Passion by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer: I don't own Kerry and Carter, and I think John Wells would have a heart attack if he knew what I was doing to them. Don't worry, John -- I'll be sure they are back to normal when I'm done. Rating: NC-17, and I mean it. If this offends you or if you're underage, scram. I don't want to hear about how I've corrupted your life. Timeline: This story takes after the events of May Day and has references to that episode and All in the Family. This is the eleventh in a series of Weaver/Carter stories I’m writing. You should read the first ten in order to understand this one. Summary: One night is all Kerry and Carter have left to be together, and they make the most of it. Note: I got a few feedbacks from people who read other NC-17 portions of this series and their response was, "you're really sick to write about that kind of thing." Personally, I don't think there's anything wrong with loving, consentual sex between two people and I don't mind writing about it. If you don't like reading it, stop reading now. I'm sick of the nasty emails from people who apparently read the warnings/ratings and then read the story anyhow. If, on the other hand, you want to keep reading, please, feel free. And enjoy. One more note: In case you forget: this story is fiction. I started out writing safe sex into this story, but it didn't quite work out with what I was writing. But it doesn't mean that I think that unsafe sex should be practiced -- it should, every time. Just wanted to point that out. Thanks to Shannon, who I forgot to thank the last two chapters. To make up for it, Shann, I just want you to know that I have taken your suggestion and worked it into this story, at least partially, just for you. Hope you like it. *** Carter and I enter the bedroom and he hesitates. "What's wrong?" I ask. "The last time we were in here -- " "We made love." "After," he says softly. I mentally finish the rest of the sentence. After I took the pills, drank a lot of scotch, broke a lot of glass, and unceremonoiusly passed out. It stings, but it's supposed to. "That's not going to happen again," I tell him. "Tonight it's just us. No alcohol. No pills." His eyes lift a little. More than anything, I want this night to be for him. In the morning, this thing between us will be over, and I want to make up for that tonight. But more importantly, I want to give him the pleasure he has given me the other times we've made love. I start to undress him, slowly, starting with his tie. The navy silk is smooth and I loosen the knot, finally pulling it free and sliding it out from under the collar of his shirt. "I like this," I tell him, touching the fabric. "I'm glad you approve," he answers and shrugs his jacket off. I put the tie on the overstuffed armchair next to the dresser. "I can't remember anyone else I've ever known who wears these," I tell him with a smile as I toy with the straps of his suspenders. "Not someone your age, anyhow." He chuckles a little. "They go with the suit," he tells me. "They look good on you." I reach for his shoulders and slide them off, the straps falling to his waist. "They look better off." The boldness I feel is coming back to me naturally. I've always been this way with other lovers, in charge and in control. The other times I've been with Carter, I've let him do the work -- not out of conscious choice, but just because I've always felt so out of control with him, so undone. I haven't yet been able to assert myself in the bedroom with him, but tonight I will. I pull his shirt free from his pants and begin to unbutton it, one pearlized button at a time, watching his face. "Are you always like this?" he asks. "Like what?" "So calm during a seduction," he answers, and I smile up at him. He's read my mind. I shrug. "Most of the time." The shirt is completely unbuttoned, and I pull it open, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. I lay my palms flat against his warm skin, and look up at his eyes. They are dark, his lids heavy. I think of all the words I have spoken to other lovers at times like this, words designed to get the ball rolling, to keep a regular pace and rhythm. I find that none of them are adequate or appropriate for this, for Carter. I try to clear my mind, to focus only on this, only on him. I want the things that I say to be from my heart, not part of a rehearsed speech that I would normally give. Tonight, I don't want there to be an agenda. I slip the shirt from his shoulders and it falls to the floor. I slide my hands over his chest, his shoulders, feeling the muscles and the skin. I graze my fingers along his sides. Carter reaches for me and pulls me close to him, into a hug. I wrap my arms around him and hold on, my face turned so that my cheek is pressed into his chest, breathing in his scent. I trace my hands over his back, gently over his scars, lightly brushing over them with my fingers. I finally unentangle myself from his embrace and press a kiss against his chest. I brush my hands over his hips, and then toy with the button of his pants. "Kerry," he breathes. One hand slides lower and I feel him, already hard through the fabric, straining up against