For him, filling her like this was every fantasy of his life. She healed him, aroused him -- completed his spirit in a way he could never fully express. The head of his shaft was so sensitive he was almost insane with the feeling, every thrust bringing him -- bringing them both -- closer to the completion they needed so desperately.

She began riding him faster, harder -- showing herself no mercy, completely oblivious to the over-sensitivity she had from that morning. Nothing mattered now except this -- except that they would come . . . together.

He groaned, releasing her breast, his head back, eyes closed for a second. Every second he held on was a torture. . . . Every one was a sweet, intensely-arousing miracle.

"'Ki-ta," he moaned hoarsely. His hands took hold of her soft curves, pulling her down to rest repeatedly -- heavily on his length -- softly pummeling the head of it into her with every stroke.

Her nails were damaging the skin of his shoulders. "Michael, . . . yes, God. . . . Michael."

She looked down at him the same second he looked up, their eyes connecting on a deep, spiritual level. She let out a strangled groan at the bond she felt with him there, and then -- a second later -- he pulled her down strongly onto himself, groaning, "'Ki-ta."

She jerked against him at the same moment that he thrust up into her wildly. They each gave one more, rotating stroke and then shuddered, as Michael pulled her down on him . . . hard.

Their sobbing moans filled the room, each one so completely caught up in the intense pleasure of the moment that they were beyond speech and thought. Their arms crushed themselves to one another, caught each other in a kiss which bruised in its intensity.

Her inner walls were unspeakably tight and rippling around him. His shaft was beating, was shuddering of its own accord in her, was releasing its warmth to fill her.

They pulled back from the kiss to catch a single breath and then released it in a mutual, shuddering sigh. They looked in each other's eyes -- still shaking and overwhelmed -- for one more second and then fell heavily against one another, clinging to each other for life and hope. . . . For one more time -- in lives otherwise so often filled with despair --they were one. . . . They were whole.

***********

It was fortunate, really, that Section tended to provide some things to its operatives. Had it not, after all, heaven only knows what Nikita would have found to wear--given some of the results of their morning's lovemaking.

Following their shower, however, Michael had given her a very soft white terry robe which had come with the apartment--one of the many things which he had simply found hanging in his closet. It was standard issue, really; it gave operatives something vaguely presentable--by the outside world's standards--to throw on, in case they actually had to answer the door unexpectedly. It was part of a sort of starter kit the organization provided in any new outside quarters--giving their personnel one less thing to focus on outside of missions, until they had the time to shop for themselves.

Their shower had relaxed them both considerably, the warm water washing away what anxieties their intimacy hadn't. They hadn't said much since it, though; they were both a little too happy at their current situation to want to risk breaking the peaceful mood with speech.

After he had presented the robe to her, with a smile--sighing as he watched her draw it over her smooth flesh--and had found a soft pair of pants he could wear without bothering with underwear, he had drawn her silently over to the one chair he had and sat her down. He had already toweled off his own hair and was letting it dry on its own-an advantage of his new, shorter style; now, he wanted to tend to hers.

He stood behind her with a comb and very carefully began to create some order from her locks' wild chaos. He had loved every second of being able to wash it, earlier, and he wanted to take advantage of the time they now had to be able to indulge a few more of his fantasies.

He was very gentle with her, always protecting her from any possible pains of untangling. Her hair was so soft--so tempting; he knew she found it annoying, at times, but he was always pleased that she had never decided to cut it.

She sighed and closed her eyes, while he tended to her. His hands felt so good, as they would occasionally brush across the skin of her neck or scalp. . . . She had been a bit surprised by his decision to do this--unaware, still, of just how much he loved any chance to be close to her, of how entranced he was by every aspect of her beauty. She had no complaints, however; he was remarkably skilled.

Her eyes opened suddenly, as her mind switched tracks. Michael noticed her stiffen a little. "Yes?" he prompted quietly.

"It's nothing." She didn't want to break the mood.

He understood her desire to stay in their fantasy world but also knew that to deny whatever was bothering her would be a mistake. He leaned over to brush a kiss across her temple. "Go on."

She sighed; she wished she had never thought of it. "Did you do this for Elena?" she asked softly.

His hands stopped momentarily before continuing on with their work. "Sometimes," he whispered sadly; it had held no joy for him then.

She nodded just a little, hoping they could leave it at that-hoping that she hadn't destroyed their fragile peace.

He knew she wasn't entirely satisfied with the answer, however. "I also used to do this for Simone," he added quietly.

"Oh," she breathed. She had only seen Michael's wife once-during that unfortunate soul's final hours; although she knew the poor woman had been tortured--that she had obviously been much more beautiful before her prolonged imprisonment, she had never really spent much time pondering what the exact differences in her appearance might have been.

He understood her thoughts. "She had beautiful hair, once," he said quietly--remembering sadly.

Nikita stopped the hand which was stroking along her hair--trying to turn around. "Michael . . ."

He slipped softly out of her grasp and put his hands on her shoulders--gently but firmly, as he pressed his cheek up to hers.

"Hold still," he said quietly. He straightened and continued his work. She sighed, about to speak.

"Don't apologize," he interrupted her thought. Before she could argue, as well, he added, "There's no reason to." She tried to turn around again.

He held her gently in place. "Hold still," he commanded quietly, his cheek at her temple again. He kissed her there once more and then resumed his work.

She shuddered pleasantly at his soft touch--and the passionate timbre of his voice. She didn't really understand why his orders aroused her here, when she frequently *hated* them otherwise. She supposed, though, that it had something to do with intent; here, after all, they were all aimed at her pleasure.

He went on--explaining some things he had wanted to tell her for a long time. "I loved Simone. . . . I still miss her." He moved to another strand of hair, untangling softly.

She swallowed, her fears of being a simple substitute for his true love rising again; there had just been too much pain and doubt in her life to not question any happiness she might find. She searched for a way to ask about her anxieties. "Do I remind you of her?"

"No," he answered simply, his voice still quiet. "Simone was more like me."

She closed her eyes, trying to hold back her tears. She wanted the truth--loved that he wouldn't lie to her, . . . but the truth here was brutalizing.

He knew what her fears were; he continued to explain himself. "I wish I could have saved her, Nikita." His voice had tears in it, as he switched subjects very slightly. "I love that *you* tried to -- that you would help . . . when you didn't even know her . . . when I had given you no reason to."

He swallowed heavily, taking a deep breath; his voice got much softer, as he struggled to make his real point. "For as much as I want her alive, though--for all she will always mean to me," he paused, gathering the strength to finish, "I wouldn't change any of it--if doing so meant I had to lose what's between us."

She let out something between a sob and a gasp. "Michael," she murmured. She had *never* imagined this truth before--that Simone was --for all he had loved her--simply a stage he had had to pass through on his way to her.

Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks. He leaned over and rubbed his face softly against hers for a second, taking in her scent, then kissed her cheek and stood back up to continue his silent work.

They were quiet for awhile after that. There were few words they could really say after an admission that large.

He finished his work quietly and then turned her around. He put down the comb and rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks to remove the tears. He kissed her softly and then refocused on her. "Do you want to eat now?"

She swallowed heavily and nodded. She was still a little beyond words. She drew him into one more kiss, however, before he leaned back to smile at her.

"Good," he said simply. He wandered over to his kitchen and began to search for ingredients.

She took a deep breath and followed him. . . . It was turning out to be quite a day.

He pulled out some eggs, cheese, and a few other items. She smiled at him. "I don't have much else right now," he smiled back quietly. "I can order us some more groceries later." He moved around her and began cooking.

"'Order'?"

He smiled to himself, focusing on his work. "With the right money, you can always get what you want."

She nodded slightly, supposing that was true. She had always been so happy just to have a place to live and the money for food; it had never occurred to her to try to get someone else to bring it to her.

She followed this train of thought a bit. "Have you always had money, Michael?"

He looked at her, a little surprised by the question. His face became impassive, as he nodded. "Yes." He looked back to his work.

She watched him sadly. She knew he wasn't trying to block her out; she had just hit upon another subject which brought back unhappy memories, one he didn't want to focus on. She understood, of course; her childhood wasn't something she wanted to think about very often, either.

It was sad, really, she pondered. They had grown up half a world away from each other--in very different surroundings . . . several years apart, but the loneliness and pain of their upbringing had been the same. . . . She wondered for a second whether, given the chance to try, she and Michael could have changed that for another generation.

She shook herself out of the thought. Why dream the impossible, when they were already living out a small fantasy? She kissed his bare shoulder and stroked his back, as he cooked. "Anything I can do?"

He shook his head and looked at her, a smile returning to his face. Her small touch on his skin had provided him with a world of comfort, breaking him out of the painful memories of a past he would have been happier forgetting forever. "No. Sit. It'll be ready soon."

She smiled at him and went to sit on the floor nearby, looking around his empty apartment for a second. "We have got to get you some furniture," she pondered silently before looking back to where he was. Then, she spent the next several minutes quietly, happily--just watching him.

Awhile later, after they had finished a couple of rather large omelets and some bacon--both of their appetites piqued by their exhausting activities that morning--and were waiting for a few things Michael had ordered to be delivered, they simply sat watching one another. Nikita's head was propped against the wall.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing more questions in her eyes.

"Is Section letting us be together like this?"

He sighed. "For a little while."

She looked more curious. "Did they tell you?"

He shook his head. "No."

She sighed deeply. "How long do you think we have?"

He looked up at the ceiling, wishing back the pain. "I don't know."

She laughed a little. "But for now, I'm being allowed to `comfort' you."

