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“I’ll be there,” Beverly said with a small smile, the corner of her mouth tugging up in that way she’d perfected over the years: equal parts warmth and exasperated tolerance.
Will, grinning like a teenager planning a prank, gave her a wink from the small holoscreen. “Bring your poker face, Bev.”
She rolled her eyes. “I always do.”
The connection blinked off, and suddenly the suite was too quiet.
She leaned back in the chair, exhaling hard through her nose. It had been a long day of nothing—sunlight, fruit cocktails, enforced relaxation. Exactly the sort of thing Starfleet officers were famously bad at.
And yet here they all were. Deelan 9. Luxurious, overgrown, decadent. The entire senior staff had somehow ended up in the same boutique resort, with private cabanas fanned out like petals around small, evenly distributed shared pools and fluffy greenery. Will and Deanna were two cabanas down; Geordi and Data were at the far end, probably swapping theories about alien algae. And Jean‑Luc…
Her stomach flipped.
Jean‑Luc had, with classic resistance, accepted the vacation only after what could generously be called coercion. Beverly had half-expected him to beam away the moment they landed—maybe plead diplomatic emergency or claim to hear the Enterprise whispering his name in the void.
But he hadn’t.
She still didn’t know where exactly he’d booked, only that his name wasn’t on the resort’s manifest—something about ‘privacy’ and ‘avoiding scrutiny.’ Which probably meant he was next door.
Or not.
She sighed, rising from the chair. Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, and she tugged it back into place as she wandered toward the bed. The chronometer glowed back at her: two hours before poker night began.
Just enough time to stew.
She wandered into the bedroom and stared down at the bikini she’d laid out hours earlier. Deep blue. Bold. A little scandalous, even for Deelan. She’d told herself it was for the weather. The beach. The sun.
But she wasn’t on the beach.
She was in her room, pacing, heart thudding for no medical reason.
God, this is ridiculous, she thought, folding her arms. You’re a grown woman, not some giddy ensign.
But still, her eyes drifted to the French windows. The pool beyond shimmered with soft lights, casting waves of silver and blue onto the stone tiles. The water looked calm. Peaceful.
Inviting.
And just as she stepped forward, contemplating a swim, a loud splash sliced through the quiet.
She froze.
Someone was in the closest pool.
Her first instinct was to retreat. Let them have their solitude. But curiosity—stubborn, treacherous curiosity—tugged at her. She crept toward the window and carefully pulled back the curtain.
There he was.
Jean‑Luc Picard, chest glistening in the moonlight, slicing through the pool like some sculpted marble statue that had come to life. His strokes were clean, methodical, perfectly controlled—as if he was deliberately showing off without trying to show off.
Beverly’s mouth went dry.
Black trunks. Broad shoulders. That spine she’d seen a thousand times in sickbay, now moving with fluid precision. Her gaze followed the taut motion of his back, the ripple of muscle beneath skin, the long, lean lines of his legs.
She gripped the curtain tightly.
This is fine, she told herself. This is a totally normal, not-inappropriate moment of casual admiration.
Then he stopped mid-stroke and turned, as if he felt her gaze.
She yelped—softly—and ducked back from the window like a teenager caught spying on a crush.
Great. Amazing. You just stared at him like a lovesick cadet. She flopped onto the bed, covering her face with both hands. Way to go, Beverly.
She lay there for a moment, battling mortification and something dangerously close to arousal. The image of him, wet and half-naked, was branded on the inside of her eyelids.
“Ugh!” she growled into the pillow. “Get it together, Red.”
She sat up, hair tousled, chest rising and falling with something not quite frustration, not quite anticipation.
She stared at the bikini.
She stared at the window.
And made a decision.
She stood, grabbed the sparse fabric in one hand, and stalked toward the bathroom. She didn’t need to see him. She didn’t need to go down there.
But she might. No—she would.
And if he looked back at her the way she had just looked at him?
Well. Poker night could wait.
=/\=
The water was quiet around him, a mirror to the stars above—until he felt it. Not a sound - just… presence.
He turned toward the edge of the pool, expecting moonlight, shadow, nothing more.
And then he saw her.
At first, she was just a silhouette, framed in silver, her hair drifting around her shoulders like flame in water. She stood at the edge, hesitant, a siren stilled at shore. His heart gave a strange, sharp twist in his chest.
