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“Captain,” he moans reverently when my fingers find that spot inside him. I tease it until he’s tensing and shaking and spilling onto my stomach while again gasping, “Captain.”
Then he clamps his teeth down on my shoulder, holding on like a dog with a bone, and rides my thigh through the aftershocks.
It’s strange to hear my title in the throes of passion, but the way he says it always sends a little thrill of warmth down my spine. It has somehow become charming that he insists on calling me by rank even though he’s not mine to command. Ross handles his collaboration with Starfleet Intelligence officially. I can try to tell Garak what to do but I’ve learned by now that he does as he pleases—and he would certainly insist that it’s just a coincidence how often what he pleases is to please me.
He lets go of my aching shoulder, then slides bonelessly from my lap down to the floor. He nudges my legs apart and insinuates himself between them and pulls me so I’m seated a little closer to the edge of the bed.
When looks up at me then, it reminds me uncomfortably of the way some of the Bajorans look at me, the true believers… but I'm nothing like the Emissary when he’s down on his knees for me. I nod at him and then look away, discomfited by the intensity of his gaze.
He wraps his hand and lips around me, and I sink my messy fingers into his hair. It feels so good, the way we fit.
It shouldn’t feel so good. He’s betrayed my trust enough times that I should know better than to get involved with him, even casually, even sporadically, like this. But I get something from him that I can’t get from—
(I gasp as he takes me in further.)
—can’t get from anyone else, and not just physically. He has a particular knack for drawing my own hypocrisy out into the open where I have to face it. When he approves of my actions, that’s when I really know that I have to stop and examine them… though I still end up coming to the same conclusion more often than not. It’s uncomfortable, a fresh shock to my self-image, each time, but in the end I’m better for it.
Or at least—
(Fuck me, that clever tongue knows me too well.)
—at least I know myself better.