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Mata Hari was an interesting woman. No Rule One to the Ponds with that statement, no.
Except that sometimes Rule One is best accomplished by saying nothing at all... and the Ponds did not need to know what their only daughter was up to... with him... in bed. Well... not in bed as such, but doing beddy sorts of things on the floor in front of a roaring fire, and... right! They definitely did not need to know the details of that.
But he did, sometimes, with River in Stormcage or off on adventures of her own, and sometimes he just needed to, well, to... remember her, his beautiful and naughty River Song. He had begun to replay the occasional scene in his head, but after he recalled the broken look on her face after that first-last kiss in Stormcage, well... he felt too guilty after that. And he didn’t like to think about it, even though he’d made it up to her; he’d gone back after Demon’s Run and... well, that was another story. But he still didn’t like to think about it, that look, the frozen half-smile of disbelief and anguish and... stop it, he admonished himself, this is not helping matters any.
So here he was, Paris, a hotel room, toasting a crumpet on a long fork over the fire, when she walked in. Oh dear, he thought, Mata Hari... and then something in his brain clicked - maybe it was her scent or the feel of Time about her, overwhelming the effects of her perception filter - and he knew. The toasting fork began to rise.
“Hello, Sweetie,” she said, and removed the filter, and he realised she knew that he knew that it was her. The toasting fork rose a bit higher and he hastily put it down on the hearth before... well, before. She knelt gracefully beside him on the rug and took his face between her hands. “This is where you say, ‘Hello River,’ Sweetie,” she breathed, and kissed him. Well, said the part of his brain not embroiled in sheer sensation, this isn’t just River kissing me, this is... deliberate seduction. And then he shoved that part of his brain back where it wouldn’t bother him, and cooperated fully with the kiss.
And the kiss was... fantastic, molto bene, amazing... and he heard himself moaning her name into her mouth as she more-or-less devoured him. “River...” She slid one hand round the back of his neck and the other started tugging at his bow tie, and all the while her tongue was stroking his lips and teeth and tongue and... and... “River, I...” he said helplessly, and tore himself away just enough to look at her. Her eyes were wide and dark, her lips swollen, and she had never looked more beautiful. And so young. He touched his forehead gently to hers and felt as much as said, “When are you, my River?”
“I’ve not seen you for months - since my first night in Stormcage,” she said, and he felt impressions of loneliness and not-quite-fear from her mind. Apprehension, he decided, anxiety that she might never see me again... or that I might not want her now, and he felt humbled by the thought. He brought one hand up to stroke her face gently.
“So beautiful, River,” he said hoarsely, allowing the emotion to wash over the link where they touched, and saw her eyes widen impossibly further. “And so very dear to me...” Then they were kissing again, and she gave up on the bow tie and started popping off buttons, pulling his braces and shirt off his shoulders. “Not fair, woman,” he murmured into her mouth, “You haven’t anything left to take off you.” She giggled and then gasped as he began to kiss slowly along her jaw, little butterfly-light kisses until he reached her ear and bit down gently on the lobe. River shivered all over and arched toward him, and he let her topple him onto his back on the floor. “Why am I not surprised that you want to be in charge, my River?” he whispered against her ear, “Or should I call you Mata Hari? My bad girl...” and he trailed off into a gasp of his own as she closed one warm hand around him through his trousers.
“You could take off my shoes...” she said as she started to work on his flies. “...and work your way up.” Her tone was a little wicked, and very nearly gleeful, and he reflected - as much as he was able at the moment - that this young she was probably heady with her power over him, that femme fatale aspect that used hallucinogenic lipstick as a favourite weapon, that... and then her hand closed over him again, without the impediment of trousers this time, and the train of thought was completely derailed. He couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting forward once, but then he closed his hand over her wrist and pulled her hand away. “Doctor, I...” she trailed off, looking confused and a little hurt, and very nearly ashamed, and he brought his other hand up to tug lightly on one of her curls.
