The following is a character study which begins during the final scene of "I Remember Paris" and will continue on through the events of "Third Party Ripoff"; it will, therefore, include some *heavy* spoilers for both of these episodes as well as for "All Good Things" and will also include some for "Hand to Hand," "Before I Sleep," "Simone," "Beyond the Pale," "Cat and Mouse," "Nikita," "Charity," "Looking for Michael," "In Between” and “On Borrowed Time”." Some of the chapters here will be MA-14 for various adult discussions and language, but there will also be many chapters of NC-17, so if you are not of age, you should not read them. :) Some of what happens here, as well, will refer back to a few of my previous stories, including "Anam Cara," "The Victorious and the Dead," and "Going Gentle," but you won't necessarily need to know anything about those other works to understand this one. :)

I should include one other warning here, too. :) Once again (as also happened with "Anam Cara"), I have not yet finished writing this story. :( The number of chapters total, therefore, is still tentative. Because of this, too, it's possible there will be extra spoilers later which are not mentioned in this introduction; I will try, though, to warn about them as they happen. :)

Oh, one quick word of thanks, as well, to my sister, Armida; her teachings on the Tarot came in very useful in Part 3--and I appreciate it immensely (as I do everything she has always done for me). :D

One final disclamer: although I am using some dialogue and scenes from the above episodes, absolutely no infringement of any sort is intended with the following; I don't own these characters or the episodes (well, obviously), and I am making no such claims by using them here. :) Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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He had made the right decision coming here--or, perhaps, he had simply made the only decision he could. He had tried staying away, had honestly tried to keep his distance--but that had only led them both into incredible isolation.

Michael knew it now; he had to be with her. There was no other choice. . . . Now, all he had to do was convince her of this fact, as well.

He knew, of course, that he had hurt her, when he had pulled away before; he had hurt himself, too. But now they both needed to embrace the emotions which lay between them. . . . It was simply the only way toward sanity for them both.

He could tell, however, that convincing Nikita of this truth wasn't necessarily going to be easy; she had seemed to retreat within herself from the moment he had shown up on her doorstep, bearing some rather gourmet carry-out and a fine wine. He didn't blame her, necessarily--though; he realized that he was using his valentine techniques to wear down her resistance--and he knew, too, that it, understandably, made her nervous. It was just that he didn't know quite how else to approach this, so he had fallen back, however reluctantly, on his training.

If he was uncertain of how to begin to talk to her about this topic, however, he was *not* uncertain about what he wanted. He wasn't here for one night; he wasn't here simply for dinner. He had come to ask her for a lifetime. . . . But he knew--sadly--that this was a request he had taught her long ago to believe was an impossibility for them.

He watched her eat with a slight smile. They had said very little to each other so far. He knew, in fact, that she had really invited in his perfectly-grilled filet mignon, not him; he, right now, was more the delivery boy. . . . And he was one she was obviously unsure about trusting.

This was alright, so far, though; it was as he had expected. Nikita may not trust him, but her wonderful appetite couldn't turn down a gourmet meal when it was placed in front of her--unless the person offering it were truly repellant. He knew, then, that the way to his beloved's heart might not be through her stomach, but it was a way into her home. . . . He would have to handle it from there.

Nikita eyed him evaluatingly, as she finished up the last of her meal; she had *no* idea what had brought him here. For the last several weeks, he had held himself completely away from her, outside of Section, and--while she had accepted that he needed this distance--her own feeling of despair about what might laughingly be called their relationship had become chronic. She had forced herself to realize, in fact, that he would never be able to handle a life with her--had accepted this wearily. His appearance now, therefore, was . . . puzzling--to say the least.

She and Michael hadn't had a meal together, indeed--outside of mission parameters, since before the mission against Meyer. And, while he had seemed a bit more open toward her in this last, odd week, she still hadn't seen this change coming. She sighed slightly. She just wished she knew what it meant.

She decided, therefore, that she needed to try to start figuring it out. She ran her tongue out to remove some béarnaise sauce from the corner of her mouth and noticed that his eyes followed its progress; she catalogued that response mentally and finally broke the silence between them. "The dinner was wonderful. Thank you."

He nodded slightly. Her words had been more a general statement of fact than any sign of deep gratitude. "I'm glad you liked it."

He got up to take the dishes over to her sink and began to rinse them off. She wasn't certain what to think of him taking on such domestic functions in her own home, but she decided it was probably better than having to do them later herself.

She waited for a few more seconds, then, before moving to another, relatively safe, topic: work. "How long d'you think it'll take before everything's up and running again?" She knew he would understand her meaning.

"About another 18 hours," he assessed, sounding like the Class Five operative he was.

She nodded, as he came over to take his seat once more. "I never expected things to go the way they did."

He took a breath. They were both dancing around each other cautiously now, but he suspected that things would turn soon--that the forced politeness would disappear. "It's been a strange week," he understated. He took a sip of wine; his eyes were focused deeply on hers, were waiting to evaluate whatever he found there.

"That's one way to put it." She decided to finally move on to what was truly holding her attention. "I don't know what was more unusual--Operations blowing up the Section or you coming to dinner again." She was toying with her glass, trying to keep her nervous energy in check.

He looked down and took another breath before speaking softly; she had finally given him an opening to start to talk about what he needed to. "I didn't choose to stay away." He refocused on her lovingly, begging her to understand; he had explained it all to her before--as much as he had been able to comprehend it himself.

Her eyes were a little hurt; she still ached with his rejection of their friendship, even though she had tried to accept it calmly. "But you did." She looked down for a second, trying to gather her courage to go into this subject once more; her mouth hung open, ready to speak. . . . She wasn't sure she could handle the pain again. "So, what's changed?" She refocused on him, eyes a little piercing--wondering if he even had an answer.

He looked away from her, his eyes roaming her apartment. Thinking about it all hurt him at least as much as it did her; he didn't, in fact, have a conscious answer to this question--not a simple one, anyway. He tried, then, to give her what he could. "Maybe enough time has passed." His voice was soft and a little hoarse. He looked back up at her.

Nikita nodded. She knew what he was talking about--their week together after he had lost Adam and Elena; he had mentioned it when he had cut off the tentative friendship--the one they had formed following their mission-oriented trip to the cabin in Belgium. That didn't mean, however, that she was ready to just accept the explanation; her eyes were accusing, unconvinced. "Maybe too much time has passed, Michael," she challenged.

He knew she didn't mean it, on a deeper level, knew that she still needed and wanted him every bit as much as he did her--but he also saw that her anger had been festering while he had kept his distance. He looked down and picked up the crystal decanter, taking off the top. He focused on her again; he knew that if she could simply look to her own inner emotions--if he could work past the barriers he had erected in her, then they would be alright. Perhaps, then, getting her just a little tipsy--enough to lower those barriers--would help them both.

He leaned over to pour her more wine, as his eyes focused on her pleadingly. "I hope not."

She watched him cautiously, picking up on the more manipulative part of his plan, as she saw what he was doing. "Thank you," she said to cut off his action. She focused on him briefly, as he stopped instantly, and then looked back to her now-full glass.

She swallowed a little, afraid. Somehow, his attempt to get her drunk seemed a little too symbolic of their shared history to her, but she knew--as well--that he could be right; her more tender emotions, if she let them go, could be her undoing.

He watched her evaluatingly--lovingly. He let her take a minute to speak again.

She finally did. "So, why are you here now?" She was still staring at the glass.

He looked down for a second, pondering his answer—wondering just how open he could finally allow himself to be with her; he then came to a decision. He gazed back up at her--his eyes begging her to believe the truth of his words. "I missed you."

Nikita refocused on him quickly. Her eyes held several conflicting emotions; they were frightened, amazed--accusing. They were also watering a little, as she tried not to let herself cry. . . . She didn't, after all, want her love for him to lead her into a situation which would only hurt her again.

He held her eyes completely--awaiting her judgment. His gaze was sad, was pleading with her for mercy--for love.

She continued the look with him for another few seconds, as she thought through her answer. She looked back down and shook her head a little, as her response finally formed. "And you never missed me before tonight?" Her eyes refocused on him accusingly.

His look was still saddened. "Yes, I did."

Her gaze was firm. "Then, that's not really an answer, is it?" She took in a deep breath and repeated her question. "Why are you here *now*?"

He sighed and glanced down, before sitting there quietly for several long seconds, trying to find a way to tell her what he felt; they were, really, emotions he had yet to put into words. He shook his head a little. "I don't know." He refocused on her. "It's been building for awhile." He sighed once more. "Maybe it was partly a promise I made to Sarah."

Nikita bit her lower lip slightly and glanced down, swallowing heavily. "What did you promise her?"

He hated the sadness on her face, but he still smiled slightly, remembering. "She wanted me to think about why I wasn't with you--about why I'd kept us apart." She refocused on him, a little surprised. "Maybe I have now." His eyes were honest.

She shook her head once more. Her eyes were watering. "But why *now*?"

He swallowed heavily. His mouth opened to speak for a second before he was able to form the sounds; his eyes were staring blankly at the table. "This past week was . . . difficult." He looked back up at her. "There was a lot in it I didn't understand."

She nodded, agreeing. From the fact that Tyco had managed to escape quickly from a chair which had held thousands firm before him--including many *far* more determined to escape it; to the fact that that same prisoner had--seemingly easily--overcome Madeline and then left her alive--when he had taken out everyone else he had come into contact with e xcept Michael, who had finally killed him; to the fact that Section had had to incinerate itself because of *Glass Curtain*, a group they hadn't been running up against too heavily at all for years--and the fact that that group's leader had somehow survived his own incineration, there was a *lot* not to understand.

The last part of this thought, however, finally worked its way through to her; she took in a breath. "Is this about Simone?"

He nodded slightly. "Partly." Her eyes seemed suspicious. "Its more about the issues connected with my time with her, though," he half-explained.