He nodded, very sad, refocusing on her. "Probably."

She nodded, as well, before looking around the apartment. "Do you think they're watching?"

God, he hoped not. He took a deep breath. "It's possible."

She nodded again, a look of disgust on her face. Then, however, the look changed suddenly, as she stared at Michael in wonder and appreciation. . . . He knew they might be watching. . . . He knew, and he was still with her--was still talking openly with her . . . was still sharing their small fantasy world. . . . She had never loved him more.

He smiled back at her, knowing her thoughts. Section knew they loved each other; it had never been a secret to anyone but themselves. If they were being presented with this chance by their masters, then they would be fools to pass on it.

He sighed happily, his thoughts focused on her. He loved that she was agreeing to simply enjoy whatever time they were allowed together--loved that they had been able to, even temporarily, progress this far together.

Anything else they might have said on this subject, however, was delayed by the arrival of the delivery boy--bringing with him several large packages. Michael talked to him only through the intercom-his security system now definitely engaged--and watched him through the surveillance equipment that was equipped in his front hallway.

The boy came into the front hall enough to put the packages down and take the envelope with the generous tip he had been left. Then, he scurried off--the bill already having been paid with Section's credit card, Michael's odd security arrangements convincing the teenager--once again--that the rich were a weird bunch.

Once the boy had left, Michael descended to check out the packages, looking for any bombs or other devices, and--finding nothing-brought them upstairs. . . . He hated, though, that his idyll with Nikita should be even vaguely marred by his fears for their safety.

He unpacked the groceries he had ordered, while leaving Nikita to search through a couple of bags of clothes--all, of course, in her size. She looked up at him. "I could have just run home for a few minutes."

He was still focused on his unpacking, trying to hide an inner smile. "What would you have worn to get there?"

She nodded a little--smirking slightly, seeing his logic. . . . Besides, she *really* didn't want to run into Mick and have to explain some of the new marks she was sporting on her neck.

Once his work was done, he rejoined her. "Do you like them?"

She nodded, holding up a dress in front of her. "Think this one'll make it through in one piece?" she asked coyly.

He smiled slightly, his eyes warm. "We'll see." He stroked his thumb over her cheek. "What do you want to do with the rest of our night?"

She thought about it a bit more deeply than he had anticipated, a thoughtful look on her face. "Would you do something for me?"

He looked at her curiously. "What?"

She focused behind him. "Would you play it for me?"

He turned to see the abandoned cello and smiled slightly in his surprise. . . . If this kept up, he would have no unpleasant memories left in his new home at all. He looked back to her and kissed her tenderly before pulling away to take up a place in his apartment's only chair.

They spent the next two hours in a soft tableau--Michael playing beautiful music she loved but didn't know, Nikita listening at his feet. When he finally stopped and put down the instrument, she looked at him thoughtfully. "Why didn't you ever tell me you could play?"

"You never asked," he replied simply.

She laughed, looking down. Some things never changed. Sometimes she thought that--even if she knew him for decades--he would still come up with some hidden talent or another he had simply never bothered to mention.

He was an odd combination, really--she continued to ponder, of ego and humility--of dominance and submission. He could absolutely command her, like he had that morning, but he could also be aroused by her demands--could do anything she asked to fulfill her.

She looked back up at him. . . . He was such a beautiful conundrum.

He focused on her curiously. "What are you thinking?"

She smiled. "That I love you."

His eyes were surprised and enraptured. He simply sat there, taking her in.

She returned the favor, her eyes tracing over his soft hair to the strong, defined lines of his face. The look continued downward to wash heatedly over the beautiful lines of his chest, noting the contraction of his nipples into small points under her gaze.

That one, wonderful sight, convinced her of what she wanted; she refocused on his eyes. "You asked me a while ago what I wanted to do with the rest of the night." Her eyes trailed a fire down him before capturing his again. "I think I know."

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

His look returned her heat a hundredfold. He started to stand, but she shook her head, rising to her feet to come to him.

She looked down on him, tracing her fingers over his cheek. "Do you trust me, Michael?"

The words frightened him a little. He had simply been hurt--and had hurt others--for too long; he had learned never to trust.

With Nikita, though, here in his home--in this fantasy world they had lovingly created, his answer was instinctive. "Yes. . . . I do."

She smiled seductively, a little dangerously. "Good." She stretched out her hand to take his, silently asking him to stand; when he did--his eyes still lost in his devotion to her, she led him along behind her to his makeshift bed.

He followed--entranced. He knew she was going to take control this time--was going to make him a subject to her will. . . . God, he loved that--loved that she was turning the tables on him; had he been a less healthy man, in fact, the constant, swift diversion of blood he had been experiencing all day might have done him damage.

She took him to the mattress and turned to him, maneuvering his back to it. Her hands ran along his shoulders. "Lie down."

He looked at her passionately and did as he was told.

She left him momentarily to search through his closet. She turned back to him, holding up a tie. "Are you fond of this?"

He shook his head, his eyes widening a little--divining her plan. "Not particularly."

"Good," she smiled.

He watched her return to the bed with a predatory look in her eye, untying the robe he had given her. Halfway across the room, it dropped to the floor, leaving her body open--naked.

His breathing was ragged, his desire raging. She came to stand over him--a foot on either side of his hips, looking down, and he groaned--needing her. His eyes raked up and down the amazing, beautiful lines of her body; he was throbbing strongly for her now. He began to sit up to reach for her.

"No," she stated simply. "Lie still."

His heart started beating faster at the command in her voice, his eyes locked to hers--waiting for her orders. She smiled, knowing she had control, and lowered herself to her knees--coming down to sit on top of his need, pressing her heated core to his still-covered arousal. "Do you like what you see?" she teased him.

"Yes," he moaned.

She took an end of the silk tie and rubbed it along his bare chest--down its center to the small trail of hair which led to his shaft. "Who's in control here?" she asked him knowingly.

"You are," he agreed.

She trailed the tip of the silk in a circle around his nipple, and he closed his eyes, groaning. "And why am I in control?"

He answered without thinking. "Because I want you to be."

She smiled--that was the right answer. "Very good." She took one of his wrists and wrapped the silk around it gently, then began binding it to the other. He groaned, eyes still closed--unable to watch, too filled with the passion she gave him. She lifted his arms over his head and found the hammer and nails he had used that morning. "Hold very still," she ordered--echoing his earlier words.

He nodded. Then, he groaned loudly, as he heard the nail sink into the floor--felt his hands--now bound above him.

Like she had been that morning, though, he was not tightly restrained. If he had needed to, he could have freed himself.

Also like her, however, he had absolutely no desire to; he wanted--desperately wanted--for her to take control here. . . . He wanted to feel her need and desire for him scalding him in its fire.

There was no one else he could have been comfortable with in this position; it would have brought back too many terrifying memories--would have been humiliating. With Nikita, though, none of this applied. For the next few . . . God, he would happily have made it hours . . . he wanted to be the complete slave to her will.

He looked back up at her, moaning. "`Kita." It was all he could manage.

She smiled down at him and leaned forward to kiss him deeply--possessively. Her hands held onto his sides--her thumbs rubbing roughly over his nipples.

She was half-aware that she was reenacting their scene from this morning--now taking on his role; it aroused her terribly, however, that he would give himself up to her will--to her desire--this way. And she wondered whether this raging need to possess, this joy in his trust of her was what he had felt earlier with her, as well.

He moaned once more. He was hoping desperately that she would be rough with him. He wanted her to need him that badly.

She broke from the kiss by trailing her teeth lightly along his lower lip, to his gasping groan. "It's no fair not to watch, Michael," her voice purred.

He forced his eyes open to look at her and realized consciously why he had so enjoyed having her watch him, earlier that day. He had wanted--like she did now with him--to be aware of her emotions every second, to know for certain that the sort of rough love he was giving was what she needed--that he had her full and total consent.

He looked at her with desperate need--his eyes begging her to take him--to ravage him, to leave nothing behind in her wake. She smiled a deliciously wicked smile at him, which made his heart beat even faster--his arousal throbbing against her.

She rubbed her hips against him in a circle--having noticed his reaction. "Do you like this?"

"Yes." He was panting, returning her rhythm. "Please, Nikita," he paused, repressing a gasp, "take me."

She laughed deep in her throat. "I intend to," she murmured, still tormenting his hard buds--now rubbing them between her fingers.

She leaned over to run her teeth over his lips for a second--pulling away before he could catch her in a kiss. He groaned, and she ran her tongue down the stubble on his jaw, loving the rough feel of it.

She came to a stop at a tender spot on his neck--one she had already loved a little earlier. She grazed her teeth over the sensitive area, her thumbs still tormenting his nipples--her nails running over them from time to time.

He gasped, loving this. "Please," he begged.

She bared her teeth and drew them over the tender spot--to his groan. Then, she sucked it into her mouth and suckled roughly at it, using her teeth to torment it, as well.

He groaned loudly and thrust his hips at her--desperate for more. His arousal grew even stronger against her.

She backed away from the spot for a second. "You have to learn to ask," she said simply, locking eyes with him.

"Please, Nikita . . . more," he begged, giving in instantly. He panted--enjoying, for one of the only times he could really remember, the submissive role. "Please be rough with me."

She smiled lasciviously at him and ran her nails lightly over his nipples. "Very good," she purred. She leaned down to give him his reward, attaching her teeth to the tender spot once more and biting him with just the rough pressure he needed.

"Yes!" He panted. "More. . . . God, yes . . . more."

