Fic: BSG: Listen, I Just Don't Care
Title: Listen, I Just Don't Care
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Characters/Pairing: Bill Adama/Laura Roslin
Rating: R
Spoilers: Set just after Unfinished Business
Summary: Bill. Laura. The WC. Sexytiems. Hey, it's Smut Tuesday, folks! :D
Disclaimers: I do not own anything or anyone mentioned in this fic. I am not profiting from the writing or posting of this fiction. All these characters belong to Ron D. Moore, David Eick, Sci Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries.
A/N: For all that I love them, I've never written A/R smut before. Crazy. Written for loveintheloo, where I was challenged by the lovely angiescully with the prompt: listen, I just don't care. Cross-posted to loveintheloo and smut_tuesdays. Thanks to leiascully for crit, as per usual.
Laura bustles in and out of his tiny bathroom, suit jacket off, glasses on. Bill didn't invite her in to tend to his injuries after the dance, but he's tired and he's bruised, and she's insistent and she's wearing that skirt, the one that perfectly outlines the contours of hips and ass and offers just the barest teasing hint of the back of her thighs as she walks away. He doubts that there is a living soul in the Fleet who could say no to that skirt. When she wears that skirt, Bill wishes he were about ten years younger, with fewer responsibilities, more stamina, and all the time in the worlds to do her bidding. That skirt makes him do things that a man his age shouldn't do.
"I don't know what you thought you were doing," Laura murmurs, dabbing at Bill's swollen lip with a cotton ball.
He winces when the cotton scrapes against a particularly sore spot. It is a struggle to get his mouth around words, with his lips still swollen from the mouthguard and the force of Tyrol's left hook. "Listen, I just don't care," he snaps, and shrugs apologetically to take the bite out of it. "It was a military decision," he rumbles, wondering if she will appreciate the joke. "Not your call."
"Hmm." She steps back, one hand on one shapely hip, and makes that face at him, the one that he likes to think is reserved solely for him, the one that is amused and stern and soft and deadly all at once, the one that makes her eyebrows quirk up as her lips twitch down. This is an intermediate expression for Laura Roslin, he has discovered. It is either one jump away from an I-am-the-President-and-you-just-listen-to-me lecture, or one jump away from that laugh that seems like it starts at her feet and ripples through her entire body until even the waving layers of her hair are in on the joke.
Bill doesn't care which coordinates she plugs in. Either destination is sexy as hell. So he meets her eyes, counts down from ten, and this time, he gets the laugh, and he chuckles along with her as best as his bruises will allow.
"You know, Admiral, I've been thinking," she tells him, dabbing at the cut over his eyebrow, "that maybe the political side of the Fleet should have its own dance."
"Yeah?" he says, closing his eyes briefly against a vision of Laura Roslin, in that skirt, knocking the teeth out of some wannabe political opponent. When he opens his eyes again, he thinks that she is closer than she was before, or maybe the bathroom is smaller. He can feel his skin heating. He clears his throat. "And who would you throw in for, Madam President?"
"Mmm," Laura hums, continuing her ministrations, "maybe Zarek. Maybe Tory," she adds, voice thoughtful.
"My money's on you," he grins, the expression turning almost immediately to a grimace, and he leans into the gentle touch of her fingers on his face for comfort. She has taken off her heels, and his knees can almost brush her thighs. He wishes his legs were longer.
"It better be," she says, arching back to grab another bandage from the edge of the sink, practically giving him an invitation to follow the line of her lapel down into her cleavage. He takes these opportunities when they present themselves. He prides himself on knowing the precise moment to look away, to avoid capture, but he's got too much on his DRADIS right now to properly monitor the situation, and he's a half-second late, and the barest lift of her eyebrows lets him know it. "I would consider any other wager to be...suborning mutiny."
Bill ignores the way his body responds when she talks about mutiny. "Couldn't bet on anyone but you," he agrees, trying to distract himself. "Zarek couldn't fight his way out of a Canceron love circle."
"It would certainly be amusing to watch him try," she giggles, and begins putting most of the medical supplies away. He loves watching her laugh, and it pleases him that he hasn't seen many other people make her laugh like he does. Lee did, once, at dinner, and the sudden overwhelming urge to slug his own son took him by surprise.