She shook her head; her eyes were confused, as she tried to follow his train of thought. "What do you mean?"

He swallowed heavily; he was staring at the table once more, not quite able to watch her, as he spoke. "Going up against Sparks again made me remember," he refocused on her, "not just Simone's death--but her life." He took a deep breath, as Nikita waited--listening. "When I told you that I needed to distance myself, I thought it was for the best--thought it was what I needed."

"And it wasn't?"

He shook his head, eyes saddened. "No." He sighed again. "I've been thinking about Simone--about what would've happened if I'd held myself away from her, if I'd never let things get started." He shook his head once more. "I didn't like what I found."

Nikita looked away for a moment, confused, before refocusing on him. "Michael, what does this have to do with us?" Her mind wasn't ready to take in what he was saying; it came up, instead, with far darker interpretations. . . . Was he trying to say goodbye again? Hadn't he done that already?

He answered her, only half-aware of her misinterpretations. "I realized something this past week. If I'd never let myself love Simone, there's still no guarantee that she would've lived, and both she and I would have been even less happy than we were." He sighed slightly. "I would have missed my chance to understand love, as well." He nodded a little. "She taught me that."

Nikita's eyes were teary; she was shaking her head, her misinterpretations worsening. "Michael, . . ."

He cut her off, as he leaned toward her slightly. "She taught me how to love, Nikita." His eyes searched hers very deeply. "But you taught me how to live." They roamed over her face--taking in her beauty. "I don't want to live separately from you anymore. I don't want to waste any more time apart from you." He refocused on her eyes.

Her mouth hung open for a second, before she was able to speak; her lips trembled slightly. "So, what do you want?"

He took a deep breath and leaned even closer across the table, his eyes focused completely on hers. "I want you. I want a life with you--in whatever form that's possible." His gaze was very soft and truthful. "And I don't want to wait any longer before that happens."

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

She leaned back and stared into her lap, her emotions in a whirl; she couldn't say anything. She wanted to believe--God did she want to--but she also knew that this just all seemed too . . . easy.

He watched her quietly, almost holding his breath. "Do you not want this?"

He was a little surprised at how angry her eyes were when she looked back up. "What d'you really want, Michael? What's this really about--a mission, a temporary need I can fulfill, . . . or is this some new, demented attempt at `protecting' me?"

His gaze dropped, but he didn't lean back. He was hurt by her words, but he was well aware that he had given her far too many reasons to believe them. He hadn't, however, done so recently. "Why do you think that now?"

She gave a small, unhappy laugh, her eyes still on him. "You come to my door with some steaks and a fine wine." She held up her recently-filled glass slightly. "You try to get me drunk." She set it back down. "And now you're talking to me about taking a step you've *never* been able--or willing--to." She shook her head slightly, as he looked back up at her. "This is Section's Seduction 101. What'm I supposed to think?"

He took a deep breath to try to hold in his pain at her--justifiable--doubt; still, his question was unanswered. "Why are you so angry now, Nikita?" He nodded a little. "Yes, I've hurt you in the past, but I've truly tried to avoid that lately." His eyes probed hers. "Why now?"

She shook her head, a little amazed. "You think because it's in the past it all just went away?"

He shook his head, as well--his eyes serious. "No. But that's not the reason for your anger." His look was soft, sympathetic; he was putting away his pain, wanting to understand. "What is?"

She took a deep breath and looked down to her lap again. It had been a s--- week; she had been Operations' personal whipping girl, even though she had also been the one to save everyone's asses--but that wasn't the reason. She knew what it was, in fact, but her voice choked her a little--was very soft, as she spoke; it was so hard to remember. "You offered me something real once before, Michael--not that long ago, but you pulled it away again." She looked back up at him. "I'd just been through a mission which had come close to killing me--I was in pain," she sighed, "and you pulled away."

He closed his eyes sadly, trying to hold back his tears at the memories. He opened them only to focus on the table; his voice was very quiet. "I didn't want to."

Her eyes and voice were a little desperate; she so needed to get through to him--to get him to understand. "That's not good enough. Then--and when Sarah died," her voice choked for a second, and she paused; there were tears in it, when she continued quietly. "I needed you so much, Michael. I just wanted you to hold me--just for a minute." He looked back up to her sadly. "I know you did what you could for Sarah; I appreciate that." She shook her head. "But that doesn't alter the fact that, when I felt like I was dying, you were nowhere to be found."

His eyes showed his incredible pain. "I didn't want it like that, 'Kita; I didn't want it like that at all."

She sighed softly; she had calmed slightly. "But it was." It was a simple statement of fact. She shook her head a little. "I had started to trust you--that you were going to be there." She took in another deep, steadying breath. "And then you weren't."

He swallowed heavily, holding back his sorrow, as he waited for her to finish. Her eyes were searching his in return; she was trying to hold back her tears, as she continued on to ask him the question which truly scared her. "How do I know that, if I let you stay the night, you would still be here tomorrow?" He closed his eyes in pain at her honest fears, lowering his head. "How can I trust that you won't just pull away again?"

He took a very shaky breath and looked back at the table. It was a few more seconds before he spoke. "I don't know how to convince you; I don't know what to do." He looked back up at her, his eyes wet. "I felt every pain with you. I hated keeping away." He spoke more quickly for a second at her look. "And I know that's not enough."

He took another steadying breath, as he tried to work up the courage to say what he needed to. "When I pulled back from you after the mission against Meyer, I thought I was doing what I had to; I thought it would help me focus more." He sighed. "It didn't."

She was listening to him intently, as he continued; God, she wanted to believe. He was focusing on the table again. "The dreams I had about you never stopped, 'Kita--not for a single night. You never left my mind--my heart." He shook his head. "You still haunt my soul."

He took another deep breath, trying to prepare himself to tell her the truth he needed to. "I've realized something this past week--something I think I've known and been fighting for a long time. I don't want--I'm not willing--to live apart from you anymore. I need you with me as a friend, as a lover, as a partner." His eyes stroked deep into her soul. "If Section would allow it, I'd ask you to marry me--just to prove to you that my words are real."

Her eyes were his captives. He shook his head once more, as he finished. "Please don't ask me to leave you, `Kita. I can't. I'm with you now and forever." His eyes begged her to agree. "I just want to be able to make you happy."

She closed her eyes at these final words, her tears winning her battle with them, as she lowered her head. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was very shaky. "Michael." She paused again. "I don't want to feel like this, but . . ." She looked up at him finally, a tear on her cheek. "You tell me you want to be my partner, my friend." She shook her head. "But you make all the decisions."

She swallowed heavily, as her eyes roamed the ceiling for a second; she bit her bottom lip for a moment before she went on. She hated that these feelings were in her, but she knew that wouldn't stop them. "Sometimes I feel like your whore." She looked back to him. "I know that's not how you think of me; I know it isn't what you want, but," she took a second to try to pull herself together again--with little success, "but you treat me, in our private time together, like I'm still the `material' you got assigned five years ago." She swallowed heavily again. "You just expect me to go along with anything you want."

He was struggling to hold back his tears. "That's not how I think of you."

She nodded slightly. "But you treat me that way, nonetheless." She gestured down at the table. "This meal, the wine," she looked back up at him, "you still act like I'm a valentine target you can seduce." She swallowed heavily; her voice was shaky when she spoke. "You act like that's the only way to handle me."

He closed his eyes, a tear appearing at the corner of one, as he lowered his head once more. He tried to take in slow, deep breaths in an unsuccessful attempt to stop some of the pain in his heart.

He refocused again finally, eyes still on the table. "I'm sorry." He looked back up at her. "You're right." He shook his head, as he rolled his eyes up in an attempt to keep back the tears. "Sometimes," he sighed and swallowed heavily, "I'm still not quite human, Nikita." He looked back at her. "I'm still not the man you want." His eyes were incredibly honest. "But I want to try to be."

She bit her lip slightly, her breathing shaky; it took her a second to be able to speak. "What do you want with me?" She needed to hear his intentions.

He lay his hand out across the table to her. She looked at it for a few seconds, a little afraid, before she finally touched it. His hand began to caress hers softly.

He looked back up to her; his eyes were completely truthful. "I want a future. I want to be here when you need me." He swallowed heavily. "I want to wake up in the morning with you in my arms--want to come back from missions with you and hold you close. I want to share in your happiness and help you through every sorrow." He took a deep breath, the next words even harder for him. "And I want to turn to you in all those times, as well."

Her hand began caressing his in return, as he went on; her look held so much love for him. "I never want you to forget that I'm here--that I adore you." His eyes grew much more sensual; his hand began stroking hers even more intimately. "I want to make love to you, Nikita--every time you want me. I want to watch your pleasure--to savor it; I want to surpass every fantasy you've ever had. I want to make love to you with fierce intensity, and I want to touch you so softly it brings tears to your eyes." He threaded his fingers with hers and held her hand. "Whenever you want me--however you want me, I want to be here." He shook his head. "And I don't ever want that to end."

She still looked a little tentative, despite her love for him; her voice was shaky, as she thought of her eternal rival. "What about Section?"

He shook his head once more. "I don't care--it doesn't matter. Whatever they can do to me will never be as bad as being without you." His eyes caught hers in incredible love. "I never want to live apart from you again."

She had given up the struggle with her tears; they had begun slowly, continuously sliding down her cheeks. She wanted to believe him, but she still needed to tell him one last thing; her eyes held a warning. "Michael, if I wake up tomorrow morning to find you gone--if you pull away from me after this," she shook her head, "I'll put in my transfer request as quickly as I can get to Madeline's office."

He nodded sadly. He had no intention of pulling away, of course, but he hated the thought that he had hurt her so much that she felt the need to make the threat, anyway.

His eyes roamed her face. She still looked a little scared. "Are you afraid of me?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid of the future."

He nodded slightly and then stood up, still holding onto her hand. He walked around the table to stand in front of her. "I want to make something up to you now, 'Kita."

