Title: Glamour
Author: Jo
Pairing: Karl Urban/??
Rating: R
Summary: "Yes, this is what Heaven feels like"
Disclaimer: Karl isn't mine, Karl didn't do anything that happens in this fic though I wish he had. *g*
Notes: I don't write like this, never have, so...I'm blaming it all on Brenda and the "Body Shots" and the fact that she threatened to withhold sex (don't look at me like that, it was Karl/Orli sex) if I didn't write sex for her. Only, it's not really sex. It is, but it isn't. Confused yet? Good. This one's all for Brenda. *mwah!*

glamour: n. an exciting and often illusory romantic attractiveness; esp: an alluring personal attraction


You wonder, sometimes, what it is about you that attracted him. You've tried to figure it out, but you can never quite get it. So you poke and prod at it, turning it over in your mind. And then he rolls over, gives you that slow, lazy smile.

"You're doing it again."

That rich accent washes over you, smooth and velvety. You don't have to ask. You know what he means. You're thinking, and you're doing it loudly. It's something he teases you about all the time. And then you can't think because his hands are on you, touching you in all the right places.

You hear a moan, realize it's coming from you. He likes that, likes it when you're vocal. So you do it for him. His hands are everywhere and, God, it's the best feeling in the world. Those clever, clever fingers trace your ribs, circle your nipples. He laughs softly when you arch against him. His hands play you like the finest instrument, wringing a symphony of sounds from your lips. He knows his effect on you, and you love that he knows.

You whisper as he touches you. "Please" and "yes" and "love you." Over and over. And now his mouth is on you, his tongue following the trail that his fingers just blazed. You think it's too much, think there's no way it could possibly get any better. But you know it will. God, do you ever know it will. Those lush, full lips are touching you all over now, suckling a nipple, moving down for his tongue to delve into your naval.

You're pleading now, begging him to take you as you twist and writhe on the silk sheets. He whispers, "not yet," and gently pushes your hips back down. You want more and he knows it. Knows what you need and when you need it. And he won't give it to you until then. So you curse him and he laughs again, warm breath wafting across your damp skin.

Need and lust and want and desire - you ache for something only he can give you. Your hands fist in his hair - that lovely, silky, dark hair - and you pull him up for a kiss. Finally. You think you could spend eternity kissing him, kissing those lips that are full and soft and firm. His taste is intoxicating, addicting - clove and warm honey and something you can't quite place. It's exotic and rich and sinful and so very, very him. You wonder if this is what sunshine tastes like.

And just like that it changes. Now his kiss overwhelms you, pulls you under, batters at your senses until you don't know up from down and you don't care anymore. This is ravishment at its finest and you love it. Love the way he makes you cry out his name as his mouth attacks you, feasts on you.

Your tongue meets his and it's a duel. He will win, of course. He always does. But you don't care. This is what you want. There is only him and now and the sweet ache building inside you. And still his hands are moving over your body. Always moving, touching, teasing, and he's sucking your tongue now. You think you might die from the sheer pleasure of it all. But if you must die, you think, this is how you want to go - his tongue in your mouth, his hands on your skin, his body against yours.

But he's not done yet. Oh, no, not even close. And you're ready for him, ready for the slick glide of his fingers, ready for more. You want him, all of him. You want more. But he moves slowly, taking his time as he prepares you.

"Soon," he whispers in response to your pleading. Soon, you think, is not soon enough. Now. You want. You need. Now. But not yet, he says. Soon. And now you're shamelessly begging and it's what he wants. You know that. So you give it to him, give it for him. With whispers, with moans, with a soft, breathless voice you beg. And there it is - that flash in intense, burning hazel eyes, that tiny flare of his nostrils - as if he can smell something you can't. Maybe he can. You're not sure.

"Please," you whimper.

"Now," he tells you. And that wonderfully sexy voice is a little rough, a little raspy now.

He slides into you - pressure and fullness and perfection - and you think, yes, this is what Heaven feels like. This slow glide of hot velvet covered steel inside you as he moves is what you've wanted, what you've begged for. You sink into his kiss. Yes, this is it, and oh, his hand is on you now, fisting you in long, smooth strokes.

You think someone has attached a wire to each of your muscles when you weren't looking, because you can feel your body curling in on itself as they're drawn tighter, curling around him as he drives into you and his fingers move over you. Tighter and tighter. It's all so perfect that you could weep. But you don't. Instead you let your head fall back, let your lashes sweep down to rest on your cheeks for a moment. Just a moment. But you want to see him come apart, so you look again.

And those incredible hazel eyes are burning into you. And...oh...yes, right there...just...oh. His hair is in his face now and your hands reach up to brush it back. You pull his head down, tasting the salt on his skin, crying out your release into his mouth.

The wires to your muscles have been cut and your body uncoils so rapidly it makes you dizzy. Yes, this is definitely Heaven. Brilliant bursts of color sparkle behind your eyes seconds before your body explodes apart into a billion crystalline fragments. And then you're floating and spinning and drifting, too overwhelmed to think, to move. There is nothing but you and him and this incredible, unbelievable, so beautiful it hurts feeling.

His eyes - dark now, but still the most amazing thing you've ever seen - are locked with yours when he comes seconds after you. You can feel him, feel the quiver of taut, tense muscles under smooth, creamy skin. And you love it. Love that you can bring this dark god to his knees. Love that he can bring you to yours.

You love how he smells after sex - earthy and musky and hot and so very something - and you love even more the way he feels against your hyper-sensitive skin. You lay there in a tangle, unsure where he ends and you begin and not caring at the moment, and you're sweaty and sticky and you need a shower. But you're too tired to move. And so is he. So you lay there, touching and kissing, not talking. You don't need to talk. It's all said in your kiss. You wonder how he'd look with an earring - a small gold hoop maybe. Like a pirate, you think. Then you wonder what he'd say if you suggest it.

Hazel eyes open and there's that slow, lazy smile you love so much.

"You're doing it again."

And you don't have to ask because you already know. And he's right. But you don't care.


~fin~