"I think Tory's got some fight in her, though," he advises her. "She'd be tougher."
"That's why I hired her," Laura sighs, and leans back against the sink before fixing him with her best Presidential look. "Take off your shirt."
Bill's mouth drops open, just a little, as he fights the urge to attempt some sort of victory cry. "Madam President?" he queries.
She hides an amused smile behind her slender fingers. "He hit you pretty hard with those wild crosses," Laura says, tapping her bare toe against his floor. "Your ribs are probably bruised. We should wrap them."
"I can do that," Bill protests. He's the Admiral, she's the President. They have to maintain some level of decorum, and if she starts pulling off his clothes, he's not sure he can hold up his end of the bargain. Although, he considers wryly, with the way all of his blood is draining south, holding up a very different type of bargain should not be a problem. Laura makes an impatient noise, and he looks up at her. She's waiting for him, obviously.
"Get on with it, Bill," she says, and when he doesn't move, she does. With all the ruthless efficiency of a hardened battle commander, Laura grabs the fraying edges of his tanks and pulls them up, nudging his arms up along with them. "Laundry?" she asks, dangling the tanks from one finger.
"You can just drop 'em right there," Bill says, which earns him yet another amused grin as she lets the tanks slip onto the floor. "Gods' balls," he mutters, and she snickers.
"Is that a special dispensation for me," Laura asks, eyes devilishly alight.
His face is red. He can't recall the last time someone made him blush. "Poor choice of words," he says, fixing his eyes on the sink, the faucets, the dripping water, anything that isn't connected to her. "Really, Madam President," he insists, "I can do this myself. This wasn't my first time on the floor."
"I have some memory of your dancing ability," she reminds him, and he chuckles. "Hard to say which dance I liked better. Hands on my shoulders, please," she says, like it's a request. But he knows a command when he hears one, and Bill obeys without protest when she leans in close and he can breathe her in as much as his bruised ribs will allow. This is different than New Caprica, where there was nothing but fresh air and smoke. This is Galactica, this is home, this is recycled air and the intimate scent of Laura's skin. Maybe it's just soap and borrowed perfume, but it's Laura, and it's good, and now he's hard and he wants her and she's touching his chest.
"Thought you said you didn't know what I thought I was doing," he mumbles, words all jumbling into battle debris when she runs her smooth hands around his chest, feeling for sore spots. She hits one, and he lets out a grunt of displeasure.
"And I thought you didn't care," Laura reminds him, leaving one careful hand on his bruised ribs and deftly picking up a bandage with the other. "Besides, Admiral," she continues, as she presses the end of a length of bandage against his side, "I also said that I love a good fight."
"I made my point," he tells her, as she moves closer and starts rolling the bandage around his back. She's still standing, but she's nearly in his lap. Her hair rests on both of their shoulders, and he can feel the smooth slide of the silk of her dress shirt against his bare chest. He closes his eyes and wonders if she is purposefully taking as long as possible, unrolling the cloth inch by agonizing inch, just so she can have an excuse to stay. He doesn't know if she feels that way about him, if she has to take cold showers after she leaves Galactica. Before New Caprica, he had not considered the possibility, but after a night with her in his arms he's willing to entertain the notion. He would like to tell her that she is the reason he is looking for Earth, she's the reason he cares, because he hopes that if they find another frakking planet to call home he might convince her to curl up next to him under the stars, pretend they aren't important, just one more night. Maybe next time they won't fall asleep before they can take her advice, before they enjoy it the way he really wants to.
Laura shifts back, finally rolls the bandage all the way around, tugs on the other end. "Tight enough?" she asks, and he opens one eye to find her wearing a teasing smirk.
He breathes in and out, testing the way it stretches, and nods. "Yeah," he says, "but I should probably wrap it around again." He removes one hand from her shoulder and reaches for the bandage, hoping she'll do it instead. If this is as close to her as he can get, then this will do, he thinks, though he knows at this point, that may be the blood pressure building up in his dick talking. He doesn't care.
She shakes her head and smiles at him, and the light overhead catches her glasses, gives her expression just a twist of wickedness. "This isn't my first time on the floor, either, Admiral," she says, and edges forward to wrap the bandage back around again, and as she does, her elbow brushes past his erection, and Bill sees stars. He hopes that the groan that escaped wasn't loud. He hopes that if it was, she didn't notice. He hopes that if it was and she did then she'll just take off her clothes, already, because this is worse than New Caprica, when she fell asleep with her breasts pressed against his chest and her magnificent hair fanning out over his shoulder.
