Lemony goodness of the 5x4 variety contained within!  Not for the faint of heart! ;)
by: Shoori

I Know Who I Want... + Part 18

I sit back in the corner of the comfortable couch positioned in the center of our private study and adjust my spectacles on the end of my nose as I scowl at the piece of paper in my hand.

I am currently researching past precedents in divorce proceedings of European nobles going back over the course of four centuries.

Quatre would have had me go back even further if I hadn't pointed out to him, somewhat testily, that even Charles III and Diana probably weren't going to end up being very useful to us, so Henry VIII, coming five centuries before them, was definitely out of bounds.

Quatre is nothing if not thorough.

I glance up at him, to see him scowling ferociously at the computer screen while he scribbles furiously on a yellow legal pad with his left hand. He's not left-handed. At the moment, he is simultaneously sorting through a huge pile of Winner Co. papers and skimming through the voluminous computer files the lawyers have created so far on Heero's divorce case. He's taking notes on both, at the same time, on two different colored legal pads - one yellow, one blue.

It's been almost five hours since Duo, Heero and Trowa left, and Quatre's been working since then. He hasn't even changed his clothes yet, though it's almost midnight. He did loosen his tie, and unbutton the top button of his shirt, but that's it. Even I have changed, donning a pair of the red silk pajama pants he loves to buy me. Our rooms are always a little too hot for my taste, because Quatre hates the cold and I can't stand watching him shiver and add layers, so I've dispensed with the pajama top.

"Quatre." He needs to stop. I need to stop. I'm so sick of looking at old records I could scream. And it isn't often that I tire of historical research.

"Mmm," he responds distractedly, scrawling his initials on the bottom of one of the Winner papers, making a note on the yellow pad, and clicking the mouse to move to a different link on the computer.

Quatre is a living illustration of the concept of multi-tasking.

"You should stop. It's almost midnight. We need some sleep."

"Go on in," he tells me absently, writing on the blue pad even while his eyes scan one of the papers from the Winner pile. "I'll be in in a minute."

Translation: I will be here for hours, until someone comes and drags me bodily away, or until I pass out from exhaustion and fall out of the chair and sleep the rest of the night on the floor.

I carefully remove my glasses, fold them closed, and set them on the small table beside the sofa. I stand up, stretching to bring life back into my stiff muscles. I cross the room to stand behind his chair, reaching around him to gently cup his hands in mine, stilling them.

"Come, Quatre," I whisper, my lips close to his ear. "Come to bed."

This is blackmail of the most shameless variety. I employ it only when all other types of persuasion have failed to convince my lover that he needs to stop working himself into an early grave.

Well, perhaps that's untrue. It's as often my first tactic as my last. Actually, it's often my first tactic and my last. That's because it works. With a soft sigh, Quatre drops his pen, lets his hand fall away from the mouse, and leans his head back against the soft leather of his desk chair. I take advantage of the access this new position gives me, and lightly move my lips down from his ear along the long column of his neck, using my mouth and chin to push aside the fabric of his collar to kiss the sensitive skin at the base of his throat.

He sighs again, more deeply, and tilts his head further to the side, allowing me even greater access to his throat. One hand reaches up, behind him, and runs gently along the side of my face, behind my head, and tugs lightly on the tie that holds my hair back.

He manages to loosen my hair, and it falls in wisps all around my face. It's annoyingly fine - that's why I tie it back all the time, otherwise it would tangle and knot. But Quatre loves to take it down, touch it, run his fingers through it. And I love it when he does it. It makes me feel cherished... loved.

I can't express that to him, but he seems to know it anyway.

I turn the chair slightly, and run my fingers across his cheek. He looks up at me and smiles invitingly. My breath catches in my chest at the look in his eyes. We don't get enough time together. It seems that our encounters are always late at night, anymore, and, though not rushed, entirely too brief. We're too exhausted to love each other for hours, like we did in the first idyllic months of our relationship. And we no longer have the luxury of sneaking away to his apartment for a weekend, or even an afternoon. We haven't had a day off together in nearly a year.

When all of this is finally over, I'm going to insist we go away together, without any distractions, including a pager or a cell phone, for at least a week.

His fingers skim through my hair, parting the strands as he slowly pulls my face down toward his.

Two weeks.

My lips hover above his, not touching, but so close that my nerves tingle in response to his closeness. I take a breath, prepare to move that last millimeter...

... and the obnoxious beeping indicating an in-coming vid call shrills loudly from the computer.

