Author’s Note (11/01):  This story takes place smack at the end of  Season Four’s “Scientific Method” and describes in graphic sexual detail what might have happened between Tom and B’Elanna after that heated kiss.  It is a harmless piece of smut, not intended to carry any significance or deeper meaning.  If this offends you or you are underage, please do not read it.  Written soon after the episode aired, whenever that was.

Disclaimer:  Paramount owns it all.  Always has, always will.  I accept this.

A Fine Blend

by Diane Bellomo

B’Elanna’s blood was boiling.  At the point where Tom’s fingertips brushed her face, she felt flames.  Her skin itched, her crotch tingled, and her pulse pounded in her ears.  It was only her humanity that kept her from hauling off and biting him again.  If she looked real close, she could still see a faint scar on his cheek.  She recalled that Tom had stopped the Doctor from completing the skin regeneration, saying somewhat wistfully that he had wanted a scar.

She could not, however, stop the growl.  It rose from the back of her throat and into Tom’s mouth.  Tom must have been practicing, because he countered with a very fine growl of his own, and in another minute, they were both making decidedly inhuman noises, clutching at one another as if starving.

The Klingon in B’Elanna was determined to have more of a say in the proceedings.  She had an overpowering desire to rip every shred of clothing off them both and jump him right there on the couch, but she resisted this urge mightily.  No matter what her more primal instincts were screaming, no matter how much Tom spouted off about wanting to see more of that side of her, she really didn’t want this to be so…so…Klingon.  She reined herself in with great effort, easing up on the liplock and removing her hand from between Tom’s legs to the top of his thigh.

Tom immediately noticed this attempt at withdrawal and came up for air long enough to speak to it, a “been-there-done-that” look on his face, taking her by the shoulders.

“B’Elanna, don’t you dare hold back on me, not after all we’ve been through.”

She jumped and inhaled sharply as his hands made contact with the itchy bare flesh of her arms.  She raised her eyes to him but could barely keep them open, could barely speak.

“This…is not…Pon farr…not…some alien experiment.  This…this…is me…Tom.”

“Just promise you won’t bite me in such an obvious place this time, okay?”

“Heh…”  She returned to his mouth like a magnet and though she kept her hand at his thigh, she began to rub it rhythmically, frantically, the friction causing her palm to burn.

Taking this as his cue, Tom reached over and gathered a handful of her dress at the hem, intending to begin easing it off her, but the heat radiating from her thigh distracted him immediately.  It was overwhelming, even through the navy tights, and he released the dress to place his palm against the inside of the thigh to his left, just above her knee, sighing with the pleasure of it.

Sliding forward on the couch, B’Elanna opened her legs a little more, put her hand over his and guided him higher.  He sucked in a startled breath that included her meaty bottom lip and bit down, feeling his teeth pierce the soft interior, in spite of a reasonably good effort not to.  Her only response was a satisfied vibration from a source he could not readily identify.

The heat beneath his hand was incredible in its intensity, but her skin was bone dry.  It had not occurred to him until that second that while engaged in unenhanced heart-thumping activities, she might not work up as much of a sweat as he did, given the Klingon tolerance for warmer temperatures, but he thought he knew a little something about human women.  Like when your hand’s up this far, you should be feeling some dampness.

And then boy did he!  A profound wetness was soaking through the tights, meeting his fingertips and spreading beneath his palm.  And when the scent of her hit him, musky and exotic, it was all he could do to keep his hand from ripping through the tights right at his point of contact. 

And here she was, concerned that she might be too much for him.  It was to chuckle.

He left her lips to pull in a deep breath through his mouth, his nose, and he imagined through his ears, too.  Opening his eyes to look at her, he was dismayed to see she was nowhere nearby.  Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted and still pursed in the kiss he had abandoned, and she was swaying to a beat he was not hearing.  He felt a little lonesome.

“Come back, B’Elanna.”

His voice was the catalyst that not only brought her back, but threw her into action as well.  Her eyes flew open.  Jerking away from him, she stood and began tearing off the tights.  She yanked the dress up over her head and faced him, naked, her upper lip curled in a feral sneer.