"Hmm. I don't believe I recall Tyrol hitting below the belt," she murmurs, deliberately repeating the motion. "So what might that be about?"
"I refuse to believe you don't know," he manages to say, and he thinks he's done it when she drops the bandage and steps back. His hands fall from her shoulders to his knees and stay there. He lacks the will to move them unless she wants him to.
Laura slips off her glasses, folds them, places them on the shelf under his mirror. "Hmm. I believe that I mentioned that it wasn't my first time on the floor," she says, and her voice is different, lower, slower, tempting. "Didn't I?"
"You did," Bill says, nodding absently, wondering if this is really going to happen, and then her hands are on his shoulders, and her lips are barely grazing his. "This won't be good for you if it gets out," he groans.
"Listen," she breathes, "I just don't care." She smiles down at him, and he notices, even through the dizzy haze of arousal, that this is the same expression she wore when she told him that the war was over, that they had already lost. He is relieved to see it, because he knows that it means that she has made up her mind, that she is resolute and there is no more room for negotiation. "This is a civilian matter. Not your call," she quips, and he chuckles and covers one of her hands with his, sliding it up her arm to her shoulder. "Oh, come on, Bill," she laughs. "Is that really where you want to put that hand?"
"I think you know that it's not," he says, meeting her eyes, "but I don't know how much good I'm gonna be to you in my present condition, Madam President."
Laura's hand skims down his arm, carefully skirting his bruised ribs, and finds a home on his thigh. "I'm accustomed to having unfinished business with you, Bill," she assures him. "I don't need the world in one night."
"I think I can give you an overview of my general battle plan, then," he grins, as his hand slips from her shoulder to cover the curve of one of her breasts. "I'm glad that the civilian part of the Fleet is willing to accommodate the military on this issue." He brings his other hand up, caresses her other breast, unbuttons her blouse.
"We can be very accommodating," Laura gasps, her hand reflexively squeezing his thigh as his fingers finally touch the bare skin of her stomach under her shirt. "We have resources of our own."
"That you do," he agrees, unable to pull his eyes from the line of her pale skin against the dark material of her bra. He tugs her forward, just enough so that he can trace that line with his tongue. His mouth still aches from the dance, but when she sighs with pleasure and he feels her fingers against the zipper of his trousers, he almost forgets the pain.
"I believe you mentioned a plan," she whispers, running her hand up and down his thigh, increasing in pressure with every stroke. "I'd love to hear it."
He places one hand against the small of her back and moves the other from her breasts to her hip. "First step," he growls, rubbing his thumb against the fabric covering her hipbone, "is to remove any obstacles to our plan of action." He finds the zipper of her skirt tucked away at her side and pulls it down, then repeats the process with the skirt, letting it fall to her ankles before he moves his hand back to her waist.
"So far," Laura says, stepping gracefully out of her discarded skirt, one shapely leg at a time, "I like this plan." She kicks the skirt back towards the door, taps her nails somewhat impatiently against his collarbone, and returns her hand to his shoulder, gripping gently for balance. The hand on his thigh is more insistent now, and the rhythm of it seems to match the cadence of the pounding blood in his dick. He can feel it twitch every time her hand moves back up his leg, pushing against fabric, trying to be closer to her. He sympathizes.
"I think it's a good plan," Bill tells her, as his hands work to send her underwear to meet her ankles. Laura hums at him, and the sound is relieved but still frustrated, and she pushes her hip into his hand. "Requires some precision, though," he adds, and slowly moves his thumb lower and lower until she gasps. Laura is warm and inviting and forbidden, like a nugget's first shot of ambrosia, and he vows that when his mouth is no longer bruised he will drink her in until neither of them can move. "Do you approve of the plan, Madam President?"
"Mmm. I believe, Admiral, that as long as we have a firm grip on the situation," she quips, "we'll be just fine." He can just barely hear her determination over his own desire as she wraps a hand around him.
He starts to pull her toward him, onto his lap, because what he wants is to feel her skin against his, to feel the heat of her around his dick instead of his fingers, to feel the two of them together, but she stops him.
