<div align="center"><strong>-= Simeon Gaorong - unsure of whether he's the proverbial lion or the lamb in this particular den - Sasha's quarters, The Gamble =-</strong></div><br/>Relief came first. When there was no immediate outburst or objection to that hardly-innocent hold on her hips he knew he was, at the very least, not wrong about the thought being in her mind. As to whether she wished to act on it, well, that remained to be seen. He could be patient. To be accurate,<em>most</em>of him could be patient. Doubtless that belt buckle would have been in a somewhat less sharp angle if a certain amount of pressure were not being applied to it from below, a tension the woman lying on top of him could not fail to notice given their proximity. If there were any doubt as to his interest in the matter, surely that was enough to dispel it. And yet they maintained a sort of holding pattern, feeling one another out in the least physical sense of the concept, each concerned about the other, about themselves, for varying reasons.<br/><br/>Simeon, for instance, was making a concerted effort not to dwell on how long it had been since his last encounter of this nature. It would not contribute anything positive to the engagement and might lead to a discouraging sort of eagerness on his part. Rather, he focused on what was in the present. Given the breathtaking view he was afforded from his position so close by beneath his young superior, that was not difficult. It was not even the crude aspects that so held him, the visions of what might take place with the curvature and smooth design on display above him; these flashed by in his mind, of course - he is a man and only human, discipline can only do so much - but it was not what had him magnetized. It was the anticipation. It was the conflict he could see in her eyes. It was this rare opportunity to see Sasha for herself, behind the facade she was so careful to keep walled up at near all times. They would see flashes of it here and there, sparks and flares of emotion, but that could hardly be compared to this open, uncertain consideration where he was free to observe the process, even if only in an obscured manner. It was this proof of her humanity that so gripped him. The unshelled, raw, vulnerable facet he could not recall having seen in her before for longer than a breath, at most. It was the depth behind the beauty that made the beauty worth seeing.<br/><br/>Despite all of this, he lay quiet, watching her, his hands at rest, unmoving, that gentle pressure holding her steady above the less-than-gentle rigidity announcing itself in a decidedly uncouth fashion through his trousers, waiting for that sign that she - unassisted, unpressured - had made her decision, and as soon as she did, he was there to meet her. As he was privy to the flavor of her whisky, so Sasha was let in on his little secret from the pub, as his own mouth was absent any such lingering touch of liquor. He answered her kiss in kind, lifting his head so as not to make her come all the way down to reach him, yet never pushed the matter. He met her actions and mirrored them, never advancing beyond the line she drew, up until the point that she strayed to read him, heart jumping in her chest, again uncertain - this time uncertain of him more than herself, he had to think. She had made her choice; she had gone to him. It was her turn to be cautious, to wait for his reply. He was prepared to give it.<br/><br/>At last his hands moved. It was a slow process, as though the ship's artificial gravity had been overclocked, forcing him to slide the warm creased texture of his palms along the contours of her body by arduous inches, easing their way across her ribs - his thumb hesitated between each pair, feeling for the slight dimple barely discernible beneath the tissue, marking his progress for a safe return on the steep upward climb - up to rest on her shoulders, from the front. For a moment the position seemed almost intended to push her away. Before such a confused message could interrupt what they had started, he broke the silence, his voice that same solid anchor it had always been in its rich, calm tenor: "Let me get your coat," he said.<br/><br/>And then it seemed the time for words had passed, needed just enough to confirm for all involved what was sure. His hands moved outward along her arms, guiding the shirt back off her shoulders the way it had been shrugged on, albeit at a much more measured pace in this reversal, while the man himself lifted his torso beneath her unaided (Hadn't he shared most of her workout sessions of late? Holding a suspended crunch was hardly a challenge.) to resume their kiss, this time with his tongue acting as the explorer, seeking out that whiskey-tinted-jasmine mixture of scent and taste combined as he helped his First Officer out of her unnecessary attire. Doubtless she would find time to return the favor eventually; Si was in no hurry.