She growled against his skin and ran her teeth over his soft flesh, causing him to buck against her. She loved the feeling of his small bristles in her mouth--the rough surface arousing her-entrancing her tongue. She loved to taste his skin.

She continued there for another minute or so, before she decided to move on to lick and bite small marks down his throat. "Yes," he breathed.

She ran her tongue into the hollow, kissing him there, running her teeth over the skin briefly--lightly, her tongue then running over it. She felt his moan reverberate against her tongue. She grazed his nipples with her nails again, and he groaned.

She moved on to another tender spot and stayed there for a few minutes more, marking him with her love. His arms were taut, stretched above him, as he clung to the tie which bound him, arching his neck into her mouth, as he let out moaning sighs.

When she had bruised him here, her teeth moved down further-running small bites to the tender flesh of the crook of his neck. She held the straining muscles of his arm away from his head slightly, kissing them briefly, to allow her closer to the sensitive area.

She teased him then by running her tongue over the skin--back and forth repeatedly. "Please," he begged. Given the sign of submission she wanted, she ran her teeth over him strongly, repeatedly, marking him--biting him--in a pattern.

Tears of pleasure were coming to his eyes. "Yes . . . `Kita," he sighed, moaning.

She was so perfect. He could barely stand the fact that she wanted him so badly--was loving every second of her rough love.

He realized a little more now, too, that she hadn't been covering for him when she had told him he hadn't hurt her this morning; if she had felt even the smallest fragment of what he now felt, in fact, the entire question of pain simply hadn't been part of it. All there was was desire . . . the need to feel possessed and wanted by this most exquisite of lovers.

Content that she had done her work here--as his small groans certainly indicated--she moved small bites over what she could access of his raised shoulder, finally suckling on it for a second. He opened his eyes to watch her--lovingly, overwhelmed.

She ran her teeth and tongue over the area one last time and smiled up at him briefly, before she licked and softly bit her way down his chest. She came, then--finally, to one of his nipples. Her eyes looked up at him--warning him to watch, before she finally lowered her head to him.

He groaned, perilously aroused at the sight. She lapped at the small, sensitive bud she had been plaguing with her hand--keeping eye contact with him, while she did. She looked--to his mind--like a lioness preparing to feast.

His mouth was open, as he panted. She closed her mouth over the tender bud and suckled him; he groaned, eyes wide. "`Kita," he moaned.

She ran the tip of her tongue over him again. "More?" she asked before returning to her task.

"Yes," he agreed, still panting. "More."

She closed her mouth over him and took him in her teeth, grazing them over the small point repeatedly. "Mmmm," she moaned.

God, he had never seen anything so erotic. "`Kita, yes . . . yes. . . . Love me."

Her other hand ran a nail over the twin bud--just enough to cause a slight, pleasurable sting. She bit his nipple.

"Ahhhh," he groaned. "`Kita, please."

She began biting his nipple roughly, in just the way he needed. Her nail continued to torment the twin.

Tears of pleasure were in his eyes. He was panting desperately, trying to push the sensitive bud further into her mouth, his hips bucking up against her harder. "Oh God, `Kita."

She let go of this nipple by running her teeth along him, then giving him one final lick. He groaned, not wanting it to end. She turned her attention to his other nipple now, taking it in her mouth to suckle him strongly, before grazing him with her teeth. He moaned.

She moved off of him, meanwhile--to his groan at losing her heated pressure on his arousal. She ran her hand down his stomach and abdomen to rest on his still-covered, hardened length. She caressed it through his pants, while suckling him strongly. He moaned, eyes wide. "Ahhh . . . yes."

She let go of this nipple by again running her teeth along it, giving it one small, hard bite and then a final lick. He was making whimpering noises. . . . He was completely hers.

***********

She straddled his thighs. Her hands began to undo his pants, as her mouth kissed a trail down his stomach. Her eyes were still holding his steadily--heatedly.

She ran her tongue into his navel while starting to reveal his shaft. As she did, finally, she placed a kiss just above it. He let out a groan.

She sat up to free him and moved off of him just long enough to discard his clothes. She settled back on his thighs--her heat pressing against them. Her palm was stroking up and down the back of his shaft; he was moaning. She then ran her thumb over the tip, and he let out a small whimper.

His eyes were wide, as he watched her. Her nipples were aroused, looking so inviting. He loved that she wanted to touch him--he had dreamed about this so often.

"Do you like having me touch you, Michael?" She gazed down at him heatedly.

"Yes . . . yes," he panted.

She ran a finger up the front of his shaft, letting him watch its long ascent. He made a small noise. Her finger trailed a circle around the tip. "Do you want anyone else to touch you?"

His eyes took on a sudden look of desperate sadness. "Nooo," he cried.

She looked at him sympathetically and lowered her head to run the tip of her tongue over the very end of his shaft--back and forth--tasting him. The sadness disappeared completely, forgotten, as he groaned.

She kissed the tip and sat back up, her hand still tracing him lightly. "What do you want me to do, Michael?"

His heartbeat got a little faster--a fact which was reflected in the jump of his arousal. It turned him on more than he had words for that she was making him ask--making him beg for his release. God, she was a vixen. . . . And she was the most beautiful one ever born.

"Well?" she prompted, her hand still brushing along him lightly.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself to ask for this most intimate gift. "Please, `Kita. . . . Taste me."

She smiled deeply at him and started to lower her head--stopping just before she reached him. "Watch," she commanded. Then, she took the tip into her mouth and suckled him.

"Oh God, yes," he moaned--barely able to stand the passion of the sight.

Her hand went down to cup his sac, playing with it--caressing it. She began sucking his tip harder.

He groaned loudly, his hips thrusting toward her unconsciously; his heartbeat was out of control. . . . This was just too erotic to bear.

She started to move her mouth further down him--taking more of him in. He pulled his hips back at the last second, though--not allowing her to try to take him all. "Please, don't. . . . Not like that."

She raised her mouth up to suckle the tip again for a second before releasing him. She waited for an explanation.

He didn't want to give her one--didn't want to break the wonderfully erotic mood she had created by discussing it. It was simply a move which spoke too much to him of his own past--of the things which Section had forced him to do; he knew how to take a man deep into his own throat, after all, and it was a move--therefore--he associated with prostitutes like himself. He had never enjoyed it, and he knew that `Kita didn't either--knew she was doing it solely to try to please him. . . . But he only wanted her willing submission.

She read all of his thoughts in his eyes and nodded slightly, wanting desperately to take away the look of distress his memories had caused. She took the head of his shaft back in her mouth--not forcing him to explain. Her tongue caressed the tip, suckling him again--soothing his fears.

Seeing that she understood--that she was once more following her own desires and not reading ones in him which weren't there, he allowed himself to feel once again. He felt her hot, wet mouth encompassing him--suckling him; he felt her hands caressing him--one massaging his tightened sac, the other closed around his length--moving up to meet her mouth. . . . He was having a lot of trouble not closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the eroticism of the sight.

He groaned loudly, and she did as well. She loved the taste of him--loved the feel of him throbbing against her tongue.

She grazed her teeth over him lightly and he moaned out, hips thrusting. Her tongue soothed the ache again, a second before she began moving on him--running her tight mouth half-way down him, then meeting the strong upwards strokes of her hand a few seconds later, as she ran back up his length, establishing a hard rhythm.

"`Kita," he moaned hoarsely. His hips met her every move. The feeling of it was so deeply erotic; she knew exactly what he wanted, how to please him. . . . He was throbbing painfully in his need for release.

Even more than the physical sensation of it, however, there was the sight itself. Her eyes were pleasure-filled and possessive, her mouth and both of her hands greedy for him. She was letting out little moans, loving it all.

He moaned in response. The combination of the sights and sounds was destroying him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out; he could feel his tip becoming even more tenderly aroused, the throbbing throughout his shaft increasing to a dangerously-sensitive pitch. If she didn't stop soon . . .

"`Kita," he gasped out. His eyes begged her to stop--to save him for herself.

She ran a very hard suck--almost his undoing--up to the tip and released him for a moment. "So, what's your turn-around time, Michael?" She smiled seductively at him.

He let out a little choking sound; he was far beyond speech. She wanted this--wanted to give him this. His heart was pounding.

He couldn't speak, but he nodded slightly. As much as he wanted to be in her immediately, he also wanted to accept this gift from her--one he felt so undeserving of. He knew that she aroused him so thoroughly that he would have no trouble being ready for her once more, soon after it was over. . . . It was trying to *keep* himself from being aroused by her which was his problem.

She smiled wickedly at him and returned to her work. Her mouth and hand closed over him once more--more roughly this time, her rhythm intense.

He groaned loudly, watching in awe and terrifying need. She seemed to enclose him completely--to touch every inch of his shaft; he loved that she was being ruthless with him. "Please, . . . harder," he moaned.

She moaned in response, a slight growl erupting from her, and began sucking him harder--her hand tightening around him. Her eyes watched him thrashing on the bed, his arms still bound above him, his body taut and insanely aroused. His eyes begged for release. . . . She loved that she did this to him.

She sped up, meeting his insane little thrusts, keeping her rhythm brutal. Then, when it seemed like his muscles couldn't get any more strained or tense, she tightened her hand and brought it up to meet her mouth one last time--running her teeth lightly along him and over his tip.

He let out a strangled cry and gave one more rotating thrust, just as she lowered her mouth on him once more. Then, he came into her--his pleasure flowing down her throat, the salty bursts warming it, as she drank him in. "Mmmm," she moaned.