"Later," she orders, and it is definitely an order. He shudders against her hand. When Laura Roslin barks orders at him while she's gripping his cock, he feels like a kid who just discovered porn. "Hands on this time, Admiral," she quips, punctuating the command with one slow stroke of her hand, followed by one quick swirl of her thumb against the head of his dick. He sucks in a breath, and it hurts, so he distracts himself by following orders, letting his fingers slide back over her. She whimpers softly and squeezes his shoulder when he hits her clit, and he crooks his thumb and presses against it until the whimper becomes a moan and finally a throaty, "Gods, yes, do that."
"Wilco, Madam President," he grunts, obedient, and maneuvers the pad of his thumb this way and that way and slower and faster until her nails are digging into his shoulder and her breath is coming in short little bursts that keep time with the motion of her hand on his cock. He would give her orders, but as it turns out, Laura is a natural at jerking him off, and whatever she's doing feels so good that it's all he can do to keep his thumb in position.
"Oh, my frakking Lords," Laura moans, shuddering suddenly, "Bill."
That's enough for the Admiral. He can withstand a barrage of attacks-- Laura half-naked, Laura's nails digging into one shoulder, Laura all over and between and around his fingers-- but his name in that voice from her lips is too much, and he comes with one hand inside her, one hand in her hair, and her name on his tongue.
She slumps against him, and he notices that the hand braced against his shoulder for support is shaking. Bill forces himself to summon the strength of will to draw her down onto his lap, her bare ass perched on one thigh, one hip flush against his abdomen. He reaches up to stroke her hair.
"You have my official approval to execute that plan, Admiral," she says, speaking directly into his ear, "whenever you'd like." She sighs and leans her forehead against his temple. "I should go, shouldn't I? Let you rest."
"Nah," he rumbles, seeking out her hand and wrapping their fingers together. "You should stay. Go over some more battle plans with me. Always good to have a contingency. Just in case."
She laughs, and he feels the sound more than he hears it, lets it wrap around his heart. "I thought you were worried about keeping up appearances, Bill," she teases, and carefully places her lips on the bandage above his eyebrow.
"Listen," he says, as he turns his head to kiss her temple, "I just don't care."
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Characters/Pairing: Bill Adama/Laura Roslin
Rating: R
Spoilers: Set just after Unfinished Business
Summary: Bill. Laura. The WC. Sexytiems. Hey, it's Smut Tuesday, folks! :D
Disclaimers: I do not own anything or anyone mentioned in this fic. I am not profiting from the writing or posting of this fiction. All these characters belong to Ron D. Moore, David Eick, Sci Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries.
A/N: For all that I love them, I've never written A/R smut before. Crazy. Written for loveintheloo, where I was challenged by the lovely angiescully with the prompt: listen, I just don't care. Cross-posted to loveintheloo and smut_tuesdays. Thanks to leiascully for crit, as per usual.
Laura bustles in and out of his tiny bathroom, suit jacket off, glasses on. Bill didn't invite her in to tend to his injuries after the dance, but he's tired and he's bruised, and she's insistent and she's wearing that skirt, the one that perfectly outlines the contours of hips and ass and offers just the barest teasing hint of the back of her thighs as she walks away. He doubts that there is a living soul in the Fleet who could say no to that skirt. When she wears that skirt, Bill wishes he were about ten years younger, with fewer responsibilities, more stamina, and all the time in the worlds to do her bidding. That skirt makes him do things that a man his age shouldn't do.
"I don't know what you thought you were doing," Laura murmurs, dabbing at Bill's swollen lip with a cotton ball.
He winces when the cotton scrapes against a particularly sore spot. It is a struggle to get his mouth around words, with his lips still swollen from the mouthguard and the force of Tyrol's left hook. "Listen, I just don't care," he snaps, and shrugs apologetically to take the bite out of it. "It was a military decision," he rumbles, wondering if she will appreciate the joke. "Not your call."
"Hmm." She steps back, one hand on one shapely hip, and makes that face at him, the one that he likes to think is reserved solely for him, the one that is amused and stern and soft and deadly all at once, the one that makes her eyebrows quirk up as her lips twitch down. This is an intermediate expression for Laura Roslin, he has discovered. It is either one jump away from an I-am-the-President-and-you-just-listen-to-me lecture, or one jump away from that laugh that seems like it starts at her feet and ripples through her entire body until even the waving layers of her hair are in on the joke.
