This is definitely NC-17. My usual warning applies--if you're a minor and read this anyway, I take no responsibility.

This story is set after one of the conversations in the hallway in "Spec Ops." It will be pretty obvious which one. :) It includes spoilers for "Spec Ops," "Hard Landing," "Love," and "Mercy."

No infringement of any sort is intended with the following. Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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"Get over it."

He had actually told her that today, had turned away from and flatly refused her advances. . . . "Get over it." It was good advice, he supposed. . . . Too bad he couldn't take it himself.

Michael was in his bed in Section now, completely unable to sleep, thinking back over the day. He had rarely gone home, since she had been brought back in. Hoping that his sheer presence could keep catastrophe from her--needing to simply be able to be soothed by the knowledge of their physical inhabitance of the same building--to not be separated from her again, he had invented excuse after excuse to keep from leaving.

He sighed. It wasn't like he hadn't had fantasies about her before their night together in Paris. He had had them so often, in fact, that he had sometimes felt like he lived in a cold shower . . . like even that made his body listen.

His body, in fact, had responded to her from the moment they had met. At first, though, he had been able to ignore it--to deny the attraction. Their first kiss at Bauer's, however, had destroyed that illusion, and his fantasies had ceased to simply bother him while he was asleep, taking a firm root in his conscious mind. From then, they had plagued him daily right up to her supposed cancellation.

He hadn't had any waking sexual fantasies during her absence. He had, in fact--a few times during it, idly wondered whether he would be impotent for life. . . . He hadn't really cared, though; nothing had mattered without her.

No, he sighed, he simply hadn't existed when she was gone. All of his fantasies had just been about finding her, alive and well--of holding her so close to him he might cause her damage. . . . He had had to wait until Nikita resurrected him to feel arousal again.

Michael groaned. Dear God, though, once she had, he had exploded. Like some disincarnate spirit in search of a host, he had needed to possess her, to feel her every movement as his own. . . . He had never felt a need that great before, may Simone--as deeply as he still loved her--forgive him.

He closed his eyes. . . . God, Nikita was intoxicating. He couldn't imagine any other woman as perfect, as arousing, as . . . *holy* as her. She could make men insane. . . . She had certainly accomplished it with him.

If his fantasies had plagued him before their night together, they now threatened to overwhelm him completely. While he knew he needed to keep his distance, for their mutual safety and sanity, it was killing him.

He thought about it constantly; he couldn't make himself stop. . . . Her taste--the delicate feeling of his tongue on hers, on her beautiful flesh, on the taut peaks of her nipples, . . . deep inside her, running down her smooth walls. He groaned. Her scent--of her hair, her skin, . . . her arousal. The feel of her quivering beneath his fingertips--or all along his body.

He put his hand over his eyes, grasping his temples, as his memories barrelled on--ignoring his pleas to stop: her sounds--the soft moans, the whispers and whimpers, the sighs, the cries. He gritted his teeth. The touch of her perfect hands or mouth on him, making his already cataclysmic need grow.

The incredible, intense, overwhelmed look or the way her eyes seemed to connect with his in love and absolute understanding in her release; the feel of her warm, soft body wrapped around his, especially as she climaxed, holding on to him. . . . Their absolute understanding in that final moment. Or, worst of all for any hopes he had for his own sanity, the way both their bodies and souls met and mated--claimed each other greedily and exclusively.

Michael lowered his hand, his breathing unsteady and rapid. He murmured a rare, harsh swear word and opened his eyes.

She seemed to think, somehow, that he didn't care, that he wasn't interested in her. He shook his head. It was only by his attempts to close down his every emotion that he was surviving.

How could they have come apart so quickly? How was that even possible? That night had meant more to him than any before. Even his intense and all- encompassing love for Simone couldn't challenge it. . . . It had been like finding the piece of your soul you had always been missing; except, with Nikita, she was his entire soul.

He knew there were reasons for the distance between them, of course, but he was in no mood to think about them--perhaps selfishly. He looked down at himself in the bed--well aware of what he would see--and then rolled on his side disgustedly; he could force his body to ignore almost every outside stimulus, positive or negative, except Nikita. With her, even the thought of her ripped away every shred of control.

Michael felt himself throbbing and shook his head, almost laughing. If she could only have seen what was in his mind when she offered herself to him today, she would never question his desire again. He closed his eyes and thought back to the images which had flashed through his mind this afternoon, only this time he embellished them slightly: "I wouldn't mind dying if I could live, *really* live for just one day."

She leaned in to kiss him.