His first thought wasn’t why is she here—it was thank god she is.
Then, slowly, she moved.
Her fingers reached to the loose belt at her waist. With practiced ease, she tugged it free. The robe, white and whisper‑thin, slipped from her shoulders in a hushed cascade, pooling silently at her feet.
He forgot to breathe.
The moonlight kissed every inch of exposed skin—shoulders, arms, the smooth line of her collarbone. The blue bikini hugged her body like it had been made for her and her alone. She was radiant, regal, devastating. A goddess clothed in watery reflections and light.
His gaze travelled downward, unable to resist. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, hips shaped by dance and defiance and decades of strength. Her legs—long, toned, bare—stepped forward into the water with grace, slicing through the surface like a blade.
He felt a flush rise in his throat. Blood roared in his ears. The disciplined part of him—the captain—was already unravelling. His mouth went dry.
You knew she was beautiful, you fool, his mind whispered. But not like this. Never like this.
Desire stirred in him, not fast, not sudden, but deep and smouldering—something earned, something sacred. She was walking toward him, and the world was holding its breath.
She was everything he’d tried not to want for years—and everything he wanted right now, wrapped in one breathtaking moment of absolute clarity.
He took a half-step forward, chest rising and falling. And when her eyes met his, it wasn’t just want. It was history. It was all the words they hadn’t said.
And she was saying them now without uttering a sound.
She stepped into the water with the unhurried poise of someone fully aware of her power. Jean‑Luc watched her approach, each step sending gentle ripples across the surface. The heat in his chest coiled tighter, like a string pulled to breaking.
Then she stopped just beyond arm’s reach. Her hair clung to her damp skin in dark, coppery waves, her skin glowing in moonlight. She tilted her head and offered a look—playful, curious, provocative.
And then she spoke. “What are you doing here…” Her voice was low, teasing. “In my pool?”
Jean‑Luc’s lips curved, despite the tension drawing tight through his shoulders. He lifted his gaze to hers—those brilliant, knowing blue eyes—and let himself indulge in the soft flirtation.
“It’s still yours,” he said simply, the truth of it falling from his lips like gravity.
She raised an eyebrow, scepticism and mischief dancing in her expression. “Oh really?”
He took one step closer, the water folding around him. His voice dropped to something deeper, something meant for only her. “It has always been yours, all of it.”
Her breath caught, just enough that he saw it. Her lips parted slightly. But she didn’t speak—just looked at him, searching. And when she finally closed the last bit of distance between them, the air crackled.
Her bare skin brushed against his chest, and it sent a jolt straight through him. His hands, unthinking, found her waist—warm, supple, alive beneath his palms. She fit into his arms like something inevitable.
She looked at him from beneath thick, long lashes, lips barely moving. “I’ve wanted this…” Her voice broke on the last word. She steadied herself. “For so long.”
Jean‑Luc’s hand slid up, cupping her cheek. “You think you were the only one?” His tone was soft, aching. “I’ve rewritten that sentence in my head a thousand times.”
Her fingers trailed along his chest, lazily drawing circles. “This one?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Which one?”
“The one where I walk into your arms, dripping wet, in scandalously little clothing... and you look like you’re about to combust.”
He gave a short, breathless laugh. “Well,” he murmured, “you’ve improved it. Considerably.”
She leaned in, nose brushing his. “I aim to please.”
“Mission accomplished,” he whispered, before finally—finally—closing the last distance between them.
The kiss was fire and history. A culmination of every lingering look across sickbay, every near-confession after some brush with death, every dinner left a little too late, every goodbye held just a few seconds too long.
His lips were warm and firm, his hands reverent as they mapped her back. Her fingers fisted in his hair, tugging him closer. Their mouths opened, met, tangled—deep and breathless.
When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, both gasping, she laughed softly. “I half expected you to start quoting Shakespeare or lecturing me on propriety.”
He smirked. “You’ve always had a way of robbing me of eloquence.”
Her fingers trailed along the waistband of his swim trunks, teasing. “Good. You talk too much anyway.”
Jean‑Luc raised an eyebrow. “I’ll remember that when you’re begging me for—”
She kissed him hard to silence him, and it worked. He groaned low in his throat, pulling her flush against him, water sloshing around them. Her hands were everywhere—shoulders, chest, waist—like she couldn’t decide what to touch first.
