They hadn't discussed any of this, however; it all simply went without comment. They had not, since those early days, either, actually talked about the possibility of becoming lovers--and neither of them had made any moves in that direction. They were in stasis.

It was one, however, which they were both oddly comfortable with. Neither of them, indeed, were complaining. It was as though they both simply understood that they were reconnecting some ancient bond between them. . . . Its symbolic consummation, then, could wait.

They had both come, in fact, to a point where they found that--not only did they look forward to seeing each other-- they pretty much set their day around it. Michelle had taken to seeing clients only in the early morning or early evening, while Nik had put aside almost everyone else he knew just to be with her. It was stasis, then, but it was comfortable.

Still, in an odd way, it was disconcerting, as well. While they spent most of their free time together, they rarely actually spoke about themselves or their pasts; they spoke, instead, about anything which struck them--art, music, public affairs, morality, life--anything. Their pasts, however, were still largely untouched subjects.

They were discovering, though, that--although they frequently disagreed, Michelle being far more conservative than her younger friend--there was something deeply intoxicating about simply looking so intimately into each other's minds. It, truly--sometimes, left them both breathless.

Still, this did leave them knowing very little about the other's life. About the most that Nik knew, besides the town of her birth--which he had only learned in passing--and the fact that she had gained her name because her parents had assumed that she would be a boy, indeed, was that she had a much younger, married sister and two nephews--one of whom was named Michel, in her honor. The other, however, Nik had yet to even hear the name of. She had seemed especially saddened when she had spoken of him, in fact; he, then, had never actually pressed the point. . . . Beyond this, though, he knew almost nothing.

Michelle, however, wasn't truly much better off, when it came to information. Nik had told her, of course, a great deal about Walter and all the people at the bar; she had managed to piece together that there was some history between himself and his friend Julie, as well--but he had never told her the details.

Recently, too, she had been surprised when the faux redhead had been so nice to her; usually, she just glared at her across the bar. She had gathered, then--only partly from what Nik had told her--that they had had a talk, and Michelle --who was certain enough of her standing with her new friend to only feel a sort of background jealousy for the bar owner-- had invited her to join the two of them for lunch soon. . . . This, though, was about the limits of her knowledge of Nik, as well.

For both of them, however--despite the lack of actual information, the more time they had spent together discussing whatever topic might come to hand, the more whole they had felt. It was like they were reconnecting with some forgotten part of themselves--was as though they had suddenly discovered a twin to their souls, one who had always been there, but they had somehow missed until now. It just seemed right, then, to spend time together--even without any real clue of who the other person was--in any factual, day-to-day sense. . . . They lived, indeed, on faith.

It was the day after Nik's discussion with Julie, though, that saw the breakdown in their comfortable life. And it came, as well, in a way which neither of them had foreseen.

They had just finished a lesson and were walking back from buying lunch. Today she had bought it, although they frequently each bought their own; he wasn't into foolish bravado enough to pretend that he could always pay for hers--and she refused to even let him try.

This, then, wasn't atypical for them; they did it frequently. Today, however, something which had been brewing in Michelle's head for sometime was finally spoken --and it was the worst thing possible she could have said.

Their walk, after all--as with any walk in a large American city, took them regularly past dozens of homeless people. Some were sitting, some standing, some sleeping; some talked in small groups; some had out cups or other objects to ask for spare change. The old, the young, the mothers and small children--all varieties of the human species could be found, if you looked. It was, indeed, a very sad sort of norm.

Michelle, though, Nik had noticed more than once, never did seem to really see them; she seemed to belong, in fact, to the "if you ignore them, they'll disappear" philosophy of life. It was an observation which had hurt him a little, given his background, but he had never voiced anything. . . . He was too afraid she would bolt.

She, in reverse, though, had been noticing his reaction to the people they passed. Although he didn't make a particularly huge amount of money at his job, he always tried to give each person who asked him some change--at least. . . . Some he even seemed to know by name.

They were nearing her home once more, when Nik dropped several coins in the hat of a sleeping man; she finally spoke. "You shouldn't do that, you know."

Something in him--an instinct bred into him with the pain of his past--cracked slightly at the words, but he feigned ignorance, hoping that what she was saying to him would somehow change, would go away. "Shouldn't do what?"

She looked at him seriously, as they neared her building. "You shouldn't give them money."

He was fighting down the fear of what was coming; he put another few coins in a young boy's hand. "Why not?" He was reaching to give something to an older man.

She looked at the man and then back to her friend. She could, of course, start with the security concerns she had, but Nik tended to dismiss those; she tried something more prosaic. "He'll just use it to get drunk."

His attempts at denial were failing; her words were starting to get through. He bristled. "Maybe he needs to." His voice was angry.

She let go of the discussion for a few minutes, as they rode up to her apartment in quiet. Neither of them, however, had really dropped the subject; Nik, indeed, was still simmering.

Michelle was the first to speak, once they got inside. She had decided to go back to her security concerns; the longer she was with Nik, after all, the more worried she became by his seeming trust of everyone. "It's not safe."

He put his food down heavily on the counter; his back was to her, his voice mocking. "What, because they're all criminals and wackos?"

"Some of them are," she countered calmly.

His anger was building to an unbearable degree. He had just heard all of this before--had heard it all way too often. "Is that why you're too heartless to give them anything?" He turned to her, his blue eyes flashing.

Her face continued on in its calm, didactic mask; she had no idea yet that this was really more than one of their disagreements over politics or sociology--although he was angrier than she could clearly remember seeing him before. She needed him, however--for her own sanity, to watch himself more closely, to be safe; she tried a new tack, then. "How much do you think you're helping by giving each of them a few coins?"

"I'm doing what I can with what I have."

She shook her head. "You shouldn't."

His anger boiled over completely. He saw none of her motives. All he saw, instead, was yet another rich person who hated him, because he had dared to remind them that some people were poor, because he had dared not to be born with money. He nodded his head ironically; his voice was rising. "Because they're all just dirty, useless bums, right? 'They wouldn't work if you paid them; they want a free ride,' is it? Or, how about 'Get out of my church, you filthy loser; God doesn't want people like you'?"

The realization hit her suddenly, almost too suddenly; she felt floored--and like a fool. She also felt horribly, horribly sad at what had happened to him. "You've been there," she said quietly, her eyes a little wide.

