************

The following story is definitely rated NC-17. If you are not of age, do not read this. :) Some chapters, I should probably mention, as well, will include some rough sex. :) There is, too, a bit of bad language interspersed throughout.

This is set directly after the events of my story, "Sea of Fire," and some knowledge--at least--of my interpretation of "Gates of Hell" would be useful in reading this. :) If you haven't read that particular work, however, you can probably pick up what you need from context, here. :) I know, too, that the series isn't quite going in this direction, but I do think my interpretation can still fit into what we've seen so far; besides, it's really what I feel *should* have happened. :)

There will be spoilers here for the whole of the Season 3 arc, as well as for "Psychic Pilgrim," "Hard Landing," "Simone," "Escape," "Not Was," "New Regime," "First Mission," "Obsessed," "Off Profile," "Spec Ops," "Third Person," "Approaching Zero," "Nikita," "Mandatory Refusal," "Charity," "Choice," "Cat and Mouse," and "Imitation of Death." The title, too, is Gaelic. It means "soul friend." In older Celtic belief, souls were thought to exist just slightly out of people's bodies; when two "anam cara" met, therefore, their souls would flow together. These friends were believed to have been created before time; they accept you for who you are and help you to birth your own soul. :)

My thanks to my sister, Armida, for suggesting the above concept to me as a title. :) Especially since she hates the whole idea of Michael and Nikita being together, I really appreciate her thinking in these terms for me. :)

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

It was an odd feeling to be there, for both of them. Although they had certainly eaten together many times before, they had almost never been able to do so simply for the pleasure of being in each other's company.

The unique quality of this meal, however, also made it a quiet one. Both Michael and Nikita were happy just to be together, without lies or missions; they felt no need for words to convey this fact.

Their relative silence, though, had the definite effect of making the wait staff in the restaurant a bit nervous. This couple obviously wasn't, after all, one of those who were together simply because they felt they should be -- who had lapsed into silence with one another to keep from shouting. There was an . . . energy about these two which made just being near them a little nerve-wracking; the fact that they seemed so happy to communicate without words, indeed, gave those beyond them the uncomfortable feeling that they were being talked about in some silent language beyond their understanding.

Their meal had lasted for many hours by the time it was reaching its end; neither of them were taking a single moment of it for granted. They lingered over every second, filing them all away for future enjoyment -- to treasure when the painful truth of their lives once again came upon them to destroy their peace.

It was quite late, in fact, by the time they were leisurely sipping coffee and finishing dessert, and the restaurant staff were getting a bit anxious that they might not leave before it was time to close. Both of the quiet diners were aware of this, to a certain extent, but had little interest, really, in what sort of anxieties they might be causing. They were too happy just to be.

Michael watched Nikita scoop up the last possible spoonful of her creme brulee and deposit the confection into her perfect mouth. He smiled. He practically expected her to pick up the dish and begin licking it clean. And, while he would have enjoyed watching this sensuous -- yet oddly childlike -- gesture, he was rather happy when she didn't; being that aroused in public could be distinctly uncomfortable.

He did love to watch her eat, though. He smiled warmly, taking in her beauty. She took such enjoyment in a simple meal -- received so much pleasure from small joys. He loved that she could still feel such happiness, that he hadn't robbed her of all of the beauty of her life. He wished that he could spend the rest of his days simply sharing these small moments with her -- that he could focus on nothing but learning pleasure -- with his beautiful beloved as his tutor.

Nikita licked a bit of her dessert off of her top lip and let out a small, contented noise. They locked eyes, as Michael gave a slightly wistful sigh.

He looked down at her completely clean plate and then back to her eyes. "Did you enjoy that?" he asked, slightly ironically.

She tried to repress a smirk and leaned forward to put her elbows on the table, leaning a little toward him -- in a gesture which was as subtly seductive as it was technically improper. Her eyes were warm and slightly flirtatious. "Yes, I did." She propped her head in her hand, looking him over. "And you?"

He licked his top lip slightly in a way he knew would not be lost on her. "Yes." His eyes, for one of the first times she could remember, had a bit of humor in them.

She looked him over, a little heatedly. "So, what do we do now?" The stillness of his face was belied by the warmth of his eyes. "We could stay here and make the waiters nervous."

She laughed slightly, enjoying the sense of humor he was finally showing. "Or?"

He looked up at the ceiling for a second before refocusing on her.

"Or we could both go home."

She pulled back a little, one hand landing on the table. She had misread his humor as a legitimate suggestion. "Alone?"

He leaned forward, sad that he had even slightly hurt her. His fingers traced over the palm of her hand, his eyes focused there, before he looked up at her. He shook his head. "Not if you don't want to." He refocused on her hand, his expression becoming more serious, his voice softer. "I'd prefer not to be alone tonight, though."

Nikita's look was all sympathy, as she took hold of his hand. "Then you won't be."

He looked back up at her, his expression still a little grave, needing to make a point. He shook his head. "It's not a proposition, Nikita." He paused; he was stroking her hand. "I just need . . . company." He closed his eyes and shook his head a little, not wanting her to misunderstand; he refocused on her. "*Your* company."

Her face contorted slightly, as she tried to keep from crying. She had never heard him so open before -- had never had him ask for her comfort before. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers a few times, before holding it to her cheek, rubbing against it. Her eyes were full of love. "You won't be alone tonight, Michael."

He sighed slightly from pleasure -- from the joy of having such a beautiful, amazing woman -- one whom he had harmed so deeply and so frequently -- care enough to want to be there for him. She kissed his fingers once more, and he then transferred their linked digits to his own mouth and touched his lips warmly to her hand in return, before silently ordering their check from a waiter who was trying not to appear relieved.

The two of them returned to Michael's apartment together. It was still a barren place -- one which held no pleasant memories for either of them. Michael's abandoned cello was lying against the chair in his living room, his tv screen still frozen on an image of his son. . . . It was a place which reeked of sadness.

Nikita unconsciously pulled her coat more firmly around herself, as she entered -- more from the emotional atmosphere than physical cold.

Michael, following slowly behind her, noticed the move. He then saw Adam's image where he had left it; he sighed in slight anger at himself for forcing her to see it once more, before he started moving with intent to take out the tape he had been obsessing over for days.

"You don't have to," she tried to stop him.

"Yes, I do," he replied without looking back.

She came around quickly to stand in front of him, blocking him from access to the tv. She put a hand on his arm, stroking it. "I don't mind that you love him, Michael. . . . I don't mind that you miss him." She moved her hand up to stroke his face.

He was looking at the screen, still angry with himself. "You should." He looked past her at the image for another second and then broke softly but insistently from her grasp to eject the tape.

She sighed. "Michael . . ." She turned to watch him.

His eyes, as he looked back up at her, were angry. "You think you understand, Ni-ki-ta. . . . You don't." She closed her eyes, his distancing words ripping at her. His voice got softer. "You give me too much credit."

She opened her eyes again, as he walked around her to the center of the room. Damn it! He was blaming himself again. She turned back to him. "Michael . . ."

"No." His voice was soft but furious. "I wasn't some loving father who lost a child, Nikita." His breathing was ragged; he wasn't making eye contact with her. "Don't mistake me for a grieving parent."

Not hard to do, she thought. He was one.

She took a breath, before trying to softly get his attention once more. "Michael . . ."

He looked at her in silent rage. "I tried to kill him, before he was even born. I wanted him dead -- never wanted him to have been created." He needed her to understand. "I had the right drug to force Elena to miscarry. . . . If Section hadn't found out about her pregnancy when they did, I would have done it."

She realized that it was going to take some time to convince him. She moved to lean against a pillar slowly, ready to wait out his anger. "And why did you do that?"

"Because I didn't want him."

"*Why*?" she asked, pinning him softly in her stare, attempting to force him to face his own reasons.

He turned away, fighting self-knowledge.

She sighed. "You did it, because you didn't want to see him hurt. . . . You didn't want him to be born into a mission -- into a life you knew wasn't real." She took a deep breath, trying to brace herself for his fury. "You were trying to protect him . . . even then."

He looked back at her, still furious but with a layer of understanding he was trying to deny beneath it.

She stood back up and approached him cautiously. "You have to admit it someday, Michael, for your own mental health. You loved your son." She was standing an inch in front of him. "Just because you couldn't be the father you wanted to doesn't change that."

He looked down to his side -- away from her. The truth of her words frightened him -- tore away at the comfortable shell of denial he had built, the one which allowed him to pretend he didn't care. He closed his eyes.

She touched him softly, running her fingers down his hair. When he didn't flinch away, she leaned in to gently kiss his cheek. "Let me in, Michael. Let me help you." She put her arms around him.

A tear slipped from his eye, and he tried to pull away -- but she wouldn't let him. She held him more tightly, until his breathing became slightly choked and erratic. "'Kita," he whispered finally, his arms coming up to hold onto her.

She rubbed her hand down the back of his head and kissed his cheek. "Ssh. It's alright, Michael. I'm here."

He held her more tightly -- almost painfully close to him -- and buried his face in her neck, his tears running down her skin quietly. "'Kita," he repeated, clinging to the embodiment of all of his hope.

She kissed at a tear on his cheek. "I won't leave you, Michael." She rubbed her cheek on his temple. "I won't leave."

***********

Michael awoke on the sheeted mattress which passed for his bed early the next morning to find himself holding onto Nikita. His head was nestled under her neck, his arms around her; he sighed contentedly.

He had simply wept quietly last night, as she had held him -- had offered herself as the balm for the terrible wounds of his soul. She had whispered her love to him, had told him she wouldn't leave. . . . There were no words more beautiful he had ever heard.

They were both still almost fully dressed -- she still in the red dress she had dined in, he only removing his shoes, socks, jacket, and belt. There had been nothing sexual in their actions last night, but there had been an intimacy far stronger than words. . . . For the first time he could remember, Michael had taken up someone's offer to help -- had allowed someone in. . . . And he couldn't remember ever feeling more free.

