The Captain's Secret - Companions

BY : OhMally
Category: Star Trek > Star Trek
Dragon prints: 166
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or the characters featured from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

A/N: This mature scene variant takes place at the end of chapter 11 of my main fic, The Captain's Secret. While this scene can be enjoyed without reading the whole story, it is better appreciated in context, so if you wish the give the main story a try, please turn back now to avoid spoilers.

Otherwise, here's the setup: having returned from the grueling, hellish mission on Tederek, Captain Lorca invites the adversarial Lt. Cmdr. Sarah Billingsley, a chief engineer on the Triton, to join him for a drink in his quarters after she tells him she hates him and he pulls a Han Solo in response.


Lorca poured her a drink as a matter of form, but there was no mistaking what they were doing, and Billingsley downed hers before he'd even finished pouring his own. He managed to take a single swig before abandoning the pretense completely and replacing the glass in his hand with the contour of her cheek. His fingers pressed against the flawlessly pale, soft flesh of her face, their mild insistence perfectly conveying his desire but leaving the final decision completely in her hands.

Billingsley shifted forward, her face tilting and craning upwards. The lingering oaky bite of the whiskey tasted softer in her mouth than from the glass directly, and he felt the pull of her teeth on his lip as she kissed him with intermittent force, her chin sliding against his in a rhythm of irregular, halting desperation.

She pulled slightly back and paused a moment with her eyes closed and her breath a soft pant. He could see the question written plainly on her face in the squeeze of doubt etched around her eyes and knitted between her eyebrows, some momentary hesitation or indecision or vestigial echo of a fight or flee response. He admired the expression of her willpower even as he looked down his nose at her with smugly confident satisfaction as to what the conclusion of her deliberations would be.

Her eyes shot open, revealing icy determination, and she slid her jacket off onto the floor and lifted the shirt underneath over her head with both hands. He grabbed the shirt and yanked it up and off her arms impatiently. 

No slouch was an understatement. She was toned under the uniform, more than he would have expected, with dense, tight muscles that suggested she maintained a high-g exercise regimen even now.

Their mouths joined again and did not part as he wriggled free of his own jacket and let it fall into a dark heap on the floor. Her hands slid up under the front of his shirt, her slender fingers chilly against his skin. He ran his hands through her hair and down her back to the eye hooks of her bra. His shirt went next, breaking their oral contact, and she pushed her hands against his chest in a mixture of dismayed frustration and blatantly aggressive force.

He responded to this shove with a reciprocal display of strength, pulling her close again with one hand around the small of her back and turning so she was the one forced to back towards the bed while he advanced. She struggled against him in feigned resistance sheerly for the sake of her own pride. Two steps from the bed, he stopped and turned his attention to her neck, where could be tasted the vague remnants of salty sweat, and when he teased the lobe of her ear, she gasped and arched her back. His hands pressed deeply against the space between her shoulder blades and eased the tension in her muscles, eliciting a moan of relieved pleasure.

Despite her lean, willowy shape, there was a satisfying solidity to her weight as he lifted her up against his hip to display his own strength and put her breasts within reach of his tongue. Her nipples were thick and dark brown in stark contrast to the pale, thin rest of her. When he teased his tongue across one, it stiffened perceptibly. In this position, all she could do was cling to his shoulders, completely helpless, and rock her hips slightly against him with pressing need.

When he threw her back onto the bed, he saw a faint flicker of panic cross her face at the momentary sensation of falling. It was completely intentional. A momentary thrill, a rush of fear-without-danger endorphins, and a reminder of when he caught her. He slid down alongside her and ran a hand down the side of her body and then across her stomach and into the waistband of her pants. She was warmer there, and slightly moist. His hand withdrew and he inhaled the heady scent upon his fingers.

It was an exploration, pure and simple. Each place he teased his hands or mouth across, he noted her reaction and determined the magnitude of the response before moving on, intentionally avoiding lingering in this initial survey. The point was not to see any of these spots to fruition at this point in time, merely to plant the seed for later sowing.

She was not content merely to be explored. Her nails drew across his flesh with a sharpness that burned, as if it was her intent to exact revenge for the imbalance of power between them by causing direct pain, and he wondered if he should ask her to stop, but then she rubbed the same spots fiercely with the palm of her hand, causing the raw edges of his skin to tingle in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant and left the sensation in the area heightened.

She reached for the band of his pants, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. This created an immediate, palpably negative reaction. She jerked her wrist and said, "No." He understood clearly: no restricting her hands. Presumably she also disliked being pinned down, but he was hardly about to press the point to find out.

