"So do you," he groans into her hair, hips pressing hard against her. It shouldn't be a surprise that she wants him; he has plenty of evidence, past and present, that she's a big fan of him, scars notwithstanding. (Those will heal, and he'll still be the man he was before his abduction, the singular creature she fell in love with despite every possible reason not to.) But that doesn't take away from the sticky thrill of his fingers moving easily along her slit. "You're the best part of being alive."

Maybe that's too much, but it's too late; it comes out without thinking as he circles her clit with one finger. His other hand's at her breast, running his thumb over nipple and areola without pressure. The rules have changed slightly, by biological necessity; he's not sure where the line between pleasure and pain lies anymore, having some vague notion that women's breasts get more sensitive while pregnant. "I don't know how slow I can take this, Scully, but I'm trying."