He slid his hands up her spine, thumbs grazing the line of her bikini top. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice suddenly serious, breathless. “If you’re not ready—”
Her response was instant. “I’ve been ready since stardate 41209.2, Jean-Luc.”
That pulled a low, rough sound from his throat. He kissed her again—deeper, slower this time, like he had all night. His hands slipped beneath the fabric at her back, undoing the clasp with maddening precision.
She arched into him as the top loosened and slid down into the water. His breath caught at the sight of her bared skin—soft, flushed, perfect. His hands framed her ribcage, thumbs brushing along her sides.
“You’re exquisite,” he whispered, voice almost reverent.
Beverly, emboldened by the heat in his eyes, hooked a leg around his waist and smiled at him. “Less poetry. More action, Captain.”
He chuckled, dark and low. “Aye, Doctor.” That smile - teasing, triumphant, burning into his memory—was the last thread of restraint to snap.
He kissed her again, slower now, deeper. No rush. No apology. Just pure, focused intention.
Her hands slid down his back, fingernails raking lightly along his spine. He shivered at her touch, groaning into her mouth. The water lapped gently around them, barely breaking the quiet gasps and sighs passing between their lips.
His hands moved to her thighs, fingers digging in as he lifted her fully into his arms. She wrapped her legs fully around him then, their bodies pressed, nothing but slick skin and rising heat between them.
“God, Beverly,” he murmured against her neck, voice rasping. “I’ve wanted this… I’ve wanted you… so damn long.”
She nuzzled his ear, breath hot. “Then stop talking and show me.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
One hand slipped between them, parting the last barrier between want and fulfilment. She arched, hips tilting forward to meet him, to guide him in—hot, slick, aching with need.
When he entered her, they both gasped.
She clung to him, eyes wide, lips parted, every inch of her body trembling against his. He filled her slowly, inch by inch, until she was full, stretched, claimed—and he was surrounded, utterly lost in her.
Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, eyes locked.
Neither of them moved for a long heartbeat.
Then she rocked her hips, just once—and he nearly came undone.
“Beverly…” It was half a prayer, half a curse.
She whispered back, voice thick with heat: “I know. I know.”
They found a rhythm, one that had nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with worship. Every roll of her hips, every slide of his body within hers, was deliberate—unhurried. Like they had all the time in the universe to learn each other this way.
She kissed him again—open-mouthed and hungry—swallowing his groans, biting softly at his bottom lip. He thrust deeper, harder, holding her tighter with each movement. The water churned softly around them, sparkling with the moonlight, their own little galaxy suspended in liquid heat.
Her head fell back, exposing her neck. He kissed the hollow of her throat, then lower, his mouth brushing the curve of her breast as his hand moulded around it.
She moaned. It reverberated through him, a vibration in his bones.
“You’re—God, Jean—”
“I’m here,” he panted. “Right here.”
She trembled in his arms, and he felt it—the telltale flutter. Her body clenched around him, thighs tightening, her moans rising in pitch.
He watched her—utterly captivated—as she came. She was radiant in climax, her body arching, hair slicked back, lips parted in a silent cry that only the stars could hear.
She collapsed into him, clinging. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He drove into her again, groaning against her shoulder. Her body welcomed him, pulsing with aftershocks. He thrust harder, chasing his own edge now, desperate, ravenous.
She curled her fingers in his hair. “Come for me,” she breathed into his ear. “Let go.”
He bit down gently on her shoulder, grip tightening on her hips as pleasure surged up through him. With one final thrust, he buried himself in her and came, shuddering, his cry muffled against her skin.
For a long time, they didn’t move.
Just breath. Just heartbeats. Just skin against skin.
He held her there in the water, floating, tethered to nothing but each other. His hands stroked her back in lazy, reverent circles. She nestled into him, content, glowing.
“Jean-Luc,” she murmured softly, voice low and sated.
He pulled back just enough to see her face. “Yes, love?”
She grinned, still breathless. “You may quote Shakespeare now.”
He laughed - a full, rich sound that made her smile wider.
“Beverly?!”
They both stiffened.
“Shit,” Beverly hissed under her breath.
Jean‑Luc froze like someone had activated his command mode mid-climax. His body went rigid, his grip automatically tightening around her waist as if he could physically shield her from Will Riker’s voice.