He kissed her on her neck, her collarbone, working his way downward as he unzipped her pants, and she wriggled as he pulled. Her underwear was Starfleet-issue, which was boring as could be, but when he eased it off her, there was an entirely worthwhile prize beneath, framed by gently curling threads of thin blonde hair. She spread her legs wide, bent at the knees, the heels of her feet resting against the back of his shoulder.

It was a patient endeavor, beginning with the tiniest of teasing inducements, gradually working towards a force and pressure that made her hips shift in response. She liked pressure, even indelicate, and especially on the outer labia. He went so far as bite and pull when she asked. When she scraped her nails over her own arms and writhed and moaned, he knew he had it. "Inside," she gasped, twisting and grabbing the sheets in near-delirium. "In!

He didn't need much invitation, having surreptitiously undone his pants and worked his hand along his shaft in preparation. He kicked off his pants entirely now that she was fully ready and rejoined her on the bed, revisiting the taste of saliva as he pressed his mouth against hers. It was a simple matter to slip inside her, and she pulled him close as they found a thrusting rhythm that threw spasms of pleasure down both their spines. She whimpered as the thrusts hit their mark and his grunts turned to strained vocalizations of primal release as the pressure mounted and he reached climax. She exhaled, totally spent, and he withdrew and fell back onto the bed beside her, enjoying the residual sense of exhausted satisfaction.

Afterwards, she sat up, her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders and a twist of sheets around her waist and he noticed something.

She was marked with tiny brown dots like stars in a constellation, perfectly mirrored on both sides of her body at every major joint, as if she were Orion come to life from the sky.

With stubborn reluctance, she explained that they were measurement tattoos, placed on her at a young age so her parents could monitor the progress of the medical intervention taken to counteract the effects of high gravity on her developing skeletal structure. Most people had slight variances between the two halves of their body -- one leg slightly longer than the other -- but in Billingsley's case, her arms and legs were perfectly symmetrical by design, and she had ten years of precise medical notations to prove it.

"You could have them removed," he noted, running his thumb over the dot on her left shoulder. If you didn't know what the dots were or that they were paired on each side, they could be mistaken for large freckles or small moles.

His suggestion was met with silence. Billingsley was too practical a person for that kind of vain frivolity, and while her tattoos did not feature any image or text communicating their purpose, they were nevertheless as much a reflection of her history as any other tattoo.

Lorca traced his index finger from the dot on her shoulder to the dot on her elbow to the dot on her wrist, then folded his hand into hers. The long thinness of her hands was a side effect of the growth factors used to elongate her limbs. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. She snorted and pulled her hand away. "Don't get sentimental on me."

He grinned. "Never," he promised. "And don't you, either. That's an order."

She groaned and rolled her eyes. It wasn't a real order, obviously, but it did underscore the problem at the foundation of this encounter. On top of everything else.

Normally, his partners were slightly less annoyed with him after they were done, but this was Billingsley. Annoyed seemed to be her default setting. "We don't have a problem, do we?"

"No. Sir."

"Sar-ah!" he groaned in mild chastisement. Wait, she didn't think... He sat up suddenly. "This doesn't change anything."

He'd mistaken her response for more antagonistic than she'd intended. "So I don't get a repeat?"

He carefully considered her face and body language. "Do you want a repeat?"

Her shoulders shrugged and her eyes feigned disinterest. "I'm not saying no." She sniffed in sudden amusement. "At least you gave me more than a choice than I had taking this assignment."

It seemed like there was a story there. "How's that?"

She sighed. "I'm supposed to be on Spacedock. If that engineer hadn't gotten kicked out of Starfleet during the ship's last refit..."

He knew that the engineer who had occupied Sarah's position prior had been discharged from Starfleet for behavioral problems, but he'd always assumed Billingsley had taken the job because she wanted it. He said as much.

"They needed someone who was up to speed on the Triton's systems. I was in charge of the refit. So..."

He suddenly realized exactly how much she didn't want to be there. "You can transfer out."

She shrugged. "No starbases have any good engineering posts open. They always go to someone else. Triton isn't exactly a resume-builder."

That annoyed him. No one had ever asked to be assigned to the Triton, but it was still his ship, and he felt he'd done an exemplary job of restoring the ship's reputation to something approaching esteem since taking command. And while it had previously been known as a terrible posting, it was a temporary one. The ship only had four more months until it was decommissioned. This entire assignment was a proving ground. Didn't Billingsley see that?

He might have said any or all of this to her. He settled for a brief, "Four months."

She hummed slightly. "Four months," she repeated.

And in that time, he intended to show Starfleet just what their newly minted captain was made of.



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