my hand. I palm the length of him. A sigh escapes his lips and I smile. He kicks off his shoes and I make quick work of the pants, unbuttoning them and unzipping them. The pants fall to the floor and he kicks them away too. Looking at him, I can't help but chuckle. "What?" he asks. I touch the waistband of the boxers he's wearing. "You're just full of surprises, Carter," I tell him. The fabric is soft cotton, decorated with images of stethoscopes. "Where did you get these?" He blushes faintly. "They were a gift," he says. I don't think I want to know who they were from. "They need to come off," I answer. He reaches for them but I gently push his hands away, instead hooking my thumbs under the waistband and sliding them off. They also fall to the floor and Carter steps out of them. "You're still completely dressed, Kerry," he comments, observing me. "Somehow that doesn't feel very fair." "Don't worry," I assure him. "Go sit on the bed." He does and watches me. I undress in front of him, finally not ashamed, not caring as each layer is peeled away. For once I don't think of the scars, or of my leg. I can only see the look on Carter's face, the hunger in his eyes. My own clothes drop to the floor and I come to bed. I've always had to be creative when it came to sex; especially with Ellis West. My leg was often something that just got in the way -- sometimes because it would get stiff in certain positions and other times because I just couldn't make it move in the directions I wanted it to at the right times. But tonight I know what I need to do and how to do it without any interference. "Lie back," I instruct Carter, and he does, propped up on the mound of pillows at the head of the bed. I lie on my stomach, using my arms to brace myself, and I place kisses on Carter's legs, on his stomach, careful to avoid the one area which is waiting for my touch. Carter slides up a bit, grasping the headboard, and I reach for him. He is hard and hot in my hand, long and full. I wrap my fingers around him and slide my hand slowly up and down, from the base all the way to the tip. Carter's eyes are locked on mine and his expression is tight, but he doesn't say anything. I find the tip of his penis and I brush my thumb over it, collecting the moisture I find there. My thumb swirls over the head, the rest of my hand still around him, and Carter's head drops back. "God, Kerry," he groans, and my heart leaps in my chest. The way he says my name sends a jolt of arousal through me, focusing between my legs. Still stroking him with my hand, my head lowers and I flick my tongue over the head of his penis in a lazy circular motion, in imitation of my thumb. Carter jerks on the bed and groans again. It's not enough; the smell of him and the smell of warm, musky sex, makes me want more. I've never enjoyed giving oral sex but I've understood that it's necessary, and as a result I've mastered a sort of technique which has always been effective. My technique, however, goes out the window as I release Carter from my fingers and slide my mouth over him. His hand comes down and latches onto the back of my head, and I stiffen for a moment. Most men, Ellis in particular, used this to great effect, for themselves, anyhow, forcing my head down farther, making me gag. Carter surprises me, and doesn't do that. Instead he just threads his fingers through my hair and holds the back of my head in his hand, cupping it gently, not pushing me down farther. And I relax. My senses branch out in all directions as I explore him in this way for the first time. One hand slides up to cup his balls, massaging them gently, and he moans. My own eyes drift closed, caught up in the feel of him, the taste of him. I move my mouth up and down, caressing, tasting, all the time reveling in him, in his response. Finally understanding why this can be so enjoyable, and finally enjoying it. His fingers tighten on the back of my head, gripping my scalp. "Kerry," he manages to gasp. I open my eyes and peer up at him, his head raised off the pillows. "Kerry, please stop." I shake my head slightly, and the movement causes friction. His free hand tightens in a handful of the sheets. "Jesus," he groans. Gently, carefully, I scrape my teeth along his shaft and he moans my name again. "Please," he begs. "Not like this. I don't want to come like this." His breath is coming in short little pants. I don’t want to stop; I know he's close. "Please," he says again, and so I reluctantly release him from my mouth. I move up on the bed so that we are face to face and he pulls me close, snaking a hand around my waist, and without warning, dropping it between my legs, exploring me. I arch up against him; I am wet from listening to his sounds of pleasure, from what I have been doing to him. I can feel his fingers, slick with my moisture, as two slide inside of me. I gasp and press myself closer to his body. "Oh, God," I breathe, and he smiles at me. "You like that," he says, and I manage to nod. I lower my head and rest my lips against his chin, scratchy with a five o'clock shadow. "I need to be inside you," he murmurs and my body reacts instantly to his words, tightening around his fingers in a wordless reply. He slips