Michael caught her lips with his own and then deepened the kiss insistently --commanding her mouth--before pulling back. "Are you sure about that?"

Nikita's eyes were shining. "*Yes*."

His hands trailed down her arms, while his lips played over the skin above her jawline, not quite touching it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I don't care." Her hands had run up to his hair, trying to hold him closer.

"I want you."

He pulled back and looked at her again, intensely. "You have me." He took her hand and guided her along behind him to a slightly more recessed area of the hallway. There, he looked at her once more before putting his hands behind her head and backing her rapidly into a wall, slanting his mouth over hers in a deep, demanding kiss; she responded eagerly and held him in it.

Michael removed his hands and ran them down to pull her jacket off roughly, tossing it on the floor. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull off her shirt--thanking God now for all of the erotic torment he had always suffered from her never wearing a bra.

He continued passionately exploring her mouth while he began to trace circles around her breasts with his fingertips. She moaned and leaned into his hands. His hunger made him pull away from the kiss. He began biting a fine trail down her neck, placing a less delicate bite at the line between it and her shoulder--needing to direct her desires at his command. She groaned in willing response.

Michael's thumbs began playing with her nipples, his hands caressing her breasts, running light, teasing lines over the undersides. His mouth roamed small bites over her neck and throat, stopping to place a harder bite on a particularly delicate spot on the other side.

"Michael," she groaned.

He growled slightly. His mouth was hungry to taste her again. He moved down to bite the spot between neck and shoulder on this side before running his tongue down to her breast, his hands down her back.

He caught her nipple, suckling her deeply, not entirely gently, as she held his head tightly to her. "Yes," she moaned.

He continued suckling her until her nipple was so sensitized that the slightest puff of air made her whole body convulse. He then took it in his teeth and bit her with just the pressure he knew she wanted.

She let out a cry, her hands cradling him strongly against her. He moved her legs apart with his knee, rubbing his thigh against the area between hers, as she stroked herself against him instinctively.

He ran a soothing circle around her nipple with his tongue. Then, he moved on to the other to repeat the process, as Nikita closed her eyes and gave out constant soft cries.

After some time--when her body was overtaken with continuous, small tremors, Michael ran his tongue down from her breastbone to her navel, delving into it, as he knelt down to remove her boots and socks. He then ducked his head to lick at her thighs while unzipping her shorts. He moved back to remove them and her underwear, shoving them all aside on the floor.

Nikita, meanwhile, opened her eyes and pulled herself together enough to push off his jacket; she then began trying to lift off his shirt from above. He quickly helped her by removing this distraction from his needs and then placed her hands on his head, regaining her full attention. He leaned in toward her, looking up at her eyes.

Nikita watched, as she pulled him toward herself. His tongue was out, poised to touch her. When she went too slowly for him, he put his hands behind her and leaned in enough to lightly touch her delicate bud. She quivered and closed her eyes, bringing his head toward her in earnest.

He was finally able to taste her again. He ran his tongue deep inside her, exploring the silken beauty there.

After a few minutes, he traced back up to tease the bud. One hand came around to run up her thigh slowly before finally entering a finger into her, stroking deeply; two more fingers joined the first, stroking the smooth, wet walls in a heated rhythm.

She held his head closer still, nearly sobbing, as his tongue stroked insistently over the bud. Her knees threatened to give out and topple her to the floor; Michael's whole arm went around her, as he caressed her from behind, drawing her even closer to his face.

He was sucking hard on her bud now, as his fingers continued to stroke deeper and faster. Nikita arched toward him, moving in a tight, desperate pattern to her own inner rhythm and Michael's needy ministrations. Finally, he moved the arm behind her up her back and pushed her lower body into the wall, his suckling and stroking increasing threefold.

Nikita screamed and convulsed, her body inwardly grasping and pulling at his fingers, her hands and nails almost painful on his head. She continued to give little whimpering cries, as her legs abandoned her completely, sending her sliding down the wall.

He removed his hand from her back and caught her, as she slid. His mouth licked up her body, catching for a second at a sensitive nipple, before she came to rest on his lap.

She was panting, gasping--her eyes still closed. He smoothed the wild hair he loved so much back from her face and kissed her lightly.

She opened her eyes and looked at him blissfully, smiling gently. "Michael," she mouthed, unable to make the sounds. He kissed her more deeply, until she responded, holding him in it; her other hand roamed down his back.

Michael pulled back to look at her and had the heady realization that this amazing, beautiful--*soulful* woman was his. Whatever his desire, she would respond joyfully, because he understood all her needs as his own. . . . He needed to experience them with her again now.