Bill doesn't care which coordinates she plugs in. Either destination is sexy as hell. So he meets her eyes, counts down from ten, and this time, he gets the laugh, and he chuckles along with her as best as his bruises will allow.
"You know, Admiral, I've been thinking," she tells him, dabbing at the cut over his eyebrow, "that maybe the political side of the Fleet should have its own dance."
"Yeah?" he says, closing his eyes briefly against a vision of Laura Roslin, in that skirt, knocking the teeth out of some wannabe political opponent. When he opens his eyes again, he thinks that she is closer than she was before, or maybe the bathroom is smaller. He can feel his skin heating. He clears his throat. "And who would you throw in for, Madam President?"
"Mmm," Laura hums, continuing her ministrations, "maybe Zarek. Maybe Tory," she adds, voice thoughtful.
"My money's on you," he grins, the expression turning almost immediately to a grimace, and he leans into the gentle touch of her fingers on his face for comfort. She has taken off her heels, and his knees can almost brush her thighs. He wishes his legs were longer.
"It better be," she says, arching back to grab another bandage from the edge of the sink, practically giving him an invitation to follow the line of her lapel down into her cleavage. He takes these opportunities when they present themselves. He prides himself on knowing the precise moment to look away, to avoid capture, but he's got too much on his DRADIS right now to properly monitor the situation, and he's a half-second late, and the barest lift of her eyebrows lets him know it. "I would consider any other wager to be...suborning mutiny."
Bill ignores the way his body responds when she talks about mutiny. "Couldn't bet on anyone but you," he agrees, trying to distract himself. "Zarek couldn't fight his way out of a Canceron love circle."
"It would certainly be amusing to watch him try," she giggles, and begins putting most of the medical supplies away. He loves watching her laugh, and it pleases him that he hasn't seen many other people make her laugh like he does. Lee did, once, at dinner, and the sudden overwhelming urge to slug his own son took him by surprise.
"I think Tory's got some fight in her, though," he advises her. "She'd be tougher."
"That's why I hired her," Laura sighs, and leans back against the sink before fixing him with her best Presidential look. "Take off your shirt."
Bill's mouth drops open, just a little, as he fights the urge to attempt some sort of victory cry. "Madam President?" he queries.
She hides an amused smile behind her slender fingers. "He hit you pretty hard with those wild crosses," Laura says, tapping her bare toe against his floor. "Your ribs are probably bruised. We should wrap them."
"I can do that," Bill protests. He's the Admiral, she's the President. They have to maintain some level of decorum, and if she starts pulling off his clothes, he's not sure he can hold up his end of the bargain. Although, he considers wryly, with the way all of his blood is draining south, holding up a very different type of bargain should not be a problem. Laura makes an impatient noise, and he looks up at her. She's waiting for him, obviously.
"Get on with it, Bill," she says, and when he doesn't move, she does. With all the ruthless efficiency of a hardened battle commander, Laura grabs the fraying edges of his tanks and pulls them up, nudging his arms up along with them. "Laundry?" she asks, dangling the tanks from one finger.
"You can just drop 'em right there," Bill says, which earns him yet another amused grin as she lets the tanks slip onto the floor. "Gods' balls," he mutters, and she snickers.
"Is that a special dispensation for me," Laura asks, eyes devilishly alight.
His face is red. He can't recall the last time someone made him blush. "Poor choice of words," he says, fixing his eyes on the sink, the faucets, the dripping water, anything that isn't connected to her. "Really, Madam President," he insists, "I can do this myself. This wasn't my first time on the floor."
"I have some memory of your dancing ability," she reminds him, and he chuckles. "Hard to say which dance I liked better. Hands on my shoulders, please," she says, like it's a request. But he knows a command when he hears one, and Bill obeys without protest when she leans in close and he can breathe her in as much as his bruised ribs will allow. This is different than New Caprica, where there was nothing but fresh air and smoke. This is Galactica, this is home, this is recycled air and the intimate scent of Laura's skin. Maybe it's just soap and borrowed perfume, but it's Laura, and it's good, and now he's hard and he wants her and she's touching his chest.