She looked up at him. God, his scent, his presence--the warmth from his body--it was all overwhelming her. She was grateful that he had waited until she had given her agreement to try this; she might have folded despite herself, otherwise. "What?"

He drew her up his body till she was standing less than an inch away from him; his eyes looked into hers lovingly. "This." He pulled her softly toward him, letting go of her hand; he guided her head to his shoulder and put his arms around her, holding her in a close, warm embrace. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to do this before."

She closed her eyes tightly and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, giving into the embrace completely; her arms held him close. He could feel her tears wetting him through his sweater. "Michael, I've missed you," she murmured tearily.

He held her even closer and kissed her hair. Her scent reminded him of the love of heaven. "And I you, mon ange."

They stayed like that for several minutes--simply bathing in each other's warmth and love. Finally, though, Nikita's mind went to a subject which she had thought about a few times this past week.

Michael felt her stiffen slightly. "What is it?" He kissed her cheek.

She didn't want to say it, but she knew she couldn't avoid that now. She pulled back from him softly, sorry to lose the feeling of his embrace; her eyes were sad. "If Sparks survived the explosion, . . ." She took a deep breath, as she saw his understanding in his eyes. "What if Simone's alive, Michael?"

He examined her eyes closely, a little worried. "Do you think that would change the way I feel about you?"

"Would it?" she asked softly, sadly.

He shook his head. "No."

"But, . . ." she began.

"No," he repeated, quietly but firmly. His fingers stroked over her cheek, examining it lovingly. "Everything before you was an illusion, Nikita." He refocused on her eyes. "Simone was the closest thing to reality, but nothing--no one else--will ever mean to me what you do." His hand cupped her face. "You can't lose me again, 'Kita; I won't let you. Come what may, I'm yours." He shook his head, his gaze soft and loving. "No one can change that."

She closed her eyes, and a few tears rolled down her cheeks. "Michael," she whispered.

He drew her closer and kissed her temple. "You're my wife, Nikita--now and forever." He pulled her softly back into the embrace again. "Please don't forget that." He kissed the top of her head.

She sighed and rubbed her hands over his back, feeling the outlines of his firm muscles through the soft sweater--and, suddenly, her quiet contentment shifted; she was tired of waiting--of being so close but still being held off. No more. His scent called to her; his body felt right in her arms. . . . She wanted him, and she was tired of waiting.

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

He felt the change in her--felt the doubt disappear, felt her joy rising. He closed his eyes, as she turned her head to press her lips to his chest. "`Kita," he sighed. His hand ran over her hair. . . . It had been *so* long.

Her hands found the bottom of his sweater and pulled it up--out of his pants. He took in a breath as she began to stroke under it, over his back. Her lips found his flesh again at his neck and began to move up. "I've missed you," she whispered before nipping lightly at his jaw.

"Yes," he begged. His hand was deep in her hair, was feeling the silken strands, as they glided over his fingers. Her scent was making him mad; his body was making his raging need increasingly obvious.

She trailed her tongue under his jaw, to his moan. She loved the feel of his stubble on her tongue, the scent of his skin invading her senses.

He was letting her take the lead. It seemed to sooth something in his soul that she still wanted him like this--that she wanted to touch him, to taste him; he wanted her to do anything she desired to him tonight. He was her willing--her joyous--slave; he would do anything she asked of him.

Her lips moved to the underside of his jaw, and she felt his moan reverberate there. She began to run her tongue down his throat till she kissed the throbbing pulse at its base. Her nails, simultaneously, ran lightly down his back--just enough to remind him of his incredible need to bear her marks.

He moaned loudly, tears of need coming to his eyes, as his arousal beat into complete, aching life--struggled against its confines; he looked down at her and took hold of her head to regain her eyes. His look pleaded with her. "Please, Nikita. Take me. Ravish me." His hands ran through her hair. "Do anything you want to me." He leaned in to kiss her softly--deeply for several seconds before he pulled back. "Please."

"Michael," she moaned at his words. Her heart caught; a wonderful, slow-moving heat ran through her veins. That he would ask her to take the lead--would request it of her . . . well, she had taken it on before with him, but him asking her . . . that was a first--and it was a first she wanted desperately to take advantage of.

She smiled at him slyly and licked her lips, tormenting him. "You're mine tonight," she promised.

His look took on a desperation she hadn't expected, however. He shook his head. "No, not just tonight--always."

She swallowed heavily--her happiness choking her slightly. She took hold of his head and pulled him toward herself, kissing him deeply--commandingly. He moaned and held her to him.

He had never felt this wonderful before--had never felt this alive. He had trusted Nikita enough to cede control to her in the past, but he had never felt such an aching desire to be taken by her.

Her kiss was deep and controlling; he felt himself melting from it. He had never known quite so much joy in being commanded; taking command was usually his only form of control over his own life--but now that didn't matter. He had asked Nikita to love him, and she had agreed. . . . And he had never wanted her more.

She pulled back finally, and his head tried to follow her. He hated losing her for even a second.

Her eyes were heated--were commanding but loving; she was adoring this opportunity. She leaned in to him once more and pulled at his lower lip gently with her teeth. He moaned.

She let him go again and leaned back with a smile, licking her lips to taste him; his eyes followed, enraptured. Her hands came out from under his sweater, and she pulled away from him slightly. He looked worried, but she leaned in to kiss his cheek softly before catching his jaw with her teeth in a light bite. He gasped, as she leaned back.

One of her fingers ran down his sweatered chest. A smile curved her lips; her eyes held an erotic authority. "Go to my room, Michael. I'm going to make love to you in my bed."

His eyes seemed haunted for a second, and her look changed slightly, understanding. She leaned in to kiss him; he moaned, healing. "Abby's dead. . . . I'm here," she whispered, as she leaned back. Her eyes caught his completely. "This time *I'll* be the one with you in my bed." Her smile became a little taunting. "And don't think about trying to get in it with anyone else again," she teased.

His eyes were incredibly loving and grateful; he needed this in order to erase his memories of the night he had been forced to spend with her double. He leaned in to her, giving her a deep, brief kiss of thanks.

When he leaned back, she repeated her tender order. "Bedroom." She pointed behind him.

"Yes," he whispered. She smiled and took his hand, as he turned. He put it on his chest, covering it with his own, while she played with the sweater--and his chest--lightly, and then proceeded her up the stairs to her room.

She was still smiling when they reached their destination. She could feel how he had given her complete control over himself--how he was willing to do anything she wanted. . . . Considering they had played this particular game in reverse more than once, she did adore the chance to take the lead--adored that this was what he wanted.

She moved in toward him, as he turned back to her, and she pulled her hand from his. Her eyes were commanding, as she leaned in to bite at his shoulder lightly through his sweater and then pulled back, licking her lips; she was close enough to him to feel his arousal jump against her, under his clothes.

She pushed him gently a little further into the room, as his bright eyes watched her. "Undress for me," she ordered quietly.

She heard his breath snag slightly, his eyes growing wider. A small smile played around his lips.

God, he adored this. He wanted to be her fantasy--wanted to be under her total command--to know that she needed him every bit as desperately as he did her. He would willingly be her plaything to make her happy. He knew without doubt that the game they were now playing would bring both of them intense joy.

His eyes held hers, happily and tauntingly. His hands played around the bottom of his sweater--where she had pulled it out of his pants; he smiled even more as her eyes watched his hands--enraptured, especially as they played so close to his throbbing, still trapped arousal.

Very slowly, then, he began to raise the sweater up to reveal his taut stomach. He moaned slightly, as she licked her lips--his desire to continue even stronger at the look of need in her eyes. Slowly, he raised the shirt, revealing yet more of his chest; her eyes grew wider--brighter. Finally, he lifted it up and took it off, discarding it on the floor.

She couldn't quite repress her moan at his beauty; she also couldn't repress her desire to taste him. As his hands went once more to the waistband of his pants, she gave a quiet command. "Stop."

He watched, as she approached him slowly. Her hands ran over his shoulders and down his arms; his eyes watched in fascination, as she leaned in to nip at his neck once.

God, he loved her touch; his moan rumbled through him, as she moved a line of kisses down his chest. Her tongue ran over his small, hard nipple for a second, and he groaned deeply. She repeated the process very lightly with the other and then pulled away, her hand running down to brush a feather-like touch over his bulging, confined arousal.

He moaned at losing her. He wanted to feel her mouth on him, needed her touch, but his fear disappeared at the teasing look in her eyes.

"I just wanted to see if you tasted as good as I remember," she smiled. His eyes grew even wider. "You do," she informed him, as her smile grew deeper. She noticed the acceleration in his breathing, and her eyes shone at him; she ran a look down his body. "Go on," she told him with a smile.

His heart was beating so quickly--so loudly; he wondered if she could hear it where she was several feet away. He took off his shoes and socks, as he held her eyes, and then stood back up to face her inspection.

He ran his hands down to his waistband once more and watched the enticing smile on her face grow even more wicked; he moaned slightly. He carefully undid his pants and began to lower the zipper, wanting so much to be revealed to her.

"Slowly," she told him. She looked back up to meet his eyes, when he paused for a second. "Presents should be savored, as they're unwrapped."

His arousal began beating even more strongly. At this point, he needed to be slow just to keep from hurting himself. . . . But he couldn't wait to be savored.

Her eyes went back to watching him reveal himself; she couldn't stop smiling. Michael had defined the male form for her practically since she had met him; it had just taken several years for his soul to catch up to his body.

Now, however, she felt more confident that that process was complete; her beautiful lover--the husband of her heart--was standing before her about to reveal one of the parts of him she most adored touching. This was, indeed, a gift.

The zipper lowered; he took hold of both his pants and his briefs with his thumbs and began to lower them, as well. He knew she wanted to see him naked before her--and he had never before more wanted to be washed in someone's erotic gaze.