She was still asleep now, her breathing soft and even, her arms around him. He looked up at her happily and then settled his head over her heart, comforted by the strong sound of its steady rhythm.

He loved her so profoundly that it frightened him at times. She could look straight into his soul without fear -- despite all the dark demons that he knew lurked there. Her beauty wrapped around him, inviting him to linger in the warmth of her presence. . . . He could happily be lost here forever.

He moved a hand from her back and began to let it trail down her side, enjoying the warm surface of her skin he could sense just beneath the soft fabric of her clothes. He heard a small moan from her, as she slept.

He raised his head up to breathe in at her neck, loving the subtle scent of her skin, and placed a small kiss on the underside of her throat. "Michael," she moaned, dreaming.

He looked up at her, running his hand over her hair and trailing the backs of his fingers down the side of her face. . . . She was so overwhelmingly beautiful. And -- even in sleep -- she rubbed her head against his hand, wanting his touch.

That one move -- and the desire that it hinted at -- made a fierce, overwhelming need rise in him. He needed her -- needed to hold her, to touch her, to taste all of the secret treasures he had so rarely allowed himself to approach. He felt the diversion of blood from his heart, felt the rush of it, as it ran further down to fill his need, making his arousal for her beat -- strong and intense.

He began to kiss her lips, no longer willing to let her sleep. He was gentle -- tasting them with his tongue before nipping very lightly at them, . . . but his desires did not reflect his tenderness.

His need for her was too great -- had been denied for too long. He needed to fill and fulfill her -- to possess her completely. . . . He wanted to remind her that there would never be a truth beyond the two of them.

Nikita awoke finally to the wonderful realization that she wasn't dreaming -- that Michael really was holding her face in his hands, his mouth beginning to possess hers. She moaned and opened her lips to him, allowing him to enter her -- searching deep within in a kiss that overwhelmed her senses. He was already hard against her -- his need throbbing. She groaned and put her hand behind his head, holding him to her.

They kissed each other with a desire which only increased their passion for one another. It was a kiss which spoke of intense intimacy and spiritual longing. . . . And, the longer it continued, the more intense it became.

They were both groaning by the time Michael broke from it, biting lightly at her lips. He looked at her with fierce need, his breathing ragged, his eyes very serious. "Tell me to stop, 'Kita. If you don't, I'll ravish you." He was giving her a last chance to back away.

Her hands were claws on his shoulders. "Michael, if you stop now, I'll hurt you."

He shook his head; his need was throbbing even more strongly against her. "Don't take this lightly, 'Kita." His breath was uneven and searing against her face. "You have no idea what you'll unleash."

Far from making her want to pull back, however, his words simply aroused her further. "I'm not afraid of you, Michael." She tried to pull him back into the kiss.

He kept his head back from her, his eyes heated and deadly serious. His hands roamed possessively up and down her sides, marring the soft material of her dress. His arousal was beating against her fiercely. "Tell me to stop, before I hurt you."

She shook her head, utterly unafraid. "You won't hurt me -- not here." He started to speak again, and she ran her hands into his hair. "I'm not afraid of you, Michael." She pulled him back into a demanding kiss, ravishing his mouth; he groaned through it. Her teeth grazed his lip, as she pulled back from it momentarily. "Damn the consequences." She took his mouth again, possessing it fiercely.

He let out a groan which rose from his soul, as he pulled back. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

"I don't care," she shook her head, her eyes locked to his. She nipped at his lip. "Do your worst," she breathed against him.

An almost inhuman growl issued forth from him, as he gave up the struggle with his fears. He took hold of her head again and pushed her back deep into the pillows, in a fierce kiss which robbed her of air. The noises which came from him were animalistic.

A minute or so later, when he released her, she gasped for breath; he had pulled back to look at her. The raging passion she saw -- from his burning eyes -- the raw desire that she was unleashing -- might have frightened her, coming from anyone else. From him, however, it aroused her unspeakably -- sharpened her need to a deadly point. "Yes," she growled, encircling his head in her arms and pulling him back down to her.

He growled as well, in response, crushing her lips below his. His need for her was dangerous, he knew; that -- not only was she not afraid -- but she was aroused by his desire made it almost cataclysmic.

He knew then that she would see the depths to which his soul was capable of sinking this morning; when this was over, she would either be bound to him for life or would hate him eternally. . . . Right now, however, he was beyond caring which.

His hands held onto her hips, his fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh behind her. Still kissing her deeply and brutally, he pulled her up to grind against his arousal through their clothes -- letting her feel the true proportions of his need.

She groaned at the sensation and held him more deeply in the kiss, becoming fierce. Her nails were becoming painful on his head.

He pulled back to stare at her with eyes which were inflamed. He ran his hands beneath her skirt, shoving it up her legs to her waist. One hand went behind her to unzip the dress, and he pulled it forward off her shoulders -- trapping her arms slightly, until he had revealed the lacy front of her bra; he leaned down to her, his breath a fire against her face. "You're mine."

She was breathing irregularly, her nipples straining against the now-uncomfortable fabric of her bra. She didn't feel like she could speak; she was too overcome with the need to be taken by him -- to be the sole and total focus of his desire and attention. . . . She was praying that his earlier threat to ravish her had not been idle. "Yes," was all she managed to breathe.

He growled and nipped at her lips ungently before pushing her dress up and over her head. Her arms, however, were still caught in it. He smiled a dangerous smile at her and then twisted the material, catching her hands up in it, effectively knotting them over her head.

Nikita's eyes widened, and her breathing grew more erratic, her taut nipples rubbing against him rhythmically, underneath the thin bra. She could imagine no other man she would willingly allow to do this -- no other man she would want to do this. With him, though -- here, in his bed, she was more than willing -- was even desperate -- to let him have complete control of her. . . . There was no question about trust.

She didn't struggle at all. In fact, she seemed to soften beneath him -- giving in entirely -- happily -- to his will. "Michael," she whimpered softly. She kissed lovingly at his lips.

His need began to throb even more fiercely against her; it was beginning to be painful to confine it any longer. That she would allow him so much control made him insane.

He looked around his hands near the head of the mattress and saw a hammer and some nails he had been using earlier, in some demented attempt at repairs. He picked them up with one hand and then looked back at her. "Hold completely still," he ordered -- his eyes noting just how important this was. She nodded. He took a nail and held it in the middle of the knot of material her dress had become -- between her hands. With one blow of the hammer, he attached the now-ruined dress to the floor, binding her hands there.

Nikita smiled at him, her body even softer beneath his. "Michael," she murmured adoringly.

He returned his attention to her now. What aroused him most in the situation was truly his subconscious knowledge that she could free herself at any time; her bonds were not physically effective. It was obvious, however, that she had no desire to free herself -- that she was incredibly aroused and happy to be subject to his will here. . . . He could think of few things more erotic.

His hands returned to her sides -- holding her, as his thumbs rubbed over her aroused nipples. "Want me to stop?" he asked, knowing full well -- but wanting to hear -- her answer.

"No," she whimpered. She rubbed her breasts up at his hands.

"Michael, more." She had already become almost entirely monosyllabic.

He smiled at her and leaned down to softly rub his lips against hers, enjoying every second of the control she had given him. He ran his tongue out to taste her -- teasing her with its tip. She whimpered and tried to capture his mouth.

He gave her a brief kiss and then moved out of her range to begin roaming down her cheek. He stopped for a minute to bite and suckle at her earlobe, occasionally kissing behind it, to her moan. Then, his teeth began to bite softly down her neck, as she shuddered beneath him.

He found a sensitive spot just below her jaw and began suckling at it, running his teeth over it in light bites from time to time. She whimpered again and tried to angle her neck further into his mouth. "More," she pleaded.

He bit her there more firmly, and she groaned; her body filled with incredible warmth at the sensation -- flooding through her to sharpen the erotic ache she felt. "Yes," she moaned. He did it again, and she groaned loudly.

To say that his ego was sharpened by her desire for him would have been a laughable understatement. He was adoring every second of control she allowed him, was loving being able to bring her this erotic torment. He looked up at her in mock question, his lips playing just above hers. "You don't want me to be gentle?"

She tried to capture his lips, but he moved out of range. "Noooo," she moaned. "Want more." If she hadn't been asking for something so decidedly adult, she would have sounded childlike in her pleading.

He pressed his lips to hers in a deep, sudden, commanding kiss, before pulling back. Nikita's head tried to follow. "Then, I'll just have to give you more, won't I?" He kissed her possessively again.

She groaned beneath him, through the kiss, and he felt her nipples pressing into his hands. He rubbed his thumbs more firmly over the material above them, while she moaned loudly -- her kiss becoming even more needy.

He licked at her lips, as he pulled back, smiling a self-satisfied smile at her. He nipped at them once more before moving to run wet kisses down her bared throat -- every one eliciting a moan of desire from her.

His hands moved to her back and held her up to him, pressing her tightened nipples against him, through their clothing. He found another tender spot on her neck and took it in his teeth, rubbing it between them, as his tongue stroked along it. "Michael," she cried, her need almost unbearable. If he took her right now, it wouldn't be too soon.

Michael, though, had no intention of ending her torture just yet. It had been months since he had last been with her -- and even then they had been partially performing for the cameras. . . . Their only time before then, too, had been marred by his pressing fears for her safety.

Now, however, they were alone; any cameras which may be watching he was unaware of; and he had no immediate fears about her cancellation. Furthermore -- for the first time -- there were no major, tormenting lies between them, waiting to cause her pain. . . . He was hers alone -- and he could love her in just the way that would please them both best.

************

He ran his teeth further down her to sink them lightly into the delicate flesh between her neck and shoulder. She gasped and then began groaning, as he marked her -- loving the fact that he was claiming her in so elemental a fashion.

She was panting. "More." He bit her harder, to her short scream. "Oh God, yes," she moaned.