Quatre makes a sound of exasperation, muttering something under his breath in Arabic that sounds very rude as he reluctantly pulls away from me. He clicks on a small link to see who the caller is.

"Ignore it," I say roughly, my fingers digging into the leather of his chair.

He sighs again. "It's Tom," he says reluctantly. "I asked him to call when he could so that we could discuss today's meetings. He must have just gotten in from his evening meeting."

"Quatre... " I growl warningly.

He looks up at me pleadingly. "It'll only take five minutes," he assures me, as the beeping sounds for the second time. "I'll make it worth your wait," he promises, his voice sultry.

I sigh. I know when I've lost. "Five minutes," I remind him firmly, then move back to the sofa, out of range of the vid camera.

Quatre sits back in his seat, fixes his tie, and clicks the vid receiver on.

"Tom," he says, smiling at the image of the Councilman that appears on his computer, which is wired to serve as the screen for vid phone messages.

They speak for a couple of minutes about Dufasion's evening meeting, which was with some of the wavering Undecideds in the Council.

I have no respect for those people, and am relieved that I haven't had to spend much time cultivating them thus far. Anyone who could spend so much time vacillating over an issue of such importance is disgracefully weak, in my opinion.

I put my glasses back on and try to concentrate on the paper I'm reading about some twenty-first century princeling, but find it remarkably dull. I glance at my watch and discover that Quatre's five minutes have passed twice. I glare at the smiling image on the screen, now laughing at something Quatre said. Isn't the man sleepy? Doesn't he want to go to bed?

He's got nothing to go to bed for, though. He's career military, despite his recent lapse into politics. That type rarely considers seeking a permanent mate - they're too used to moving from place to place to think about creating any ties for themselves.

It's what I would have become, probably, without Quatre.

But I have Quatre. At least, I would have Quatre if he'd get off the damn phone.

I watch Quatre lean back in his chair, sprawling a little, letting his knees fall apart while he unobtrusively stretches out one leg. Dufasion can't see his informal posture - the scope of the camera is designed and positioned so that, in terms of height, it only shows Quatre from the mid-chest up, and in width only shows Quatre and a bit of the black chair around him.

Almost everyone's vids are set up that way. It creates the rather distracting illusion that a bunch of old-fashioned, animated Roman busts are carrying on conversations with each other.

I don't like vid phones. Only the very wealthy and influential have them, so they aren't commonly used. They've never really caught on, so they never really dropped in price.

I watch Quatre lean back a little further in his chair, and watch as one of his hands drops to rest on his knee. I would rather it be my hand, or his hand on my knee, or...

My eyes narrow as I'm suddenly struck with an idea. I immediately chastise myself for the thought - three days in Maxwell's company, and all decorum deserts me.


I eye Quatre's desk. The thing is mammoth - huge, solid, so wide that four of Quatre could sit side by side and work. And it's deep... at least five feet between the back edge of the desk and the edge of the work surface... plenty of leg room.

I stand abruptly, unable to stop myself from grinning.

Maxwell would be proud.

I cross the room toward Quatre, stopping next to him, careful to stay out of range of the camera.

His eyes dart briefly, curiously, my way. He won't look at me directly - it would betray my presence to the man on the other side of the vid.

I smile widely, an expression I know Quatre will pick up in his peripheral vision.

We all have very good peripheral vision.

I drop soundlessly to my knees on the floor, and move beneath Quatre's desk, separating his legs and moving between them in one movement.

Quatre jerks, startled, letting a surprised expression flick across his face for the barest of instants. Dufasion's voice continues unchanged. He must not have noticed it.

So much the better.

Quickly but gently, I reach up and unbuckle Quatre's belt. He reaches down and tries to push my hands away, but I grasp his wrist and move his hand to my mouth, wrapping my lips around one of his fingers and sucking lightly on it. He jerks his hand away, still keeping his torso steady. A light flush creeps up his cheeks.

"So, enough of that. What about our meeting today?" Dufasion's cheerful voice asks. "How did you think it went? You know them better than me, so you'd be a better judge."

"Tell me what your impressions were first," Quatre requests. His voice is perfectly steady. I frown.

"Well... they seem a little reluctant, Quatre."

I swiftly unbutton Quatre's pants, pull down the zipper, and slide my hand into the opening, feeling his already hardened bulge through the soft cotton of his undershorts.

"Oh, no!" Quatre asserts sharply. "I mean, they're not reluctant," he amends swiftly. "Just... a little in shock at Relena's tactics. They aren't very happy about having to talk about their personal life in court."