He nodded; there were slight tears in his eyes. "That's right. I'm one of *them*." He shook his head, as he headed for the door, before turning back to her. "Don't worry, though. You won't have to see me again." He looked around himself dismissively. "I won't smell up your pretty home anymore."

She moved more quickly than he would ever have expected of her, had he even been noticing anymore. She grabbed on to the door knob with one hand, her other hand on his arm, stilling him; her contrition--and her pain at hurting him-- were real, . . . but they were far too late. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ."

He shook off her arm disgustedly. "You didn't mean *me*, right? You just meant 'them.'" He shook his head. "Well, bad news, lady--I'm one of them."

She shook her head slightly, but he went on, not ready to listen. "Once homeless, always homeless, right? Just another damn transient, another bum to keep from bothering us with his presence, to keep from dirtying up our streets." He was nearly forcing the words through his clenched teeth. "Well, don't worry, you won't have to fret about me sullying your purity by coming here again."

He managed to wrench her hand off the door knob, mostly because she was half in shock, and then pushed his way past her to rip open the door. He turned to her once more, though, before he left. "And you can keep the lunch. I don't want your fucking handouts."

The door slammed behind him with a sound that shook her to her soul. It sounded like the iron fortifications she had only so recently dismantled from guarding her heart and soul being slammed firmly back into place.

*********

The rest of that day was torture, for them both. Nik's mood continued to swing back and forth between an intense anger at Michelle for the prejudice he had perceived in her and a soul-deep despair at having walked out on the one person he had ever truly felt right with. Michelle's mind, as well, was filled with thoughts of horror at the life that Nikita must have endured at such a young age and an indescribable guilt at having hurt him herself so obviously, so deeply--and so totally without intention.

The pain within her never seemed to stop; she spent, in fact, most of the rest of the afternoon just sitting on her sofa, staring either at her floor or out the window. She had known, up to now--of course, just how much she had come to enjoy her time with her new friend, but it was only with his angry passage from her life that she was beginning to realize just how deep his ties to her went. She could feel them, indeed, in parts of herself she had nearly forgotten existed, in parts she had long ago shut away; her heart felt empty without his presence, felt betrayed at his loss. Her soul, too--which she had so long ago thought sacrificed --ached with his absence, cried out to have him back. They both refused to let him go.

She didn't fully comprehend any of this, of course, but she knew it was real. Her days with Nikita these past few weeks may have been spent without the deeper conversations about themselves which many couples engaged in, but there had been some sort of emotional strength to their time together, nonetheless. Even when they had said nothing, in fact, there had still been an exchange of souls which continued between them, one which--she suspected now--had been carried out between them for more years than she had lived.

It was, of course, a difficult feeling to explain, but she could sense its truth, nonetheless. They knew and understood things in one another which weren't confined to one lifetime; they connected on levels which had no real words to explain them. They were, in fact, almost an eternal couple--one who met again in lifetime after lifetime, who found each other through storm, pain, and loss--and who always attempted to forge something between them in beauty, instead.

She felt, almost, then, like she was playing out some sort of age-old pattern with him, like they were two souls trying once more to get it right. She was fairly sure, indeed, that they hadn't succeeded entirely yet. Some cosmic balance was still off.

Because of this, too, some sense of wracking, almost eternal, guilt rang out at her from a past she couldn't remember. She could feel it, though, in some part of herself which she had no conscious access to: she had hurt him before--irrevocably, brutally. Somewhere, in some existence her philosophy of life had never even believed to be possible before, she had seen those same bright blue eyes shine out at her in pain, in anguish--in the torment she herself had knowingly caused. This, indeed, was nothing like the first time she had wronged him.

She didn't understand any of this consciously, of course; she couldn't. She just knew that, even though she truly hadn't meant to hurt him--even if he had, at least in part, misinterpreted her--she was somehow still at fault, had, in some past she could no longer remember, taught him to distrust; this past, as completely subconscious as it was, made that clear to her, indeed. And, then--even if this latest wound to his soul was not entirely of her making, that same, unreachable past put the responsibility firmly on her shoulders.

All of this knowledge, too--of course, tormented her horribly. She couldn't stand--it just hurt her too much to realize--that she had caused him such pain. She needed, then, to make it up to him, needed to reconnect with the bright soul she had unwillingly damaged. And, if he wouldn't come to her, she would just have to be the one to try to fix it.

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

He had spent the day in morose reflection, barely talking to anyone. All he could think about was both the disgust for him he had read in Michelle's words--and his, diametrically opposed, absolute sorrow in her loss. It was a torment, indeed, which he could barely withstand.

His pain, however, was not wholly his own. The whole bar, in fact, seemed a little subdued that night. It was usually at least a relatively lively place, but-- with the rare occurrence of its favorite bartender being in such an obvious depression--the atmosphere had fallen a little flat, indeed.

Because of this, too, it was turning into a bit of a slow night. If she hadn't been worried for his mental health, in fact, Julie probably would have sent him home.

Nik, however, had proved a little hard to get rid of gracefully. When she had mentioned it in passing, indeed, she had seen her mistake; eyes which reflected the deepest sort of hurt and rejection had looked back at her--had silently accused her of betrayal in trying to turn him away. . . . She had made a few, very lame, jokes, then, and let him continue on.

There was only person in the bar that night who was not only oblivious enough not to know better than to bait him but was also not so thick as to fail to notice the man's mood--and that had been Mick. He tried, then, to help the younger man out of his ill-humor--in a way only Mick could.

He addressed Nik when the young man was serving him a drink; it was almost last call. "So, why the long face? Did long, tall, and beautiful finally dump you?" Nik glared, but to no avail; Mick continued on. "Well, don't feel too bad about it, me old friend." He leaned close, putting his arm around the bartender's shoulder. "Tell you what--how 'bout I set you up with a bird I know?" He failed to notice that Nik wasn't responding. "Be-yoo- ti-ful, she is--legs up to here, lovely arse--you'll like her; you'll see."

His young friend closed his eyes and twisted out of the older man's arm slowly, before turning to pretend to attend to something behind him. This was, definitely, the last thing he needed right now.

Mick continued, oblivious. "No? Okay, then, how 'bout Sylvia? I could give her a call. She is a bit older than you, but, since you seem to like them that way, . . ."