He stroked around in front of her again to pull down the lace of her bra, revealing her nipples to his roving hands. She let out short little groans, while his thumbs played with them roughly -- moaning as he awoke them even further -- into almost painful life.

She was panting by the time he finally moved further down her -- having already left his marks on her neck. He ran the tip of his tongue down her breastbone and up one of her small breasts -- stretched even more taut because of her current position. He played with it very lightly -- the end of his tongue wetting it in soft flicks. It was already so aroused from his hand's work, however, that she was panting at the sensation, barely able to withstand it.

He finally stopped his gentle teasing to run his teeth up and down along the hardened little bud, his tongue still wetting its tip. Her head was back, little groans escaping her. "Mi-chael, please," she begged, unable to stand this torment any more.

He captured the nipple in his teeth then, giving her exactly the pressure she needed. Her groans had turned into screams, as her chest heaved at him -- her breathing ragged. He bit her harder, and she moaned out a loud scream of need. Her hands knotted themselves in her bonds, needing to hold on to something, as her fierce desire grew. "God . . . yes," she managed breathily.

He bit her again. "Uhhh," she moaned, as his mouth began suckling her roughly. His thumb was rubbing over the other bud.

She was bucking against him unconsciously, uncontrollably. He bit and licked goodbye to the nipple he had been tormenting before moving on to its twin; she whimpered at his temporary loss.

He took this new plaything in his teeth, beginning to give it the same treatment the first had undergone. His thumb now replaced the lace of her bra over the neglected bud and rubbed it there with just enough pressure to make her ache with need.

She was crying now, so overcome with desire she could barely withstand it. "More," she moaned, and Michael bit her in just the way she had dreamed, soothing her with his tongue a second later. "Yes," she whimpered.

He moved the lace back over the nipple here, too, and began to lick her strongly through the thin material. She let out a little gasping groan, and he closed his teeth over both the lace and the aching bud.

"Mi-chael," she moaned out. Her whole body was trying to rub against his. She had never been more aroused.

He suckled on her through the thin lace for a minute longer, occasionally scraping over her with his teeth. She was still whimpering. Finally, he pinched one bud with his hand and ran his teeth up over the other -- giving it a final lick -- before he moved the material off of both of them again and started to move down her with his tongue. He traced light lines down her belly to her abdomen and back up again, while she whimpered with need.

"Michael," she begged.

He kissed at her belly button, running his tongue into it for a minute, exploring its depths. He then sucked on it, as she was trembling under him.

He moved her legs further apart, as he sat up to look at her. When her eyes locked with his, he ran his hands to the bottom of his shirt and -- when he was certain that she was watching his every move -- began slowly pulling it over his head.

He dropped the garment on the floor nearby and sat there, letting her take in the lines of his chest; her breathing became more ragged, slight groans escaping her. She unconsciously licked her lips, and he smiled down at her, his hands moving finally to the button on his pants.

Her eyes grew wide, watching the entire process with wonder. He slowly undid his pants and began to pull down the zipper. Her gaze was fixed on every inch of his progress. He tried not to groan at the relief of the pressure from this sensitive area -- and, even more -- from the look of joy in her eyes, when he finally pulled the garment down and away, standing on the mattress momentarily to remove the last of his clothes -- discarding them beside the makeshift bed.

He looked down at her from above. Her eyes were focused nowhere near his own, however; they were fixed almost unblinkingly on his throbbing arousal. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide.

Lying stretched out beneath him, happily and trustingly ready to submit to any suggestion he might give, she was quite a beautiful and dangerously arousing sight. He licked his lips, loving every second of this. "Do you like what you see?" he asked in a low voice -- adoring the look of need in her eyes.

She nodded slightly, entirely incapable of speech -- her eyes focused lovingly on the slight bobbing of his need, as his heart's blood coursed in it. It bobbed more determinedly with her answer. "Good," he said simply.

He knelt back before her and unclasped the front of her bra, removing the offending garment from her as much as it was possible to, with her arms incapacitated. He kissed her lightly, before moving back out of her reach, his hands running down the sides of her body to come to rest on her underwear.

He began pulling down one side of it, as he lifted her leg up, bending her knee. The stretchy material moved with his hand, allowing him to run it down her leg; he moved her limb further up her body, finally slipping that side of this last tormenting barrier between them off her foot. He returned her leg to the bed and lifted the material past the entrance to her core, then -- more easily -- moved it down and off of her other leg --to be discarded with the other clothes beside the bed.

He looked down at her now -- stretched beneath him, her eyes large and loving, her body warm and waiting to be loved. He wished -- at times -- that he didn't dream of her submission, that he didn't love that she would happily give herself up to him in passion. He wanted to be able to be more gentle with her -- to treat her as the partner to his soul, instead of as the mate he needed to soothe his primal desires. . . . He knew, however, that she was all of these things to him -- and that simply wishing for tenderness to use with her wouldn't make it real.

Right now, too, he needed her -- fiercely. He wanted her to know all of the ravenous need that flowed through him when he looked at her -- needed her to know that they alone would always be each other's true mates. His hands were running up and down her -- slightly parted -- inner thighs. A feral smile was spreading across his lips -- his need to possess her overtaking him.

He bent his head down to kiss along her abdomen, keeping eye contact with her; he wanted her to understand the truth of his need. He kissed further down -- just above her heated depths, moving in toward her tender bud. Just before he reached it, however, he gave her a quiet command: "If you look away for even a second, I'll stop."

Nikita's already-imperilled breathing became almost dangerously thin. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She was in such need for him she felt as though she were aching with it. That he wanted her to watch him please her was almost unbearable; the passion -- the command and submission of it, on both their parts, was almost more than she could stand. She was trembling slightly. "Mi-chael," she whimpered, her voice thin.

He waited until she had acknowledged his order by nodding her head shakily. He smiled at her and then lowered his head -- his tongue beginning to lick up over her bud.

She groaned out at the sensation -- her hips rising toward him, but she followed his command. He held her hips and helped her move them, as he closed his mouth over her tender flesh, suckling her -- running the tip of his tongue along this most delicate area.

She was moaning now, her body taut -- her hips thrusting toward him, as he suckled her more strongly. Their eyes stayed locked together, increasing both of their desires -- making the need almost unbearable. He was sucking on her hard now, his tongue tormenting her. His eyes held a carnal heat for her -- letting her know exactly how much he wanted her -- telling her that her beautiful parts were his alone to enjoy and taste.

Her hips were bucking unconsciously against his mouth now, begging for more. It was a sight so erotic she could barely stand to watch. Michael held her from behind, clasping her firmly to his demanding mouth, every stroke of his tongue sending waves of desire and need into her. His eyes were those of a lion who was enjoying his prey. . . . No one could have stopped him from feasting on her treasures. Just as he saw, too, that she understood this, his teeth grazed over her tender flesh, before he suckled her harder.

Her hips bucked against him wildly, as her orgasm began. But he had no intention of letting her go just yet. His hand moved up her thigh with intent -- pressing two fingers slowly -- deep inside her.

She screamed. And, when he saw in her eyes that she could barely withstand any more arousal, he added a third.

Her entire lower body had taken on a life of its own; she couldn't control it any more. It flailed wildly against him, bucking against his firmly-suckling mouth, bearing down on the thrusting, deeply probing fingers of his hand. She was insane with the need he gave her. "Harder --more," she begged in gasps, still coming -- her eyes filled with tears of desire.

He obliged her, suckling more roughly at her delicate, perilously-aroused bud, his fingers stroking almost brutally inside her -- running down a slick, sensitive wall and hitting a tender, needy spot repeatedly --hard. "Michael," she barely managed to breathe. Watching the -- to her mind -- world's most beautiful man intent solely on pleasing her -- demented with the need to, applying all of his formidable skills to her tender flesh, made every stroke, every lick, every hard suck, triply arousing. She was giving out panting, gasping groans.

He growled against her flesh. Seeing her willing submission -- her utter trust, her need for him alone was destroying any sense of sanity he had ever possessed. He wanted to watch her come again -- building on the wonderful, internal tremors he had already given her, wanted to feel her spasm around his fingers -- wanted to feel her bud quiver against his tongue. His arousal throbbed and ached against the sheets -- demanding that he give it its rightful turn to please her, . . . but he was going to make it wait. This was just too God-damned arousing.

His pace on her trebled. She felt his mouth in a sharp spiral of warmth which spread straight into her, meeting and building even further on the incredible sensation of every hard stroke of his thrusting, searching fingers. She let out a strangled scream, and everything intensified in a blinding moment of light, while a noise she knew was hers echoed throughout the apartment -- into the night.

Her depths clasped desperately at his fingers, bringing them even further inside her; her hips bucked against his mouth, giving her the slight, pleasurable sting of his teeth. She ground herself against both points of pleasure while a gasping, choking groan emitted from her --the pleasure so sharp it was almost unreal.

She wasn't coming down anytime soon -- wasn't even going to start to. Michael, however, had no intention of waiting any more. He had already made her his. . . . He was now determined to claim her.

He removed his hand by running it down one shuddering wall, then placed the fingers in his mouth to enjoy her taste. Not content with that small sample, though -- her taste intoxicating him, he bent his head further to run his tongue deep inside her -- loving the feel of her trembling around it.

After a few seconds of indulging himself at her core, he looked back up at her. She was still shaking slightly; she had closed her eyes, utterly lost to the pleasure he had given her.

She was a devastatingly beautiful sight in her ecstasy -- the agonizing kind of ecstasy that he was brutally content to have given her. . . . Now, though, he was going to join her.

He licked his lips, still tasting in aroused joy the ambrosia that came only from her. He growled slightly. "Watch me," he commanded again, taking hold of her hips.

She obeyed, watching agog -- still shaking with pleasure -- while he tilted her hips toward himself and entered just the tip of his arousal into her. "Uhhhh," she moaned, trying to hold her hips further up to him.