"Mmm," she murmured, as he revealed his large, aroused shaft. He stepped out of and kicked the rest of his clothes away. She licked her lips, her focus still nowhere near his eyes, and his arousal jumped in response. He groaned.

She looked back up again, finally. Her lips were still smiling deeply at him. "Hmmm," she murmured again, "you definitely know how to give a gift."

His eyes were so vulnerable; so much love shone from them. "'Kita," he begged.

Her look was tender in return. She understood--all the needs, all the desires, . . . all the pains which needed to be soothed. She held her hand out to him. "Come here, my love."

He came to her instantly and took her hand; his eyes searched hers in love. "Undress me, my Michael," she ordered--offered--softly.

"Yes," he whispered. He needed his hands on her--needed to feel her soft skin under his touch--needed to taste her lovely flesh. He needed the beautiful woman who had his soul with a craving which bordered on madness. . . . He needed her.

She was dressed in a fairly simple running suit; she hadn't been expecting his visit. To her mind, she looked far less than appealing, but to him--to him, she was a goddess, was the absolute embodiment of female perfection. . . . And he was desperate to see her now in all of her glory.

Her hands traced over the back of his shoulders, as his came up to find the zipper which held on her top. He couldn't resist, however, leaning in to kiss her softly, before he continued; he just adored her too much not to.

She sighed, loving his touch. He pulled back from the kiss to catch her gaze once more, smiling.

His hands then lowered the zipper slowly, his eyes riveted to the flesh he was revealing. As so often with her, he was enraptured to find that she hadn't been wearing a bra.

He had yet to actually touch her skin, but his eyes were watching her as though she were a divine gift. He pulled off the jacket which comprised her top slowly, forcing her hands, regretfully, to leave his shoulders for a few seconds.

Once she was revealed, he took in his breath. He looked back up to her eyes, asking her permission silently. She smiled and nodded. He lowered himself to his knees with all the grace which accompanied his every movement and leaned in to kiss her navel softly. "I've missed you," he sighed, as he looked back up to her.

Her hands ran over his hair, and she smiled tenderly at him. "And I you," she whispered, before she leaned down to kiss him softly. He moaned through it.

The kiss continued for several seconds, as his hands began to play around the waistband of her pants. He pulled back, however, since he wanted to be able to view the beauty of the woman he was revealing.

She kissed the top of his head, and he shuddered. He then began to lower the rest of her clothes, until they pooled at her bare feet. She stepped out of them and kicked them away, but she couldn't move too far; Michael's hands were on her waist.

She looked down at him, as he refocused on her eyes. His gaze was begging with her. "I need to touch you, 'Kita. Please." He swallowed. "Ask me. . . . Tell me."

Her hand played over his hair tenderly, and she leaned down to kiss him--deeply. He moaned. When she pulled back a few long seconds later, her eyes met his. "Touch me, Michael," she commanded softly--stroking her hand over the side of his face.

His heart began beating even faster, and he raised himself back to his feet, his eyes connected with hers the whole time. He leaned in to kiss her, softly and deeply--his eyes still watching hers, half-lidded.

They both teased and aroused in the kiss--tracing over the softnesses of the other's mouth, caught completely in the silken love there. Their hands were stroking over one another's shoulders.

Finally, however, they both felt a surge of connection--of emotion--too strong to tease anymore. They pulled each other into a much deeper and more intense kiss, their eyes closing.

They held each other close, as the kiss continued. Their hands stroked over one another's backs now, tracing all the delicate changes in the strong muscles there, as their beloved held them strongly.

Their desire shuddered between them. They pulled back from the kiss only to continue running their tongues over each other's teeth--over each other's lips lightly; they could both feel the silk of their lover's skin against their own--the softnesses, the hard planes, the pebbled points of their nipples rubbing over one another.

The kiss grew more intense again. His long, throbbing arousal beat against her--tempted her, as her honeyed depths did him.

They were like that for several long, wonderful minutes. When they pulled back finally, they both saw that they had tears on their cheeks; they moaned--their need beating within them.

Nikita was holding onto Michael's head with both of her hands; she leaned in to kiss him briefly before looking back at him. "I've missed you, Michael," she moaned, with tears in her voice.

He shook his head slightly and began kissing over her face--beginning at her temple and starting down her cheek. "No." He tasted along the line of her jaw--nipping at it slightly. "You don't know how lonely I've been, 'Kita." He moved to the underside of her throat and began giving her wet kisses, as he worked his way down--tasting her incredible skin.

He kissed the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat intensely; she moaned, and he looked up at her briefly. "You can't understand how it feels to be bereft." He shook his head. "Because you don't know what it's like to be without you." His eyes were so desperate and loving.

"Michael," she moaned.

He started to move down to his knees once more, his desire shuddering in him. "I have to please you, `Kita." He tasted over her collarbone. "It's the only way I know I'm alive."

"Michael," she whimpered again. Her hands were in his hair; her heart was beating so fast, as he began moving kisses toward her breast. "I love you so much," she moaned.

He caught her nipple with a groan and began to suckle her. His hands traced firmly over the lines of her back.

Her head fell back; she was whimpering--holding him to her. Both of them shared just one thought: "Oh God, yes."

Her body trembled. His mouth was so perfect: it teased; it licked; it pulled; it enclosed. It was a wet warmth *precisely* where she needed him. . . . Oh God, he felt so good.

His hand traced her other breast--ran very softly over the nipple, teasing it. She moaned and leaned her head forward onto his, holding him to her. "Yes, please," she moaned. The heat he was creating was moving straight into her core.

God, he had missed her. He always thought he remembered what she was like--how incredible she felt, how wonderful she tasted, the beautiful way her moans reverberated off his lips--but he was always wrong; she was always so much more perfect than he even came close to remembering.

He suckled her more firmly, as she moaned. Her body trembled against him. No other lover could ever compare to him; no other man had ever even come close.

He teased her slightly by nibbling lightly on the soft bud, and she moaned loudly. Her body trembled even more strongly against him, the touch of his mouth reverberating through her. He began suckling her strongly again, and a few tears ran down to fall through his hair. "Michael," she moaned.

He shuddered at the feeling of her tears; he ran his tongue around her nipple once more and pulled back slightly to look into her face. She was so beautiful. He caught and pulled her head down toward himself to kiss her deeply, passionately. She whimpered.

He gave her one more quick kiss and then moved over to her other breast. "Ohhh," she moaned. He suckled her even more strongly here, and she shuddered against him--her head falling back once more. "More," she moaned.

He nibbled lightly at the aroused bud, and felt the moan echo through her. Her nails ran lightly over his shoulders, and he groaned against her, his need spiraling.

He bit her just enough here, giving her a final lick before letting her go. He then captured her head once more and kissed her deeply--hard--once again, capturing her moan deep in her throat.

He let her go to begin running strong, wet kisses down her body; he was moving ever closer to the depths which taunted him so much. Just before he got to them, though, he moved them both slightly--backing her back up against the wall.

She looked down at him, as he was tasting her belly button. His eyes had taken on the jungle cat quality they so often did when they made love; her hand ran over his hair, and she smiled. "Michael," she sighed.

He growled slightly, and caught her other hand, moving it to his head, as well. He wanted to be led.

She smiled at him ferally, to the spark of passion in his eyes. She then began to move him down toward her depths.

He smiled, and she shuddered against him, when he captured her tender bud in his lips and began suckling her strongly. She moaned wildly and held him to her more intensely; the warm light he was creating was trembling through her whole body, was making her lose her sense of self.

He followed her unspoken command and suckled her more determinedly in response, and her head rolled back against the wall. All she could focus on was how good he felt--was how his warm, wet mouth held her, how his tongue tormented her with pleasure. A tear of joy rolled down her cheek, as everything inside of her trembled in a fever pitch.

She felt his teeth scrape her lightly, and she cried out in pleasure, bucking against him, holding him firm—although he had no intention of leaving. She was trembling--her depths aching for him, needing him.

He felt her pleasure--sensed it in his bones. But he needed, so desperately, to see her eyes; he needed them--their beauty--to be complete.

She sensed his need and looked down at him. He moaned, as he saw the intense joy reflecting out to him and moved down further to run his tongue deep into her, lapping the honey of her arousal--tasting her ecstasy.

"Michael," she moaned, bucking against him. His tongue stroked along one of her walls, and a tear rolled down her neck; the warmth of her pleasure vibrated through her body. "Yes," she begged.

Their eyes connected them--allowing them to share all of their desire and pleasure. He continued to taste her there, continued to lap the honey from her depths lightly, until her shuddering subsided somewhat. This, he thought, was what he had been made for--this made him real.

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

He kept his hands on her waist to hold her steady, since her pleasure had reduced her to a shivering mass. He placed one more kiss at her depths and then ducked down to taste the honey which had run down onto her thigh. He nuzzled her there for a second, breathing in her sweet scent, as she moaned.

She finally began to breath semi-normally again, although she could feel her heightened arousal in her blood. He began to kiss his way back up her body. "Michael," she breathed. His name was like a prayer to her--a prayer of thanksgiving.

He suckled for a second at each of her breasts and then moved his kisses further up her throat. When he arrived back at her lips, her eyes were wild and commanding.

She pulled him in toward her and gave him a deep, intense kiss. He moaned, desperate to go wherever she might lead.

When she leaned back from it, her eyes were glowing with a devouring fire. His heart started beating even more wildly; his eyes flashed his answer: "yes, anything."

She smiled slyly at him, her plans forming; her hands played over his arms. "Lie down on the bed, Michael." She felt his arousal jump against her, and her smile deepened.

"Yes," he moaned. He pulled her to him briefly to kiss her and then followed his orders. She helped maneuver him into the position she wanted, lying crosswise across the middle of the bed.

She stood at the side of the mattress and looked down at him. He did make a gorgeous picture--like an erotic feast. . . . And she was a *very* hungry woman.