Tom was mostly flabbergasted by this exhibition, but he managed to notice a couple of things about her very quickly, the first being the faint ridges all the way down her spine that spoke to her mixed heritage and the second the wet thatch of dark curls between her legs that spoke to something else entirely.  Before he could gather his wits and get his eyes elsewhere, she had him by the wrists and was shoving him roughly onto his back on the couch, parting her legs around his thigh, kissing him savagely, spreading the warm product of her arousal up and down his thigh.

It was clearly all systems go this time, but this was about as far as they had gotten during B’Elanna’s episode with the blood fever, except for the fact that she was plenty more naked now than she had been then.  Tom had a distinct desire to be naked as well, but he was not at all sure he’d be able to get her off him long enough to strip.  Moving his lips from hers just enough to get a word out, he spoke.

“Uh, B’Elanna?  I think I’m overdressed for this occasion, don’t you?”

There was no describing the sounds she was making, but she did lift off him and drag him by his wrists into a sitting position.  He heard only two words he could understand.

“Hurry up.” 

Oh, no problem, ma’am.

She reached out and took hold of his erection before he was quite gone of the last stitch, and he stumbled back into the low table at the feel of her hands.  As it was, the wine sloshed from both glasses.

“Whoa, B’Elanna!  Easy!”  He regained his footing and stood there mesmerized as she

put her hands into the puddle of wine on the table and then returned them to his penis.  Her hot hands and the cool wine made for an interesting contrast, and though it stung a little, it was by no means a bad thing.

She licked him clean of every drop, including a number of drops that were not wine.

And now it was his turn to inject some unique Paris humanity into the mix.  Grabbing her by the wrists, he bounced her against the back of the couch, put one knee on the seat cushion for balance, and stretched down to take a dark nipple into his mouth, still hanging onto her wrists.  She tried to break free, but he was no fool—he had learned from their little “spelunking” adventure.  He hung on for dear life, scraping his teeth purposely against her nipple and was rewarded with a deep rumble of approval.

His knee slipped once during this skirmish and the table went flying, but he never lost his connection with her.  As for the table, he figured it would be his new, improved, human contribution to the furniture-tossing part of the Klingon mating ritual.  The poetry reading could come later, much later.

Releasing her wrists, he put his hands on her hips and deftly twisted her down on the couch in proper fashion.  She did not resist, only raised her hips and growled delightfully, baring her teeth.  He covered her mouth with his and felt her hand encircle his penis, guiding him to her, as if he did not already know the way.

He slid into her, feeling her relax and expand to take him, mold to him.  God.  He lay astride her and felt surrounded by her.  His nostrils flared, his dick ached, and he realized he was a damned sight closer to going off than he wanted.  He thrust once because he couldn’t help himself, then pulled back and paused.  But she growled again and laughed, and that was all the pausing he had in him.  She did not appear to mind, instead wrapping her slim legs around him, easily meeting him thrust for thrust, encouraging him with words he understood none of except their smoky tone, which was good enough.

He wanted so badly to wait, to wait for her, but he knew he had already gone beyond it.  Unable to answer to anything but his own desire, he stepped up his pace, lost in his own need.  It was clear that B’Elanna understood his need, but she never quite let him go, instead continuing to murmur her words and staying right with him, even as he cried out and ejaculated cleanly into her.

Collapsing on top of her, breathless and sweating, he was unaware of anything for a second or two, and then realized her fingers were playing in his hair and she was chuckling in a dark way. 

It was apparently time for some big, scary stuff, but that dawned on him a hair too late.

She slammed her hips into his unsuspecting body and let the momentum and surprise spin them both off the couch and onto the floor.  She ended up directly above him, knees bent on either side of his hips, his dick still stuffed inside her.  Grinning wickedly, she raked her nails straight down his chest.  He shrieked as ten long, thin lines of blood welled up almost immediately.

“Jeezus Kee-rist, B’Elanna!  What are trying to do, kill me?”

“No holding back, lover, remember?”  She lowered her face to his chest and inhaled deeply, laying her mouth against the first bloody line and licking it clean with the flat expanse of her rough tongue.  His nipples screamed to erection and his penis rallied to strict attention inside her.  She grunted in response, closing her mouth and drawing the sound out into a hum against his chest, her hips grinding into him.