His cry had turned into a prolonged, strangled groan. Tears of joy clouded his eyes. He was beyond thought--was beyond speech; the warmth which ran through him was overwhelming, almost painful. She had given him a gift he would never have considered asking for, . . . and he loved her even more for it.

He continued to let out little strangled gasps, as she finally let him go, caressing him one last time, her tongue cleaning his tip. She sat back up to look at him, a Cheshire cat grin on her face.

Her tongue ran out to wipe her upper lip, and he groaned again, watching entranced--so in love it was almost tormenting. "`Kita," he whispered throatily, unable to speak clearly, "please . . . please, kiss me."

She smiled sweetly at him and then leaned over to share with him the taste of himself. He groaned and kissed her more deeply. All of the blood which had thought it was returning to its normal pathways made a sudden u-turn. . . . God, she could kill lesser men.

She ran her hands up his arms, loving the taut length of him. She broke the kiss to look at him. "Did you like that?"

He let out a strangled groan, unable to find the words to express such need and pleasure. Her hand trailed down him, her eyes still focused on his, and she reached for his growing shaft, touching it softly--imperiling his breathing once more--his eyes closing. "N-no," he managed. "Not yet." He panted for a few more seconds, till he opened his eyes finally. "Want to taste you."

She tried to catch her gasp before it left her but was unsuccessful. "Michael . . ."

"Please," he repeated. His eyes were loving and bright; they trailed down her to her depths.

She groaned, giving in--wanting, once again, the feeling of his wonderful, warm mouth on her. Her hand began to travel up to his bonds.

"No," his desperate voice stopped her. "Don't." He didn't want to be freed--wanted to be bound to her forever. His eyes traveled down her again. "Please."

Her own eyes widened in understanding. Her breathing grew more shallow. "Michael . . ."

"Please," he repeated. He wanted to taste her more desperately than he could stand.

She nodded, a little shakily, and began to maneuver them to allow this. First, she put a pillow under his arms. Then, they both helped move him up more toward his imprisoned hands--slackening the stretch of his arms somewhat, as he rested his head on this new, soft cushion --slightly off the mattress. He sighed happily, knowing that she was helping him fulfill his fantasy.

She stood up then, walking toward his head. She gingerly placed a foot beside it, between it and his arm--careful that she wasn't pulling even his now-shortened hair by stepping on it.

"Yes," he murmured, entranced by the encroaching view.

She put her other foot in place and stared down at him. "You're sure?"

"*Please*," he moaned. His arousal was throbbing once more--enticed once again by his own willing surrender.

She groaned and started to lower herself. She stopped--crouched above him, maneuvering her knees to rest on the pillow under his arms; her hands grasped his imprisoned ones.

He was breathing in her sweet scent--the beautiful flower of her depths just above him. He groaned loudly and tilted his head up to capture her, moaning as his tongue finally entered her.

Nikita let out a half-screamed groan and lowered herself onto him--careful not to hurt him in his submission. Her hands clung to his, their fingers now intertwined. He moaned into her aroused flesh.

She let out little moans, as well, as she began to ride him--his tongue stroking through her. He let out a little growl--hungry for her; he loved this--loved giving himself to her completely, thinking only of her pleasure.

No, he realized--that was a lie. He drank deeply of her, thrusting his tongue further into her to touch all of her smooth walls. He was thinking of his own pleasure, as well; he loved every second of this --wanted to feast on her for eternity.

She rode him a little harder, still making certain her thrusts weren't too rough for him. His tongue was running up and down one smooth wall--hitting deeper than seemed logically possible; her bud was rubbing against his nose, as well, as he lovingly inhaled her scent.

He groaned, needing more. He leaned his head forward to go deeper, encouraging her to ride him faster. He didn't give a damn about his safety or comfort; he was concerned only with the fact that he wanted to taste her sweet honey as it ran down his throat. He wanted to feel her walls as they contracted around his tongue--her moan as it reverberated through her.

She understood his message; she gave herself up to her desire a little further, riding him faster. She had no idea how his tongue could feel so large in her--could be so hard and so soft at once.

They worked together, and he entered her a little deeper, his tongue hitting a sensitive spot. He held his head forward further to encourage her to thrust down on to him more. She did, and he licked at this tender little place of weakness relentlessly.

She moaned, now holding his head to her--one hand on his neck to support it, the other in his hair--clinging to him. Her head was on his imprisoned hands, as they stroked through her hair.

He moved his head slightly to rub his nose against her quivering bud, as he drank from her. He then thrust his tongue into her even more deeply.

She bucked against him slightly, trying not to hurt him, as she came. Her walls were trembling around his tongue.

A groan rose from him and he began to drink from her with abandon. This was ambrosia--the food of the gods. . . . That he could arouse her made him incredibly egotistical--made him feel god-like. What greater power could there ever be, after all, than to bring pleasure to the woman he loved--the woman the earth was made for?

Nikita was still leaned forward, her head over his hands, gasping--was still moaning slightly. It seemed like, every time she thought she knew all of his erotic skills, he surprised her with yet another.

He was still drinking from her when she lifted herself carefully off of him. He moaned a little, sorry to lose her.

Her legs were slightly shaky, once she stood. As much as their time together was helping her mental health, it was doing nothing for her mission viability.

He had both satisfied her need and made it unbearably stronger, all at once. She looked down at him, her eyes ablaze. "You'll pay for that," she said in passion, smiling.

He smiled back happily. "Please," he whispered.

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

Oh God, she wanted him. She moved back to straddle his thighs again and kissed him wantonly. He moaned.

She pulled back from the kiss to stroke a hand up his, once again, thickened arousal. "Nice trick, Michael."

His eyes blazed at her, running down her body. "I had help."

She groaned, loving the depth of his desire. She leaned her head down to suckle the tip of his shaft for a minute--still locking eyes with him and then let him go with a lick. "Let's see how strong you really are."

She held on to and stroked along his length, as she positioned herself over him. She teased him by running him along her entrance-just letting him feel the heat of her desire. He groaned, eyes still focused on hers in need.

"Watch," she taunted him--once again reflecting his earlier orders to her.

He groaned again and did as she had commanded. Then, she began to lower herself onto him, and he watched in amazement, as inch by inch of himself disappeared into her warm, tight depths.

She smiled, watching his eyes, as he focused on this completion. He felt wonderful in her--every inch a miracle; she knew he felt the same about her.

As the last throbbing inch of him disappeared into her, he groaned loudly and lifted his hips up--loving the feel of being inside her, loving the feel of her clasping him. He looked back up to her eyes, his breathing shallow.

She smiled at him. "Still want it hard?"

He gasped slightly, overwhelmed by her desire. "Yes," he moaned.

She smiled again, taking hold of his shoulders. "Good."

Her walls held on to him tightly, as she raised herself along him. Once she had almost released him, she slid back down more quickly, hitting the head of his shaft--hard.

He closed his eyes. "Oh God." He opened them once more, warning her with them that this might be a short experience, if she continued like this.

She smiled at him and ground herself down onto him. "Ask me," she commanded. "Tell me what you want." She didn't need--didn't really want--this to be slow.

He groaned again--growing further within her.

She ground herself onto him again, his head deep inside her. "That's a good answer but not the right one."

His lips were open, his breathing heavy. "`Kita, please," he moaned.

"Please what?" She ground her core onto him, moving in a little circle but never lifting herself up.

He was sweating, his hands knotted in their bonds in need. "Please," he gasped, "take me."

She ground herself in a tight circle again. "Take you how?"

He panted. "Hard." His eyes divested his soul to her care. "Please."

She smiled. "Very good, Michael."

He groaned, as she began riding him--moving up and down in long, deep strokes. She tightened herself with every up thrust, then released her grip each time to thrust herself down onto him--deeply.

She loved this. He was giving himself up to her entirely. He felt wonderfully large in her; she could feel every incredible, thickened inch of him with each thrust.

He was moaning. She took him in completely. He had never felt so wanted--so needed--before.

He loved watching her ride him. He wanted to see her do it harder. . . . He wanted her wild.

"More," he pleaded.

She was loving his surrender to her; she wanted more of the power he was offering her. "Beg, Michael," she ordered huskily.

He groaned loudly. "Yes, `Kita," he moaned. His eyes were so vulnerable. "Please . . . ride me."

She thrust down on him more strongly, stroking faster. "Like that?" her voice was breathy.

He groaned. "Yes, . . . oh God, yes. . . . More."

She smiled a feral smile at him, loving her new control. "Watch," she ordered, riding him faster. Her eyes traveled down.

His eyes widened, and then he looked down, watching open-mouthed, as their bodies met deeply and then separated--over and over. His shaft--now huge and thick--would pull half-out and then stroke back into her, taking and returning every stroke she gave him in aroused gratitude.

It was an oddly self-voyeuristic act, but it was incredibly erotic. "Harder," he groaned. "Please, `Kita, harder."

She allowed his request, taking him deeper and faster--the head of his shaft hitting her incredibly sensitive core hard each time. "Mmmm," she moaned. "You feel good in me, Michael."

He let out a half-screamed groan at her words. His eyes were still fixed on their place of union. "More, take more of me." He was thrusting up to meet her desperately.

"Mmmm, I think I will," she agreed.

He let out another loud groan, their pace increasing. "Yes . . . yes."

Her hands came to his waist, and she rode him deeper. "You like that?"

He screamed. "Yes! Yes!" He was thrusting back at her insanely. "Please, more."

She took long strokes on him--hitting the head of his shaft roughly each time, striking the limits of her core with ever-increasing pressure. She felt him along every millimeter of her inner walls. "More?"