"Thought you said you didn't know what I thought I was doing," he mumbles, words all jumbling into battle debris when she runs her smooth hands around his chest, feeling for sore spots. She hits one, and he lets out a grunt of displeasure.
"And I thought you didn't care," Laura reminds him, leaving one careful hand on his bruised ribs and deftly picking up a bandage with the other. "Besides, Admiral," she continues, as she presses the end of a length of bandage against his side, "I also said that I love a good fight."
"I made my point," he tells her, as she moves closer and starts rolling the bandage around his back. She's still standing, but she's nearly in his lap. Her hair rests on both of their shoulders, and he can feel the smooth slide of the silk of her dress shirt against his bare chest. He closes his eyes and wonders if she is purposefully taking as long as possible, unrolling the cloth inch by agonizing inch, just so she can have an excuse to stay. He doesn't know if she feels that way about him, if she has to take cold showers after she leaves Galactica. Before New Caprica, he had not considered the possibility, but after a night with her in his arms he's willing to entertain the notion. He would like to tell her that she is the reason he is looking for Earth, she's the reason he cares, because he hopes that if they find another frakking planet to call home he might convince her to curl up next to him under the stars, pretend they aren't important, just one more night. Maybe next time they won't fall asleep before they can take her advice, before they enjoy it the way he really wants to.
Laura shifts back, finally rolls the bandage all the way around, tugs on the other end. "Tight enough?" she asks, and he opens one eye to find her wearing a teasing smirk.
He breathes in and out, testing the way it stretches, and nods. "Yeah," he says, "but I should probably wrap it around again." He removes one hand from her shoulder and reaches for the bandage, hoping she'll do it instead. If this is as close to her as he can get, then this will do, he thinks, though he knows at this point, that may be the blood pressure building up in his dick talking. He doesn't care.
She shakes her head and smiles at him, and the light overhead catches her glasses, gives her expression just a twist of wickedness. "This isn't my first time on the floor, either, Admiral," she says, and edges forward to wrap the bandage back around again, and as she does, her elbow brushes past his erection, and Bill sees stars. He hopes that the groan that escaped wasn't loud. He hopes that if it was, she didn't notice. He hopes that if it was and she did then she'll just take off her clothes, already, because this is worse than New Caprica, when she fell asleep with her breasts pressed against his chest and her magnificent hair fanning out over his shoulder.
"Hmm. I don't believe I recall Tyrol hitting below the belt," she murmurs, deliberately repeating the motion. "So what might that be about?"
"I refuse to believe you don't know," he manages to say, and he thinks he's done it when she drops the bandage and steps back. His hands fall from her shoulders to his knees and stay there. He lacks the will to move them unless she wants him to.
Laura slips off her glasses, folds them, places them on the shelf under his mirror. "Hmm. I believe that I mentioned that it wasn't my first time on the floor," she says, and her voice is different, lower, slower, tempting. "Didn't I?"
"You did," Bill says, nodding absently, wondering if this is really going to happen, and then her hands are on his shoulders, and her lips are barely grazing his. "This won't be good for you if it gets out," he groans.
"Listen," she breathes, "I just don't care." She smiles down at him, and he notices, even through the dizzy haze of arousal, that this is the same expression she wore when she told him that the war was over, that they had already lost. He is relieved to see it, because he knows that it means that she has made up her mind, that she is resolute and there is no more room for negotiation. "This is a civilian matter. Not your call," she quips, and he chuckles and covers one of her hands with his, sliding it up her arm to her shoulder. "Oh, come on, Bill," she laughs. "Is that really where you want to put that hand?"
"I think you know that it's not," he says, meeting her eyes, "but I don't know how much good I'm gonna be to you in my present condition, Madam President."
Laura's hand skims down his arm, carefully skirting his bruised ribs, and finds a home on his thigh. "I'm accustomed to having unfinished business with you, Bill," she assures him. "I don't need the world in one night."
"I think I can give you an overview of my general battle plan, then," he grins, as his hand slips from her shoulder to cover the curve of one of her breasts. "I'm glad that the civilian part of the Fleet is willing to accommodate the military on this issue." He brings his other hand up, caresses her other breast, unbuttons her blouse.
"We can be very accommodating," Laura gasps, her hand reflexively squeezing his thigh as his fingers finally touch the bare skin of her stomach under her shirt. "We have resources of our own."