his fingers out of me and we turn on the bed, him above me as I lay on my back. I reach for him, still so hard, and guide him to me. He teases me, just the tip of him pressing in only millimeters deep, and I groan. "Carter," I mutter, in frustration. He knows what I want, and he's more than ready to give it to me. He pushes into me in a long stroke and I close my eyes, feeling the pleasure of how far into my body he is. He's already so close, but somehow he manages to move in and out of me at a leisurely pace, back and forth. Our bodies rock together with our movements, and I wrap my hands around his back, dragging my fingers down from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, my short nails raking the skin, avoiding the areas where he was stabbed and operated on. He thrusts deeper and I moan in response. Carter slips one hand between us and manages to find the spot where we are joined and my body trembles when he does. He knows just where to touch, just where the pressure needs to be, and the friction from his touch and from our bodies moving back and forth drags the sensation right to the surface. I look up at him through glazed eyes and watch his face; the features defined in the light and dark shadows of the room. One of my hands stays on his back, pressing him close, and the other reaches up to caress his face, his cheek. Emotion has welled up in me so powerful that it is near the breaking point, both emotionally and physically. "Oh, God, Kerry. Oh God." He is almost hoarse. The sound of my name on his lips makes my heart sing and his thrusts become erratic. He throws his head back and cries out, his Adam's apple large, his throat wide open as his orgasm overtakes him. His fingers stay on me and flutter wildly against my body as he comes, and I squeeze my eyes shut as white spots dance on my eyelids and my body thrashes under his. Moments later, as we are both still breathing heavily, Carter eases down onto me. Still inside me, spent, he lifts his fingers from my body, which causes a little tremor to pass through me. He presses his face into my neck and we both move slightly so that he's not lying directly on me, but so that he stays inside me. I don't want to let him leave my body, not yet. I'm not ready. With closed eyes, I stroke the back of his neck, damp with sweat, with my fingers. Carter lifts his head a bit and places kisses on the side of my face and on my jaw. I feel his tongue trace a line along the ridge of my ear, and I shudder, my inner walls contracting around him. He chuckles softly and does it again. Our mouths meet for a kiss, slow and tender, and I let my lips linger on his. He finally breaks the kiss and gazes at me in the semi-darkness. The seriousness in his eyes makes me want to cry. I feel loved, and am dreading the inevitable. I don't know how to tell him what the morning will bring, but I have to try. I don't know where to start, or what to say. Instead, I whisper to him. "I love you." The words slide out of my mouth so easily, as if I have been saying them for years. It is not what I intended to say, but it feels right. It feels good. The irony is sharp; it feels right now, when everything else is wrong. He kisses me again, and my breath catches in my throat, and he draws back. "Kerry?" he asks, concerned. "What is it?" I can't answer. Something dark passes over his face. He knows. "No," he says softly, then again, more firmly. "No. Don't do this." "John, please. Please try to understand." "I don't understand. I can't. I thought this meant -- I thought -- " I feel him slip free from my body and a chill comes into the room; gooseflesh rises up on my arms. I sit up, reaching for the blanket, and pull it up over our bodies. "This can't work," I tell him quietly. "We both know that. I can't turn my back on the fact that you need to focus on your recovery right now -- and this will only distract you." "It won't," he promises. "I won't let it." "You don't know that." "Damn it," he mutters. "Damn it!" "I'm not doing this to hurt you," I tell him, looking him right in the eye. "I swear it to you. I -- I want this, whatever it is between us. I want you. I can't and won't lie to myself about that." I hesitate. "I care about you. I love you. It's not a hearts and flowers kind of love, bit it is a romantic love. And I love you as a friend too. I don't want to see anything bad happen to you, Carter. Not again. Don't you understand that?" He shakes his head. "I don't understand. I don’t understand why all of this has to be so hard. I thought when I came back from Atlanta things would be easier." "It never gets easier," I tell him, from experience. A lump forms in my throat. "It just gets easier to deal with." Carter doesn't answer that. Instead he sits up, his back against the headboard, the blanket sliding down to his hips. "Carter, if I told you, sure, let's just let this run its course, throwing caution to the wind, it wouldn't be fair to you, or to me. For one thing, we'd have to hide it at work. But more importantly, you would be avoiding the issues that you need to focus on to get well. And I would be an active participant in that. I'd be allowing you to put your energies on me and not on your