He kissed her once more, as he picked up her jacket and turned them so that he was facing away from the wall. Then, he started to lean her back, placing the jacket beneath her head as a pillow.

Nikita kissed him back passionately, her hands roaming. They soon found his taut nipples, and she ran her fingers over them, scraping by one gently with a nail.

Michael's body jerked, and his erection grew even stiffer, pounding against the confinement of his pants. "`Kita."

"Sssh," she murmured, as she began to slide underneath him. Her mouth found the nipple she had teased, and she suckled it, gliding her teeth over it-- closing them briefly to his gasp, then pressing her tongue to it. Her hand, meanwhile, ran further under him to stroke his length through his pants, caressing him.

Michael held himself above her with his arms, alternately gasping and groaning at the incredible sensations she gave him. To be worshipped in this way by this woman was more arousing than anything else. He didn't care if no one else ever touched him again--even wished no one would. Anyone else would be a travesty of the sensual--a cruel joke. He didn't give a damn if no one else ever wanted him again. This woman was the earth's sole inhabitant--the only thing that would ever matter at all.

Nikita had moved to his other nipple and was now slowly unzipping his pants. He groaned and dragged her up to face him, in a kneeling position. He kissed her desperately, possessively--holding her head to his.

He looked back at her. "No more, Nikita. I can't take it." She seemed ready to give him a slight pout, so he kissed her soundly, lowering her back to the jacket. He leaned back from her and quickly took off his shoes and socks, then stood to remove his pants and underwear, as she watched him adoringly.

"Michael," she whispered.

He closed his eyes and shuddered, still standing over her, now naked. "No, `Kita. Don't say my name." He looked at her, a white heat in his gaze. "I'll explode."

She bit her lower lip to prevent a recurrence and squirmed slightly beneath him. She held up her arms to invite him to her.

He returned to his knees and traced his hands up her legs to her thighs, his eyes never leaving hers. His hands then slowly traced up the rest of her body, his thumbs stroking over her nipples briefly, as he spread himself over her; his arousal throbbed against the entrance to her core.

"I have to have you, `Kita." He stroked back the hair from her face, his eyes gently tracing its contours before refocusing on hers. "You're all that's left of me." His shaft jumped slightly against her.

"Michael," she mouthed, eyes glistening and dark with desire.

He leaned in to run his tongue around her lips lightly. She opened her mouth happily to capture him, and he began to enter her.

She groaned and spread her legs further, arching up at him. He could barely control himself at the feeling of her caressing, warm depths beginning to wrap around him. His hands ran down her back to hold her, as he gave one final thrust, entering her completely--no longer able to hold back. She moaned through the kiss and held him in it, while her thighs caught at his hips, keeping him in her.

She felt every bit as perfect as he remembered. He kept the rhythm slow at first--simply revelling in the overwhelming sensation of being part of her again; it was as gentle and arousing as the long, soft kiss they shared.

His hands ran up her sides, roaming silkily from her thighs till they caught in the strands of her hair. She groaned at his gentle passion and spread her legs, inviting him further into her, pushing up at him a bit harder--needing him.

He took the offer and began stroking deeper into her, his strokes getting longer. He broke the kiss and began to give her a series of wet, soft, seductive kisses.

"Michael," she breathed between them. Her hands were trailing over his back, her nails lightly brushing him.

He stroked deeper in response, feeling himself hardening further--his need intensifying. Nikita leaned her head back and groaned deep in her throat. His strokes got harder, still long and deep. "Ye-e-e-s-s-s-s-s," she moaned.

He began kissing her again, a bit harder this time. His hands ran down to stroke up her legs, holding them down, a bit further up her body--his hands on her thighs.

She groaned more loudly, breaking the kiss. "More," she whispered.

He left her legs there and ran his hands behind her to hold her to him, as he thrust deeper into her, his strokes lengthening continuously. His mouth ran down her cheek to trace his tongue up and down her throat and neck, nibbling slightly at the most sensitive spots.

One of Nikita's hands ran into his hair to hold him to her, while the other scratched more insistently on his shoulders. "Yes."

Michael was aching with need, his desire increasing almost uncontrollably. He played with the base of her throat with his tongue, feeling her pulse throb. He gave her a sudden, sharp stroke and felt it double, as her groan vibrated off his tongue. Her nails began biting into his shoulders.

"More . . . Michael," she moaned.