She crawled over him--her legs straddling him. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide and fixed to hers. His arousal jumped, as her smile deepened. "D'you like this, Michael?"

"Yes," he groaned out.

"Mmm," she smiled. "So do I." She leaned in to kiss him deeply, and he ran his hands into her hair to hold her there.

They moaned in the kiss for several long heartbeats, until she let him go finally, licking over his lips, as she pulled away. He moaned. She ran her tongue out to lick over the stubble on his jaw, and he groaned in his chest. "Mmm, you do taste good, my love." She bit his jaw lightly and then began to run light bites down his neck.

"Oh--God, yes, . . . 'Kita," he groaned. "Harder," he begged.

She obliged and felt him trembling slightly beneath her. God, she loved bringing this sort of reaction from him. She licked up his throat to kiss the underside, and he moaned again.

She smiled against his skin. "I let you have all the fun first, Michael." She smiled up at him. "That's hardly fair." She was straddling across his thighs--teasing him with the nearness of her depths' wet warmth; her hands rubbed very lightly over his nipples. "Still, it can be remedied." Her eyes glowed seductively. "Now, it's my turn to play with my present."

He trembled and groaned. He couldn't remember ever being so aroused before--which, considering how devastatingly she had enticed him in the past, was saying something.

Her mouth began suckling at his collarbone and then started to move down his chest. "God, yes," he moaned. His hands were in her hair.

She reached his nipple and began running the tip of her tongue lightly over it. At the same time, though, she caught his arms and began to push them up to cross the wrists over his head. He groaned loudly.

She held him trapped, while her mouth began to wreak its erotic devastation on his tiny bud--suckling him mercilessly. His shaft throbbed for attention, begging to be next.

He was letting out choked little groans, as he arched himself into her wonderful mouth. She began nibbling on him, and he let out a loud, desperate cry, as a tear began to run down his cheek.

God, this felt so good. He had never felt so right--so wanted. His heart's wife was feasting on him as though he were the only thing she had ever desired--and, for the first time, he could see no definite point at which this would end. It wasn't for one night or one week. This was the beginning of forever, . . . and he had never been more thankful for anything in his life.

"Oh God, 'Kita, more," he begged hoarsely. Dear God, he wanted more.

She smiled against him and lapped at him once more before letting him go here. Her tongue trailed across his chest to the other tiny, aroused bud, and he shuddered. She captured this one more strongly, her teeth nibbling him a little less delicately.

He was groaning loudly beneath her. She loved this--loved that she could bring such pleasure to the man she adored. It seemed almost impossible to her at times that he could want her this much--and she loved every second that he proved her wrong.

She released him here, with a final lick, and moved further down his trembling body. She moved his hands beneath his head and looked up at him warningly; he smiled, utterly content to follow her lead.

Her hands ran down his sides, as her tongue licked little circles down his taut body. "Yes," he moaned--his eyes wide, watching her. His hips thrust forward.

Finally she reached the center of his trembling need. She held his gaze, as she ran a long lick up his shaft; his eyes were watering, were fixed unblinkingly to hers.

She ran a small lick over the head, and he let out a strangled cry. She smiled. "I do love to savor my gifts, Michael," she taunted him.

"My God--'Kita," he moaned.

She ran the tip of her tongue in a circle around the head of his shaft; he groaned, his shaft jumping slightly at the glorious feeling. She kissed it and then raised her head again. "Tell me what you want, Michael."

"Oh God," he moaned. "'Kita--taste me."

"Good," she smiled. She then captured the head in her mouth, as one of her hands began to caress the sac beneath it. Her other hand enclosed his shaft, savoring the incredible feeling of his throbbing power in her hand.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back--moaning, as she began to move on him. He was lost in the feelings she gave him--in the tongue which caressed, the warm soft mouth which held him so tight, the hand which stroked his length, the other which enclosed--which aroused his sac. Every tiny move she made on him made him insane.

His heart was beating wildly, his shaft practically groaning with pleasure. No one else could ever feel like her--no one. He had only been marking time until he had met her, until this very day--when he had finally had the sense to become one with her. Anything else he had ever thought in his life had been a delusion. . . . Nikita was the only reality there was.

Her movements sped up, keeping time with his groans--keeping a rhythm with the thrusts of his hips against her mouth. He would never know just how much she adored this--how much she adored being the one who brought him such pleasure, such desire. . . . He would never know how truly perfect he was.

Her mouth--her hand were so tight, enclosed him *so* perfectly. He knew he couldn't take much more of this. And, as much as he would have loved to be completed here, it would have hurt him deeply to not finish inside of her. He needed that more than life.

His eyes opened again; she recognized their look. He was asking her to stop, for now--to save him for herself.

She ran one more intense suck up him, and he trembled wildly beneath her--closing his eyes again for another few seconds. When he looked back at her, his gaze was desperate. "Please, 'Kita--take me," he begged.

She smiled at him with tender command and moved to straddle over him. Instead of taking him into herself, however, she ran her hands up his back and pulled him toward her. "Sit, my love." His eyes questioned her. "I want to make love to you like this."

He moaned, and she pulled him into a deep kiss before running her hand down his chest. His moan reverberated beneath her touch. She continued down until she took hold of his arousal, teasing it with her hand for a second before positioning him at the entrance to her depths.

He broke the kiss to look at her. His hands framed her face, running into her hair. "Please take me, my love." His eyes seemed so desperate. "Show me you still love me--please."

She leaned in to kiss him deeply before pulling back. "I still love you, my Michael." She kissed him once more. "Now give your wife the present you promised her."

"Yes, 'Kita," he moaned. He kissed her again.

She began to lower herself onto him, and they both broke the kiss to moan. Only his head was inside her so far, but it still felt *so* good. Their eyes were locked to each other's.

"Yes," he whispered, and she lowered herself onto him further. Her hands were clawing slightly at his shoulders.

He felt so good. Every inch remolded her into the only shape she had any interest in taking on. The large lovely head sank further into her--stretching her in a way which was too perfect to be described; it was a homecoming--for them both.

Their eyes reflected their every sensation to their lover. They witnessed every erotic tremor, every whispered moan. . . . And they felt reborn in every second of it.

His hands stroked the sides of her face, as she continued to lower herself onto him. His eyes had tears in them; he couldn't believe she felt this perfect--this right. He remembered, of course, but he had told himself a thousand times that the memories had to be false; no one could feel this good. But, once again, he had been wrong.

He wanted to be everything for her. He wanted to redefine life in her eyes; he wanted to be so perfect for her that she never stopped feeling the pleasure he gave--and, as much as part of him wanted to take control, he didn't--because he wanted even more for her to discover all these things in him for herself. He didn't want to have to convince her.

She took in yet another wonderful few inches of him and moaned. She had told herself that she was just playing him up in her memories--that she was remembering what she wanted to, not what was real. But now, she knew she had been wrong. . . . He was *so* much better than she had ever remembered.

She had taken almost all of him in now; she could feel him filling her completely. She closed her eyes and moaned, her head falling back; she was trembling slightly. How could anyone be this perfect? Her nails ran over his shoulders. How was it even possible?

She had taken almost all of him she could, but there was still some of him left. He licked his lips, at the sight of her throat so close to him; he leaned in to her--his arms surrounding her--and began to run wet, soft kisses down it. His hands moved to her hips to hold her, and--when he heard her moan--he gave her an intense, rotating thrust—stroking a little more of himself deep inside her.

She gasped, her eyes opening, her head still back. She ran her hands into his hair and held him at her throat. "Again," she moaned.

He nibbled near the base of her throat and repeated his previous move. Then, they both moaned loudly, as he sank himself to the base within her--her honeyed depths closed tight around him.

They both sat there for a minute, moaning. His forehead rested against the hollow of her throat. It felt too good--too perfect; they were both so empty without each other--neither of them quite real--but this, oh God, this was *right*.

Once her body had adjusted to him, she put her legs around him, and they began to rock slowly, holding each other tightly. With every movement, their bodies stroked him through her wet, tight depths--allowing them to savor every perfect millimeter of one another.

Her nails were sinking into his shoulders. They were both moaning. She couldn't believe how good this felt--his long, lovely length sunk deep inside her--the large, incredible head hitting her core in the most perfect, subtle rhythm.

They began rocking a little faster, as he bit her neck--nibbling at a delicate spot. The friction of their bodies stroking each other was almost unbearably wonderful.

Her nipples scraped against his slickened chest. They began rocking a bit faster again, and the incredible friction between them increased; they were both moaning.

He was running small bites up and down the side of her neck, while she held him to her and gave out gasping sobs of pleasure. This felt so good; he wanted her to experience it as intensely as he was--wanted her to be overcome with pleasure. He wasn't sure he could stand it much longer if she didn't come. If she didn't, he didn't exist--and he wanted to exist right now very, very badly.

He took hold of her head again and captured her in a deep, searing kiss. They were rocking very quickly now--his shaft beating in her deeply. He was groaning in arousal--was aching with it.

She felt the same. In fact, she was half-insane with desire. She had never felt more in need, more desperate to devour her partner--to take him completely.

Finally, with a loud groan, she took hold of the front of his shoulders and pushed Michael back onto the bed roughly; she was still kissing him. He groaned. God, yes. . . . This was what he had been waiting for.

She broke from the roughened kiss and sat up to begin riding him intensely. Her hands were on his waist. Her hair teased his thighs, as she rode him--head back, pace half-frantic.

My God--he had never seen anything more beautiful. Her body was arched with desire; her breasts were tipped at just the angle which begged for his mouth--the nipples stiff and perfect. She was moaning--was riding him with fierce abandon--her tight, slick walls stroking over him desperately, taking him in deeply.

He wanted to beg her to continue; he needed to. "Yes, 'Kita, more--God, more." He was meeting her insane thrusts, was stroking into her hard, as she let out desperate cries of desire. His eyes were tearing in joy. . . . Whole, she was finally making him whole.