He screamed once more. "Yes! Yes!" he begged again. His hips were raised from the bed--holding himself up to her, as she slid herself over his throbbing length, every stroke insane.

He made a half-choking noise. "More! Harder!" He had given himself up utterly to her will--and was loving every second of it.

She groaned, holding on to his soft curves, her nails digging into him. "Take it rough," she growled.

"Oh God! . . . Yes!" he moaned. He couldn't take much more of this. She just felt too damn good. He panted. "Harder!"

She used his hips as handles to thrust him into herself, as strangled groans escaped from him. She was hitting herself with him very deep. She growled again.

"Ahhhh," he moaned, not able to take much more. His whole shaft was almost trembling with need--half a second away from almost devastating release.

She pulled him into herself three more times, each thrust going deeper than the last--holding him very deep on the last one. Her nails sunk into his flesh.

They both panted, caught in each other's eyes; they were both binding their souls tightly together in an act of total will--their need to be one shuddering through them. Then, they gave one more rotating, deep thrust, and Nikita leaned forward to sink her teeth into the curve where his neck met his shoulder--her head held close by the bonds of his arm; she dug her fingers into his curves.

They both jerked against each other. She groaned, her teeth marking him.

He screamed. Her walls pulled him incredibly tight-unspeakably deep within her, while his shaft spasmed wildly, throbbing its release deep inside her.

"`Ki-ta," he moaned throatily.

She let go of his neck and groaned, running her tongue over it. "Michael," she moaned.

She kissed his neck and then leaned up to help rip his hands free. His now-unbound arms circled her immediately, clinging to her, holding her to him.

"`Kita," he whispered huskily. He rolled them both to the side, her legs wrapping around him, as he rode out his little convulsive thrusts against her.

She moaned. "Michael, I love you," she whispered in his ear.

He held her head close to him, his eyes closed. "Ki-ta," he breathed.

They were lost in that world of intimate ecstasy for quite some time. Their souls seemed to have become part of one another.

As their breathing finally returned to normal, they continued to hold each other, needing no more words to show their emotions. And, by the time sleep overcame them, they had realized--in complete contentment--that no dream would ever match this. . . . Some realities were just too beautiful.

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

It was the second morning in a row that he had awoken in Nikita's arms. Michael smiled happily, kissing the side of her face. . . . There was nothing more wonderful than this.

He had rolled her back over on top of him last night, once he had recovered enough--had pulled the sheets on top of them, as she nuzzled his chest, falling quickly asleep. He looked down at her. He loved that their intimacy made her so peaceful--that it took away the demons which too often tormented her dreams; he remembered too many nights they had spent sleeping near each other on missions—when he had seen her tossing, as her nightmares took hold of her--had seen her trying to escape some enemy only she was aware of. . . . He had often wondered if it had been himself she was running from--but she never told him her fears.

He sighed and ran his hand over her hair, kissing the top of her head. He had wanted so often, on those nights, to go to her and hold her--to rock her gently, like a parent comforting a frightened child, telling her everything would be alright. . . . He hated that, too often, everything wasn't.

He shook his head slightly, still kissing the top of hers. He wanted their lives to always be intertwined in the same way their bodies had been for the last day--in an unspoken, completely accepted, intimacy--in a combination of soul-stirring passion and soul-comforting peace. It made him angry that they would once again have to return to the hell which was Section--that he would, once more, have to become the monster he had so often been with her. . . . He hated that this fragile moment of peace was simply being "allowed" by their masters--that they were presenting the beautiful woman he loved to him as some kind of twisted present . . . that they were giving her as a gift to try to make up for all of the damage they had wrought to his soul.

He felt his anger rising and realized something consciously which he had hidden from before. . . . He was no longer entirely the same person he had been for several years; he could feel a--surprising, perhaps even a miraculous, change awakening within him--one his angel alone had wrought.

That change, he knew--as well, had to do with his relationship to Section. While Nikita had always despised the sick Behavioralist approach Section One took with its operatives, he too was coming to truly resent it.

It was only at times like this, though, that he could force himself to admit to these emotions--and then only silently. He was tired, however, of being approached with a series of rewards and punishments--of being treated like some sort of trained animal; Nikita was reminding him, more and more--recently, that he was human--that he had a soul. . . . Just for once, he wanted that fact to be respected by them, as he was beginning to learn, in small ways--and usually only for short durations, to respect it himself.

He sighed once more, his current line of thought depressing him. He knew there was nothing he could do about Section's approach, at the moment . . . if ever. He shook his head. . . . He was beginning, though, to hate that fact to an inexpressible degree.

He looked down at Nikita's peaceful, sleeping form, and his mind switched tracks. He knew that--if he was being granted a small miracle by them, then he should learn to appreciate it; he should take this chance to spend time with her and fulfill it--should enjoy it in all the ways they had both dreamed of. . . . If nothing else, when all of this was over, he wanted to regret nothing--to be able to remember no time during their idyll when he had avoided telling her the truth. He wanted to be left open to both her spiritual and physical gaze. . . . If this was all they would ever have, he would live in and treasure every small moment of it; he would make certain that it was the most beautiful time of either of their lives.

This meant, of course, that he was going to allow himself to become what he had never truly been before--human. He was going to enjoy laughing with her, talking with her--was going to enjoy watching her--in silence, in sleep, and in ecstasy. He would be--for just a little while--the man he had *always* wanted to be for her, the one she had always, somehow, seen in him--even when he had been convinced that that person didn't exist. . . . He would, he was determined, play out in full the small fantasy world they were both helping to create.

Nikita stirred in her sleep and sighed, beginning to wake. He wondered, briefly, how long they would be allowed to stay together like this--how long Section had plotted out as the appropriate amount of time for his emotional rehabilitation.

As he heard her moan, however--as she pleasantly returned to consciousness, he decided that it was best not to think about it. . . . The trick to fulfilling this time together would be to allow themselves to enjoy every moment as it came.

He stroked her temple, as she was waking, and kissed the top of her head. Of course, he realized, they had been doing a pretty good job of this already; they had made love three different times yesterday--all of the experiences precious and treasured.

Whether they continued in this sort of pattern or not, however, was completely irrelevant to him. . . . There were so many things he wanted to do with her; making love was only one of them.

She awoke finally, her subconscious recognizing him before her conscious mind kicked in. "Michael," she whispered.

He shuddered a little. . . . If she continued to say his name like that, though, they may never get out of bed. He kissed her hair again. "Good morning."

She opened her eyes, still sleepy. "What time is it?"

He looked around; he hadn't actually gotten an alarm clock yet. . . . It wasn't usually something he needed. It was only with her, after all, that he truly slept. Otherwise, it was simply a matter of marking time until he needed to go in--sleeping for a few minutes or an hour, when he could--which was, most often, rare.

He looked at the sunlight coming in at one of his windows. "Around 10, maybe."

Her eyes opened a little wider, as she looked up at him. "I don't usually sleep this late."

He smiled. "Neither do I."

They were silent for a minute, each understanding why they were suddenly capable of such--for them--profound rest. Nikita kissed him lightly. "So, what are we doing today?" She understood--happily--that Michael had no intention of letting her go home, . . . and she had no intention of leaving him.

He stroked her cheek, smiling at her. "We could start with some breakfast."

She smiled back. "I think I can handle that." She started to get up, pulling her body away from his--disuniting them with a sigh.

He stopped her quickly, though--drawing her away from her intentions, shaking his head. One of his most tormenting fantasies was of being able to take care of her; he had no desire to let her do the work now. "*I'll* get breakfast."

They were sitting up finally; she stroked her hand under his jaw. "Don't like my cooking?" she teased.

His eyes glowed at her warmly. He leaned in to kiss her--softly and deeply. She groaned when he pulled back. "I like it fine," he smiled, intimations of their previous day's activities in his voice.

She responded with a small smirk.

He ran his hand down her cheek, wanting to marginally explain his intentions. "I want to make you something, but it will take awhile."

Her eyes were bright and curious. "For breakfast?"

"No, for supper." He smiled. "Breakfast and lunch will be small."

She nodded, confused but agreeing with his plan--wondering where he was heading. "Okay."

He kissed her once more and then pulled back. "Go take a shower. Breakfast will be done when you get out."

She pouted a little. "I have to take it alone?"

He smiled heatedly back at her. "This time." He traced a finger down her neck, stopping himself before it went further. "Go, or we'll never get this day started."

She wasn't entirely sure that would be a bad thing, considering how yesterday had gone, but she agreed; they did need to eat sometime, after all. She smiled at him and pulled him into one more warm, deep kiss before breaking away to go to the shower.

Michael groaned, from the kiss and its aftermath: her walk to the bathroom. He shook his head slightly; the woman could arouse the dead. . . . After all, he was proof of that.

He watched her walk, beautiful in her nakedness. He sighed. He loved that she didn't bother to cover herself, at these times--loved how completely comfortable they were in each other's presence.

He continued to watch her, until she disappeared from his view. He knew he really should be more careful with her. They had been making love with such abandon lately that he knew she probably needed a little time to recuperate. . . . But he really didn't want to give it to her. He simply enjoyed being with her--being inside her--too much.

He understood, however, that if he didn't stop things, she wouldn't. He knew she would utterly ignore her own physical well-being for the chance to be with him.

He didn't understand her need for him, but he knew that he--in return --would do exactly the same with her. However, this--to him--made sense. . . . After all, she was everything beautiful and arousing--was the very substance from which love was created. He, though--he was nothing, was a demon she had mistakenly aided. . . . There could never be another way to view their lives.