He moaned a little himself, dearly loving the feeling of reunion he gained from joining with her. He pushed himself a bit further into her and watched her face, as she saw another inch of his huge arousal disappear inside herself.

She let out a strangled groan. The combination of the feeling of him inside her -- throbbing in her, stretching her aroused flesh -- and the sight of their union was threatening to make her insane. She let out a groan of gurgling need -- incapable, even, of making coherent sounds.

He swelled even further at the sight of the need and towering desire which flowed behind her eyes. She groaned more loudly, and he pushed himself further inside her, becoming desperate to be one with her -- hoping he could keep himself from hurting her with the shattering intensity of his need.

She tried to mouth "yes" -- not even coming close, but he understood. He pushed yet another inch of himself into her and then -- too addicted to the feeling to stop -- another -- then another.

Nikita was arching in a bow beneath him, letting out screams so incoherent they were barely human. He made himself hold still for a second or two, knowing she was beyond the ability to ask for it herself. Her eyes were still locked to his in near-ecstatic astonishment.

It was a look which made his need for her nearly cataclysmic. When her breathing was at least in recognizable little gasps again, therefore, he continued -- pushing yet another thickened inch into her bewitching, tight core.

She didn't have a mind capable of thought anymore. All she could do was feel. She sensed that the man she loved far more than life was now deep within her, felt in her blood the sight of their almost-completed union -- of his muscles so taut with an attempt at control he was close to hurting himself. Her heart was beating so loudly it seemed to be all she could hear, as it kept perfect time with the beat of his intense arousal within her.

His hands were leaving marks on her soft curves, as he held her up to himself. He was feeling utterly feral in his need to possess her -- to make her completely his own.

It was when he saw the look of unbearable need and love in her eyes, however, that a growl issued from him; he sank himself the rest of the way into her -- to her roaring, overwhelmed scream. He lay her hips back on the bed, as he leaned forward to hold himself up on his hands above her, eyes closed. . . . Dear God -- this was what life was about. This was why he had been born.

She held him like no other woman ever could. She completed him in every way possible.

************ His need for her was insane, almost painful. He wanted to give himself to her like a lion -- dominating his mate; he wanted to hear her scream his name -- to groan it -- to whimper it. . . . When it was over, he wanted her to be so beyond thought that it was almost impossible to recognize that she was human.

He would have to wait for a final release for her, however; she was so close to another one now, that he would need to give this one to her and then begin again. His thoughts grew more feral. . . God, he loved how easily he could make her come; her pleasure aroused him to an absolutely dangerous degree.

He looked at her face intensely -- watched her shallow breathing. Just entering her had hovered her so close on the edge, he could see her entire body trembling there, as her desire ran through it in aching shudders.

He gave her the final help she needed in her erotic combustion by kissing her cheek and then lowering his head to her breast -- his hands on her back. He suckled sharply then on the over-stimulated bud -- while giving her a hard, deep, sharp stroke.

She screamed out in aching fulfillment, feeling his arms around her --being wonderfully possessed. Her hips bucked against his, and she felt his slow rhythm begin -- the head of his thickened shaft starting to move deep in her -- against the furthest wall of her core.

She was grinding against him -- trembling all over and moaning from yet another fulfillment, her inner walls rippling yet again around his arousal. The fact that his rhythm was continuing -- was stroking through her trembling depths -- made her thundering pleasure almost unbearable.

"Mmm," he murmured. He loved the way she felt when she came around him -- loved even more stroking her through it. He kept his arms around her, licking repeatedly over her nipple. He loved the possession of this act -- loved -- to an absolutely feral degree -- how much desire and fulfillment he could give her.

He wasn't allowing her to come down completely. As soon as the highest crest of her orgasm hit, he began suckling her breast, while stroking more strongly deep within her -- long thrusts which moved lovingly down one aching, wet -- still trembling -- wall and then deep within her core.

She met his movements, while her incoherent noises continued. They had become one animal now -- moving with grace, moving in joy -- each part in sync with the other.

Her head was back, as she moaned. He felt huge within her -- was stretching her depths; she was completely devoted to every deep thrust he gave her. . . . Her life belonged to him utterly, at this moment.

The connection and intimacy of their lives flowed between them, binding them together. It ran through them both in heated cords of light -- wrapping them into one connected being.

It only built on her desire for him. She began thrusting at him more quickly, needing him to take her -- desperate for his feral command. He was too controlled. She was insane and mindless with need; he was simply quiet and intense. . . . She wanted him to be insane, as well.

During one of his journeys within her, she clasped her depths around him particularly tightly. He groaned and bit her nipple before raising his head. "Don't play with me, 'Kita," he warned her.

She smiled at him and repeated the action on the next thrust, her eyes heated and feral.

He took hold of her hips and began thrusting more deeply. "This is a game you can't win."

Her smile grew wider, her lips parting momentarily. "Don't want to," she mouthed, still incapable of speech. She clasped at him strongly again.

He growled and gave her a harder thrust, to her pleased smile and slight laugh -- her head back for a second. His face was near hers -- his hot breath burning over her skin. "You want to play rough?"

She smiled dangerously at him and bit lightly at his lips, her inner clasp on him this time almost painful.

He growled again and leaned over to her ear, his hands at her back. "You asked for it," he whispered. She laughed throatily in response.

He began stroking into her much more roughly, to her pleased groans. "You like that?" he whispered.

"Mmmm," she managed before nibbling at his earlobe. He growled once more and started to bite at the tender spots on her neck, including the ones he had earlier bruised. He held her from behind, as he thrust into her deeply, grinding himself up into her with each stroke.

She laughed happily and let her head fall back, completely open to his desires. His strokes got rougher, as he growled at her response. She whimpered slightly beneath him, and he increased the pace -- hitting her deep and hard with each thrust. His hands were sinking into her flesh from behind.

"Dee-per," he heard her moan softly. She loved it when he was wild.

He growled once more, as one hand traveled up her back. He was riding her fast and deep, now watching her face. He was smiling.

She looked up at him, her eyes alight. She smiled a challenge.

He licked his lips and groaned out another growl. He bit at her jaw. "You want me rough?" She gave a huge smile in return.

His other hand traveled up her back -- joining the first in holding onto her shoulders, pulling himself into her in hard, deep thrusts. "Then take it rough," he demanded.

He rode her faster, as she moaned, head back. He was intent on her complete domination now -- wanted nothing less than her total submission in her climax.

His nipples scraped against hers, as he stroked over her. He growled, increasing the pace again, at the sensation. "You want more?"

"Yes," she mouthed, her lips open, head still back. She was letting out little, inhuman sounds, a smile on her face. He felt so damn good, every stroke pummeling deep into her -- controlling her depths in a wonderfully . . . almost brutally erotic way -- hitting her most sensitive spots in just the way she needed him most. "More," she mouthed.

His growl got louder, as he beat into her even more brutally. Had he had any sense of sanity left, he would have been concerned about hurting her, but -- right now -- he really didn't give a damn.

That was, of course, alright, however, because pain was the last thing on her mind. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her depths even tighter. Every stroke seemed to travel throughout her entire body -- the sweet length of his shaft -- its large, beautiful head making her feel utterly whole and complete.

He was insane now. He needed her pleasure like a drug, wanted -- almost brutally -- to please her. He kept his hands on her shoulders and rode her fast and hard, hitting her core with an almost cruel force.

The head of his shaft stormed its way through her -- demanding supplication. She could only let out little short screams with every wonderful, rough strike it gave her desperate core. Her legs wrapped even more tightly around him -- her body tense.

"Yes," he growled, seeing that her next release was close. He became absolutely unhinged in his need to please her. He moved his hands down to her chest, half holding onto her back, while his thumbs rubbed roughly over her nipples. His strokes inside her got harder still.

Every muscle she had was taut. She was beyond even making sounds -- was utterly braced for the coming cataclysm.

He found her most sensitive spot and hit it roughly five times -- each time more brutal than the last. As the last stroke hit her deep, he twisted the nipples he had been stroking, as well, a second before he dropped his head to bite at the bruised, sensitive spot at the crook of her neck.

She gasped out something like a few short screams, as her body bucked against him uncontrollably. An aching warmth which vibrated straight from her core filled her, made her shudder throughout with devastating --almost painful -- fulfillment.

"Yes," he growled once more, loving the feeling of her pleasure. . . . But it wasn't enough.

He didn't slow his pace at all. In fact, he took hold of her hips and began slamming into her repeatedly with brutalizing force, as he dropped his head to bite at a ridiculously overstimulated bud.

She made a choking noise, as her body jerked against him. He had taken an already-shattering orgasm and made it even more unbelievably intense. Her depths were holding onto him -- were rippling around him with incredible, shuddering force.

He groaned loudly; she felt too damn good. He was so close to coming. He could feel it throughout the length of his arousal; the head of it, especially, seemed to be alight with life and need -- was almost aching with sensitivity. . . . But he still wasn't giving up yet.

He held onto her back and rode her hard and deep -- his thrusts never leaving the most intimate part of her core. He then moved further up --further into -- her body, until he was unbelievably deep and now face-to-face with her. He took hold of her thrashing head and silently demanded that she look at him.

She did -- even as she was being overwhelmed by one release coming on top of another -- even as her depths were rippling tightly around him; she was crying -- overwhelmed. His eyes looked at her in absolute, unshakable devotion. His love -- his need for her was almost unbearable; it seemed to reach out to her -- to grab her and hold her desperately to him -- to bind them tightly together as one.

With an absolutely Herculean feat of will, she managed to gasp out, "Michael . . . I love you," just as the head of his shaft hit her core roughly in the most indescribably deep and perfect way.

He closed his eyes. One hand reached up to rip hers from her bonds, as his eyes connected with hers for one final second. Then, his mouth lowered passionately on hers, and they were both lost to the storm.

