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She shakes against him, trembles like thunder about to roll. Please, she tries to say, but it comes out all vowels and breath.

“Oh, you like that?” His voice is the smoothest whiskey. It burns all the way down. “Feels good, baby?”

He drags two dripping fingers out of her and circles her clit until she’s dizzy. She can’t remember how she got here. She can’t remember how she ever lived without it.

“You’re so sweet,” he says to her neck, his tongue lapping at her pulse. “So good. Such a good girl, letting me see you.”

He palms her breast with his free hand, thumbs a taut nipple, gives it a squeeze. His cock is hard against the curve of her ass, ignored for the moment as he spreads her wide, sinks those two fingers back in. They curl and she curls—her toes, her spine, her body in the parenthesis of his.

“Mul…” she says. “Oh.”

He agrees—mmm—against the apple of her shoulder before biting her gently. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her gasp, arch back into his mouth.

“I thought about this all day.” He puts his wrist into it now, fucking her deeper, fuller, hitting her just exactly right. “How much I couldn’t wait—” His teeth drag over her earlobe. “—to take you home.”

“Plea—” she gasps, almost a word this time. His palm grinds her clit so good she could cry.

“All day.” He rolls her nipple between his fingers, scrapes his thumbnail over the very tip. “Listening to you. With your facts and your science and your—ah, god, Scully,” he groans when she clenches around him, thrusts against his hand.

“Yeah,” she pants. Her spine is a live wire. Her calves ache. “Yeah.”

“You’re so fucking smart.” He licks her jaw, the back of her ear. “It’s so fucking hot.”

His hips press forward and she feels the slick, swollen head of him pressing between her legs, waiting its turn while his fingers fill her again and again and again.

“Gonna make you come for me, baby, okay? Gonna make you come so hard.” He twists his wrist just a little, hitting her just there, and she whines high and long. “God, you drive me wild.”

He abandons her breast to cradle her jaw and angle her head back. His mouth coming down on hers is rough, needy. He still tastes like the cranberry-orange muffin he ate at the police station earlier, tart and sweet and citrus-tangy. She groans, pushes her tongue alongside his while he pushes a third finger into her.

It’s too much. She breaks, convulsing on his hand and clutching at anything she can reach. The sheets, the pillow, his arm. She digs her nails in deep and bites his lip hard—too hard—but she’s lost in space, drifting higher, imploding, combusting.

He brings her through it, rutting fingers and cock against her soaked, pulsing cunt, and it takes nearly a full minute to float back to earth. Longer than that for the ringing in her ears to quiet.

“Oh my god,” she gasps when she remembers speech and language. “Mulder. Oh my god.”

He kisses her with his bruised lips, smooths sweaty hair from her brow.

“You,” he mumbles against her mouth, low and soft, a transfer from his tongue to hers. “God, Scully. You.”