recovery. How can I do that and feel good about it? I can't, Carter. I just can't." "So, you want me to leave? Is that what you're saying?" "I want you to get well," I tell him, firmly. "I want you to be all right, John." Tears come to my eyes. "Damn it. That's all I've ever wanted." "But you want me to leave." His arms are folded over his chest, stubbornly. I shake my head. "Actually, I want you to stay the rest of the night." He looks at me, surprised. "If you don't mind." I'm not ready to have him leave, not when we've just made love. "God, Kerry," he says, weary, "I want to stay for more than just the night." He rubs a hand over his eyes. "So in six months or a year we can talk about this again and I guess I should just sit around and hope that you'll still want me then, right?" I blink, surprised. He's worried that I might not want him? "My feelings for you won't change," I assure him, quietly. "I can promise you that." He uncrosses his arms and reaches for me at the same time that I move towards him, resting my head on his chest. I listen to his heartbeat, slow and steady, and rest my hand loosely over his belly. "I don't want to leave you, Kerry," he tells me. "I feel like we've just found something here. I don't want to walk out that door." "I know," I murmur against his chest. "You don't have to leave yet." It's no consolation, but it's all I can offer him. We hold each other quietly for long minutes. Finally he clears his throat. "What about you?" he asks. "What about me?" "I thought you were finally making headway -- learning to open up. I don't want you to let go of that and take two steps back into your shell just because you're trying to help me get better," he says softly. "I won't," I tell him and I sit up to look at him. "You've helped me see things about myself that I wasn't able to see or admit before. And that can't get shoved back down into the dark recesses of my mind." "I hope not," he responds. "You have a lot of love to give, Kerry." I swallow. No one has ever said that to me before. "I wish I was going to be the recipent," he says, sadness washing over his words. I can't think of what to say to that, and the tears are pricking at my eyes again, so I rest my head back on his chest and we both fall silent. **** In my dream, I have no crutch. As a matter of fact, I have no limp. No lingering pain in my leg. It happens in my dreams a lot; I dream and things feel wrong somehow, and then I look down and realize that the crutch is not dangling from my forearm and I feel surprise mingling with an odd feeling, a feeling of missing the one thing I have gotten so used to. In this dream, it's the first thing I notice. I have no crutch and I have no limp. My leg doesn't turn inward when I walk. Instead, I walk smoothly and freely. I'm at the hospital, and I'm wearing scrubs, going from room to room, each step calm and sure. I'm circling through the ER, one room at a time. I'm checking patients, making sure they are all doing well, making sure everything is under control. I pass nurses and doctors all doing their jobs efficiently, and they all smile and nod when they see me. The corridors are strangely quiet; no one is talking or laughing or crying out in pain. I reach the desk when I realize that I have forgotten to check Exam Three, and so I walk back down that way, each step bringing me closer to the closed door. No, no, I tell myself, suddenly aware that I am dreaming. Not again. Please not this dream, not tonight. The blinds are drawn from the inside of the room and I can't see in. I hesitate at the door. I glance down at the floor and there is no bloody footprint, no telltale sign that something is wrong. I take a deep breath and push the door open. Inside, the room is dark. Just like it was on Valentine's Day. I want to scream and run. I want to get the hell out of here. I don't want to have this dream. My eyes go to the spot on the floor where I know Carter's body will be, soaked in blood. There's nothing there. I practically sprint to the other side of the bed, looking for Lucy. Still nothing. Not a drop of blood. No bodies. No one. I cross the room in long strides and turn the lights on, illuminating the room in harsh flourescent light. I look again. Still nothing. Maybe it's the wrong day. The wrong room. The bodies are supposed to be here. The blood is supposed to be all over the floor. I'm supposed to feel my feet slip in it as I hurry from one side of the bed to the other. I'm supposed to watch helplessly as two people that I care about slowly bleed to death in a place that is supposed to be safe. I wait. Maybe the dream isn't over. Nothing happens. I walk out of Exam Three and down the hall to the trauma rooms. I peer through the glass of Trauma One and see Carter in there, working on a patient. Mark is in there too, and a few of the nurses, all of them working in synch, silently. Carter looks up and sees me through the glass. He nods his head, acknowledging my presence with a tiny smile; his hands are full. Startled by the sight of him, I actually take a few steps backwards. The wall meets me halfway and I lean against it, trying to catch my breath. I breathe, in and out, and then I close my eyes. END of Passion