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At their ages, Jean-Luc never would have thought that he’d have to worry about his lover stealing his clothes. Not that he truly minds, except for when he’s going through his drawers, searching for a specific shirt, just to realize that it’s not there. He checks Beverly’s, and finds it tucked away in a hidden corner, like she knows he’d come looking for it.
Slipping on the tunic and his pants, he walks into the living area of his quarters, hands on his hips as she looks up at him from the couch. She looks amused as she eyes his outfit.
“Lose something?” she asks innocently.
“You, Beverly Crusher, are a thief,” he retorts, approaching the couch.
Beverly laughs, making space for him to sit beside her, and she leans into him. “It looks better on me and you know it,” she replies, nuzzling his jaw.
He loops his arm around her shoulders, holding her even as he grumbles, “Everything looks better on you. Or off of you. Hardly a fair comparison.”
He’s very aware of what she’s doing. She’s worked her hand into the low vee of the tunic, slowly undoing the clasp that holds the wrap part of it together. Her mouth is at his neck, kissing a teasing line to his earlobe until she can catch it gently between her teeth.
“Wanna see how it looks off of you?” she asks, voice low and husky.
“I just put it on, Beverly,” he says, and then immediately wonders what’s wrong with him to deny her when she’s in this mood.
As if she could read his mind, she sits back and raises an eyebrow at him, her hand still in his shirt.
He makes the split second decision to make up for his faux pas by pulling her into his lap, then kissing her senseless. He slides his hands up her back underneath the loose shirts she likes to wear off-duty, peeling it up and over her head. He kisses down her neck and across her chest, before picking her up and carrying her back into the bedroom, delighting in the way her strong legs wrap around his waist.
“I thought I was supposed to be taking your shirt off?” she says, laughing, and honestly if she’s able to make jokes he’s clearly not working hard enough to distract her.
He trails his mouth down her belly, lingering over a sensitive spot that can be ticklish or arousing depending on the day. Right now, it’s arousing, judging by the way she shivers beneath his lips, her breath catching. Her hands grip his shoulders, but she doesn’t make any quips and she’s not trying to undress him, so he considers this a success.
She does manage a breathy “Jean-Luc” as he tugs down her black leggings, easily stripping them and her panties from her, and then neither one of them are saying much of anything for a while.
Afterwards, she climbs out of bed, heading to the bathroom. Lazily, he watches her walk, managing a little huff of laughter as she snags his tunic from the floor. She had eventually gotten him out of it and tossed it away during their lovemaking, and he’s not surprised at all to see her claim it again. As she’s cleaning up, he rises from the bed, grabbing her robe and slipping it on.
It’s a bit of a tight fit at the arms and shoulders, but it’ll work for his purposes. By the time he’s settled back in the bed, the book he’s been reading before bed is in his hands, and he doesn’t even spare her a glance. Not until she stops a few feet from the bed, and then he looks up to see her furrowed brow.
She is, of course, wearing the tunic and nothing else. It falls to mid thigh for her, showing off her dancer’s legs, and even better in his estimation is the way the deep v goes practically to her navel, revealing the sides of her breasts.
It really does look better on her.
“That’s my robe,” she says, and he expected her to sound petulant. Instead, her voice is a bit breathy, a bit high.
He tilts his head, curious. “It is,” he agrees, watching her carefully as her eyes study him carefully. It’s a sort of salmon pink which he doesn’t think is particularly his color, and pulls at the shoulders, but he supposes it does show off his arms with the way it's so tight around his biceps, and his chest much in the way his beloved v-necks do.
“Stand up for me?” she asks, her blue eyes dark.
He chuckles, setting the book aside and standing. The robe is a short one, ending at his thighs, and Beverly’s intake of breath is loud in the quiet of their bedroom. “Does it look better on me?” he murmurs, teasing, but Beverly licks her lips.
She crawls across the bed to kneel in front of him, tugging him forward by the sash. “I think we can consider this a fair trade, Captain,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his.
“Agreed, Doctor,” he replies, before his mouth becomes occupied with more things than talking.