“I want to take off your shoes, River Song, and work my way up.” The relief on her face - she hadn’t upset him - was nearly palpable, and he felt his hearts contract. She was so afraid this early in her timeline, so scared she could chase him away by being herself. He hadn’t helped that any at their wedding, either, shouting at her, throwing his words like weapons in that cruel way. But he couldn’t rewrite that; all he could do now was to make it up to her as best he could, show her how much she had come to mean to him. He rolled them away from the fire and onto the soft rug, then shucked off his trousers and bow tie. “So beautiful...” he whispered reverently as he watched her watching him. It was odd for her to be the less experienced of them; her first night in Stormcage they had been mutually unused to one another. But he’d been with her several times since then, a far more knowing her, and she had not.
So very slowly, and very carefully, he knelt between her feet as she lay prone on the rug in front of the fire, and lifted one foot to remove the high-heeled shoe and press a tender kiss to her instep. She caught her breath and he smiled against her skin, then slowly... so slowly... dragged his lips over her ankle and up her leg, pausing every inch or so to nibble or suck or lick. When he arrived at the crease between hip and thigh, he ran his hands down the leg, and started again with the other shoe. He licked his way up this leg too, and when he reached the apex, he nuzzled at her until she arched up to meet him. “Doctor...” It was a low moan this time, and he took it as permission, using his hands and lips and tongue until she shattered and shuddered and lay still.
When the tremors slowed, he started again, stroking River’s hips with long fingers and dipping his tongue into her navel. He caressed and nibbled and mouthed at her skin until he reached her breasts, then settled in to savour for a while, drawing out the minutes as only a Time Lord could, making her arch against him again. As she came apart under his ministrations once more, he slipped inside her welcoming body, feeling her quake and clamp down around him, and he had to hold his breath to resist going over the edge with her. He wanted this to last.
At last she lay under him again, soft and wet and pliant around him, and he took a breath to speak. “No,” River said softly, “My turn to drive you mad for a while, Time Lord.” And she wrapped her legs around his hips and rocked until he was sitting up with her still clamped around him, and then further so that he was flat on his back. It was his turn to moan and buck his hips; he couldn’t help it, but she put one hand on his chest to stop him. “Do you trust me, Doctor?” River asked him, and he nodded.
“With my life, with... everything. River, I...” But she was squirming over him, finding his discarded clothing without letting him go from her body, and he moaned again. She came up with the bow tie and the braces, and - outwardly calm and in charge, but tense with anxiety within her mind - gestured toward the heavy furniture nearby with an inquiring sort of motion that said Do you trust me? louder than her words had done. He didn’t - couldn’t - resist her, and he simply put his hands above his head and allowed her to tie them to the legs of the sofa. He recovered his wits and his voice long enough to raise an eyebrow and say teasingly, “No handcuffs?” but then... then she began to move.
She rocked her hips against him and he groaned, an added frisson of excitement shivering through him because his hands were tied. “Can you feel me around you, my love?” she panted as her movements grew faster, “Feel me tight and hot and wet and oh!” Her fingers had moved to where they were connected, almost of their own volition it seemed, and started to rub her - and him - where their flesh was joined.
He shouted her name as he came utterly undone inside her, RiverSongMelodyPond as though it was all one word, and she cried out wordlessly and collapsed on top of him as they rode out the climax together. He panted her name over and over as they slowly, achingly shuddered to a stop.
When their breathing had eased, she rolled off and away, and he made a little whimpering sound of protest, but she smiled. “Want to let you loose, Sweetie,” she explained, and did so. Hands free now, he tugged a blanket off the sofa and covered them both with it, turning on his side and spooning protectively around her body. She was already headed toward sleep, worn out from their loving and whatever adventure had brought her to him that day, and she mumbled sleepily against his supporting arm. “Love you, Sweetie... g’night...” And then she slept.
The Doctor lay curled around his wife, watching the firelight dapple her skin like sunlight on her namesake, and smiled to himself.
An interesting woman, indeed.