"Ride me, 'Kita, please," she heard him begging her. She did; he just felt too good not to. "Harder, my 'Kita, . . . yes."

She groaned and started stroking herself even more tightly--more wildly over him. He felt so good in her--so huge. God, he just didn't seem to stop--seemed to fill her entire body, to stroke into her heart.

She began whimpering, biting her bottom lip slightly. Oh God, he was so good--so perfect. There seemed to be electric shocks being set off within her depths, was a fire he was stoking there. It was overtaking her; she couldn't outlast it.

He had never felt so right. His shaft beat wildly within her; he was stroking her harder--could see that she was close, was on the edge. My God, he wanted to push her over.

"Harder," he begged her--a little harder. She bit her lip and let out a whining moan; the electricity at her core was beginning to surge. He watched her, enraptured--desperate. "Oh God, yes--'Kita, yes."

Their thrusts got shorter, much harder. His head beat against her core savagely, as her groans continued. She was so close.

She felt him give a large, rotating thrust beneath her--pulling most of the way out before sliding roughly all the way back in. She jerked upright, her depths beginning to close on him. Her eyes popped open--focusing on him desperately. "Michael!" she begged; her eyes pleaded for him.

"'Kita," he breathed. He came to her like the desperate, loving man he was--sitting up to capture her in his arms. Then, when he ran his hand into her hair and pulled her closer to conquer her mouth--while giving her one more, short, rough thrust--she jerked against him again. She let out a fierce groan through the kiss, holding him in it insanely.

She felt like she had melted in pure pleasure. The ecstasy of it wouldn't stop; it was coming at her from too many directions. Everything inside her had turned into warm, liquid, aching fulfillment; Michael's love soared through her in the kiss, as well--completing her soul. . . . She had never felt more whole.

She was trembling in his arms--his angel was trembling in ecstasy in his arms. My God, this was heaven; this was the only fulfillment.

He was real; he was whole. Nikita had saved him. This was all he ever wanted out of life again.

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

Still trembling, she pulled back from the intense kiss slightly. She felt so perfect, but she wanted him to join her so desperately, as well; that was the only thing in life that she still needed. "Michael," she breathed.

He understood her request--agreed to it. He pulled her back into a kiss which was a little softer now and then began to reposition them both. He leaned her back, while moving himself to lie on top of her; her legs were wrapped around him, her hands holding his head. She was returning the kiss from the depths of her soul.

He pulled back finally to focus on her again. Her orgasm still hadn't entirely ended; he could still feel her depths shuddering around him. God, how he loved that.

He smiled at her and then began stroking into her lightly, smoothly. He was building on her last release--was loving her every small shudder. His eyes were loving and warm.

She was focused on him with a devotion which surpassed any words. "Yes" was all she could whisper.

She met him in his rhythm, moaning softly. God, he was *so* beautiful. She leaned in to kiss down the side of his face, her tongue coming out to taste his stubble once more.

When she bit at his jaw lightly, however, he groaned and gave her a hard stroke in response. She was so perfect, and he needed her so badly.

He saw her lean her head back and moan, before her bright eyes focused on him again; his hands framed her face. He couldn't find the words to tell her--to express his love, his desire, his need.

He leaned down to capture her mouth once more, therefore, his lips and tongue soft--delving warmly. His strokes, however, were becoming much more solid--more intense.

She moaned beneath him and held him to her. She had loved being in control before, but now she was loving just as much giving up that control to him; both of them felt perfect.

He sensed her abandonment and began kissing her far more deeply, more wildly. His strokes moved fiercely up and down one of her walls, hitting with every one a wonderfully tender spot inside her.

God, this was good. She held him more firmly toward herself and wrapped her legs more tightly around him--begging for more.

He heard her moan out in need, and he groaned in response. His kiss became far more intense, as his hands ran down her body to grab hold of her hips. He was now stroking straight and deep into her core with each thrust.

He could feel her melting beneath him with pleasure--knew that he was giving her *exactly* what she wanted. He trembled above her. It was too perfect. He couldn't last much longer.

Nikita gave small, whimpering moans through the kiss with every stroke. Her hands were still in his hair--her body very soft beneath his.

He wanted to prolong this for just a little while longer. It meant too much to let it go too quickly. In some ways, this was the first time for them--the first time when they had agreed to be one, to be whole--the first time when, tomorrow morning, he wouldn't be thinking about what might come; he wouldn't care. He had Nikita; they had now--and anything else could wait.

He softened the kiss slightly; his thrusts became slightly less intense, as well--although they were still stroking into exactly the same spot. His tongue, too, began to mimic what his body was doing to her, both of them stroking into her softness.

She whimpered, understanding what he was doing. It was too much for her--it was all too much; it felt too good. She couldn't stand another second of waiting.

She grabbed hold of his head and pulled him into the kiss fiercely, turning her head slightly to beg him to go deeper. Her legs were wrapped incredibly tightly around him, her heels trying to push him further into her tight, silken depths. She was crying, was letting out little animal groans.

He gave in to her demands--desperate to please her, desperate to be one with her. He took hold of her head firmly in the kiss and pulled his hips back from hers slightly. Then his kiss became fierce at the exact same moment that he thrust into her deeply--roughly. He heard a half howl from her, through the commanding kiss, and he repeated everything even more aggressively--growling slightly.

She broke from the kiss to scream. His huge head had hit just the spot which craved him with just the force she had ached for. He repeated the move twice, just to be sure, and she collapsed around him--holding him to her fiercely. The explosions within her were running through her blood; she was shaking with them.

He closed his eyes for a second with the feeling of her depths tightening around him. Her nails were leaving their light marks on his back. . . . Dear God, she was perfect. His shaft trembled slightly--its release only seconds away.

He opened his eyes once more to take in the ecstatic angel below him, and he groaned loudly; her eyes let him into her soul. He growled slightly, giving in, and then resumed the fierce kiss--giving her one more, huge, rough stroke.

He broke the kiss again a second later, as his release swept through him. They were both screaming--were arching into each other. Her depths rippled tightly around him, the liquid warmth of her pleasure shuddering throughout her--as his shaft barreled his warmth deep into her core.

He was holding onto her shoulders, was holding himself deep inside her, as his shaft beat out its final seconds of aching warmth. They were watching one another, as they both writhed in pleasure. They couldn't believe the incredible devotion--the joy--the wonder they each saw there; it was like angels mating. . . . It was holy.

What seemed to be a lifetime of pleasure later, they pulled each other into a deep, tender kiss--sealing their love for one another. The warmth of their devotion bound them together as one, and they both whimpered softly at the feeling.

The kiss lasted for several minutes. Their hands, too, stroked over each other's hair, soothing one another, reminding them that they belonged to each other alone.

When they finally pulled back to look at their perfect partner, they were smiling--contentedly. They kissed again, not needing any words to explain it. This, after all, needed no explanation. . . . After years of incredible emptiness, they were--finally--truly whole.

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

Warm. Secure. Happy. . . . Sated.

Nikita began to come up from the barest fringes of consciousness, with the memories of a wonderful dream playing through her mind; Michael had come to her--had told her that he wanted to be with her, permanently--had asked her to make love to him, had responded to her every touch like he was being stroked by angel's feathers, had given himself to her completely. . . . Mmm--if only.

She rubbed her cheek over what she suddenly realized wasn't her pillow. It was warm, muscular; fine hairs rubbed against her skin. Her eyes popped open, and she looked up slowly. My God, she thought. It was *real*.

Her eyes now wide open, she rested her head back on his chest, after a long second of staring. For a few minutes, indeed, her mind held nothing except mental static. . . . It was warm and contented, but it was mental static, nonetheless.

When the sense of pleasant shock finally began to wear off, however, she let out a long, happy sigh; she hadn't realized that she had been holding her breath before. . . . He was here; he was really here. He was in her bed, was lying beside her--no, was entwined with her. She smiled, snuggling closer, and looked back up at his peaceful face for a few more seconds. He was sleeping, was contented and fulfilled--and he was holding her tightly, even as he slept.

She rested her head back under his chin, rubbing her forehead there slightly. She had never expected this. Yes, she had dreamed of it almost constantly, but she had never thought that it would actually happen.

Her mind finally began to trace back over the events of last night--finally started to let reality work through to her again. He had told her that he was here to stay--that he wouldn't leave; he wanted to be with her, to be paired with her--in life as well as in Section. Her eyes still showed a bit of pleasant shock. It wasn't for one night; it was for as long as the two of them could make it work, for as long as they could manage to circumvent their watchers.

Her breath caught slightly, her eyes widening, as she pondered this further. . . . He had chosen her over Section--had told her that he didn't care what their masters wanted or did, so long as the two of them were together.

She didn't even know how to process it now; it seemed too unreal. For *so* many years, Michael had been Section's golden boy--first and foremost; everything else--his marriage to Simone, his own *son*--had come in second. But now--now, he was putting her before them. She blinked. She supposed miracles really must still happen.

The beauty of his decision, however, dimmed some when she remembered the possibilities--when she remembered what Section might do. He had impressed all of the dire consequences of personal attachment on her too often for her not to remember, indeed; she had sometimes even heard herself repeating them--murmuring them, in fact, as she woke up from some nightmare. She had seen their leaders, as well, use her affection for him against her--had seen that too often. . . . She couldn't just pretend, then, that the danger wasn't real.

She held him a little closer, and he responded in his sleep, making a deep, contented noise, as she unintentionally disturbed his dreams. She didn't notice, though. The fear was taking hold of her heart now; it started beating a little faster, as the horrible questions flooded her mind. What might they do to him--what might they do to *them*? In what ways might they hurt him, if this continued?