He would never be the same after this, he knew it.  Hell, he was different already.

Leaving the scratches, she gracefully arched backwards over his legs, using one arm for balance behind him, and placed her other hand directly on her clitoris, stroking with practiced ease.  Bent backwards and straddling him like that, she was completely exposed, and in the room’s soft lighting, he could see moisture glinting off engorged genitalia. 

He put his hands on the tops of her thighs because he just had to feel that heat again and was rather relieved to find them clammy.  But that could have just been him.  She continued touching herself, accompanying the action with a sound he would later describe as purring, as she smeared her wetness up her stomach to her navel and back again to its point of origin, leaving a little wet trail that also glinted in the room’s lighting.  The smell of her filled the room.

She was trying to kill him.  But what a way to go.

Watching her, he couldn’t help but marvel at her control, both of herself and of him.  Any other woman would be screaming by now, and he did not doubt it would have been all over for himself, as well.  Certainly there was something going on inside her, he could feel it in the form of a massage-like rippling of muscles all along his cock.  But aside from the feline contentment, she was so quiet, so unKlingon, that he realized it must have been the very Klingon in her that was affording her this ability.  No human woman had ever done this to him, of that he was positive.  He felt like a million bucks, his dick hard as a rock inside her, but he was nowhere near coming and not even concerned about it.

He saw rather than felt a shudder pass through her, watched her hand as the stroking  increased in speed.  She began another voicing of unrecognizable words, more guttural this time, though he did catch something that sounded like, what?  Spanish?  Torres?  Could be.  He sighed, perfectly content to let her go wherever she wanted and more than willing to be dragged right along.

And then she suddenly arrived at her destination.

The abruptness of her climax did not diminish the power behind it, though there was no Klingon breaking of bones, or even a human whimper or sigh.  There was just B’Elanna Torres, and she had a phenomenal style all her own.  The massage-like rippling turned to gripping, cock-numbing contractions that brought tears to his eyes and was so powerfully carnal that he literally could not breathe for a second. 

Her thigh muscles bunched beneath his hands as she jerked herself upright, placed a palm on his stinging chest for balance, choked in a huge breath, threw her head back and loosed a roaring sound that was equal parts warrior and woman and every bit as dual as B’Elanna herself.

Tom felt a wash of warm wetness saturate his pubic hairs and run in rivulets down his hips and around his ass to the carpet.  As the fresh odor of sex assaulted him, he was no more good.  Gripping her thighs and roaring himself, he bucked and blew straight up into her, his cum mixing with hers and running back out of her.

No.  He would not be the same after this.

She slid off him and curled into a fetal ball at his hip, between himself and the overturned table, keeping her ridged back pressed tightly against him, as if she could not bear to lose contact with him.  He lay there a minute, catching his breath and trying to recall his name.  Lifting his head, he eyed the mess they were both lying in, which among other things included wine, bits of salad, and a couch cushion.  It was definitely time to relocate.  He had, after all, changed the sheets for this night, never imagining they would use up a fair bit of the evening destroying his living room.

He sat up, a little too suddenly for the cuts on his chest.  “Ow,” he whispered, and made a face, looking down at the blood-flecked lines that ran from just below his nipples clear down to his pubes.  Yup, there were exactly ten, the four in the center much deeper than the others.  He looked like a pin cushion gone berserk and entertained one whacko thought that the next time if she ran her nails across him in the opposite direction, he’d look like the top crust of one of his grandmother’s cherry pies.

Next time?

However, inspecting his wounds again, he decided the Doctor wasn’t touching any of them.

He chanced to raise his eyes at that moment and fell right into the smoldering black orbs of the woman who now owned him, lock, stock, and scar tissue.

Uncurling a bit and raising up on her hands, she smiled widely, dropping her gaze to his chest.  Flicking her eyes back up to his, she pulled out her lower lip, displaying the ragged line of teeth marks he had put there, flecked with blood same as his chest.

His dick stirred.  Her smile kicked up a wattage.

“So, Tommie, wanna fuck?”

They beat it for the bedroom.