He closed his eyes for a moment at the sound of his name. His hands clawed at her back. That small acknowledgement that it was *him* she wanted--no one else--threatened to drive him insane. He felt his erection harden even further in her--almost painfully, responding to the world's sole inhabitant.

She felt it too and gasped. "Ohhhh," she moaned. "More, Michael . . . more."

He ran his hands down to her hips, his head still resting on her neck. He pulled half-way out before stroking back into her, deep and hard.

"Ooooo . . . yeah."

Her response made him needy. He continued this rhythm, feeling himself being drawn deeper, stroking harder.

She gasped. "More," she whimpered. Her nails had cut grooves into his shoulders.

He could hear her heart pounding in her chest. He stroked her harder, pulling most of the way out, then thrusting back in deeply--sharply.

She cried out. "Please, yes!" She began moaning.

His hands caught her outer thighs and held them up by his hips, as he sat up. His stroking grew harder, almost fierce, as his fingers sunk into her flesh.

He watched her now. Her head was thrashing, and she was licking her lips when he hit a stroke she *really* liked.

He groaned and leaned back over her, grabbing onto her shoulders, pulling himself into her insanely. He was deep within her, stroking fiercely, sharply, throbbing wildly. Her tight, silken depths were pulling at him, begging for more.

His hands ran up to catch around her head. His strokes were so deep and short, they were hardly strokes at all. He was grinding himself up into her.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She did. Her face and her eyes held everything for him, all the mysteries of the universe. She stared at him in love, devotion, need, awe . . . in complete unity. . . . She was his.

He captured her mouth and possessed it as he did her body . . . as she had his soul. He pushed so hard into her, he lifted her hips with him, her back arching.

A spasm of incredible fulfillment caught her. Both of her hands were on his head. She leaned back from the kiss and screamed, her body clenching tightly and lovingly around him. She began sobbing, her whole body shaking, arching toward him.

She was crying, as she began to come down, her muscles quivering--useless. She pressed her head into his shoulder and breathed, "Michael."

That one word had him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him, almost painfully. He sat back on his heels, bringing her with him, clinging to her, finally stroking her hair back and bringing her face up to his-- holding it in both hands. He was shaking slightly.

She watched his eyes lovingly, as he was frozen, a second before orgasm. "Michael," she mouthed.

He came along with the movement of his name. He let out a loud, screaming groan and then lowered his head to her shoulder before lowering them both back to the floor. He lay on top of her, feeling his spasms, the little convulsive thrusts, as he released himself into her warmth.

He licked a line over her collarbone, as he finally began to quiet. . . .

Her soul wrapped around him like a blanket, protecting him, setting off resonances in what little soul he felt was left in himself. . . . My God, he loved her.

They lay there for sometime after, holding each other--unable to move, too happy to ever want to be anywhere else.

Michael opened his eyes to the coldness of his quarters, his body's betrayal now making it obvious that no cold shower in the world could help him. . . . He was lost to her.

The passion that raged inside him raged only for her. That anyone besides her had ever existed seemed meaningless. He would want . . . he would need . . . he would love her long after this body decayed.

She was everything beautiful he ever hoped to be--and despaired of never being. Could his life give him the pleasure of being her lover, he would never grow tired of her. If he could be with her every day, he would never be bored; he would find infinite variety in her without effort. She was God and beauty and love and life.

Simply put--yes, he still wanted her, and it hurt him brutally to think that she couldn't see that. No, he couldn't "get over it," . . . and he secretly prayed that she wouldn't, either. All they had to do was wait.

Maybe, though, Nikita saw more than he did, Michael pondered suddenly. Maybe she allowed herself to understand that "wait" in Section almost always meant "never." Maybe she understood more clearly than him that his fears would overcome his desires--no matter how great, given enough time and space. . . .

Maybe he would always have another excuse.

He closed his eyes again. His need for her couldn't be named or quantified; his immense sexual desire was only its physical manifestation. He was bound to her, knotted to her--and in knots with her--so tightly that he couldn't be freed, didn't want to be freed. And, because of Section--in some terrible cosmic joke, he couldn't be with her.

His torment was endless. He loved her more fiercely than he could ever express, but he was confined to this hell for his sins . . . imprisoned in solitude. The woman who owned him would never be his. And, the final irony was that this was a hell he had chosen for them both.

He opened his eyes and prayed that, no matter what he told her--no matter what he did, she would never get over it.

~~~~~~~~ *My apologies to Martin Luther King, Jr. for paraphrasing a line from "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" near the end there. I mean no harm or infringement by it. :)

[The End]

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