He sighed slightly. He knew he was a demon, however, who couldn't let her go--who couldn't even consider it; he needed her more desperately than there were concepts for. He didn't want to spend even a single day without her, in this or any other lifetime. . . . No matter what happened to them, there was no place she could ever go that he wouldn't try to follow.

Maybe, too, he decided, it would be better to just allow himself to enjoy their time together--for however long they had. He knew--in spite of whatever perverse reason she had for needing a soul as empty as his--that he had hurt her before by turning her away; he didn't want to repeat that mistake again. . . . He understood, as well, that their time together here really *was* too short to be overly cautious.

It was a good thing, really, he thought--not for the first time—that Section had a general birth control plan for its female operatives. For the men, they simply expected them either to use condoms or not to care--which most didn't. They were already officially dead, anyway; they weren't exactly fearing paternity suits.

He understood, of course, that the fact that he and Nikita had been having unprotected sex was not--to put it mildly--wise, even if pregnancy wasn't really an issue for them; their sexual histories, after all, to say the least, were checkered. Although he had been able to use condoms with most of his targets--claiming to be worried about their safety, which had only been partly true--there were still enough times that he hadn't to cause him concern.

He knew he *should* worry, too, at least a little--knew they would be better off, if he did. . . . He supposed, though, that he had become a little numb to such possibilities; in fact, after spending most of his life dodging bullets almost daily, disease--unwisely--tended to become less fearsome.

It wasn't his own safety, however, which concerned him here. If he were exposed to something deadly from Nikita, he would welcome it; he wasn't going to let her die or suffer alone. . . . It was only with her that his concern lay.

He sighed, shaking his head. He supposed they were being stupid, but it would probably have to stay that way. Their time together—their time alive--was simply too short. . . . Maybe, though, he decided, he would allow Nikita to choose for herself later.

He stood up, beginning to strip the mattress of its sheets, forcing himself to move along. If he didn't get started with cooking soon, he wouldn't have anything ready for her.

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

By the time Nikita emerged from her shower, her hair toweled off and vaguely untangled--beginning to dry on its own, she found her breakfast waiting--her plate on a blanket on the floor next to Michael's-almost like a picnic. She was back in the white robe, delaying dressing until after they ate. "I see you stripped the bed," she smiled at him.

He smiled back at her, as she sat down near him to begin her meal. "It needed to be done," he responded, unconsciously slipping into his Section voice.

She laughed a little, munching a piece of bacon. "That's the first time I've heard that said about making a bed."

He laughed silently in return. She always seemed to be able to find something amusing or beautiful in their lives--even at those times when he was convinced there was nothing.

His humor died slightly, however, as his mind went back to his earlier concern. He watched her eat lovingly for a few more seconds and then looked down at his plate. "`Kita . . ."

She looked at him seriously, hearing his tone change. "What is it, Michael?"

He sighed and refocused on her, deciding to approach this issue straight-on. "Would you feel safer, if we used a condom?"

Her eyes widened; she hadn't been expecting this. "I'm not afraid of getting pregnant," she began.

He interrupted her. "I know. That's not what I mean."

She rolled her eyes slightly. Of course he knew; what part of her record didn't he know?

She thought about it for a minute and looked at him. "Should I worry, Michael?"

"You said it yourself, yesterday. Neither of us are innocents." His eyes were sad--not regretting the skills he had gained to be able to please her, but wishing that he hadn't had to spend so much of his life with people who had meant nothing to him. He shook his head a little, his eyes serious. "I don't want to take any chances with hurting you."

She sighed and looked down. "Or with my hurting you?" He was quiet, and she refocused on him to see that his own safety wasn't in his thoughts. She shook her head, finally really focusing on the question. "It would be safer, I know." She paused. "If we were two *normal* people, I'd say yes."

"And since we aren't?" he prompted.

She shook her head again. "No." She sighed. "We're so close to death constantly. Maybe I'm foolish, but I want to take this chance to be close to you, without worrying about the consequences." Her voice got softer. "We have to think about them too much, anyway."

He looked at her sadly, knowing that she had come to the same conclusions that he had. If they were normal, everything would be different, . . . but they weren't.

He leaned over to her, drawing her closer--his hand on her cheek. He kissed her lovingly and deeply, sealing a silent agreement between them to simply enjoy their fantasy world as much as possible--to refuse to worry about what may come.

She sighed, as he pulled back. They continued eating quietly, reestablishing their unspoken bond. She did want to say one more thing about this subject, though; she was focusing on her plate. "Michael . . ." He looked up at her, as she refocused on him. "I do love that you asked." Her eyes were very strong. He smiled, and she leaned over to kiss him deeply--showing him her appreciation.

He groaned and pulled back finally. He really was planning to do something with her today besides making love.

He held up a piece of bacon to her, and she leaned in to take it in her mouth--taking all of it--about half--down to his fingers, running her tongue over them, as she pulled back. He groaned softly, watching her chew happily--as she enjoyed taking in his reaction. He took the rest of the bacon in his mouth to chew it and shook his head, having finished the rest of his meal. "You're a very dangerous woman, Ni-ki-ta."

She smiled at him, enjoying his small torment. He rose, obviously a bit aroused, and took his plate back to the kitchen. She watched him with a small chuckle. "Vixen," his voice washed back to her--his back still to her, and her chuckle grew louder.

He smiled, still turned away. God, he loved her laugh.

He sighed to himself and began moving around the kitchen, starting to prepare a small lunch for later, while also starting his preparations for dinner. He was attempting to ignore his growing arousal for her. He had always dreamed of being able to cater to her--to fulfill *all* of her needs. Now was his chance, . . . but he had to pull his mind up above the waistband of his pants to accomplish it.

She finished her breakfast and took her plate over to him. "Anything I can do?" She rubbed his bare shoulder, as she stood behind him.

He sighed. "Yes. If you keep doing that, there won't be any more meals today." He looked at her with passion in his eyes.

She spoke sultrily. "Is that a bad thing?"

His eyes moved along her form, till he swallowed heavily and pulled them away--looking back to his work. "Go get dressed." She didn't leave, still rubbing his shoulder. He shifted a little uncomfortably --his arousal making itself too obvious again. "Please," he added--trying to hide the desperation in his voice.

Her hand ran lower, massaging his curves; his arousal jumped, springing into full life. He put down the food he was working with and leaned on the counter, closing his eyes--swallowing hard. "Ni-ki-ta," his voice warned.

She smiled at him. "I can do something about that, Michael," she purred.

He looked up at her a little desperately, knowing her plan. "I don't want you to."

One of her hands came in front of him to stroke him lightly. "You don't?"

His breathing was getting shallow; his eyes were a little afraid. As much--as desperately much--as he wanted to be the object once again of her formidable erotic skills, he didn't want her to make herself servile to him. "Please," he begged.

She took his hand and led him over to lean against a wall, her eyes softer. Her hands stroked down his body. "I should do something for you, seeing as you're making all our meals."

His eyes were serious. "I'm not looking for a trade."

One hand stroked his face, while the other ran lightly over the material of his pants; she answered him without levity. "I know you're not."

He swallowed. "I'm cooking because I want to. . . . I want to do this for you."

She smiled. "But that's exactly how I feel." Her hand stroked his arousal harder. "Even breakfast can have a dessert, Michael."

He let out a small groan, eyes wide. She leaned in to kiss him deeply--arousingly, and he moaned against her lips.

When she pulled back, she had won; he had given up slightly--wanting her touch. "I'll make it up to you," he moaned.

She smiled, shrugging her shoulders. "There's no need." She leaned her head down to suckle at a nipple for a second, as he held her to him--groaning, his arousal throbbing strongly. She looked back up at him--smiling, then moved down to her knees--the soft robe she wore cushioning her from the hard floor. "But I'm sure you will," she added finally with a smile.

He groaned, as she slowly revealed his arousal--her smile growing. "Mmm," she moaned, running her tongue along its side. He groaned again. She could feel that his body was still unnaturally tense. "Let yourself feel," her voice enticed him. He looked at her desperately, and she used the one tactic with him she knew would work. "For me."

He moaned and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, giving in completely. She smiled, happy to have won him over.

She began by running just the tip of her tongue up and down the generous length of him, never quite touching the sensitive head. His length jumped in response, wonderfully tortured.

"`Kita," he moaned in a whisper.

She put his hands on her head, and he let out a loud groan. She looked up at him, as he focused on her--her eyes commanding gently. "Show me."

His mouth was open in a groan. "`Kita," he moaned in amazement. She smiled seductively and leaned in to lick the base of his shaft temptingly. He groaned, closing his eyes once more, giving in.

He led her, as she had asked him to do. He held her first to the base, where she placed hard kisses--to his groaning half-screams; he was overwhelmed--feeling loved, but unworthy of it. Her tongue then encircled him completely--curling around his breadth there.

He was giving groaning screams, intrigued and aroused by her inventive mouth--holding her to the base; he enjoyed her touch here so much, he didn't want to move on. She closed her mouth as far as she could around the breadth of his base and suckled, her tongue on the vein at the back.

"Ohh," he moaned. He moved her then to the sac underneath his shaft, and she kissed him--running her tongue over him here, playing with the tightened little balls. He could feel tears coming to his eyes. She suckled against him, her tongue a little rough, and he began bucking against her constantly, his shaft rubbing against her cheek.

He couldn't wait any longer; she was just too damn erotic. His breathing was ragged. "Please," he moaned, moving her up to the head of his shaft.