They held each other in a deep, all-embracing kiss -- a kiss which seemed to seal their souls together as one, while their bodies ground against each other uncontrollably. Nikita's inner walls tightened indescribably around Michael, while his much-tortured shaft was finally given its release -- jerking in her -- dancing uncontrollably within her tight, throbbing walls, desperately forcing its warmth out to be welcomed deep within her, spreading its heated comfort.

They were crying, as they kissed -- were biting slightly at one another's lips; neither had ever felt so complete before -- so utterly united, so thoroughly whole. It was as though they had finally been tightly bound to one another. . . . And it was something which no one could ever untie again.

It was quite some time later before they started to come down once more. Even as they did, though, they stayed utterly entwined -- kissing each other's faces softly from time to time, unable -- unwilling, even as sleep finally came to take them, to break from the soul-completing embrace of their other half. They were in paradise, after all, . . . and it wasn't a place they ever wanted to escape.

**************

Michael awoke later that day -- sometime in the early afternoon -- to find himself completely entwined with Nikita. . . . It was like waking up in a fantasy. He sighed happily and held her closer, as she slept.

He had never felt more whole than he did right now; all of the pain --all of the loss of the last few weeks had disappeared, was no longer even a viable memory. . . . Everything seemed bright.

He had Nikita. . . . He had Nikita. That one thought kept circling itself around in his mind. There was nothing more perfect he could ever hope for in this life. No matter how temporary this moment might be, she still loved him; she still cared. He pulled her closer. His arms were around -- he was still inside the most perfect woman -- the most perfect soul ever created. . . . Nothing could be more beautiful than this.

He kissed her temple and inhaled the wonderful scent of her hair, and she stirred slightly in her sleep. He kissed her lightly once again, to encourage her back into her peaceful slumber.

She made a small, almost childlike, noise of contentment and drifted back into her dreams, and he held her closer again. He had dreamed of this so often -- had so frequently fantasized about just being able to hold her close . . . about the joy of making love to her and then -- for once -- feeling safe enough to just sleep, with the woman he loved in his arms.

He thought about these last words. Yes, . . . dear God, yes . . . he did love her -- more than life, more than sanity, more than safety, more than hope. . . . Nikita was all of these things to him, after all; absolutely none of them could exist without her. He held her closer still and kissed lightly down her cheek -- not wanting to wake her -- but loving every second of his proximity to her. . . . He did wish, of course, that this was permanent -- that this little fantasy world they had created this morning was possible forever; he wanted a lifetime of waking with her in his arms -- wanted to open his eyes every day to find her soft hair covering his face -- wanted to make love with her in every conceivable fashion, to use every skill he had ever had or acquired to please her.

He smiled. And that really was, he knew, all he was capable of doing with her sexually -- making love. No matter how rough, no matter what games they might play, no matter how overwhelming their need, it was all love; he had no desires for her without that one, tantamount emotion. . . . And he had so many desires for her.

He sighed, pondering his needs more deeply; he wished, once again, that they were normal people -- that they could marry and have children, that their problems were the mundane ones of everyday life. He kissed her hair, holding her possessively. He shouldn't have to worry that she would be killed or raped in the normal course of their day -- shouldn't have to worry every day that their masters would steal her beautiful . . . invaluable soul. . . . No. They should be worrying about what to name their children -- about whether they were spoiling them . . . not -- not ever -- about the things they always had to.

He sighed once more, running his hand down her hair, trailing it over her neck. He watched its progression until it fell upon one of the large marks he had given her in his passion this morning. He touched it softly. While some feral part of him was happy to have so claimed her as his own, the softer parts of his soul began to worry. He continued stroking it, while he looked up over their heads to the completely ruined dress he had nailed to the floor this morning -- a silent testament to his ravaging desire.

"What are you worrying about?" she asked, catching him a little off-guard. She had woken awhile ago but had been enjoying the feeling of his touch, had been adoring just being held by him -- knowing that he was examining her in love. Now, however, she felt the change in his emotions -- the darker shading they had taken on, and she worried about his thoughts.

He looked down at her, still lightly stroking her neck. "Did I hurt you?"

She knew exactly what he was talking about, even if she also knew it wasn't true; she looked at him sympathetically -- but with a very slight trace of exasperation. "Not even vaguely."

He simply looked at her. He stroked a nail very lightly over the bruise on her neck and then, leaning back a bit, ran his hand gently over a slightly over-used nipple.

She flinched a little, although she tried to hide it. She took his hand and held it away, holding it in her own, not making eye contact.

"'Not even vaguely'?" he repeated softly.

She looked back at him. "Would you have minded if I'd left a few similar marks on you?" she pointed out.

"You didn't," he stated quietly.

"So, I never can?" She fixed him in a gentle stare, but he looked away. She let go of his hand and took hold of his chin, turning his face up -- forcing him to look at her. "Michael, you're not being realistic." She shrugged, letting go of his face. "That's just people -- how they work."

He raised an eyebrow at her slightly and then looked up above them at the ruins of her dress.

Her eyes followed his. "I am going to need some new clothes," she murmured ironically, still looking at it.

He focused on her intently, silently forcing her to be serious.

She returned his stare. "What? You think I didn't want that -- that you forced it on me?" She saw, to her horror, that he seemed to; she shook her head. "Michael, you gave me what I wanted -- what we both needed." He looked away, not believing. "If you're disgusted with yourself, then you need to be disgusted with me, as well." His focus returned to her, a little angry. She shook her head again. "It wasn't just you, if you remember."

He looked at her seriously, stroking her face. "You should be treated more gently."

"Even if I don't want to be?" She was growing frustrated. "I'm not some little virgin schoolgirl being touched for the first time," she pointed out. "For God's sake, give me the credit of being able to understand my own desires!"

He stroked her face, seeming upset. "I know you do." He tried to calm her then looked down at her lips. "I just . . ." He trailed off.

Her anger dissipated at the torment of his look; she stroked his face softly again. "I know." She kissed him lightly. "I know you don't want to hurt me." She sighed, speaking a little more softly. "I know that you love me." He met her eyes, fully reflecting the truth of her statement; she still didn't expect him to say it. "But neither of us are exactly innocents, Michael. Please," she shook her head slightly, "don't expect me to pretend."

He shook his head as well, drawing her closer to him -- holding her to him. "I don't. I just . . ." He shook his head again, rubbing his cheek against her soft hair. "I don't want you to think it's just physical . . . that I don't . . . care."

"Ssh," she whispered, stroking his back. "I know. . . . I know."

He wanted, so desperately, at that moment to tell her that he loved her, . . . but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He had hurt her so often, had used her so much. . . . He was still scarred, too, by having had to say the words to targets before -- terrible orders, which had emptied those sacred words of their meaning.

The only person, in fact, that he had ever said the words to in all honesty and cognizance was Simone, . . . and he had -- in the end -- been responsible for her death. He was almost afraid that, from his lips, that simple, deep admission would become a death sentence for the woman in his arms -- would do her terrible, untold harm.

Nikita understood all of this, however. As much -- as terribly much -- as she wanted to hear him honestly tell her that he loved her -- to just hear him admit it -- she did know it was true, . . . and she was more than aware of his reasons for not giving her that simple statement of the truth of his heart.

They held each other for quite some time, understanding the depth of emotion in one another -- loving that they did have this one moment, if possibly nothing else. Moments like this, after all, would always be holy.

It was Nikita who finally broke the silence, sighing sadly -- but needing to know. "Do you need to go in?"

He tried not to shudder against her, but she felt it anyway and held him closer. "No. They haven't called me."

"Good," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

He looked back at her finally, deciding to start moving the day he had every intention of spending alone with his beloved along a bit. "Would you like some breakfast?" He looked up at the sunlight streaming into his new home. "Or lunch?"

She smiled, glad to see a bit of his humor returning. "Eventually," she nodded.

He looked back at her, a slight, subtle smile curving his lips. "What do you have in mind?"

She looked down and then back up to his eyes. "How much warm water does your shower have?"

He smiled a bit more broadly, pondering it; considering his hygiene habits over the last several days he had been here, however, it was a little hard to remember. "Enough, I think." He stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. God, he loved her -- loved that they finally had this opportunity.

"Good," she smiled back. She moved away a little, and he finally withdrew himself from her depths -- to their mutual sigh. "I'll be in the shower, then." Her eyes made it blatantly obvious that she did not expect to be alone.

He continued smiling, watching her walk -- a little stiltedly -- toward the bathroom. He enjoyed the view too much to follow too quickly.

Once he heard the water running, though, he stood up and went after her. . . . Between them, they were definitely giving him some far more pleasant memories of his new apartment.

On entering the bathroom, he was greeted with the beautiful and heart-grabbing sight of Nikita beneath the head of his shower, her face tilted up to the water, her hands smoothing back her long, wet hair. Her beautiful, small breasts were upturned toward the spray, her nipples erect -- her whole body outlined and defined in her movements.

He took in a deep breath, as he felt his blood moving once more, his arousal growing again. His desire for her was more gentle this time, however; he wanted to love her softly -- to make up for any pain he might have given her this morning.

She had heard him come in, but hadn't stopped to look at him -- enjoying the feeling of his eyes washing over her -- taking her in possessively. She felt him now, too, stepping into the shower behind her. He closed the curtain and then pulled her back toward him, softly rubbing his growing arousal against her wet skin -- to her slight, responding moan.

He moved her hair away from her neck and gently sucked in an unbruised bit of tender flesh near the crook, suckling it -- running his teeth over it lightly. His hands trailed around her to lie across her stomach -- stroking it softly. One hand moved up to cup a breast, very gently playing with its nipple with his thumb.

She moaned and leaned back against him, holding his mouth to her -- running one hand back to pull him toward her from behind, kneading the soft curves. She loved the feel of him stretched along her -- loved his mouth on her -- the gentle, well-timed sting of his teeth. She was incredibly aroused by the need in him -- adored, most of all, knowing that he wanted to be with her here -- that this was his fantasy, as well.