Nik was bristling silently, when the Englishman's, seemingly endless, list of potential "birds" was cut off midstream by a soft, smoky French accent. "If you keep offering to set him up, I'll break every bone in your body."

Mick turned at the same time that Nik did; the younger man's eyes locked with Michelle's. The ignored, just threatened, man, took in the significance of the look the two were exchanging. He, indeed, was being utterly ignored now, although he could still feel the woman's threat hanging, nearly palpably, in the air; he changed his tune, then, giving in while he could. "Or, then again, I could just bugger off." He picked up his drink and downed it in one go, then slid a few bills onto the counter and gave a half-wave behind him, as he turned to the door-- his survival instincts finally getting the best of him. "Cheers!"

"'Bye, Mick," Carla tossed in, speaking for the couple who weren't noticing him.

The older man considered turning around to engage the young beauty in conversation but was warned off by a look from Julie, who was watching from a corner. He took his leave.

The couple at the bar had yet to acknowledge anything around them. They were both caught between an incredible sense of both relief and tension.

It was Nik, though, who finally spoke--his earlier anger back, and undiminished. "What're you doing here?"

Michelle wasn't surprised by this reaction, even if it hurt her. She glanced down at the counter. "Can we talk?" She looked back up to meet his gaze.

He was half-caught in the amazing, ever-shifting green of her eyes--was caught in their incredible depths. He shook himself out of it, though. "What is there to talk about?" he spit out dismissively.

Her eyes continued to capture his completely. "Us," she responded simply.

He felt a tremor run through him, one which seemed to stem from far too many emotions to be able to name them all. He looked down at the floor.

"Please," she said quietly.

The entire bar may not have been watching their conversation, but a fairly significant portion of it was. It was Julie, though, who made the decision finally; he only noticed her, however, when he felt her hands untie his half-apron. "Get the hell out of here, Nik." He looked at her, about to protest. "Do it," she insisted.

He wasn't sure he wanted her help. "We're not closed yet," he argued simply.

"You're ruining my business, sourpuss." She grabbed the bar rag off his shoulder and slapped his butt with it; her expression showed some kindness but brooked no argument. "Get out, or you won't have a job to come back to tomorrow."

He paused for a minute and looked over at Michelle. Despite himself, her eyes drew him in---pleaded with him to give her another chance, to understand. He sighed and looked away, then, nodding slightly.

A few minutes later, the couple in question had gone, leaving Nik's friends to try to guess at the future outcome of the pair's standoff. Carla and Julie, especially, continued to watch the door, even after the two had left; the regular bartender spoke first. "Do you even know what brought that on?"

"Nope," Julie summed up; she seemed more than a little irritated. "But whatever the hell it was, Michelle better do some fast talking." She looked up at her friend. "'Cause if I see Nik that depressed again, I'm going to beat the crap out of her."

Carla cocked her head, as Julie moved off to help a customer; her own eyes were still on the door. "Good luck, Michelle," she thought, sighing. If she could get Nik back, after all, she would be the luckiest woman on the planet.

*********

They spent almost a half hour riding back to Michelle's apartment. Nikita, never having owned a car, knew it was probably the saner plan, even if he wasn't entirely happy with it; he could always get a cab later, anyway, if things turned particularly sour.

While they had settled on this arrangement, however, it was still a very silent 30 minutes. He had agreed on returning to her home simply to give them some privacy, but he had no particular joy in going back; it held too many memories for him now. Neither of them, though, felt like trying to broach a subject this big while mobile.

They finally walked into her apartment, then, in continued, saddened silence. Nik, indeed, almost froze, as he came in. He had known that seeing this place again would bring back all the hurt and anger of this afternoon, but he hadn't been prepared for how overwhelmed he really would be, as he entered. He simply stood there, barely inside, indeed, looking around--all of the feelings of sorrow, loss, and anger washing through his soul.

Michelle repressed a heavy sigh, as she quietly closed the door. It was almost as though she could feel his pain right now, could feel it throb in her. She hated it.

She, then, was the first to speak. "I'm sorry."

He was pulled back from his painful train of thought by her soft voice; he closed his eyes, simply overwhelmed by emotion--of so many kinds. It seemed, in fact, to go back before he had even been born.

He said nothing, but she could see he was listening. She continued, then. "What you thought I was saying this afternoon," she paused for a second, "it wasn't what I meant." There was a soft sigh, as her voice grew more quiet. "Not completely, at least."

He opened his eyes finally; she was still slightly behind him. He wasn't entirely certain he believed, of course, but he desperately needed--for his own sanity of soul--to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Then, what were you saying?"

She sighed softly and took a second to remove her coat, before walking past him slowly to sit on the couch; her stare was focused on the floor. It took her a minute to order her words. "You're so trusting, Nikita; you give so freely." She looked up at her kitchen. "I just don't want to see you hurt."

Her deep eyes focused on him, drew him in. His answer was quiet, but he was shaking his head slightly. "I can't be who you want. I can't--I won't--close off my heart from the people around me." He sighed; his eyes were quietly determined. "Being safe just isn't worth that to me."

Their gaze was becoming too intense for her; she had to refocus on her carpet. "I know." She opened her mouth to continue, but the words were slow in forming. "And there's a part of me which doesn't want to see you change," her voice grew even softer, "which loves that part of you."

She took a deep breath, and her honest gaze caught his once more. "It hurts me, though, to think of the things that might happen to you--of the disasters you court with your openness." She shook her head; her eyes told him what a difficult revelation this was for her. "It frightens me."

He felt his heart tug within him, felt it calling for her. He wanted her in his arms now, wanted to feel her warmth near him--to assure himself that she was here, that she was real. Still, there was just too much left unsaid, was too much they needed to resolve; it had to be voiced.

He did, though, take a seat on the floor near her couch, shrugging off his coat to lie beside him; he wasn't sure he should really be too close--wasn't even sure whether she wanted that right now. He leaned his head against the arm of the sofa, his gaze a little unfocused. "You don't have to protect me, y'know." He met her eyes fully once again. "I never asked you to."

She nodded. "I know." She shrugged just slightly. "I can't help it." He didn't look like he understood--for which she wasn't certain she could blame him--so she went on. "It's a lot of things--some of them I can't even explain," her eyes unfocused slightly, just over his shoulder, "don't even understand myself." She met his look once more. "Part of it, though, is how I was raised, is who I am."