All of a sudden, she felt a bit like she was going to hyperventilate; she took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She knew that she needed to think about all this--needed her distance from him, not for a long time, just for a half hour or so--just for long enough to begin to process the immense evolutionary step which their relationship had undergone in just one night. She took a deep breath. Yes, she needed to think about this. . . . And she needed to be away from him to do it.

She didn't want to go far, of course; the thought of having Michael in her bed, in--dear God--*their* bed, was just too marvelous to walk away from for very long. But she did need a few minutes to get her mind to adjust to this, to try to start the mental changes which were necessary to go along with their suddenly, wonderfully, altered lives.

She couldn't do this, either, while lying beside Michael--not with the scent of him filling her lungs. She pressed her nose softly to his chest, inhaling his intoxicating musk. Not with his soft but powerful touch on her skin. She couldn't think when Michael was this close--a fact he knew only too well; she needed a little distance. Then, she could come back to him again and revel in the joy only the two of them could create.

He woke up just slightly when he felt her pulling away, but he didn't let her know. She slid herself slowly off of him, pulling herself back--out of his grasp. He did let out a slight moan, though; he couldn't help it. He had dreamed of this morning together for so long; he hated to have her gone--even for a second.

He realized, too, however, that she needed this time away from him; she needed to work through the new life they were about to forge together. He, after all, had been the one to initiate it--had been the one to say it was time; he hadn't, in fact, even been too ready to give her much choice about it, knowing that she had wanted this for some time, as well--but this also meant that he had had the time to process the change already. She hadn't. And, now, he needed to give her a little time to herself to allow this.

He continued to feign sleep, therefore, knowing that she needed the time alone. He cracked open his eyes just enough, though, to be able to see her, as she put on his sweater in preparation to leave their room.

God, he loved that she would do this--loved that she wanted his scent near her, as she thought. He knew that it told him, truly, everything he might need to know; she did, indeed, still want him.

He heard her leaving the room quietly. He could actually feel her eyes, as she took him in for one more second before starting down the stairs.

Dear God, he loved her. The connection between them was so powerful; it bound them as one so strongly that he didn't need to consciously know where she was. . . . All he had to do was *feel* her.

He sighed a little, then, once she was out of hearing range. He felt a little alone just having her in the other room. In a way, it was the strange reverse side to their bond; they always felt each other, but they also both always needed each other near--were always more complete when they were. Even though they were still connected more than most other, long-term, couples even when they were apart, they still needed to be close.

He felt the stillness of the room with her gone. His mind shifted to her emotional state again. He could feel her slight confusion from the other room, as she went about very quietly making herself some tea. He knew, really, that he had been selfish in how he had presented this new stage to her; in most ways, indeed, he had taken for granted that she would agree. He had, as she had accused him of last night, made the decision for them once again.

His heart ached a little at the thought. He didn't like this side of himself, but he knew without doubt that it was real. He did still give her orders, even in their personal time together; he did still make the decisions for them both. . . . He did still act, indeed--in some ways, like the trainer who was shacking up with his material.

He closed his eyes more tightly, part of him denying this. No. This was *not* how he thought of her; this was not how he wanted her. He wanted her willful and strong and beautiful.

He *never* wanted to order her to be his lover, indeed; he wasn't even as concerned about his pleasure in these times as he was about hers. His mind thought about this idea further. Then again--he realized, his lover was Nikita. His absolute ecstasy, therefore, was assured.

He sighed. He knew, however, that his denials didn't change how he treated her, too often. Yes, he wanted her to be a more than willing part of their relationship, but he had been the one to say it was time. Yes, he wanted her insanely-pitched arousal and need in their lovemaking, but he always seemed to set the tone of it--whatever that tone may be. Yes, too, he wanted a future with her, but he *had* approached her as though she were a valentine target in order to try to convince her to take it. It seemed, then, that this aspect--like so many other parts of their relationship--was hopelessly tangled, as well.

He wished he could be more giving, of course--wished that he could be more open with her, that he could allow her to have more control in their life together. He knew, however, that--while he was in Section, that would probably never happen; he was simply too constantly on watch for her safety, and his protectiveness--his possessiveness--tended to bleed over into these other parts of their lives, too.

Still, he did want to be the man she wanted--as much as that was possible for him. He did want to try. But he was sadly certain that there would still be many times to come when he would, once again, go back to this unhealthy path; he had just been trained too long, had been too conditioned, not to.

He did hope, though, that he could provide Nikita with enough happiness to somewhat make up for this failing; if nothing else, he did want to be there for her, and with her--outside of Section, as well as in. He wanted to be able to listen, when she needed to talk--wanted to be there to hold her, when she needed his warmth. And, as much as he was able, he wanted to be able to ask these things of her in reverse.

It was all still rather new to him, however--as it was to her; they would need a little while, he suspected, to truly find their way--but he was not frightened by this fact. For Nikita, truly, he was willing to work very hard to achieve something better--something greater. . . . And, between the two of them, he was certain that they could make it through.

He smiled slightly, as he heard her slip out onto her balcony. He imagined her there now. He had chosen this apartment for her, in fact, back before her first mission, mostly based on the view; he had seen a picture of it in their database--it was one of the many different places which Section kept to house whoever they needed to--and had then even come by to look at it himself, a rather unusual extra step for a trainer to take. He had imagined her standing on that balcony, looking into the night sky, then, from the first moment he had seen it--and his heart contracted a little every time he knew she was there.

He had even decorated this place for her himself, as well, in the beginning. He repressed a slight laugh, trying to make certain she wouldn't hear. But she had changed everything he had so carefully chosen; perhaps she had even suspected that he had been the one to make the choices and had done it just to show her independence from him. . . . Now, though, it didn't matter; it was, somehow, theirs.

His smile faded once again, as he analyzed his last thought, however. He knew, of course, that--in many ways--this last idea of his simply indicated his constant possession of her yet again; even in her own home, he tended to insinuate himself. Yes, he had stopped letting himself in whenever he felt like it, after she had held a gun on him, but his assumption that he belonged here--that he belonged with *her*--had never diminished.

He knew this bothered her, to an extent, too. He understood why now, as well. Had he been her, he would have been more than a little uncomfortable--probably would have been more than a little confrontational--about this himself.

He sighed once more. He couldn't help it, though; he needed her, and he had long ago learned to grab hold tightly of those few things he needed. Even if this were an unhealthy trait for them both, then, he couldn't let it go; he might try to change, in the future--he did let her roam more freely these days without keeping such a constant watch on her--but the road to the two of them actually functioning as *partners* would still be a hard one. . . . It was one, however, which he had every intention of trying to travel.

His smile returned again, as he thought about the one aspect of their lives together where they existed without mind games, without fears. The only time she trusted him completely, indeed, was when they made love; it was the *only* way in which he had never hurt her. And, in this sense, they were the closest they ever were to being equals at these times.

It didn't always seem to be this way, of course; they did play games with one another, in an erotic sense--but it was the one time in which neither of them complained. No matter what the appearances were, neither of them was ever truly the one in control then; neither of them was ever truly submissive. Everything, at these times, was always a matter of shared pleasure--whoever might take the occasional lead.

He opened his eyes enough to know that she couldn't see him and turned his head to be able to take in her scent on the sheets. He held the breath of her deep in his lungs. She smelled like heaven--pure, beautiful, . . . holy. In some ways, he suspected, they were finally standing at heaven's gate together--their relationship finally about to enter the realm of the celestial. . . . Now, all they had to do was be able to outdistance the purgatory he and Section had helped to create for them--to escape the minions who their underworld rulers might send after them--and they would, finally, be able to live in bliss.

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

Nikita sat on the balcony, sipping her tea--finishing up the small cookies she had grabbed to eat with it. She had spent about a half hour considering what had happened last night now--the odd new turn her relationship with Michael had taken, and she had finally come to one, inescapable conclusion: she wanted this.

Yes, she was still afraid of what Section might do--of what pains the two of them might be put through. Yes, she still worried that Michael might become more possessive rather than less, now that he had her in a shared bed, full-time. Yes, too, she worried about herself--that maybe she would end up agreeing to give up some part of her soul--either to Section or to Michael--in order to continue to be with him. But, in the end, none of these was a great enough fear to outweigh her love for him. . . . This, after all, was simply too beautiful an offer to pass up.

In a lot of ways, too, last night had answered some of her lingering doubts; she had never had Michael offer himself to her so openly--had never had him hold himself so ready to receive her commands. It was heady stuff. She could understand, indeed, why he always seemed to be so aroused and insane with need when she did the same with him; it was, in fact, an astonishingly powerful offer.

She smiled, taking another bite of her cookie. In a way, too, she was beginning to feel more secure about the way that he had approached her, at the beginning of last night. Yes, it had been a seduction technique, but she suspected, in retrospect, that there had been two reasons he had taken it.

The first of these, indeed, was that he had been so minutely trained in such approaches; she suspected, in fact, that he found it rather difficult to think outside of them, no matter how much he might want to. Second, too, they were both well aware that the only time she ever fully believed the things he said was when they were intimate; it was the only time she found him utterly trustworthy. He had, then--she suspected, tried to convince her to put aside her fears so that he could talk to the side of herself which loved him without questions or doubts. . . . In some ways, indeed, since he had wanted to be able to talk to her of his devotion, without raising her suspicions, it probably had been the only approach.

She sighed and dunked her cookie into her tea before taking another bite. She wished, of course, that they could both simply come to each other more honestly than this, but she really didn't see this changing in the near future. . . . It was something, she supposed sadly, which they would have to work on very hard for some time in order to be able to alter.

She threw the rest of the tea biscuit to the birds. None of this, however, was enough to make her decide to give up on the amazing new offer which Michael had presented to her last night; she adored it far too much to ever truly consider that.

She crossed her legs, sitting back. She had never imagined that this would happen, though--that Michael would ever be able to present himself to her in this way. Yet, here he was; this was real. . . . And he hadn't left her yet.