They stood like that for some time, hands running softly over one another -- Michael taking his time to lick soft, arousing lines along the cords of her neck, then nibbling softly back down them. Nikita moaned, the dual pleasures of Michael and the warm water making her need for him grow further.

After some minutes, she moved away a little -- moaning slightly, as she was forced to lose the wonderful sensation of him against her. She turned and looked at him; the water had been hitting him a little, but he was -- so far -- still relatively dry.

She smiled a seductive little smile at him. "This is a shower, Michael." She started to turn them around -- moving him back under its warm spray. "Let's not waste it."

His eyes met hers passionately, as he came to rest under the shower's head. He tilted his head back to let the water run down his hair and over his body, and she simply watched for a few seconds in appreciation of his beauty. Few men would ever come close. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, however, she stepped in toward him, her hands going to the back of his shoulders to hold him to her, her mouth rising up to place warm, wet kisses along the exposed line of his throat. She loved licking at the water that ran over his wonderful -- slightly bristled -- skin, lapping it into her mouth.

He groaned and held her to him. She drew him more tightly against her -- his now very hardened arousal throbbing between them -- and suckled briefly on his Adam's apple before running her tongue up to taste the water coming off the underside of his throat.

His groans continued. She moved her way up him, kissing up his chin and licking at the small hairs there and on his cheeks -- moving toward his mouth. Her hand guided his head back down to hers, as she took his lips in a deep, soft, seductive kiss.

He held her to him, as well, and joined in the kiss fully -- doing his best to seduce her with it. His tongue played with her, aroused her, made her want more of him. She moaned softly and pulled him even more deeply into it, making it possessive -- both of them trying to taste the whole of each other's soul in the soft depths there. They were both moaning.

The kiss continued for several minutes, while their hands roamed. Nikita ran her hands down his strong back, tracing and massaging the lines of it, until her fingers came to rest on the soft curves below. She stroked them very gently -- just running her nails over his sensitive skin, making his need for her jump against her.

He, too, traced his hands along her. They found their way down the muscles of her back, one of them tracing over a hip and then coming up to once again cup a beautiful, aroused breast -- his thumb stroking lightly over the tip.

Their kiss, meanwhile, became the simple play of tongues against each other. They ran them over lips, along teeth -- along one another's gently. It wasn't even a kiss anymore, really -- their lips no longer meeting; their tongues were handling all of their tender explorations.

They stayed like that for several more minutes, simply loving the opportunity they had created -- loving that they had the freedom to touch each other . . . the freedom to be alone and, at least -- to their knowledge, unobserved.

They began nipping at each other's lips with their own and then lightly with their teeth -- their tongues coming out to smooth along the roughly-used areas seconds later. Their hands continued to roam. One of hers ran down over his hip, coming between them to move along his rigid shaft, then cupping the sac below it, caressing. One of his, as well, had stroked down to her thigh and was running tempting little lines along it, making her press against his need.

It was Nikita who finally decided to take their loveplay in a slightly different direction. As much as she was enjoying this -- was loving every second -- she wanted a chance to really touch Michael -- to explore him. They had had so few opportunities to be close and -- both of those times -- she had had little chance to really familiarize herself with him in the way she would have liked to. . . . She wasn't letting this time slip by without it.

************

She leaned back from the kiss and looked at him, a small smile on her face. "This is a shower, right, Michael?" Her smile became more broad. "Doesn't that mean you should get clean?"

His eyes watched her with love and desire, as she picked up the soap. She lathered her hands well with it, till they were white with foam. She kissed him lightly and then kissed along his jaw, while her hands began to caress his neck, running strong lines down the back.

He leaned his head back to groan, and she kissed down his throat before lathering there, as well. She leaned his head forward, after that, the back of his neck in the spray, to wash off the soap, then tilted it backward to repeat the process. The water washed the foam down his lovely body, and she moaned appreciatively. "I could get used to this," she thought.

She kissed down his throat once more and then looked back up at him with a smile, as she reached for the soap again. He looked down at her with deep desire -- loving being the object of his beautiful lover's fantasy.

Once her hands were lathered once again, she took one of his nipples into her mouth and suckled him, while she started to smooth the soap into his shoulders and arms. She continued suckling there, as he held her to him, moaning -- his arousal throbbing against her.

She stayed that way until her hands were free of lather once more, the rest of his chest now lovingly covered with the foam. She pushed him back into the spray again and ran her hands over his firm skin, while she cleaned off her work; the soap, once again, washed lovingly down his body.

God, he loved this. It felt so perfect, so . . . right to be touched by her. The fact that she was obviously enjoying her work -- was enjoying caressing every inch of his already-aroused skin into intensely erotic need made his arousal throb even more strongly for her.

She began her sensual process once more -- this time suckling on the joint of his neck and shoulder, while lathering the long length of his arms. Once done, she lifted them above his head -- holding them there, as her other hand washed the soap off -- enjoying, yet again, watching it run down his gorgeous body.

His current position reversed the one they had taken on in their passion early this morning; his eyes glowed at her meaningfully. She simply smiled in return.

She loved that her touch aroused him. She continued this lovely torment, therefore, by lowering herself to her knees in front of him.

Seeing her in this position, however, made his breathing imperilled; he could barely stand the passionate submission of it. His eyes glowed like fire at her, his arousal throbbing.

She loved the look in his eyes. She ran her tongue along the hard length of him to reward his desires, then trailed it over the tightened sac beneath, as her hand followed along after to caress the lather down over these lovely, aroused features. "Yes," he moaned.

She moved next to run her tongue around his unlathered tip, tormenting him softly; he tilted his head back, breathing heavily, his desires pushed even further -- his need torturous. A moan rose in his chest.

She smiled while suckling the head. She loved the taste of him -- loved pleasing him.

Her hands went back to the soap and lathered up and down the long, strong lengths of his legs. Every time she needed to move lower, too, she would touch him only with the very tip of her tongue, before coming back each time to capture the head firmly in her mouth again. Once done with his legs, as well, her hand began caressing his sac, the slippery surface of the soap making the efforts even more arousing for him.

Michael was mindless. He had his hands in her hair, his head back, as he moaned constantly. Her willingness -- her desire to please him was spurring his own desires to a dangerous level.

He needed her so badly he was beginning to ache with it. His arousal bobbed at her mouth.

After several minutes of this, she let go of his shaft, to his gasp, and pushed him back slightly by the hips, using the water to wash off her work. He moaned at the change of erotic sensations.

Once he was clean, she ran her tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein along it. She gave the head one last -- hard --suck before releasing him, to his rumbling groan.

She loved how open his body was to her. She turned him around by the hips and took up the soap once more.

She leaned him forward, his hands resting against the wall of the shower; she then leaned in to bite lightly at each of his soft curves. She heard his gasping groan and sensed -- rather than saw -- his arousal throb in response. Her tongue came out to soothe the ache on his tender flesh then, and he moaned in spellbound response.

She stood up and began lathering once more, moving the, now-liquid, soap up the strong lines of his back, massaging him, as she rubbed it in. He threw back his head and moaned loudly once more, her hands both soothing and arousing.

She came up to caress his shoulders -- tired, as always, from too many missions -- from too much strain. He wanted to weep with her gentleness, with her precise knowledge of his needs. He had never felt such joy at being open to another soul -- such pleasure in being touched.

Nikita finished her work by washing off the last of the soap and then leaned forward to embrace him softly, her hands encircling him. She stroked over the lines of his chest, rubbing a nipple lightly with her thumbnail before moving one hand down further to rub along him in long, full strokes -- her hand encircling his need.

He moaned at the feel of her. "'Ki-ta," he groaned. Her thumb rubbed over the tip of his shaft as she kissed his shoulder.

He moaned again and stood up, putting his hands over hers -- both soothed and in need from the feel of her loving touch on him. He had never felt so truly wanted -- so completely desired. He was no longer just some object to be given at Section's will; he was whole, human, and beloved by a woman whom he would never -- in any lifetime -- fully deserve.

He took her hands from him gently and turned back to her. She, however, shook her head, kissing him softly and lovingly. "You're not done yet, Michael." She kissed him once more and then turned him back around. She encircled him in her arms again, her hands on his chest, and kissed the side of his face. "Get on your knees," she kissed down the side of his neck and slowly back up, "my love," she whispered in his ear.

His arousal was throbbing in earnest now, his need for her intense. Just as she had felt with him this morning, she was the only person he could ever be happy being subservient to. He did as she had asked, wanting -- desperately -- to be led by her.

She picked up a bottle of shampoo and poured some into her palm, wetting and then beginning to lather it through his wet hair. He moaned at the sensation, leaning his head back to meet her massaging hands, as they softly kneaded his scalp.

His head rested on her stomach behind him. She leaned over him to kiss his lips briefly. "You have beautiful hair, Michael." She was keeping eye contact with him -- doing a very good job of keeping the shampoo out of his eyes -- while talking to him from above -- upside down . . . a rather ludicrous picture. He smiled. "Why ever did you cut it?"

His smile faded. She had hit a topic he wasn't prepared for. "Elena wanted me to."

He looked so saddened. She was sorry she had asked. She leaned over further and took his lips again, kissing him deeply, passionately -- or at least, as much as she could in her current position.

He moaned and held her in it for a second, till she pulled back. She certainly knew how to make him forget. He sighed happily again, his tone becoming teasing. "You don't like it?"

"Mmm," she sighed, a breast rubbing over his face and then through his hair, as she stood back up. "I wouldn't say that." She leaned around to kiss his temple before looking at him briefly again. "You're beautiful, no matter what." She shook her head. "The hair's inconsequential." She smiled at him impishly before standing up once again.

He sighed, loving every second of this. She was so beautiful, and she made him feel so wanted . . . so cherished. . . . It was something he couldn't quite get used to.

"Close your eyes," she instructed. She leaned his head forward and washed off the shampoo, running her fingers through the short locks to rid him of it completely. He sighed, and she massaged his scalp for a few seconds longer.