He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

There was a ghost of a smile, a rather ironic and saddened one, on her lips, as her focus went away from him slightly again. "I can remember--even back when I could just barely talk, I think--my mother used to play a game with me: spot the variable." She looked back at him again. "I would look around, wherever we were, and tell her what there was that might lead to disaster, that was an open door to an attack. If I could see a preset number of them correctly, I got a caress; if I didn't, she left me alone for the rest of the day." Her eyes shifted away again. "I learned to look."

Nik's heart cracked slightly for her. She had never told him about her past, had never revealed the . . . oddities of her youth before. God, he wished he could take away her pain.

He wanted to hold her now, to tell her that things were different, that he didn't need her to spot the dangers around him in order to win his love. All that came out verbally, though, was a breathed, "Mi-chelle."

She closed her eyes. The way he could caress her name made her heart ache. Still, this wasn't quite what she wanted. "Don't." She looked back at him. "I don't want your sympathy." She sighed slightly. "It's just who I am."

His deep, loving gaze was too much for her, after a second; she looked away again, as she continued. "I didn't mean to hurt you today, Ni-ki-ta." She shook her head once more, her gaze tortured. "I don't ever want to do that." She met his eyes again. "It's just that--you frighten me sometimes; you're too open, too trusting. I want to lock you away and keep you safe, make sure that no one ever harms you."

He shook his head. "But I don't want to be locked away--and I don't want to not care."

She nodded. "I know. It's one of the many things that's so beautiful about you. But I still don't want you to get hurt."

He loved that about her, of course--loved that she cared for him so much, but he still couldn't just agree with her approach. His eyes were serious, then, as he tried to explain his point. "Everyone gets hurt; it happens. There's no way to stop it entirely."

"I don't mean emotionally."

"I know," he nodded. "But to do what you want, to shut down that much of myself--that would hurt me much more than anything else." He shook his head. "I can't live like that." His gaze was unshakable, as he made himself clear. "I won't."

She sighed, knowing then that she had no way to win this battle without destroying something neither of them wanted to see him lose. "Can you at least be slightly more cautious?"

He nodded. "I am. I follow my instincts. If they tell me to stay away, I do. God himself couldn't get me to change my mind then."

She smiled a little. It wasn't really the agreement she wanted, but she supposed it would have to do. She decided, then, to take their discussion back to where it had started. "That was my real fear today, you know."

He shook his head a little. "But it wasn't all of it."

She nodded. "You're right, but you wouldn't really advise a lone woman to approach unknown men on the street more often, would you?"

"No. But you know that's not what I'm saying."

She looked down at the floor. "No, I suppose it isn't."

He swallowed heavily. He hated this subject, but he had to know the truth. "Do you hate me--and people like me--so much?" She looked back up at him, as he swallowed heavily. "Do you really think we're all just psychopaths and bums?"

Her eyes were soft. "No." Her focus went away again. "But I suppose I never have thought into it too much." She shook her head, her gaze a little haunted. "I've never really thought into much of *anyone* else too much before, unless they were clients. I was never taught to."

He swallowed heavily. It hurt him to even try to think the way she did; he had never been like that, no matter how much easier his life might have been.

He looked down at the floor, his eyes focusing somewhere on his own past, as he tried to explain something else he wanted her to understand--hoping it would help explain himself to her further. "There was a time, y'know, when I didn't trust anyone, when I couldn't--no matter how helpful they seemed." He met her gaze again.

Her eyes held such pain at the thought. "When you were homeless?"

He nodded. "Maybe it's why I can't ignore it all now, I dunno. But I won't look away, won't pretend it's not there." His gaze became even more serious. "And I won't stop trusting again. I won't go back."

She nodded. She could understand a little, even though she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

They were silent for a minute or so, then. They had resolved some things, even if their resolution was simply to leave other subjects hanging. She needed to know something else, though. "Would you tell me about it?"

"About the street?"

She nodded. "Yes."

His gaze unfocused, landing on the floor. It was a fairly large subject. "What do you want to know?"

"How'd you get there?"

He closed his eyes; that was a painful one. He supposed, however, that he might as well tell her. He opened his eyes again. "I lived on the street off and on with my mother for a lot of my childhood, whenever she was between boyfriends," he told her softly, before sighing. "But I suppose what you really want to know about happened later." He refocused on her. "My mother threw me out."

Her eyes widened in horror. It wasn't that she had had a particularly wonderful set of parents herself, but she could not--in any part of her soul--imagine anyone being able to knowingly hurt this man. Her tone reflected her incredulity. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I was 16. Her latest boyfriend decided that I was old enough to be on my own." He shook his head, as he refocused on her, explaining further. "He just wasn't very fond of children--or much of anyone else, really." He sighed, his eyes very sad, as his words delved the truth in even more depth. "I think he just wanted to be able to beat her without interference, too."

Her gaze held a heartbreaking sadness, for him alone. She was amazed, then, by what she could see in his eyes. "Why don't you hate her?"

He looked away, closing himself off slightly. "She was hurting, too." He shook his head. "She didn't really understand how to be happy."

She couldn't understand his empathy. "That's not an excuse."

He met her eyes again, seriously. "It's the reason." He held her amazed gaze for another second, before he looked away once more, his voice growing softer. "I just wish I could have helped her more."

She shook her head, amazed. It wasn't that she believed in the truth of instinctive maternal bonds; her own past had proven them to be false. She simply could not imagine, however, how any mother could not have loved someone as beautiful as this man; it stymied her completely.

This, though, wasn't really all of it. Perhaps, too, it reminded her too much--brought back too many memories of a small voice on a phone line, pleading for her return; she closed her eyes. No. She could not talk about maternal instincts. . . . She had already proven beyond a doubt that she had none of her own.

He felt the pain washing through him from her and looked back to see her eyes closed, her face a study in regret. He didn't understand its cause, of course, but it hurt him to see such sadness on those beautiful features.

His hand reached up to touch hers gently, then, caressing over it softly. "Michelle?" Her eyes opened to show him a sea of sadness--to show him the unacknowledged torment of loss.

