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She's fallen asleep in the chair in front of the fire and the memory of his face follows her down.  The basso profundo rumble of his voice vibrates in her chest, the small smile at the corner of his mouth making her breath come a little faster.

In the manner of dreams, she's standing in the middle of her solarium, surrounded by her plants, dappled sunlight falling on the packed dirt floor beneath her feet. 

He's here too, standing behind her.  She is tall for a woman, but he is taller.  She can feel his presence, his gravitas, standing half in shadow, half in forge light.  She wants to turn and look but she does not. If she is to have any hope at all, she must trust him. 

She closes her eyes and listens.  He's pacing in languid steps, circling her, scenting the air around her.  She stands and waits.  No, it's not the air he's scenting. 

He's scenting her. 

He's at her right shoulder, moving to stand before her.  If she reached out a hand, she could touch him.  He leans close, into her personal space, and inhales, drawing in her scent.  Closer still, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. 

Her heart is in her throat.  She is the rabbit and he the fox.  No, her dreaming mind corrects.  He is the Wolf.  Even with this knowledge, every inch of skin on her body is alive, aching for want of his touch.

He draws away and she cannot help the quiet whimper that slips passed her lips. 

He puts space between them, creates distance.  He moves to her left, and circles around again.  She counts the heartbeats, straining to hear him.  She gasps as he steps in close, just behind her.  His breath disturbs the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, moves to the hollow beneath her ear.  She can feel the delicious weight of his presence. 

She lifts her chin and tips her head to the right, baring her throat to him.

He growls, quiet and low, a hungry sound.  She feels him draw closer still, feels the heat of his breath feathering over her skin, marking the curve of her throat.  He inhales her scent deeply.  She does not flinch away, does not move a muscle, though she is torn between fleeing and leaning into him.

There can be no doubt in his mind that she wants him.

She dares to shift her weight toward him.  He draws away but not entirely.  She can almost feel the brush of his lips over her jugular.  Her pulse pounds in her ears.

He purrs, the sound just next to her ear.  She shivers.  He does not move.  He breathes and she is transfixed.

Someone drops a tray and she awakens with a start.  She is back in her chair in front of the fire, the ache still sharp in her skin.  She stares into the fire, hugging her arms tight across her chest, trying to hold onto the fleeting moment even as it dims and fades.


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River Song

November 2009

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