Our LuxuryAuthor: xyellowroset
Rating: Strong R
Summary: Some smut as a birthday present for Dianora2 – a series of five ficlets.
Disclaimer: John Wells writes bad Sorkin fanfic and gets paid for it. I write bad Sorkin fanfic for free.
Notes: Title courtesy of Emily Dickinson's poem, "Wild Nights."
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SMELL She was wearing a new perfume, something musky and spicy. It smelled exotic and slightly dangerous. He began to daydream about summers in Morocco watching her sunbathe topless on white sand beaches, about eating couscous off her flat stomach, about watching her dance a slow dance to sitar music.
He caught another whiff of it, as she passed him a folder, and looked up to see if anything else had changed, but it hadn't. She was still perfect, still untouchable, still beautiful, still Donna.
"Something wrong?" She looked down at him, her brows drawn tightly together in concern.
"No, I just . . ." He inhaled deeply, and again was assaulted by her heady scent. "It's gonna take me a bit to make my way through this," he gestured to the folder. "Could you close my door?"
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You're acting weird, Josh."
"I just need to concentrate!" He felt guilty the minute he said it, and could tell by the defeated slope to her shoulders that he'd been too harsh.
"Donna," he called after her. "I like your new perfume."
SIGHT He was going to have to have a talk with her.
This was inappropriate – completely inappropriate.
This is the White House, and there are standards to be maintained.
First the perfume, and now her blouse. He was going to have to impose a dress code on his assistant.
The soft, filmy silk blouses simply had to go. He was spending way too much time trying to catch the outline of her bra through the fabric – too much time imagining the contour of her breasts – wondering just what her nipples looked like.
Her hemlines, too, were all wrong. He was going to start insisting that her skirts come below her knees. It was amazing anyone got any work done given how often the temptation to trace the curve of her thigh with his eyes presented itself.
He wanted to trace that curve with his fingers – and then rip the thin blouse off and bury his face in her breasts.
"Donna?" He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she spun around as though she'd been burned.
He pulled his hand back quickly. "I like your blouse."
SOUND He wondered if she noticed she was humming – a soft, tuneless series of notes that ran together seamlessly.
He listened the notes bringing goosebumps to his arms. It was as tantalizing as a siren's cry, and he was the sailor about to crash into the rocks.
It drew him in until he could focus on nothing else, and he stood up from his desk and went to the door way, where he could hear without being seen.
He wondered what noises she'd make in bed – what her rich alto would sound like when she came.
He believed, though he had no basis for it, that she would be vocal – unashamed and unabashed. He dreamt of the day he would be able to test that hypothesis.
"Donna," he slipped out of the office. "Would you like to go to dinner tonight?"
She froze; the humming stopped. "Okay."
TASTE The red wine was bitter with tannic acid and left a warm fruity taste on the back of his tongue. He swirled it in his glass and looked over the table at his companion.
"How's the food?"
"Good," she answered, though the remains left on her plate belied a different answer.
"Look," he suggested, signaling to the waiter at the same time. "Why don't we just get out of here?"
She sighed deeply. "That sounds nice," her response was somewhat breathless.
He captured her lips the minute they left the restaurant.
She tasted just like he'd expected, sweet, salty, and just a little bit like the wine they'd shared.
He pressed her up against the wall of the parking lot, and slipped his tongue between her welcoming lips.
She clutched at his rear, and sighed against his cheek. "Josh."
FEELING She was an exquisitely perceptive lover.
Her fingers brushed over his cock with the most feather light of touch, her teeth grazed his nipples with just enough pressure, and her thumb did this thing along his scrotum that no girl from Wisconsin should've known about.
She took him in her mouth, swirling her tongue over his tip. He gasped, and whispered her name. "God, Donna. . ."
She pulled her mouth back to blow a rush of cold air over him, and he found himself bucking against nothingness. Then, before she had a chance to consume him again, he rolled over to position himself over her.
He ran his fingers over her breasts - exploring their gentle swell and running his thumbs over her nipples – teasing them into tight points.
He took one breast into his mouth, suckling her.
"Josh. . ." Her sigh was like warm honey.
She hooked a leg around his back, inviting him inside. He entered, and was enveloped in the warmth.
They moved in concert, as though they'd been together for years. She wrapped her other leg around him and bucked – her clit rubbing against his pelvis.
She cried out when she came – and the waves inside her drew him inward until he, too, was sated.
Fingers entwined with hers, he fell asleep.
The End
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