Spock told her as the credits rolled. Her head was in his lap, and he was stroking her hair. "I fail to see how a film that focuses primarily on the emotional development of a genius maintenance worker can be said to sufficiently reflect an entire culture."

She turned her head to smile at him.

"I think Gaila just thought we'd enjoy the vid," she admitted. "She probably made up the nonsense about its cultural ramifications as an inducement to get me to watch it with you. I guess I should have done my own research, or at least given greater consideration to my source."

She reached up a hand to stroke his face.

"On the other hand, Good Will Hunting is as much a love story as it is a character study. And it did examine the prejudices that are attached to an individual's occupation, so perhaps it was appropriate material for our cultural exchange, after all."

Spock tried to block out the sensation her hand was causing so that he could form an articulate response. Failing, he captured her wrist and brought her fingers to his lips for a brief kiss before tucking back at her side.

She raised an eyebrow and mouthed Vulcan control? but, did not interrupt him when he started to speak.

"It would perhaps have been appropriate if we had planned to discuss rebellious prodigies who have experienced difficulties in achieving culturally acceptable emotional development." His own eyebrow and tilted lips dared her to laugh. He continued when she settled on smiling mischievously at him. "I believe your roommate's more likely intent was to make a comparison between the Will Hunting character and me. I, however, have a significant advantage over Mr. Hunting. I have no need to 'go see about a girl.' She is where she belongs."

Her answer was a kiss that said she expected their anticipations to be met before the night was over.

"I've completed my exams, Spock," Uhura cajoled. "You don't have any more exams to administer. Can't we just say, since it's true for both of us, that 'the end of exams' came this afternoon when I walked out of Subspace Physics for very last time?"

For a moment he looked almost surprised. But after an instant, his settled back into its usual smooth mask.

He reached down and trailed his fingers down her arm.

"I believe that was our original agreement… Cadet," he said.

She didn't think she imagined the teasing note in his voice.

The rules were clear. She was not to touch him without permission. She would trust him, but she would tell him if she felt overwhelmed at any point.

Once again, she watched him strip off his casual clothing while sitting in the wooden chair near the bed. But this time, when he was standing before her, naked and visibly ready, she stood and reached behind her neck to undue the buttons that had been hidden by her fall of hair.

She heard his faint intake of breath when the brown catsuit fell away from her body.

"Lie down on the bed, Nyota," he whispered.

After she complied, first easing back the heavy duvet and then stretching out on the crisp sheets, she held her breath as he moved to the other side of the bed and lay down next to her.

Spock did not touch her immediately. Instead, his eyes began a slow exploration of the exquisite vision her body presented. Even in the muted lighting, the contrast of her even brown skin against his pale gold sheets was strikingly pleasing.

Or, perhaps it was simply Nyota that was pleasing.

Her lovely face was, of course, entirely familiar to him. He'd spent hours of his life watching it transcribe all manner of thoughts and emotions that followed through her brilliant mind. He had seen it show joy through brightened eyes and curving lips; and anger with furrowed brows and pursed lips. He recognized pain and pleasure and even sorrow etched across her features. He had watched passion and determination and obstinacy show themselves there. Now, he could see her desire for him written in the heavy droop of her eyelids and in the swollen lushness of her full lower lip.

He found her face and its ability to convey what she was thinking and feeling endlessly fascinating. He believed he could spend the rest of his life gazing upon it, but still not learn all of its beauty. The idea was illogical, but the belief held him and would not be shaken free.

His eyes traveled down her slender throat, across each shoulder and over small, firm breasts crested in hardened points the color of chocolate. He wondered if they would prove to be equally intoxicating if tasted them.

Putting thought into action, he abandoned restraint and leaned forward. Tracing circles over her smooth belly with one hand, he dipped his head to hover over one erect nipple. He watched it tighten further at the touch of his warm breath.

Almost without his permission, his tongue snuck out to taste temptation. She whimpered under its cautious exploration. With a groan, he followed tongue with teeth and lips.

It was an effort to release her and continue his visual assessment of her body. Through touch he had become privy to her focused need for him. He had nearly been lost in the sense of their mingled desire and had not wanted to let go.

He let his gaze move over the expanse of firm skin outlining the muscles and bones of his Nyota. That she was his was not in doubt. Her flesh trembled for him. He had felt the intensity of her longing for him. He knew it was different from… more complete than any she had felt for any other.

The thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs drew him in. He could smell her arousal; it mirrored, and then deepened, his own. His already engorged lok hardened even further. He strove to distance his mind from the physical manifestation of his want.

"Touch me again, k'diwa," she begged in Kiswahili and Vulcan.

He could not deny her.

To Uhura, his gaze was as hot as his hands, but not nearly as satisfying. She craved his touch the way her lungs craved air. This all encompassing need had been unexpected, but now made complete sense. She was his and he was hers. They both only lacked the claiming.

A fiery trail seared her flesh in the wake of fingers tracing her ribs, the indentation of her belly button, the length of her legs. His dark eyes burned into hers.

"More," she murmured, unconsciously slipping into her native tongue. Her growing hunger made coherent thought difficult.

His dark head bent towards her and she rose up to meet him. He ghosted his lips over hers and her mind screamed Not enough! as they moved away again.

Not touching him was torture. Her fingers curled into the sheets in an effort to keep from reaching out. He was so close.

A hand moved to her hip and heated suffused her entire body. His touch became the entire universe.

One finger, now, sliding over to explore the next of dark hair covering her mound. Two, now, parting her folds. His thumb moving in, taking over, rubbing against the sensitive nubbin it found.

She shuddered violently. He gasped with her. His mouth was on hers, drinking in her cries of pleasure and her pleas for… more.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, dancing, tasting, stroking her own while his fingers mimicked its movements in her core.

A/N: One more chapter to come.

Disclaimer: I don't own them.