She took his hand and twined her fingers with his. His eyes held so much love for her--showed her all the beauty of the breath-taking man her heart had always adored.

She knew now what she needed, therefore, what she had to ask for. "Stay with me, Ni-ki-ta. Please don't leave me tonight."

His heart thumped more loudly, racing further at the look of devotion and need in her eyes--at the myriad deep emotions which her soft gaze held for him alone. He could barely believe them; he erred, then, on the side of caution. "I could sleep here on the couch."

Her eyes searched his; her accent seemed to have thickened slightly. "You know that's not what I mean." She turned her body toward him further and stroked the fingers of her other hand down his jaw--her short, manicured nails tracing just under it. "I need you."

He swallowed slightly. He wanted this, of course, but . . . "For one night?"

She shook her head. "No. For as long as you want me."

Her thumb was caressing his cheek; her eyes stroked over his lips. The look made his heart flutter again. He answered her softly, with total honesty. "I love you, Michelle." He turned his head to kiss her hand. "There will never be a time when that's not true."

She put her thumb over his lips, stopping any further words. He meant them--now, she knew, but he had no idea of all she really was, of just how loathsome all of her past proved her to be. She knew, then, that he would leave in time.

This fact, though, meant little to her, at the moment; the words seemed to sing in her heart--made it glow with warmth. He had brought it--had brought *her*--back from a long ice age, had taught it how to beat once more. Even if she was certain that he would one day despise her, indeed, she knew that she would never cease loving him.

Her own decision was made, therefore. "No more words," she said finally. Her thumb was gently caressing his lips; her heart was pounding. "Will you stay?"

There was only one answer he could ever give to this; his heart, his soul, held no uncertainty. He kissed the pad of her thumb softly. "Yes--until you no longer want me."

She closed her eyes for half a second, devoted to him even more strongly at the words. The day she would no longer care, she knew, would never come; her heart, her soul, was bound to him until long past both of their deaths. There would never be another who could warm it again.

*********

Their loving gaze continued for only another few seconds before the desire to finally taste one another became overwhelming. Michelle leaned down to him, as he met her halfway, and they began with an almost tentative brush of lips, both of them nearly frightened by the powerful storm they knew their kiss would bring.

Their early tentativeness didn't last long. They still took things slowly, though, not wanting to waste a single second of sensation. Just the touch of their lips had sent a warm, electric jolt into them both, indeed; the pleasures to come, then, were almost unimaginable.

Their mouths were open to take in faster, small pants of breath; they used the opportunity to finally stroke out their tongues, brushing them along one another's in a lovely, feather-like caress. A loud moan rose from them with that one taste, however, and they both leaned in further to deepen the kiss.

Their hands caressed each other's cheeks in soft strokes, as they held one another in the deeper kiss. Their lips were pressed together firmly now, as their tongues began to explore the new joys they were presented. Everything seemed so new--and yet still so wonderfully familiar.

It was, indeed, a hard feeling to get past. The kiss gave both of them a deep, aching warmth; it shuddered through them, as they discovered all the treasures revealed there. It was a sensation like being caressed by light deep within; neither of them could ever imagine letting it go.

They began to give each other small, savoring kisses, then--taking turns as they suckled soft lips or caressed them with the soft stroke of tongues. Everything they discovered, too, seemed to raise them to some other plane of awareness, seemed to remind them of shared joys--both unremembered past and undiscovered future. It was like a homecoming to a place they had never been but had been holding deep in their souls for all of their lives, nonetheless.

Michelle finally moved off the sofa and onto her knees, wanting to be closer to him. Her hands were caressing his face, were running back to stroke over his silken hair. She reached back finally and gently pulled out the band which held it back, allowing it to flow freely over his shoulders.

His hands, too, were making a study of her features, of the ones he had adored since before he was born. He ran his hands back into her--too well-tamed--curls, as well. She always tried to keep them proper and neat, but he was tired of this; he wanted her in her natural, wild state.

The kiss was causing something to shudder within her which she could barely remember ever experiencing before. Desire, yearning, an intimate wonder--they had all existed before for her, but none of them had ever seemed this strong, not even with the one other person she had so dearly loved. This, indeed, made her feel both free and needy--made her want to give herself of her own pure volition to her lover, to simply sink into the indescribable joy of both giving and receiving pleasure with him alone.

It was a feeling which would have been hard to surpass. If she had suddenly been touched by God, she couldn't have felt more completely alive and happy. Nothing else again could ever affect her like her beloved.

For him, too, the moment was sublime. In all of the dreams he could remember--back to his earliest childhood--he had felt as though he were searching, as though he had somehow been separated from something, from someone of immeasurable value.

Now, though, that search had ceased, had reached the conclusion it had been heading toward for so many years. And the epic, soulful beauty of his beautiful one's kiss had brought him a sense of peace he had never previously even imagined.

Still, with all of the soul-soothing joy of the moment, there was another emotion welling within them, as well. For both of them, indeed, a sense of eternal need was being awoken--a feeling neither had ever come anywhere close to having experienced before. It asked for submission of themselves, and of each other, in order to transcend the purely physical, in order to form something larger and more perfect. It demanded release--and joy.

She broke from the kiss finally; her eyes were slightly teary, her hands stroking over his hair. "You're so beautiful, my Ni-ki-ta." She kissed his lips softly again. "I've missed you for so long."

He gave her a tender, aching little smile; he understood her words completely. He kissed her lips softly for another second, before pulling back. "And I've missed you, my Michelle."

Their tender eyes connected for another several, long heartbeats, before they resumed the kiss again; their hands, too, began to move down, began to stroke along all those places they had missed before. His own caressed her shoulders, before running down her back, knowing by instinct the soft skin which awaited him under the delicate material of her dress. Hers, too, ran back to stroke her fingers lightly down the nape of his neck before beginning to caress further along his shoulders and upper arms.

There were so many needs in them; they both knew it. She broke from the kiss, then, to look at him again, her eyes caressing his for a second. She couldn't wait much longer.

She sighed slightly and began to rise, running her hand down his arm to catch his own. "Not here," her husky whisper came to him. "Not like this."

They both rose--his understanding complete, and she kissed him lightly once more. She then began to lead him back to her bedroom.