He reaches down to try to stop me again, but I place my hand over his, lace our fingers together, and rub his palm over his own arousal. He pinkens more and pulls his hand away again.

"That's certainly understandable," Dufasion concedes seriously. "Do you think this whole divorce deal will interfere a lot with the Preventers issue?"

"I don't know," Quatre admits, and I can hear that his voice has become a little breathless. Good. "It could, but it could be nothing."

His voice suddenly increases in pitch on his last word, when I reach into the opening in the front of his shorts, and gently pull out his shaft, wrapping my fingers gently around his bare skin.

"It could," agrees Dufasion, and he sounds a little different - maybe he's finally noticed something is suddenly amiss.

There are no finer observers than trained military personnel. It only took him five minutes.

"What did you think the reactions of the others was to the matters we discussed?" Quatre asks. I think he's hoping to get Dufasion talking for awhile while he tries to get himself under control. I don't think he noticed that his usually impeccable phrasing was a bit garbled.

"Well, Duo seemed the most receptive to me, Trowa the least," Dufasion says slowly. "Heero... well, he seems pretty much resigned to do whatever it takes to get all this done with, even if he doesn't like it."

"It's not that Trowa isn't receptive," Quatre assures the other man. I glance up at my lover. His face is very red now. "He just... well, he has difficulty discussing private matters with people. That's understandable, really."

Quatre is trembling now, with the effort of keeping still and composed under my onslaught. I decide to up the stakes, and breathe heavily on his exposed arousal.

His lower body jerks, and he presses his hips back in the chair, trying to pull away.

That can't be allowed.

"Exactly what were the extent of his injuries in the last war?" Dufasion asks after a moment's pause, thoughtful on his part, if not on Quatre's.

"I really can't tell you that," Quatre manages, almost choking on the words as I tire of the conversation and wrap my lips around the head of his erection.

"I'm sorry," Dufasion says after a moment, rather stiffly. "I... "

"No, no," Quatre assures him, his voice cordial despite its underlying tightness. "It's just that Trowa has asked us not to discuss it, and I want to respect his wishes as much as possible... "

I really don't know how he's talking. It's a testimonial to his upbringing, his training to always present a dignified face to others. Glancing up, I see he is in fact presenting an almost-composed face to the vid camera. But he's helpless to stop the small, agitated movements of his hips, pushing himself further into my mouth. I accept him eagerly, sucking gently, running my tongue over his warm skin.

"Did you discuss with them the possibility of joining the Preventers?" Dufasion asks.

Quatre's eyes close involuntarily, and he quickly lifts his hand to rub it over his forehead, as though he's just attempting to rub away a slight headache. He's good.

But so am I.

Definitely Maxwell's influence.

I'll have to remember to thank him.

"I did," Quatre manages. He jumps slightly as I gently ease my hand into his pants, lightly stroking the skin of his inner thigh as my tongue continues to flick teasingly over the much harder flesh in my mouth.

"Did they... "

"I didn't ask for an answer," Quatre tells him. "I said I'd give them time to think."

I let him get through almost the whole sentence this time before I suddenly push my head forward, taking almost his entire length into my mouth.

"Understandable." Dufasion says. I'm barely paying attention to him now, only enough to monitor his perception of Quatre's reactions, but he sounds a little troubled. Finally, he asks, hesitantly, "Quatre, are you all right? You sound... are you ill?"

"You know, I am feeling a little... strange. I didn't realize it was this late, and I've been working for several hours... " Quatre stops, unable to continue to speak under my ministrations.

Score, as Maxwell would say.

Dufasion, innocent man, thinks Quatre's embarrassed at his weakness. He's embarrassed, all right, but not at the thought of admitting that he's ill.

"It's all right, Quatre," he assures my lover. "Go get some rest. We'll discuss this tomorrow."

"Thanks, Tom," Quatre manages. "I promise to be more... focused... tomorrow," he chokes, before hastily clicking the phone off.

"You!" he half-shouts at me as soon as the transmission is broken.

I pull back, allowing his length to slide out of my mouth, slowly running my tongue along him as it does. "Yes?" I ask, looking up at him, trying to assume the innocent expression he uses on me so often.

"I can't believe you... while I was on the vid... I'm... don't do that again!" he orders.

I grin up at him.

"Do what?" I ask, frowning. "This?" I clarify, taking him into my mouth again.

He groans, spreading his legs wider and reaching down to run his fingers through my hair, tugging on the fine strands.