She loved him like this -- loved that he was so open to her, that she could tease and arouse him -- that he seemed to want her to. Yes, this was a fantasy she was enjoying. Just to have an opportunity to touch him like this made everything more beautiful for her.

She felt stronger -- loved. Michael was almost always so insular -- so isolated, never allowing -- never wanting--anyone inside his shell. To have him this ready -- this happy to be touched by her was wonderful. . . . She was definitely wishing that this would never end.

She was just thinking this, when she felt his hands reach behind himself to run up the backs of her legs, moving up until they reached her soft curves, holding her against his shoulder -- grinding her there, wet against him. . . . It was a hard position for him to achieve, but he was enjoying it far too much to complain.

Nikita licked her lips and moaned. That, plus the warmth of her against his back, was enough to make him decide that the time had come to temporarily change who was in charge.

He let go of her and turned around to face her, still on his knees. He took hold of her again, drawing her close and started to kiss along the planes of her stomach and abdomen.

She moaned, holding him to her. "You're clean, Michael. I'm not." She wasn't really trying to undo all of her work. . . . Besides, she was enjoying teasing him.

He bit her stomach lightly and then licked after it -- to her warm moan, as he savored the irony of her last statement. . . . If anything, it was the exact opposite. "We'll change that," he said aloud.

He moved back the curtain and reached outside it for just long enough to grab a couple of towels. "You'll get them wet!" she reminded him -- surprised, but he just kissed her stomach again.

"There are more," he responded casually.

He threw one of the towels to the end of the tub and then lay one behind her hips, lying her back on top of them -- her head coming to rest on the first one. They were large and soft -- cushioning her from the hard tile of the tub. He came to rest on top of her, kissing her possessively, to her pleased groan.

"How does that feel?" he asked, when he leaned back from her momentarily.

"How does it feel?" she repeated to herself silently, ironically. He always . . . always felt wonderful.

She smiled back at him. "I could get used to it," she said seductively -- teasingly; she was spread erotically before him. "But I did think this was a shower."

He smiled back. "You want to get clean?"

"Among other things," she thought to herself. Outwardly, she simply smiled.

He sat back and took her foot in his hand, the other reaching for the soap. He brought her appendage to his mouth and then ran his tongue in between two of her toes.

An involuntary, deep groan rose from her. "Like that?" he asked with a sexy smile.

She swallowed and attempted to fake nonchalance. "It'll do." He smiled back at her playful taunting, loving that she would give him the opportunity to tease back. He took one of her toes in his mouth and suckled it, while his other hand ran the soap up the inside of her thigh and then down her leg -- in long strokes -- simply watching her.

Oh God, this felt too good; she could no longer tease. Her head fell back, as she moaned. "Yes."

He smiled again and suckled the next toe, running his mouth up and down along it, while his hand continued his work in lathering her leg. She closed her eyes, lost in sensation.

He went on with this pattern, suckling each toe in turn. When her leg was finally lathered, he put down the soap and ran his hand up and down her long -- now slickened -- limb, enjoying the feel of the strong muscles there. His hand tended to linger on her inner thigh -- running up just enough to tease her depths, but not enough to touch them.

She was moaning constantly, by the time he switched off his playthings. Again, he ran his tongue between the toes of her foot before beginning to suckle each one individually -- while his other hand began lathering her leg.

She was still lost to his touch -- unable to respond in anything more than deep moans. Her hips were thrusting slightly, her need building terribly. . . . She knew she shouldn't be surprised; Michael had simply found another wonderful, inventive way to please her.

Once he had finished his work -- loving every second of watching her writhe pleasurably under his touch -- he took one of her feet in his hands and began massaging it slowly. Her eyes popped open. "Oh, Michael," she moaned. This felt wonderful.

He interspersed his caresses with long licks of his tongue up the sole of her foot. She was a bit ticklish, so she squirmed with pleasure under his new ministrations.

Finishing with that foot, he turned to the other, happy to be bringing her such pleasure. He loved that he could bring that happy, overwhelmed smile to her beautiful face. . . . He wanted to be able to do that every day.

His arousal still bobbed, his need for her almost painful by now, but he had been trained in ignoring such things, when necessary. . . . It had almost never been necessary before, however -- except with her.

She was spread before him like a beautiful present, like the most joy-filled plaything. He planned on enjoying her to both of their full potential soon.

When he had finished his caresses, he lifted her legs further into the shower spray, running his hands down the backs -- wiping away the soap. She moaned more loudly, as he held her legs apart again, the shower spray now aimed directly at her depths. "Mmmm," she moaned.

He smiled at her, letting go of her legs -- once they were clean -- and moved a hand to her center of need, lightly stroking the tender bud. Her eyes popped open to flare heatedly at him; his hand wandered over her, stroking her delicately, opening her occasionally to the water's probing reach -- to her moans.

The wonderful slickness of the honey he felt here had nothing to do with the water he aimed at her. . . . God, he loved this.

He looked very -- mock -- serious. "I don't think I've washed you here yet."

Her eyes widened, and he lowered his head to her core, still looking up at her. He licked up over the entire area, brushing just past and inside the opening to her depths and then over her bud in every long stroke of his tongue. She let out a choking sound and arched her hips at him for more, her eyes closing.

She was groaning constantly. Every time his mouth was off of her, the water took its place. She was caught between wonderful, erotic stimulations -- the combination entrancing.

He licked in circles around her bud and then looked up at her, catching her eyes, when she opened them. "Guide me, 'Kita," he requested, taking one of her hands.

Her breathing was ragged; she was overcome by desire. That he wanted her to take control aroused her perilously; my God, she loved this man.

She placed her hands on his head, stroking them through his hair, and led him over her -- guiding him to all of the places she needed him most. For awhile, she held him to her bud, while he suckled and licked the ultra-sensitive flesh -- teasing it with the very tip of his tongue and then suckling her hard.

The sensations spiralled into her with a throbbing rhythm; they were too much. When she could take no more of this teasing -- when she started to come, she let out a gasping, "Mi-chael." He grazed past her lightly with his teeth -- a final stroke of his tongue soothing her, before she moved him to her now-ravenous core.

Her inner walls were trembling, as he entered her. . . . He moaned. He loved tasting her -- loved that he could bring forth the beautiful honey that flowed only from her. He ran his tongue down one shuddering wall and began stroking along it, as she gasped beneath him.

He could happily spend the rest of his life pleasing her this way. His hand came up to stroke her bud, as well, and she pulled his head down on herself harder -- commandingly but not painfully for him. . . . God, he loved when she was demanding.

His tongue continued its soft assault -- stroking deep into her, hitting a tender inner spot, one which was still overused and even a little sore from their earlier activities. He licked at it with just the pressure he knew she needed -- following both the guidance of her hands and his own inner understanding of her desires.

"Uhhhh," she groaned. God, he could please her. He knew just how much to give her and when -- never over or understaying his welcome. She was grinding her hips up at him repeatedly, loving the way he felt -- holding his head to her. . . . She loved that he wanted her erotic commands.

He wanted to feel her come again, loved when he could give her that release. His tongue stroked further into her -- hitting the perilously-sensitive spot with just the right pressure, while pinching lightly at her bud.

She screamed out, her head back in the towel he had set down as her pillow. She ground herself repeatedly up at him -- rubbing her bud on the expanse of his nose, while he continued to drink from her beautiful core.

That one move made him moan with desire. He wanted to be the one she always turned to for her needs -- would happily serve her in any way she asked.

Her fierce shaking beneath him finally started to slow after several minutes, the whole time of which he spent tasting the treasures within her, drinking her in. He was throbbing fiercely in need for her, but he still wasn't quite ready to give in to that desire.

***********

He sat back to look at her, closing his eyes for a second to savor the taste of her; nothing made with human hands could ever come close to its beauty -- nothing else in nature either: no fruit was as sweet to him, no liquor more intoxicating. He opened his eyes again and ran his hands along her thighs, leaning back over her, absolutely adoring that he could give this exquisite woman pleasure.

He kissed around her face lightly. "I've cleaned the first half," he whispered.

She opened her eyes and tried to move to capture his lips. "Michael, please," she begged, needing him.

He looked back at her, all mock seriousness once again. "I can't leave a job half-done, Nikita."

He reached back behind himself and took the soap once more. Looking down at her for a minute, though, he diverted -- opening the curtain again to grab another towel. He came back in and pulled up her back to lay it under it -- along her spine and up to her shoulders.

She sighed happily. She hadn't realized that she was uncomfortable, until he had done it; he had been doing a pretty good job of distracting her, after all.

He smiled back down at her, happy to have pleased her again. He stayed on his knees above her -- half on the towel extending from beneath her hips -- and began rubbing the soap in his hands over her, some of its lather dropping down onto her skin. She was smiling at him, loving this.

Once his hands were soapy, he leaned over her slightly and began to run them up her abdomen and stomach, massaging the lather into her smooth skin. His hands traced gently over the more sensitive areas here and then moved further up, toward her breasts.

She moaned at his efforts. He smiled down at and then directed his attention toward those perfect peaks. They were still a little bruised from earlier, and he looked saddened at the thought that he had hurt her.

She caught the train of his thoughts and tried to stop them. "Michael," she said softly.

He looked up to her face, smiling -- agreeing not to go into it now -- and then ran his hands very lightly over the taut, delicate peaks, caressing away any ache they may have felt.

She moaned in pleasure, her head back. "Yes," she breathed. They were still sore from their earlier activities, but Michael was making sure that she was entirely unaware of any pain.

He cleaned off one of the buds lightly with the corner of a nearby towel and leaned down over her -- balancing his forearms on the bottom of the tub -- to take it in his mouth. He loved it softly there, arousing her with his warm, wet tongue -- with his intimate knowledge of her desires.