She turned on the light, as they came in. He had seen it in passing before, when he had gone through it to get to her bathroom, of course. For all of her wealth, it was really a rather small--if elegant--apartment; of course, for the building and neighborhood it was in, it could afford to be.

This, though, was really the first time he had taken the room in. There were no frills; little there was actually very soft. Even here, then, it seemed to him that she had been locking away some sense of tenderness, had hidden it away even from herself--had too long trained herself to be hard.

It did have one softer feature, however--at least at the moment. There was a large picture window, which now afforded them a view of some of the lights of downtown D.C. It seemed a window made for dreaming. . . . He wondered if she ever did.

These thoughts were really more brief impressions, of course; he only looked around himself for a second before looking back at her. He couldn't keep his gaze from her for very long.

His thumb stroked down her cheek, as her eyes drew him in--told him everything he needed to know in her. "I do love you, Michelle," he told her again.

The look in his eyes drew her in. He was so beautiful; his gaze seemed to speak to such deeply-hidden parts of her soul. She gave him a small, heartbreaking smile, as her hand stroked over his hair once more. "I know, my love."

He returned the smile--not expecting more from her in the way of professions; she had been, he could see in her eyes, too hurt to speak of such things freely. He suspected, indeed, that it would have gone against all of the training she had told him about earlier tonight. "I've dreamed of making love to you," he told her softly.

Her smile grew even more soulful. "And I you." She leaned in to kiss him again, and they both moaned slightly.

The deep exploration between them was making them both shudder, was fanning their need. He stroked her cheek, then, as he began to take control of the kiss. She moaned deeply, something within her fluttering in recognition of him, of the passion which had always been in his soul.

Still, she didn't want him to be in control tonight; she wanted to show him, instead, just how much she adored him, how unspeakably joyous she was that he had come back to her--how sorry she was that she had hurt him. She wanted to show him realms of pleasure he had never encountered before, wanted him to recognize how beautiful he was, . . . and she wanted his forgiveness, too, for an inaccessible lifetime of hurt from their past.

She continued the kiss, then, deepening it slightly, taking control from him. He allowed her to have it, was willing to do anything she wanted, so long as it involved her absolute pleasure; he hoped, of course, that he could bring her the joy he knew she deserved. He understood that he had brought various women pleasure before; they had made that clear--and he had long ago taught himself not to be fooled, to not *want* to be fooled. Still, Michelle was so exquisite, was so beautiful in a way which he could never attribute to any one cause; she, too, was older than he was--had, no doubt, known far more exciting men than himself--and she deserved, too, such unspoken realms of joy.

He wasn't sure whether he would be able to give her all she deserved, but he was absolutely certain that he would not only try--he would share himself completely with her. . . . They would find pleasure together, then, or not at all.

She could feel some of his anxieties, but she dismissed them entirely. He was so perfect, was so arousing--was so sensitive and pleasure-loving; nothing he could do, then--she knew, could ever fail to bring her joy. . . . Besides, he was the only man she could ever adore; nothing, then, would stop her happiness tonight.

She broke from the deep kiss finally with a ragged sigh; she needed him so much. He waited, panting slightly, wanting to know what she was thinking.

Her eyes shone at him. Her first thought was that she wanted to see him revealed to her finally; she wanted to be able to touch the wonderful, strong body she had so often surreptitiously examined during their sparring. It seemed like they had waited so long for this moment, indeed. The physical time of it was irrelevant; there had been lifetimes, it seemed, keeping them apart.

Her hands stroked down him then, pausing at the buttons on his white shirt; he was still in his work clothes. His breathing snagged slightly, as she began to slowly reveal him, while her eyes were locked on her work, waiting. She made them both delay a few more seconds, as well, as she unbuttoned his sleeves; she could feel his pulse jump.

When she began to part the material, though, began to stroke her hands softly under it--over his strong, broad chest, Nik closed his eyes--lost to her touch. He let out a small, shuddering moan. She smiled and discarded the shirt behind him.

She smiled down further at her discovery, as well; he was a very beautiful man. She ran her hands over the smooth flesh and sighed happily when she felt his strong, rapid heartbeat. . . . She had to explore him further.

She looked up at his face at just the second he opened his eyes once more; his gaze was so loving. She leaned in and nipped at his lips slightly, smiling wickedly, before she began her happy tour along his body.

He moaned and ran his hands into her hair. Her tongue stroked along his slight stubble. "Michelle," he whispered reverently, his heart pounding. She bit at his jaw, and he moaned loudly.

God, she loved that reaction, loved that she gave him such desire. She began to nibble slightly down the side of his neck, finding by instinct all of its most delicate and pleasurable spots; he was moaning more loudly with her every discovery, his hands deep in her hair.

She loved that, loved being held by him so tenderly and with such deep desire; she adored the feeling of his hands on her. She found the spot that made him tremble the most, then, and began to suckle it, running her teeth over it slightly from time to time.

He let out a small "uhhh" sound with her perfect ministrations, his eyes closed once more. She felt so good, teased him in a way which made him shudder for more.

She bit him a little more roughly after one of his shudders and another tremor of love ran through him. He kissed her temple, taking in her scent, as she moaned.

His tender, desire-filled reactions to her were making her hungrier for him; as much as she wanted to explore him completely, indeed, she was beginning to think that she would need him more quickly this time. She knew, without doubt, that there would be others.

This wasn't all she was pondering, though; her desire for him was giving her other thoughts. She needed, indeed, for him to not just desire her; she wanted for him to be absolutely shaking with his need by the time they were finally joined. She wanted to release the inner wildness which she had seen lurking in the depths of his eyes; she wanted him insane with his desire for her alone.

She tasted her way, then, down to the tender flesh at the base of his neck, where it met his shoulder, and bit him slightly, savoring the incredible taste of his skin on her tongue--a taste which belonged to him alone. She wanted to devour him completely.

He let out a louder "Ah!" with her move and shuddered more strongly. She was setting free something within him--a sense of desperate yearning, a sense of need which had begun, it seemed, centuries ago, when his soul had first been born.

Her touch was incredible, indeed--made him tremble with desire. He knew, though, that he had to touch her soon; he felt mad for the taste of her--was desperate to lose himself in her, to give over his every sense to her alone.

She bit him slightly again, and he pulled her back from him--gently but insistently, unable to wait. His eyes burned into hers with a desire which made her take in her breath--and he then caught that same breath in a deep, commanding, and infinitely erotic exploration of her sweet mouth.

