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Jim gave up on his memory a long time ago. He's got so many things to do every morning that he has to write them down or he's sunk: crew briefings, meetings with ambassadors, PADDs of paperwork piled as high as the ship's tallest ceiling. And he needs his sleep, really he does, but it all goes to hell in a hand basket when she calls for him.
I need you. He tucks his comm's speaker against his ear and shivers at her growl. The blinds of her office windows are drawn, the door unlocked. He walks in to find that she's started without him: splayed across her desk on her back, dark hair wild and dripping like hot fudge off the far edge; all clothes discarded save for her matching black bra and underwear (always matching—he fucking loves that about Bones, she's a class act); her knees bent and spread apart to accommodate the rather large probe she often uses—and probably has used on him before—in her sickbay.
"I hope that's sterilized," he quips.
"Come here and give me your cock," she commands, dropping the probe. She fixes him with eyes that burn like exploding worlds.
God, but he loves Bones when she's like this, open and demanding and scratching at his skin like she wants to get a look at what's inside. Doctors, right? He bruises her mouth with a fierce kiss and holds her down the way he's learned; her body and all its desires so well committed to his memory that there's little room for anything else. Meetings, briefings...who needs any of it when he's got her on his mind? When he reaches for the lube, the bottle's already sticky with her fingerprints; he adds to the collage, his other hand smoothing the leg that comes to rest over his shoulder.
"Fuck, you just know, don't you?" she groans, as his fingers slide down past her entrance, slicking over and into the tight hole he finds there. He grins as much as she'll allow him to, before she'll go and smack it off his face with an open palm.
"Bones, even if I don't know anything else in all of creation, I know you."
Jim reaches into one of her desk drawers, the only one she'll let him into, and pulls out a long, silver vibrator. He sucks at her nipple through the sheer fabric of her bra as he angles the wand inside her, pushing past the hint of resistance. When he turns it on, she screams; the heels of her boots make grooves in his bare back. A paperweight flies off the desk and onto the floor, as well as some actual papers. She's so old-fashioned, Bones.
She's always fighting with the clock and raging against space, so tightly wound that it sometimes hurts to watch, but here he's reduced her to twitches and gasps, flutters of dark eyelashes that look sinfully pretty against the tops of her cheeks. She's so beautiful, it's criminal; he should lock her up for being such a distraction. But in this room, minutes feel like hours and hours might as well be days. They've got all the time in the universe and right now, the universe can take a number. He unbuckles his belt.
"Jim, please," Bones begs, because she knows she never has to beg.
When he slides inside, he feels her buzzing all around him, and not just from the vibrator. He kisses down her cleavage and fills her completely, setting a pace he knows she enjoys. In the morning—just a few hours from now—she'll throw him out of her sickbay when he comes to bother her, tell him to go find the highest cliff on the closest planet and jump the hell off. But tonight, she's brought him here, and he can bury himself inside her and linger over her sweat-slicked skin. Jim turns up the vibrator and watches her body erupt with pleasure beneath him. The rest doesn't matter; he only wants memories like this.