The sound of heavy boot-steps echoed from somewhere near the courtyard.
“Gosh.” She turned wide‑eyed to him. “Why is he here!”
He blinked, deadpan. “He’s hunting you. Obviously.”
“Well, he can’t find me like this!”
Without another word, Jean‑Luc ducked under the water and glided away with silent precision, like a stealth submarine captain executing evasive manoeuvres. Beverly swam hastily to the edge, heart pounding, cheeks flaming, reaching for her robe just as Will’s form rounded the hedge.
“There you are!” Will called with mock exasperation. “We’ve been waiting an hour! I’ve already lost my dignity and most of my chips to Deanna.”
Beverly plastered on a grin, robe hastily tied and clinging to her still-wet skin. “Sorry, I… needed a swim. Lost track of time.”
He squinted at her, eyebrows twitching upward. “You’re glowing.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said—” He stepped closer. “You’re glowing. Radiant. You look like someone just… I don’t know… achieved inner peace. Or something else.”
Her face went nuclear red. “Will.”
He grinned. “You’ve got that I’ve just had an epiphany in the moonlight energy. Or maybe that been thoroughly kissed by destiny thing.”
She turned away quickly, adjusting her robe with exaggerated fuss. “Stop analysing my face and go lose more poker chips.”
He took another step, peering suspiciously at the water. “Wait. Was someone else out here?”
“No,” she said far too quickly.
His brow furrowed. “Because I could swear, I heard—”
“You heard wrong.”
“Beverly.”
She met his gaze with the sternest doctor stare she could muster. “Commander.”
He crossed his arms. “Are you alone?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Why does everyone assume I can’t enjoy a late swim in silence?”
He blinked. “Because you hate swimming alone?”
“Well, maybe tonight I had… mood music in my head.” She flailed vaguely toward the sky. “Moonlight. Serenity. Spa vibes.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Your spa vibes usually involve wine and chocolate, not… whatever’s going on here.”
Then his foot caught something.
Squish.
He looked down. Slowly. Dramatically.
There, half-submerged at the edge of the pool, unmistakably abandoned, were black swim trunks.
Will stared at them. Then at her. Then back at the trunks.
Beverly’s soul left her body.
“Hmm.” He said it in the exact same tone he’d once used upon discovering a Ferengi hiding under a buffet table.
“Will, I can explain—”
He bent down and picked them up, holding them between two fingers like they might explode.
“These aren’t yours.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
“These…” he turned them over, squinting. “...are Captain-sized.”
She snatched them from him. “You’ve seen too much.”
“Not enough, apparently.”
“Will Riker!”
He raised both hands, grinning now, the full Riker mischief unleashed. “I’m just saying… you’re suspiciously damp. And remarkably cheerful. And unless you’ve taken up moonlit synchronized swimming with a clone of Jean‑Luc—”
“Goodnight, Will.”
“Just one more thing—”
“Gosh, what?”
“If he is around here, I think I should let him know he left his dignity behind.”
“Commander,” she said sweetly. “Do you want a hypospray to the larynx?”
He bowed theatrically. “And that’s my cue.”
He turned to go, then paused at the path. “By the way…”
She groaned. “What now?”
“If I find his combadge in a flower pot or a pair of shiny boots near your cabana door tomorrow, I’m calling a staff meeting.”
She tossed the swim trunks directly at his retreating back. He yelped as they smacked against his shoulders.
“And you’ll host it from Sickbay, Commander!”
“Worth it!” he called, already disappearing around the hedge.
Beverly sank down onto the chaise lounge, face burning, shoulders shaking—half mortified, half breathless with laughter.
A quiet splash behind her made her head turn. Jean‑Luc surfaced at the far edge of the pool, sleek as ever, water trickling down his bare shoulders. “Did… he witness anything?” he asked cautiously.
She stood, hands on hips. “Only the shredded remains of your modesty.”
He smirked. “Ah.”
“You owe me a drink. And possibly a diversion at the next poker night.”
He began to swim lazily toward her, utterly unrepentant. “I’ll bring wine. And I’m prepared to bluff.”
She reached down, brushing damp hair off her forehead, eyes twinkling. “You realize this isn’t going to be a secret for long.”
“Let them wonder,” he murmured, eyes locking with hers again, heat rekindling in the pool’s silver depths. “We’ve waited long enough.”