She shuddered against him and held onto his soft hair. She wasn't quite used to being too submissive, wasn't used to truly trusting enough to allow it. Still, Nikita was convincing her--and, she realized, he seemed ready to take no objections so long as he gave her joy. She relented, then, feeling unworthy of his devotion--but loving him even more for it, nonetheless.

He felt her agreement to this new path, and a slight moan rose from him in the kiss. He could feel his blood as it rushed through his veins, as it fed his aching need for her; he had to be able to touch her soon.

He began, then, by unzipping the back of her black dress; as usual, she only had two modes in her appearance--training and business. The zipper hummed warmly down her spine, and she moaned loudly when his hands finally reached reverently within to lovingly caress the skin of her back.

She shuddered slightly at the feeling and broke from the kiss. His touch was magical to her, seemed to bring something to life deep within her--something which had died, which perhaps she had willingly killed--so long ago. His hands were warm, strong and gentle; they made her feel loved, wanted. "Ni-ki-ta," she whispered.

He moaned. He was kissing the side of her face devotedly, was just reveling in the exquisite feel of her skin. Part of him wasn't sure he would survive going further than this, indeed. . . . She was just too perfect to describe.

Still, he had dreamed for so long of seeing her in her full glory--had so long fantasized of the lovely flesh which he so needed to touch. He couldn't wait much longer.

Neither, it seemed, could she. She needed to be revealed to him, wanted desperately to see his eyes as he saw her without boundaries, without protection.

She grabbed his head and pulled him into a brief, needy kiss, before she stepped back from him slightly. Her eyes held his; the love in both their gazes was unmistakable.

His breathing snagged again, as she began to lower the dress, revealing herself slowly. He moaned slightly, and she smiled. A few heartbeats later, too, the dress and slip were in a puddle around her feet; she slipped off her shoes, as well.

His breath was stuttering in his lungs now, as he took her in. She stood before him in nothing but her underclothes--all of it black; a black bra, panties, and gartered stockings were all that kept him from seeing her total beauty.

Part of his mind--a very, very small part--took a second, though, to wonder at the stockings. He knew no other women who put up with garters--at least as far as he was aware; all of them seemed to see them as a complete nuisance.

Still--that tiny fragment of his mind pondered, somehow, they made sense for the beautiful woman before him. And--considering both how desperately he loved her and how unspeakably aroused he was by the sight of her before him--who was he to question her choice of undergarments?

He had no way of knowing, of course, that these too were yet another part of her training she simply had yet to overcome--were another of her mother's little lessons. Still, her mind wasn't on any of this now. It was on his eyes--and the rather dangerous things their look of total, rapturous desire was doing to her self-control.

She started to take off her bra, wanting more of his look--hungry for it, but he stopped her. "No." He held his arms out toward her, and she stepped into them, wanting to be held by him again. His hands reached behind her, stroking over her back--near the clasp of her bra, as he kissed from her temple to her ear. "I've dreamed of this," he whispered to her.

She held onto him and shuddered slightly, before lowering her forehead to rest on his shoulder. Her own dreams hadn't even come close.

Her hands stroked over his back, scratched lightly over his shoulders, while he kissed over her ear. She was shuddering against him in need.

He was beginning, more and more, to wish that he were revealed, as well. His present, volcanically-aroused, state was making clothing rather uncomfortable.

She did nothing to cease his arousal, then, when she moaned, as he unclasped her bra finally. He was kissing down the side of her face, toward her neck, as he smoothed the scant material over her shoulders--down her arms.

"Yes," she breathed. She had dreamed of being with him--so many times. Oddly, though, she had rarely dreamed as much of his part in their lovemaking, more of what she could do for him. To feel his wonderful, life-giving, hands touching her, worshiping her, made her feel cherished--and more than happy.

He moved her back slightly, as he placed a soft nip at the joint of her shoulder and neck. She moaned loudly. He then slipped the bra off between them and discarded it to the side.

She stood back just a little and watched his face, as his eyes took her in. His breathing snagged slightly, as he looked back to her eyes again. "You're so beautiful," he whispered devotedly.

The desperately sacred moan she let out was caught in the kiss that he pulled her into--the one that they shared for several minutes. Her hands were deep in his hair, pulled him toward her to taste him, to revel in his love.

She could feel him, though, could feel his hard, imprisoned length throbbing against her--and it made her desperate for his absolute, erotic devotion. Her hands, then, ran down that perfect body of his, flicking momentarily past tiny, hardened nipples--eliciting an aching groan, which she happily swallowed in the kiss--to play around his waistband.

He pulled back from the kiss with a moan, his eyes searching hers. She smiled at him. "Please," she whispered.

He moaned then, as her lovely, talented hand ran over his still-enclosed, hardened length. He closed his eyes. He was in pain from sheer need, from want of her. He wasn't sure he could wait much longer.

She smiled tenderly at the look on his face and stopped for a second to kiss his cheek. "Take off your shoes, my love," she ordered softly.

He moved back from her just slightly, removing his shoes and then his socks with his feet. She smiled again, and he opened his eyes once more to focus on her. "Good," she whispered.

He caught something in her eyes, however--something he wasn't sure she was even consciously aware of. His own smile grew slightly wicked, then, as he stepped back slightly from her.

Her eyes grew wide. She hadn't known it, but this was what she had wanted--had been craving the sight of him, had been wanting to watch him reveal himself to her heated gaze alone.

He obliged, then, by unbuttoning his dark jeans and unzipping them very slowly. Her eyes dropped to his hands, and he smiled. A few heartbeats later, he had lowered the rest of his clothes, kicking them slightly to the side, and stood naked to her gaze.

Her breath caught, her eyes widening. She had had some hints of him, of course, from their sparring--and the not-particularly-loose jeans he favored, but he had always managed an admirable control before. Now, however was a different story.

She smiled slightly and met his eyes again. "You're so beautiful," she breathed. He saw, without doubt, that she meant every word. God, he needed her so much.

He returned to her then, and she welcomed him into her arms. He gave her a small kiss, as his hands roamed down her sides. When he pulled back, though, he looked a little embarrassed. "What is it?" she wondered.