She smiled and took him in, suckling him, and he began to gently ask her to go further. His hands were running through her hair; his head was back, gasping--waiting.

"Mmm," she moaned. She began a pattern on him, her hand coming up to close around his base, running up to meet her mouth, following it up, as it would then pull strongly up to his tip--tickling him with the end of her tongue before plunging both of them back down on him to begin the pattern anew.

He let out a choked scream after the first time, and she groaned, becoming a little rougher. Her other hand was caressing and playing with his tightened sac. . . . God, he felt good. She loved how vulnerable he was allowing himself to be to her--how much pleasure he was letting himself receive.

"More," he moaned. He couldn't believe she would do this for him--wasn't sure why she would, but it felt better than anything he could imagine--short of being inside her sweet core.

She closed her teeth on him slightly, to his gasp, and he opened his eyes to look down at her. She met his look, as she got faster, sucking a little harder. "Yesssss," he groaned out from his soul.

She moaned in response and sucked him harder still--her rhythm intense. Her head rubbed against his hands--asking him to continue his soft demands. He grew more aroused, growing in her mouth--bucking against her a little.

He did as she asked and helped lead her in a pattern on him, stroking her tight little mouth up and down himself--her hand helping to keep his rhythm. . . . He had never seen anything so painfully erotic.

He didn't usually even let himself fantasize about this, always focusing instead on ways he could please her. . . . That this was obviously one of her fantasies was almost his undoing.

"Yes," he groaned. He pulled her--willingly--faster, his hands still trying to be gentle. She moaned, complying happily, and drew on him harder.

He let out a groaning half-scream, his eyes locked to hers. His entire length was so completely aroused, so achingly sensitive. Whenever she did this to him, he lost control quickly; he had little staying power, when she gave herself up to him this thoroughly.

Her teeth ran over him lightly and she followed it with a hard stroke. He trembled, on the edge--heart pounding. He saw a smile in her eyes--her enjoyment radiating from her. . . . It was too much for him. He let out a strangled scream and held her on him gently, pulling her back just enough each time, as he thrust convulsively into her mouth--losing himself completely.

She moaned and closed her eyes briefly before looking back up to him. He tasted wonderful. She swallowed the warmth of his release happily and then continued to hold him in her beautiful mouth, until he was spent.

She loved this. She loved the deep, overwhelming release she could give him. She loved seeing his eyes when he came--as they gave up his soul to her. . . . . She loved that she could do this to him--that she could make the stoic, Section superman a trembling, orgasmic collection of enticed and completed needs; his soul was entirely hers--was entirely open for her in-depth and utterly unhurried future discovery.

His eyes had closed by the time she let him go. She licked her lips and kissed the side of his face; she thoroughly enjoyed being able to leave him like this--enjoyed even more that there would probably be a reckoning later on. . . . She couldn't wait to see what it would be.

For now, though, it was more than enough to have left him speechless. She smiled. "Thanks for breakfast, Michael," she whispered to him, and then left him to sink down the wall, unable to stand, while she moved off with a slightly smug smile to get dressed.

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

Michael was quiet for quite some time after Nikita's little surprise; he was still a little incapable of speech. He would simply watch her lovingly, while she smiled knowingly at him.

He had finally managed, when she had left him there, to pull himself together enough to stand up; even that had taken an effort. He had, semi-dazedly, finished making a few early preparations for lunch and supper and then left to take his own shower, his body still warm and incredibly content--if a bit overwhelmed--from his recent pleasure.

Nikita, meanwhile, had gone to get dressed with a smile on her face. She *loved* that she could please Michael so thoroughly; it made her a little egotistical--a little full of herself--that she could bring such an overwhelming reaction forth from a man who usually wouldn't allow himself emotions. She loved that she could make him groan in pleasure--loved that the screams of fulfillment she heard from him were hers to give.

She had gotten dressed with their current, wonderful vacation in mind. She had first found some sheets and had lovingly made their bed; then she had lain out the clothes Michael had ordered for her yesterday. They weren't hand-picked, of course--they couldn't be, but there was a wide variety, all very nice.

She ended up picking a softly-materialed black dress which had several large buttons up the front. She put it on--leaving it open enough to be slightly suggestive but not enough to be truly obvious--and then found a mirror; she was quite pleased with the result. It wasn't tight, but it clung to her curves with just the sort of suggestive appeal she wanted at the moment. Mmm, yes . . . this would do nicely.

She ended up, as well, deciding to wear it without any underwear. Both this decision--and the one to wear a dress at all--were dictated by the fantasy world they were currently inhabiting--the one they had been allowed to create. Not only were these choices more comfortable for her, considering the hard use some of her parts had had yesterday, but they also provided more . . . opportunities should things take the path she hoped they would.

Michael had showered and dressed, choosing his usual black attire--minus the ubiquitous jacket; he seemed, however, much more comfortable in it this time, somehow--an impression possibly helped by the fact that he was barefoot. He had gone back to the kitchen then to continue his work, and--by 12:30, he had a couple of small salads waiting for them, which they once again ate on the blanket on his floor.

He watched her, as she began to eat. "Well?"

"It's wonderful," she smiled. She looked down at it, though, a little disappointed. "But there's not much of it."

He smiled--loving her all the more; her healthy appetite--for many things--aroused him endlessly. "We're saving room for supper."

She sniffed a bit at the wonderful scent coming from the kitchen, looking intrigued--and hungry. "What is it?"

He smiled, looking down.

"Do I have to wait and see?" she wondered.

"Yes," he murmured, smiling, his eyes focused on his food. He looked back up at her.

She smiled, in a wonderful humor. "And after all I've done for you."

He laughed a little, trying to control the circulation of his blood. "There will be a pay back, Ni-ki-ta," he smiled.

Her eyes glowed at him. "I hope so," she thought to herself before attacking her small salad with gusto.

She spent the rest of the day happily--just watching him move through his kitchen, cooking and preparing. From time to time, he would look up at her and smile, and her heart would contract slightly from love.

He was enjoying himself cooking for her--was working all day to prepare one meal. She could see his happiness in every move, his contentment from being allowed to fulfill this small fantasy. She sighed. He was so beautiful. . . God, she loved him.

By the time supper was ready, she was starving, even though it had only really been a little over 4 hours since lunch. . . . That, though, was just as he had hoped.

He served her the appetizer first--artichoke stuffed with crab meat in a wonderful sauce. At the first bite, she made a noise so seductive it was practically his undoing. He smiled broadly. "` you like it?" The first word disappeared, swallowed by his desire and his thickening accent.

She rolled the wonderful concoction around in her mouth and then took off another leaf of the artichoke--savoring it and the crab's mingled flavors before answering. Her voice was heavy--practically aroused. "Yes."

He smiled at her, having to remind himself that he was supposed to be eating, as well. He was receiving so much joy just from watching her that it could be hard to remember such details. He sighed, trying to push back his desire. . . As much as he was enjoying this, it was going to be a long meal.

He followed this preliminary course with two more--Coquilles St. Jacques served alongside a medley of fresh vegetables in another wonderful sauce and--for dessert--Baked Alaska. . . . It was, admittedly, a bit of an eclectic meal, but it was one he was sure would please her.

He was right, as well. Each new course was accompanied by Nikita's almost sexual noises of pleasure.

When they were done with the last one, she looked up at him and smiled contentedly. "That was," she paused--looking for a word that would begin to express her feelings, "astonishing."

"Good," he smiled warmly. He leaned over to her and gave her a sweet, deep kiss.

She groaned, once he broke away and rose to clear their plates. "So, what are we doing now?"

He came back over and took out a cd player he had also had delivered the day before. He put in a disc and then went back to her--joining her on the blanket they had turned into their table. He put his back to the wall and then pulled her back toward himself, propping her head on his chest, his arms around her. "Digesting," he murmured. He kissed her hair twice.

"Mmm," she murmured back. God, she should be lucky enough to digest every meal this way.

They sat there for some time, listening to the soft music, saying nothing--simply holding onto each other and just . . . being. Eventually, though, the sheer peace of it overcame them, and they fell asleep, curled on their sides, spoon-fashion--Michael's arms still around her.

It was about an hour and a half later that she woke to see him coming back into the room. He had stopped the cd, which had already played through completely once. He kissed her, as she wandered off to the other room.

When she returned, however, the enchanting spell of the night was broken; she found a new cd playing--one she remembered a little too well, one she had thrown out her copy of a long time ago. . . . It was the music he had started to seduce her to, when he was trying to keep her from leaving with Eric.

She stopped dead. "Why?" she asked, her eyes tormented. She had been loving this time so much, up to now.

He looked at her with a plea for patience in his eyes and sighed, trying to prepare himself to explain. "You've helped me to create some wonderful new memories in a place I thought would always signify pain, Nikita." He swallowed slightly. "I want the chance to take away some of your pain, as well . . . the pain I caused."

She was breathing heavily--a little afraid, too many memories assaulting her. He approached her slowly. "I know I hurt you," he said softly. "I know I can't make that go away--I can't make that right." He sighed. "I don't blame you if you hate me for it." He was getting very close to her now. "But I want you to know that I," he swallowed--somehow the word was easier to say in the past tense, "loved you, even then."

He shook his head, as he reached her--seeing the fear of betrayal in her eyes; he continued to explain. "Even as I tried to tell myself that you were just another target, I knew it was a lie. You *never* were." He was standing a breath away now. "You never could be."

