He sighs as her hand finds him, his gaze locked on her as she touches him. Every stroke sends a shiver up his spine; when her tongue touches his skin, he groans her name aloud. Scully, that is - if he says Dana, it's something deliberate, a comment in and of itself. When he's working off instinct, she'll never be anything but Scully to him.
And she's incredible, exactly the way he knew she would be. One hand closes in her hair, not yet pulling, and he watches her, telling himself to enjoy this. All the pressure in the world, to show her a good time, make this worth her while, connect like he's wanted to since she left - it doesn't matter, he tells himself. Scully's what matters. The heat of her mouth, the comfortable pressure of her hand enclosing his shaft, that's everything.
It doesn't work, but it's what he tells himself. Even with her best efforts, he remains stubbornly half-hard, and he can feel it. It's like discovering a door in one's house for the first time, and being unable to open it. Eventually, exhaling a frustrated breath, he mutters, "It's not you."
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And she's incredible, exactly the way he knew she would be. One hand closes in her hair, not yet pulling, and he watches her, telling himself to enjoy this. All the pressure in the world, to show her a good time, make this worth her while, connect like he's wanted to since she left - it doesn't matter, he tells himself. Scully's what matters. The heat of her mouth, the comfortable pressure of her hand enclosing his shaft, that's everything.
It doesn't work, but it's what he tells himself. Even with her best efforts, he remains stubbornly half-hard, and he can feel it. It's like discovering a door in one's house for the first time, and being unable to open it. Eventually, exhaling a frustrated breath, he mutters, "It's not you."