Author's disclaimer: Not mine. No profit.

Author's notes: Not betaed. I sort of zipped right past "G" and "H" so here's a little "H" snippet. I may still get back to "G". Will grovel for feedback. Constructive criticism appreciated.

Hungry. That's what I am; hungry. Not for food, for Jim. Hungry for him to touch me. My skin tingles, itches with the need to feel his hands on me. My body leans toward him when he's near. Not much. Just a tiny bit. Just to get that little bit closer to his hands, so maybe he'll reach for me. Touch me with those hands. Such beautiful hands. Long slender fingers, elegant and strong.

We've been lovers for a week, now. It's been wonderful, fantastic, and strange. The first time we were both so hot we couldn't last, even to get to the bedroom. I came in his hand, and he came in mine. Standing in the living room, barely inside the front door, holding each other up, trying not to collapse to the floor. All our clothes on, just our pants unzipped, our hands around each other, and our mouths glued together, crazy with lust. Oh God, I finally got to touch him. And it got better after that. After we came, and caught our breath, he pulled back just far enough to smile at me. Then he said, "That almost took the edge off, Blair. Now let's go upstairs and do this right."

So we did. We made slow, sweet love, and now I'm addicted to him, so hungry for him. For his touch, especially. He always touched me a lot. A pat on the back, or shoulder, or he'd ruffle my hair. Now, when we're home, alone, he touches me constantly. And I need it like I need air. And every time we're together, it gets better. He knows where to touch me, and I know where to touch him, to make him moan, or cry out my name. We're getting so good together, knowing just what the other wants, needs, likes. I know he loves to bury his face, or his hands, in my hair. I know he loves the feel of it on his skin, so I move my head, just enough to drag my hair over his skin, and he'll moan for me every time. And he knows I love to look at him. Watch the play of skin over muscle, glistening with sweat. So he moves for me. Arches his back, stretches his arms and legs, flexing his muscles, letting me look. Posing for me. Giving me what I need. What we both need. If we get any better together my head may explode. Both of them. I grin to myself.

He's downstairs now, making coffee. I hear him pour water into the coffeemaker. He must have just gotten up, cause his side of the bed is still warm. So I roll over and bury my face in the sheets and pillows where he was sleeping. I pull the covers up over my head and just breath. Suck up his smell, like a Hoover on speed. Marinating myself in Jimscent. "Hey Blair? You awake, babe?"

"Mmmm, nooo...."

"Oh, okay. I thought I heard you waking up." I can hear the grin in his voice.

"No man, still sleeping. Come back to bed?"

"Okay, but I'm bringing coffee and the papers. You want a cup?"

"Mmmmkay."

And a couple minutes later, when the coffeemaker has quit hissing and gurgling, he's here. I throw back the covers and he sets the coffee mugs and the thick stack of Sunday newspaper on the end table and climbs in bed. Lays down next to me, pulls the covers back over us and turns toward me. And we lay there, nose to nose, chest to chest, smiling at each other. And he touches me again, and I lean into him. He cups my face in his palm, then just runs that hand all over my skin, wherever he can reach, like he's memorizing me, mapping me. And it feeds something inside me, and within seconds we're both hard, and he's kissing me, deep and hot. Then he rolls us over so he's almost completely on top of me. He takes both my hands in his, threading his fingers through mine, and holds them down against the bed, and watches me as he thrusts against my thigh, and I thrust back against his hip, loving the feel of him holding me down, holding me still. And we come, "love you" whispered over and over, his face against my neck now. When he catches his breath he lets go of my hands. Then he tries to lift up on one elbow to look at me, but I've got him in the Blair Sandburg Death Grip now, both arms and both legs wrapped around him, tight, his head resting on my shoulder, and he can't move.

"Blair?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't move."

"I know. Stay here." I sound fierce and needy, even to myself.

"But I'm squashing you."

"No you're not. Stay here." I squeeze even harder.

"How can you breath under there?"

"Don't need to breath."

"Blair?!"

"Please, just stay here. Stay here and hold me down. Let me feel your weight on me. I love the way it feels when you hold me down, when you're on top of me like this. Please?" I think I sound kind of desperate.

"God Blair...." He slides his hands under my back, wraps his arms around me so tight, and rests his full weight on top of me. And God, it feels so good. Warm and safe. I need this. He lays there for a few minutes, spread out over me, just letting me run my hands over his back, his shoulders, and his head. Stroking his hair. Touching him. Surrounded by him. Then he moves somehow, and suddenly I'm on top and he's underneath, and we're laughing together. He smiles at me and runs his hands up and down my back, and I need this too, so I just smile back and let him. "Hey," he whispers, "feel better now?"

"Yeah, man. Sorry about that."

He takes my face in both his hands, and looks at me, sternly. "Blair, don't ever apologize for asking something of me. I'll do anything you want Blair. Give you anything you need. Anything." Sounding a little fierce, himself, now.

"Oh God, Jim," I whisper, nose to nose with him. "I need you to touch me."

"I can do that," he whispers back, "I need that, too." And I tuck my head against his shoulder, and rest all my weight on him, and he touches me, feeds me with his hands. And it's what I need, what we both need. And for a while, I don't feel hungry.