"That you do," he agrees, unable to pull his eyes from the line of her pale skin against the dark material of her bra. He tugs her forward, just enough so that he can trace that line with his tongue. His mouth still aches from the dance, but when she sighs with pleasure and he feels her fingers against the zipper of his trousers, he almost forgets the pain.
"I believe you mentioned a plan," she whispers, running her hand up and down his thigh, increasing in pressure with every stroke. "I'd love to hear it."
He places one hand against the small of her back and moves the other from her breasts to her hip. "First step," he growls, rubbing his thumb against the fabric covering her hipbone, "is to remove any obstacles to our plan of action." He finds the zipper of her skirt tucked away at her side and pulls it down, then repeats the process with the skirt, letting it fall to her ankles before he moves his hand back to her waist.
"So far," Laura says, stepping gracefully out of her discarded skirt, one shapely leg at a time, "I like this plan." She kicks the skirt back towards the door, taps her nails somewhat impatiently against his collarbone, and returns her hand to his shoulder, gripping gently for balance. The hand on his thigh is more insistent now, and the rhythm of it seems to match the cadence of the pounding blood in his dick. He can feel it twitch every time her hand moves back up his leg, pushing against fabric, trying to be closer to her. He sympathizes.
"I think it's a good plan," Bill tells her, as his hands work to send her underwear to meet her ankles. Laura hums at him, and the sound is relieved but still frustrated, and she pushes her hip into his hand. "Requires some precision, though," he adds, and slowly moves his thumb lower and lower until she gasps. Laura is warm and inviting and forbidden, like a nugget's first shot of ambrosia, and he vows that when his mouth is no longer bruised he will drink her in until neither of them can move. "Do you approve of the plan, Madam President?"
"Mmm. I believe, Admiral, that as long as we have a firm grip on the situation," she quips, "we'll be just fine." He can just barely hear her determination over his own desire as she wraps a hand around him.
He starts to pull her toward him, onto his lap, because what he wants is to feel her skin against his, to feel the heat of her around his dick instead of his fingers, to feel the two of them together, but she stops him.
"Later," she orders, and it is definitely an order. He shudders against her hand. When Laura Roslin barks orders at him while she's gripping his cock, he feels like a kid who just discovered porn. "Hands on this time, Admiral," she quips, punctuating the command with one slow stroke of her hand, followed by one quick swirl of her thumb against the head of his dick. He sucks in a breath, and it hurts, so he distracts himself by following orders, letting his fingers slide back over her. She whimpers softly and squeezes his shoulder when he hits her clit, and he crooks his thumb and presses against it until the whimper becomes a moan and finally a throaty, "Gods, yes, do that."
"Wilco, Madam President," he grunts, obedient, and maneuvers the pad of his thumb this way and that way and slower and faster until her nails are digging into his shoulder and her breath is coming in short little bursts that keep time with the motion of her hand on his cock. He would give her orders, but as it turns out, Laura is a natural at jerking him off, and whatever she's doing feels so good that it's all he can do to keep his thumb in position.
"Oh, my frakking Lords," Laura moans, shuddering suddenly, "Bill."
That's enough for the Admiral. He can withstand a barrage of attacks-- Laura half-naked, Laura's nails digging into one shoulder, Laura all over and between and around his fingers-- but his name in that voice from her lips is too much, and he comes with one hand inside her, one hand in her hair, and her name on his tongue.
She slumps against him, and he notices that the hand braced against his shoulder for support is shaking. Bill forces himself to summon the strength of will to draw her down onto his lap, her bare ass perched on one thigh, one hip flush against his abdomen. He reaches up to stroke her hair.
"You have my official approval to execute that plan, Admiral," she says, speaking directly into his ear, "whenever you'd like." She sighs and leans her forehead against his temple. "I should go, shouldn't I? Let you rest."
"Nah," he rumbles, seeking out her hand and wrapping their fingers together. "You should stay. Go over some more battle plans with me. Always good to have a contingency. Just in case."
She laughs, and he feels the sound more than he hears it, lets it wrap around his heart. "I thought you were worried about keeping up appearances, Bill," she teases, and carefully places her lips on the bandage above his eyebrow.
"Listen," he says, as he turns his head to kiss her temple, "I just don't care."