She rubbed her lips absently, as she thought--a little worriedly. Of course, none of this changed the problems they still might face with Section, but Michael had dismissed any talk of that. She thought she heard a bump inside the apartment and turned her head toward it. Maybe she would just go talk to him about it now--about all of it; it might soothe any lingering doubts she had, in fact, if she could just see his face this morning, if she could judge his mood.

She got up, then, abandoning her dishes on the porch, and walked back into the apartment--treading more delicately, as she approached her bedroom. She didn't want to wake him--or, well, maybe she did--but she still didn't want to do it roughly.

She looked up into her room; she could see his outline on the bed. In a way, it was hard to believe that it was really him, but--once again--he *was* there.

She picked her way gingerly up the stairs, almost afraid to make a noise in her own home. It was almost like spotting a spirit; she was afraid that a sudden noise might scare the lovely vision away.

She approached him slowly and then sat down on the side of the bed. She could see that he was awake--if only barely. She wondered how long he had been. Her heart warmed a little; maybe, indeed, he had been ever since she had left but had allowed her the time she needed to be alone, nonetheless. She took his hand. God, she loved him.

Her touch stroked over him softly. "Good morning."

His hand responded on instinct to her touch, returning her caresses. His eyes were just barely open; he had fallen back asleep, after she had gone.

He was so happy to see her, though; it was like having an angel come to him. "Good morning." His eyes took in his vision from God.

She was watching their hands play over one another's; their bodies, it seemed, understood instinctively who their partner was. She smiled slightly and looked back up at him briefly. "Feels strange." She refocused on their hands' play and took a deep, shaky breath. The words she spoke seemed almost too beautiful to be real. "We're really together now."

He watched their hands, as well--understanding her thoughts about them. "If we wanna be." He was a little afraid suddenly--was waiting for her reaction.

She looked at him and then moved her head a little, as she seemed to think about it. She already knew her answer. She nodded. "Well," she looked back at him, smiling, before refocusing on their joined hands, "I wanna be."

Her small smile lingered on her face. God, she was so beautiful. He told her the absolute truth of his soul. "So do I."

Her mind, however, wouldn't let her go for too long without speaking her fears; she needed to discuss them with him. "Section won't like it." She saw him refocus on their joined hands; he obviously didn't want to think about it. She continued on anyway, her eyes looking away--slightly unfocused. "Whadda ya think they'll do?"

He refocused on her. He knew she needed to discuss this. He would have liked to oblige her, as well--would have liked to help her with this, but he couldn't; besides, he had no answers to give her.

He settled, therefore, on distracting her--on reminding her that there was a definite up side to their new agreement, whatever its possible dangers. He sat up slowly, a playfully seductive look on his face; he saw her breathing accelerate just slightly.

He moved closer to her and started to quietly push her hair off her neck and behind her ear--moving it over one shoulder, as well. His movements were very careful. He was absolutely focused on the beauty of the skin he was revealing.

She was closing her eyes slightly at the wonderful feeling of his fingers stroking lightly over her flesh. He finally answered her question. "We'll have to see."

She nodded and closed her eyes completely for a second, as his touch seemed to sink into her soul. She knew what he was doing--understood that he was purposely distracting her from her fears, but she was beginning not to care. . . . His touch just felt too wonderful.

He watched her face, seeing that she was beginning to understand. He leaned in toward the back of her neck, therefore--as she leaned back to meet his touch, and kissed her skin *very* softly.

God, this felt good. She could see the other message he was giving her here, as well: "don't worry about it; enjoy the present." And, as he brushed her hair back and moved to kiss the side of her neck and up to her ear, she decided that he was probably right. She leaned into his movements again and closed her eyes at his incredibly gentle touch. This was just too perfect to give up.

He was still a little sleepy, his eyes still half closed, but this was the most idyllic way he could imagine to wake up. How many men, after all, were fortunate enough to wake with an angel beside them--an angel who adored your touch, . . . an angel who was wearing your sweater, because she didn't want to be bereft of your scent? He began to suckle her lobe and heard her moan. Not very many.

Her breathing was becoming increasingly unsteady. God, this was wonderful. How often could she boast of waking up in the morning to find an achingly gorgeous, sensual man in her bed--one who still looked beautifully ravished, by herself, from the night before? She smiled a little, as he kissed his way around the shell of her ear. Not often. . . . Maybe, though, she could in the future.

"Mmm," she moaned. "Don't you need to go in?" She didn't want this to stop, but . . .

"No," he whispered, as he tasted the raging pulse he found below her ear. "I'm down today."

"Mmmm," she moaned, a little more loudly, as he moved his intoxicating kisses down her neck. "Did you have any plans for the day, then?" her voice teased.

He was kissing just under her jaw. "Yes." He kissed his way back up to her ear, and whispered softly in it. "And they all involve bringing an angel to ecstasy."

She shuddered, her eyes closed. She could barely believe that she was now able to enjoy this--that she didn't need to run, didn't need to fear. "Mi-chael," she whispered.

"Mmm," he moaned, happily. There was nothing as wonderful as arousing her. He lived on her pleasure; it made his blood course wildly. He kissed over her neck, as she moaned softly. He then continued to whisper to her. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you look in my shirt?"

"Ohhh," she sighed, as he began to nibble at the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Her hand found the one he was propping himself on and clasped over it, squeezing it every time the joy of his touch on her increased. He nibbled a little more strongly, and she shuddered. She wanted to tease him, as well. "Did I ever tell you how arousing you look in nothing at all?"

He smiled before nipping just under her jaw, feeling another shudder run through her; her hand squeezed his, as he held it. "Not since last night," he teased back.

"Mmmm," she moaned. She pulled herself away from his wonderful mouth--his gentle hand--slightly and turned to him; his eyes were still half-lidded, but they held such love for her. She licked her lips, and ran her finger down his chest; her eyes shone at his. "I'll have to remedy that, won't I?"

The playful desire sparkled in his gaze. "Yes," he smiled. "You will." His smile then deepened, as she shuddered slightly again.

Her eyes roamed over him, her fingers becoming greedier. She smiled, as his breath snagged when her fingers trailed down to where his newly-awakened arousal was hidden by the sheet.

Her gaze met his again; a smile played on her lips--her eyes shining. "Have I told you yet just how much I enjoyed our game last night?"

He had to taste her lips; it was necessary to his survival. His hand ran into her hair and pulled her toward himself, capturing her in a deep, erotic kiss. She moaned in it; he refused to let her go from it for at least a minute.

He finally leaned back, with a slight parting trace of his teeth over her lower lip. He opened his mouth to catch her aroused sigh and then pulled back just slightly; his eyes were a little more serious. "You're wrong, 'Kita." He shook his head. "Nothing I do with you is a game." His hand still stroked over her hair. "It's a gift you give to me."

She moaned slightly, but he could see that she was about to contradict him. "No." He leaned in to capture her lips again for a second.

"Michael," she breathed, as she moved back from the kiss once more. There had never been a more arousing man on earth--ever.

His eyes were even more serious, as his gaze traced over her face. "I know I ask a lot of you, 'Kita. I know that, even when we make love, I still demand control." He shook his head slightly. "I can't help it." His eyes captured hers once more. "I just want you too much."

She shook her head at him, as well; her fingers trailed over his cheek. "No, Michael. You don't take control, when we're here; you give it." Her finger ran down to trace over his lips; her eyes were captivated there. "You spend every second we're together focused on pleasing me." She looked back up to him; she was smiling. "I've never known any other lover like that." Her smile deepened. "But then, I've never known *anyone* else like you."

His eyes looked a little sad. He wasn't entirely certain that the fact that he had no duplicates in her life was a bad thing for her.

She shook her head determinedly and stopped stroking his lips. Her hand ran into his hair and pulled him forward into a deep, demanding kiss.

He moaned there and held her in it. After a second, as well, he began to take control, his kiss becoming rougher and more commanding, as she moaned through it; their desire ran heatedly through their veins.

It ended after almost a minute. They were both panting slightly. Nikita spoke first; his sadness had reminded her of something she wanted to say. "New rule, Michael: no apologies for *anything* that happens in bed. So long as we're both still alive after it, there'll be nothing to be sorry for." Her eyes were determined.

He smiled again, his heart thundering in love, as he nodded slightly. One of his hands was starting to trace up her thigh. "Did I ever tell you how much I love your stubbornness?"

"Hmm, I think I could probably argue differently," she smiled.

He shook his head and pulled the sheet away from himself slightly. He was moving in on her--stalking her like a lion with erotic prey. His hand traced up under the sweater she wore to smooth over the soft skin of her back; the other circled around her, as well. "Not here you can't." He turned her suddenly, landing her on her back on the bed, with himself lying over her.

He caught her in a deep, intense kiss. She moaned deeply and held him in it. She loved his shows of passion; she knew he had no idea just how much they meant to her.

He continued to tease her here, his tongue tracing around all the corners of her mouth. God, this was why he had decided to forge this new path with her--to be with her, to love her, to show her all of his passion. He wanted her exactly like this.

************ She whimpered beneath him, and a low growl emitted from his throat. He had made a promise; he wouldn't apologize for his feral nature in bed again. They both loved each other like this--wanted to be the absolute focus of their beloved's passion and need.

He did, though, want her to know just how much he adored her. He broke the kiss finally and looked back at her--his face still close. She was panting slightly--her eyes wide. Both of his hands were underneath the sweater she wore, were letting her know through his touch how much he adored being near her. "Something very special happened to me this morning," he informed her. His eyes were still a little wild. "I found an angel in my sweater." His hands ran around to trace lightly over her stomach, moving up slowly with erotic intent. "That means I get to keep her," he smiled.

Her eyes were wide, her breathing ragged. Her hands ran from his shoulders, up his neck and into the silk of his hair. "Yes, Michael. She's yours." She leaned up to begin kissing around his face. "I'm yours," she moaned.