He stayed there for several minutes, while she was groaning constantly. Then he moved his lips up to her shoulder -- kissing her there before continuing to spread the foamy soap over her skin.

"Yes," she moaned, as he kissed over her throat.

His hands went to her back then, massaging the lather into the tired muscles -- which had been relieved not at all from their usual pain by having been stretched so thoroughly only hours ago. She roamed her hands over his back, as well -- loving the feel of his skin, while he soothed away the tired ache he had also -- unintentionally -- helped to create.

Once she was slippery, he helped to lift her up toward him, raising her onto her knees in the spray. His hands ran down her body, cleaning off the lather -- all the time watching her lovingly.

Once that was done, he leaned her further forward -- her head on his shoulder, so that the water would run down her back. He held her hair up, his mouth kissing and suckling at her neck, while his other hand cleaned off her back. She was moaning constantly.

He was loving every second of this; her body was so unbelievably beautiful -- was so arousing. That she wanted his touch made him insane.

His reverie was broken slightly, however, by his next move. He pulled her face back to look at it, his hands smoothing over the skin, and he was saddened to discover what her make-up had hidden: the small bruises that the last mission had given her -- evidence -- once again -- of his failure to protect her.

"Michael, it's not your fault," she said softly, knowing what he was seeing.

"Yes, it is," he asserted quickly.

She knew that, to an extent, he was right, of course, but she didn't want him to focus on that now. He regretted; she hoped he had learned, and he hadn't been in control of his actions, anyway. There was no need for recriminations here.

She shook her head. "Don't."

He closed his eyes, knowing she was right, to a certain extent. Besides, he had a chance to help now; he could try to make up for it. He kissed lightly at each light, healing bruise, wishing that the dangers these marks were proof of were ones she never had to face.

Each kiss marked her soul gently. She swayed against him, moaning -- the tenderness in his caress arousing her even further.

When he had done all he could do here, he looked at her once more and then reached behind her to pick up the towel she had lain on, bringing it up into the spray -- twisting it to cleanse it of its soapy contaminant. "Michael, you don't have to do that," she murmured.

He kissed her, distracting her, while he finished his work, not wanting her to ever have any unpleasant diversions during their lovemaking. She allowed his distraction, too -- loving him for the thought, holding him in the kiss, while she searched his sweetness deeply in gratitude for all of the pleasure he had given her -- for all of the love they shared.

He broke from the kiss finally -- having lain the towel back on the tiles where her back would be. He stroked his fingers lightly over her cheek, smiling at her.

"Stay here," he whispered. He then got up -- as she sat there, confused -- moving out of the tub and then back into it -- behind her.

He kissed along her newly-cleaned back and leaned her forward -- to her groan. He positioned her head just slightly beyond the range of the water and then grabbed the shampoo, pouring a little and beginning to rub it into her hair.

She moaned happily, as Michael's hands massaged her scalp, rubbing this new lather into it. He piled her locks on her head and scrubbed them gently, leaning toward her to fix his teeth softly over a sensitive spot of skin on her neck before running his tongue over it. She moaned with his touch.

He finished massaging the shampoo in after several minutes and then pulled her back into the shower's spray. He ran his hands over her, helping to remove any traces of lather from her long locks.

He had always loved her hair, had loved the few times he had been able to touch it. He found everything about it intoxicating -- its softness, its scent -- the way it reflected the light of the sun and the moon. . . . There was absolutely no light she wasn't beautiful in.

He put his arms around her and held her back against him for a moment, kissing down her cheek, just loving the intimacy of being near her like this. She moaned and put her hands over his, reveling in the sensation of being held by him.

He began kissing down her neck again. He had put off his desire for her for some time now, but he knew it wasn't going to wait much longer.

He pulled back from her, standing up, and left the shower once more, only to return in front of her. . . . Considering she was pretty much eye level with his hips at the moment, it was a very intriguing view.

She looked up at him not very innocently and then opened her mouth for a second to take in the tip of his arousal, suckling it. His shaft jumped, and he moaned. . . . He knew he could take no more of this erotic torment.

He pulled back from her and returned to his knees; he lay her back once more, then -- coming to rest on top of her. The kiss he gave her was deep and passionate, arousing them both even further.

He was throbbing against her now, his need intense. The opportunity to leisurely please her -- to spend his time tracing all of the parts of her he so dearly loved had been one he would never have given up -- but it had made his desire for her almost maddening.

She groaned under him, sharing his thoughts. They had both been the explorer and the explored today -- had both loved and been loved. . . . Neither of them could wait much longer.

Michael's hands ran up her legs to further part her inner thighs, his arousal nudging her depths. She whimpered under him, through the kiss.

He suddenly looked back at her, though, breaking the kiss -- needing confirmation. "Do you love me, Nikita?" He knew it was a cruel thing to ask her, since he couldn't tell her the reverse, but he needed to hear the words from her desperately -- suddenly had to know for certain that this was no dream.

She stroked his face, smiling slightly. She knew the fears that drove him -- the loss and pain. She wished to God that he could tell her the same thing -- could drive away her similar fears, but she understood that there was no cruelty intended in his question. "Yes, Michael, I love you," she swallowed, "more desperately than I can even explain to myself."

A tear fell from his face at the pain in her eyes. He hoped that she had mistaken it for spray from the shower. He lowered himself on top of her again, taking her face in both his hands -- searching its beauty deeply; he wasn't even seeing the bruises anymore. Then, he lowered his lips to hers and possessed them, trying to show her in a single, deep, probing kiss all of the love he felt for her in his heart.

She sighed in it, understanding what he meant -- not having missed the tear. She held him to her in the kiss, sharing all of their love.

He stretched himself above her -- still kissing, as he lay down completely. He took hold of her hips and skillfully adjusted his own, nudging his arousal into her slightly -- waiting for her reaction before continuing.

She moaned happily and held him further in the kiss, spreading her legs for him as much as the small tub allowed -- needing him to enter her. He groaned in response and sank another few inches into her, to their mutual groan.

She was so smooth and wet, was so ready for him; the feeling was overwhelming. He wanted to simply sink himself into her -- to fill her completely in one huge thrust, but he was desperate not to hurt her. He had been an animal this morning -- had savaged her. And, while he knew that she had enjoyed it as much as he had, he still wanted to make it up to her now.

She broke the kiss. "More, Michael," she begged. She was only half-filled, only half-complete. She needed all of him -- wanted him desperately. . . . If he didn't give her his entire sweet length soon, she would lose her mind.

She took hold of his hips and pulled him a few more inches in -- closer to her limits. He groaned. She had no idea what she did to him -- how insane with desire she made him. Her need for him would always be his definition of an aphrodisiac.

They were both gasping slightly. Then, she pulled him toward her one more time, sinking him completely into her -- screaming hoarsely at the sensation. . . . God, he felt good.

"Yes," he moaned. He panted for a second. "God, yes," he whispered.

They kissed again -- their need flaring. But, while the kiss was ravenous, their motions were not.

He took his time, his rhythm slow and sensual -- filling her completely before stroking almost entirely out of her -- then sinking back in, wonderfully deep, again. Her hands were still on his hips, loving the partial control she had here, the wonderful feeling of power it gave her to help him please them both. She met every thrust in earnest.

His head fell back with the feeling of being in her again. It didn't matter that it had only been hours since the last time; were they ever able to be lovers whenever they wanted -- were they ever capable of forming their own lives on their own terms, he would still say a prayer of thanks every time he joined with her.

She leaned up and suckled at a tender spot on his neck, to his low groan. His thrusts were still slow but they were becoming a little harder. The feeling of the still, somehow, warm water pounding on his back, pouring onto his sensitive curves combined with the tight, sensual rhythm of being inside her was almost too much -- was too beautiful. . . . He wanted her to feel it too.

He leaned his head down to her breast and suckled at it softly, breaking her away from her erotic ministrations to his neck. When her head was back and she was gasping, he took hold of her back and turned them both to the side; there wasn't enough room to turn over entirely.

She felt the water running down between them, felt it intensifying the sensation of Michael's every sweet thrust, and she leaned her head back and groaned. He ran his tongue over her nipple repeatedly, taking in her pleasure, as she held him to her. "Michael," she moaned.

Now aware of where his thoughts were headed, she agreed when he continued trying to turn them over, maneuvering her to ride on top. . . . It was a difficult trick, but they managed it.

When they had switched positions, the towels now askew but helping to keep him buffered from any real damage, Nikita began riding him in long, slow thrusts, as she threw her head back into the spray of the shower and groaned. The combination of Michael's long, thickened shaft in her -- sliding along her tight walls rhythmically -- and the water trailing down her body was almost unbearable. Her hands -- now on his waist -- were almost painful.

He looked up at her, as she rode him. She was almost too beautiful to bear. Her sweet, warm depths took him in in a way he could barely stand to contemplate -- in a way so complete it left him breathless. . . . To see her so abandoned to pleasure made him almost ache with need.

The water ran down her slick body, came dripping off of her aroused, taut nipples. He wanted to taste them so badly he was almost insane.

He sat up quickly, his hands running from her hips to her upper back. He closed his mouth over the rosy, aching little point and suckled her, his strokes inside her thrusting directly to her most intimate core; the sweet friction of their bodies together was enough to make him even more overwhelmingly aroused.

She groaned loudly and held him to her, riding him harder. He beat in her at the same tempo as her own, wildly-syncopated heart. He was grinding in her against a perilously over-sensitized spot.

She was holding him to her heart, as she rode him -- as he suckled there, tasting the beauty of her skin. She was groaning wildly, trying to push him insanely far into herself -- simply unable to get enough of his wonderful, strong shaft -- of the need he was presenting to her so openly. "Michael . . . Michael," she moaned.

His thrusts were hitting her in the most beautifully intimate way for them both. She could feel him in every pore, in every cell; he filled her so completely she couldn't imagine this ever ending, . . . yet she was desperate -- at the same time -- to achieve that aching release his body promised her -- to give it to them both.