She didn't say anything; there was still just so much pain. He went on, needing her to know it all. "It was me who was seduced that night, Nikita. I may have been trying to take control, but it was me who was lost." He sighed, stroking her cheek lightly, brushing away a lone tear; his eyes were terribly sad. "From that first kiss you gave me that day," he shook his head, "my heart broke. There was no more denial--as much as I may have pretended with myself."

His voice got much softer, as he tried to finish telling her this simple truth. "You took hold of my heart from the first moment I saw you," he sighed quietly, "maybe even before. But it was that day in your apartment that I realized in my soul that everyone else--*everyone* before you had simply been an illusion."

The tears in her eyes overpowered her; she closed them, and the drops rolled down onto her cheeks. She didn't want to forgive him this--knew that to open herself to him that much would be dangerous.

He stroked another tear off her cheek, his voice breathy from pain. "I'm not asking you to forgive, Nikita," he whispered, reading her thoughts. "I just want you to let me try to help put it behind us--for just a few hours, a few days. . . . I just want you to let me love you--for however long we have here--as though I'd never hurt you at all. . .as though I were always the man you need me to be."

She looked back up at him, the tears flowing freely now. "Michael . . ."

He interrupted her. "Just let me love you as you deserve . . . like I've wanted to for so long." He sighed. "That's all I ask."

She saw the look in his eyes, felt the absolute truth of his words in her heart. She knew this was real--despite all the lies and pain of the past.

She couldn't forgive, though--knew that to do so would make his next manipulation, after the end of their idyll, too easy--might even, she feared, cause him to forget, in the future, that he shouldn't cause her pain. . . . But--for right now--things were different; their past might be worked beyond. For now, she would let him try to heal her.

"Hold me, Michael," she whispered, swallowing heavily. "Please."

He drew her in toward himself and put his cheek on the top of her head, holding her close. He was willing her to draw from him the strength she needed to move past the pain he had given her--was desperate to try to help her heal the wounds of their past . . . the ones he had created.

They began moving slowly to the song. His hands brushed along her--stroking gently across her back, running over her hair--coming up to stroke the tears from her face. She held him to her, her head over his heart--hearing its insistent beat.

He had damaged something within her, when they had danced to this song before--or, rather, when she had realized the truth behind that dance. He had made her feel unwanted by using her, had reaffirmed--to her mind--how unloved she had always been. . . . That he had been trying to protect her physical life was immaterial; it was her soul that was in torment.

"I'm sorry, Nikita," he whispered into her hair, kissing the strands softly. A tear ran down her hair and face from his cheek. "I'm so sorry."

She started crying harder and held him more tightly to her. The beat of his heart became louder. She could almost hear his thoughts in its rhythm: "I love you, Nikita. . . . I'm sorry; I love you."

"Michael," she whispered, as some of the pain disappeared. He would never be able to make this, or any of his other terrible manipulations, up to her entirely--in this lifetime, but he *was* helping to heal some of the scars.

Their souls seemed to flow between them, as they danced--recreating a moment they both remembered in pain and turning it into one with at least some pleasure. Their love--their need for each other began to flow between them, helping to heal the sorrow their past had created.

She looked up to him finally, as the song ended for about the third time. They had both been crying. She tilted her head up to his, their lips touching softly, and he groaned, before pressing down to possess her mouth completely. Their tears mingled in the kiss, giving it a salty flavor; they both groaned and held each other further in it.

He kissed her passionately now, crushing his lips to hers--his sorrow spurring his need for her, making him desperate to make her his--to make it up to her. She moaned deep in her throat and held him more tightly to her, needing this proof of his true, loving emotions that the depth of his passion always gave her.

As the song was beginning again, he broke away from her with a groan and turned off the player--a little roughly. He then stepped back to her, taking a second to look into her eyes, before capturing her lips completely, a little ruthlessly. When she whimpered with need, her hands on his shoulders, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to what had become--in his mind, as well as hers--their bed, as unadorned as it was. When he leaned back from the kiss for one second, approaching the mattress, he whispered huskily, "I have a lot of things to make up to you tonight."

"Michael," she whispered back breathily. She had every intention of letting him try.

***********

He set her down on the mattress--leaving her sitting up toward him. He knelt in front of her and moved in close--her legs on either side of him; he leaned down, drawing her head up with his hands to kiss her lips.

After a few, relatively chaste, seconds, he ran his tongue out to trace the soft lines of her mouth, until it opened on her sigh. His tongue invaded it then with a commanding passion--which still had an underlying tenderness.

He searched her sweetness deeply--relearning all of the soft beauty she held. She let out a little moan--another tear running down to mingle with their entwined tongues--and held him to her desperately.

His hands, meanwhile, were stroking up her legs, under the soft material of her dress. He felt the smooth skin of her thighs--running his fingers along them in comforting joy.

When he came up to discover, however, that she was wearing nothing underneath the garment, he groaned loudly. He ran his hands back behind her, pushing her dress further up, to draw her up to him by her soft curves.

He held her up to his--once again--intense arousal, which was still hidden from her by his clothes. His hips made little rotating thrusts against hers--tormenting her with the thought of what was to come.

She groaned and bit at his lips slightly. A responding moan rumbled up from his chest, and he set her down on the bed again; his hands came up to the front of her dress and began, rather quickly, unhooking the buttons that held it on her.

Once she had been revealed to her waist, he pushed the dress back off her shoulders, as she withdrew her arms; it fell to the bed, the bottom of it still hanging around her mid-section, and he leaned her back, lying down with her--resting his heavy arousal against her warm depths for another second. Her moan reverberated through the kiss.

He let go of her lips with a light stroke of his teeth and continued then to leave wet kisses down the expanse of her body. She was moaning--both from desire and the reassurance his love gave her.

He came back up to nibble little lines up and down the cords of her neck, as she continued moaning; he set his teeth slightly harder to a sensitive spot just behind one of the cords, and she let out a half-screamed, "Michael!" She was holding on to his shoulders desperately, giving panting moans.

He groaned against her skin and bit her once more--to the feel of her nails digging into him more strongly through his shirt. He went back up then to kiss her roughly for a second--his tongue a tormenting conqueror. She moaned through it beneath him.

He leaned back from the kiss finally, eyes flaring, and began to move down her once more. He ran his teeth over her chin for a second, then gave wet kisses down her throat--to her breastbone. He ran the tip of his tongue in a line there--up and down--for several seconds, while she groaned, her hands running up to his hair.

Finally, he gave in to her unspoken demands and moved to take in the whole of one small breast, suckling its fullness with abandon, while she held him to her. "Michael," she sighed.

His teeth ran up to--and then over--the tip. He followed this--only a second later--by covering her bud, the pressure of his sweet mouth taking her in to suckle her strongly, his tongue lapping at her; his thumb ran very light circles over its twin.

She moaned--head back, adoring the feeling of his warm, wet mouth. It was times like these that she forgot all the hurt--could remember only that she was his. She held him to her, her hands stroking through his soft hair, pulling him closer; he obliged her unspoken request again, suckling her more strongly.

"Ahhh," she moaned. He used one hand to hold her hips back up to him, his mouth still at her breast, and stroked his arousal repeatedly against her core; one hand still tormented the twin bud--pinching it lightly between two fingers, as she held his head to her.

She was beginning to shake beneath him, holding herself up to his searching mouth, her hips grinding back against his. He had started a pattern--consciously--with his rhythmic rocking, against her nether bud; he could feel her growing wet and warm through the soft material of his pants, and it made his arousal jump wildly in desire. He wanted so badly to simply sink himself deep into her--to take her almost ferociously, to exorcise all of their pain in one desperate, shared act of need. . . . But he wasn't giving in to this desire yet.

He lowered her back to the bed, his mouth still suckling her hard, and then ran both of his hands down to her soft curves. He pulled her up to him--leaning over her, as he rode against her, the combination of the soft material of his pants and the hard length of him beneath it arousing her nether bud almost unbearably.

She was rocking against him, still holding his head to her breast, groaning out in need. The hard head of his shaft--still imprisoned--found the tender bud and started to rock against it--rough and relentlessly, while she let out little gasping moans. He drew his teeth over her nipple once, and she bucked against him, crying out loudly.

He let go of her breast with a stroke of his teeth and a final lick of his tongue. He looked up to see her eyes wide, her mouth gasping. "Michael," she managed. He smiled at her and dropped his head to give a brief nip to the other bud, running his teeth over it strongly for a second--biting it once more and then letting go of it with a final lick of his tongue.

He looked back up at her and pulled off the shirt he wore, tossing it away. He then bent his head to her core, keeping contact with her eyes all the way. He put one of her hands on his head, giving her control.

He licked up over her bud repeatedly then, soothing it from its rough treatment of minutes ago. She whimpered and thrust her hips at him unconsciously, the area still incredibly sensitized--the shocks of her release not entirely worn off.

He began suckling on the bud relentlessly--his tongue teasing it, as she held his head to her, moaning. His mouth became relentless, suckling the incredibly over-sensitized little bud roughly.

His arms ran underneath her, between her and the dress which was still attached to her waist, and held onto her soft curves. He held her up to himself, suckling her even harder.

She was practically weeping. He stopped suckling for an instant and ran some of his rough bristles over her. She bucked against him. When he resumed his suckling a second later, she came with a deeply moaned, "Ahhhhh."

He suckled there for a few seconds longer, as the crest of her orgasm hit. Then he let go of her with a very light scrape of teeth. She whimpered, the orgasm rising again--reignited by the small touch.

He moved his hands to her legs for a second to encourage her to wrap them around his head. She did, and his hands went back to her curves, holding her up to him, as he sank his tongue deep into her depths.