"Wufei," he moans.

I make a sound of inquiry, allowing the vibrations of the sound to reverberate around him. He groans again.

"Wufei," he demands, tugging on my hair.

I look up at him, and pull back. "Yes?" I ask, shivering at the sound of my own voice, husky with my desire for him. "I want you," he manages, tugging me upward.

I pause only to hastily pull off his shoes, before rising to my feet. He tugs me down until I'm sitting on him in his big chair.

"Don't you want... " I begin.

"Here," he tells me, his own voice raspy. "I want you right here. In the chair."

"In the chair?" I repeat, surprised. I search my mind for the correct term, another Maxwell word, one he really likes... "Kinky," I say finally.

He laughs. "Look who's talking," he points out breathlessly before his lips meet mine, demanding.

We kiss furiously, and my hands move down, tugging on the waistband of his pants and underwear. He lifts his hips obligingly, his hands braced firmly on my waist to keep me from falling, and I manage to pull them down far enough that he can sit, and work them the rest of the way off his legs himself. I move so that I'm straddling him, and rub my silk-clad hardness against his own straining erection as I pull off his tie and yank his shirt over his head. We both groan as the silk rubs between us.

"Allah," he gasps. "Wufei. I need you... "

"Yes," I breathe against his mouth. "I need you... "

"I want you... here... ," he manages. "But I... " His hands run over my back, down to caress the curves of my bottom, rubbing my skin through the silk. "I don't want to hurt you," he tells me, his lips moving down the side of my throat.

I reach into the deep pocket of the pants - Quatre would never purchase any piece of clothing that didn't have at least one pocket - and pull out a small tube.

He laughs slightly when I hold it up. "So, you planned this," he observes, smirking at me as he carefully begins to work the silken fabric down over my hips.

"Not this, exactly" I concede somewhat wryly as I open the tube myself, squeezing some of the gel into my hand. "But... you never know... "

"A solider is always prepared," he quotes lightly, ending in a gasp as my slicked fingers stroke firmly over his arousal.

He tugs lower on my pants, growling in frustration as they catch. With an exasperated huff, he grabs the fabric in both hands, twisting it suddenly. The silk rips along one side, and he easily tears it down one leg, then the other, throwing the ruined scraps of fabric to the floor. I moan, surprised and painfully aroused at his sudden ferocity.

"I'll buy you another pair," he promises, roughly taking the tube out of my hand.

"I have dozens," I assure him, pressing closer to him, both of us moaning as our erections press together. I gasp and arch upward as his fingers slide inside me, preparing me.

"Quatre," I cry out, arching against him.

"I can't wait, Wufei," he rasps, his voice strained.

"Don't," I practically plead, pressing my lips to his.

He groans into my mouth, and his hands firmly grasp my hips, lifting me, then impaling me on his length in one stroke. The chair slides backwards and he swivels it around, anchoring the back against the solid bulk of the desk and bracing himself in the seat, thrusting rapidly deeper and deeper inside me.

We're both at fevered pitch already - it doesn't take long before he stiffens and releases himself inside me, crying my name.

A moment later I join him, white light exploding behind my eyes as I surrender to ecstasy.

I collapse against his chest, and his arms rise around me, holding me close to him.

We're still for several moments, just lying there together in his big chair as we wait for our breathing to return to normal.

After a long while, he chuckles. I look up to see him grinning down at me.

"If you'd told me this morning this is how we'd end the day I would never have believed it," he admits whimsically.

I smile at him. "You don't know everything about me yet, Winner," I tell him archly.

"I'm discovering that," he says sincerely, smiling at me. The smile widens back into the mischievous grin only those close to him ever see. "I certainly learned my lesson - never try to put you off for a phone call."

"Excellent," I sniff in my most haughty fashion. "You're a fine pupil, Young Master Winner."

He laughs, and lifts me up, setting me on my feet. "Why don't we continue our lessons in the bedroom, Master Chang?"

I smile as he stands up, and picks up the remnants of my pajamas, absently using them to wipe his chest clean. "Excellent idea," I say approvingly. "Though it's always good to explore additional educational opportunities," I indicate the chair with a sweeping gesture, "it will never do to ignore the basics."

"Thank you for agreeing to tutor me... after hours," he grins, talking my arm and herding my through the study to our bedroom.

"I am willing to make all manner of sacrifices for the cause of education," I say as the door closes behind us, managing to get the entire sentence out before his lips meet mine once again.

[part 17] [part 19] [back to Shoori's fic]