He was turning a rather endearing shade of pink, as his hands caressed around her garter belt. "I don't know how to take these off," he admitted.

She laughed slightly--happily--and then pulled him into a deep, loving, and incredibly arousing kiss. When she released him from it finally, she was smiling. "I'll buy some pantyhose tomorrow."

His smile met hers. "Good." He pulled her into another deep, tender kiss.

She was lost in it for several minutes, all of her desire running riot through her. Finally, though, she pulled back from it and stepped away from him a little.

She had considered performing for him while she took off the stockings, but a look in his eyes showed her that he truly seemed more interested in being able to see and feel her than in being given a show. She sat down on the bed and discarded them, then, relatively quickly--amazed once more at how very different a man he was.

She was surprised, however, a second later. When she had finished, indeed, he was next to her, his hand running along her back softly; his eyes looked worried. "What is it?" she wondered.

"I've just remembered something." He decided it had undoubtedly been the decreased blood flow to his brain which had impaired the thought until now.

She understood without further words. Her eyes were a little saddened but completely realistic. "I can't have children," she told him quietly.

He saw the sadness she hadn't quite accepted at this fact in her eyes and knelt next to her, his fingers stroking along her face softly. "I'm sorry," he said gently.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head--asking not to think about it now; her words dismissed their other dilemma, instead. "It's not a problem, then." She looked back at him. "There's nothing to worry about."

"But . . ." he began, starting to point out the other reasons for caution.

Her eyes were, once again, realistic. "I've been tested. I'm fine."

He shook his head. "You aren't even slightly worried about me?"

She looked deeply into him, worried for him--not herself. "Should I be?"

"I've been tested," he shrugged, "but what does that really come to? There's always a chance . . ."

She cut him off, her fingers over his lips. "No." She shook her head. "I want you--for as long as you want me." She was stroking his lips softly, her eyes focused there; her look was a little pleading--asked to be saved from the thoughts he had brought to her. Her eyes met his once more. "Please just be with me." She shook her head again, her eyes even sadder. "I can't stand any more barriers from you."

He wasn't sure it was really wise--and was more than a little worried by the sorrow in her features. Still, while this was not something he had ever done before--to his credit--he was tempted to side with her.

She saw the indecision in his eyes and loved him for it. She didn't, though, want him to be indecisive anymore.

She made up his mind for him, then, by running her fingers lightly down his chest. His breath snagged, his eyes closing; her hand then took away all of his conscious thoughts by enclosing his shaft completely, running along his strong length in very convincing strokes.

He was breathing more heavily. He knew he had been thinking about something--but whatever it was had been lost to the erotic storm she had created in him with the move.

Her strokes were long and loving, base to tip, her soft hand making him tremble. She kissed him on the temple and then whispered her request. "Please."

He remembered his previous thought, but it was abandoned as well in that one moment. As much as he wanted to protect her, as stupid as they were no doubt being, he just hadn't the will power left to think about it.

He turned his head to find her mouth again, devouring her in a kiss of complete promise. She moaned and ran both of her hands into his hair, holding him to her; she felt as though she had been given a reprieve--both from her thoughts of her past and from the, absolutely terrifying, possibility that he would decide that he didn't want her after all. She just needed him so badly.

He felt the same way about her. He stood them both up, continuing the kiss, while his hands stroked down her back. A few seconds later, then, her underwear fell in a heap at her feet, and she moved--only slightly--to step out of them.

Now, they were both revealed, were both naked to the other's touch--to the other's soul. The kiss grew a little more desperate, as they held one another even closer, needing the incredible feelings of this moment. Nothing had ever topped it, for either of them.

They both continued to control the kiss, as their hands roamed. They stroked down the strong muscles of the other's back to rest finally below, cupping lovely, soft curves. Their more intimate treasures, as well, were pressed together, as they thrust against one another slightly, loving the singing sensations of even such soft movements.

She could feel the strong, long beat of him against her, and her desire began to make her weak. She wanted him inside her--wanted to ride and be ridden by him, wanted to both give herself to him and to take him completely. She wanted every second of this, indeed, more than any other moment of her life. . . . And she wanted it all right now.

He understood, completely. He could feel the honey of her lovely depths against him, and it made him tremble wildly. He wanted to lose himself irretrievably in his love for her--in the absolutely unbelievable strength of her love for him. And he, too, needed to begin this immediately.

He pulled back from her finally, then, on a shared moan, to look in her eyes; they reflected the absolute need in his own. He kissed her once more, loving her, and moved just slightly to the head of the bed, pulling down the covers.

She smiled at him and then pulled him softly along toward her, as she backed toward the bed. She got in, leaving most of the covers off of herself, and lay there for his perusal.

It was actually his first real look at her like this; he took in his breath. "You are *so* beautiful," he whispered.

She held onto his arm, pulling him toward her slightly. "Come to me, Nikita--please."

His eyes moved back up to hers, and he gave her a sweet, devoted smile. "Yes," he whispered.

He moved in to lie above her, between her spread legs, lowering himself toward her slowly. She smiled and pulled him into a deep, loving kiss.

They broke from it a moment later, however, on a shared, intense moan, as his body finally lay upon hers. He moved his hands up to frame her face, stroking along it softly, and their eyes met in a total, devoted look.

He kissed her lips tenderly. "I love you, Michelle," he whispered, staring in her eyes.

"Ki-ta," she whispered back reverently, lost in his look.

He closed his eyes once more. Her new name for him had inflamed him--had made him need her desperately. It rang through him, called on something deep within, reminded some inner sense inside him of years--lifetimes--of passion and love. He kissed her tenderly, deeply once again.

His kiss--and the incredible feeling of his skin against hers--did the same thing to her, made her needy, insane, the call of his soul bringing back deep memories of ages of shared passion. She pulled back from the kiss to capture his eyes. "Touch me," she begged. She felt like she needed this to live.

She had taken his hand and was running it down her body, and he finally realized that he hadn't really touched her yet--that he had yet to truly explore her. He had been so lost in the revelation of watching her revealed to his eyes that he had been too happy to notice.

He moaned and kissed her once more, then, before he began to kiss over her cheek and down her neck; she moaned and held him to her, as he flicked his tongue at all of her most needy spots. Just when she trembled, too, he would bite perfectly at one, suckling the tender bit of flesh for several seconds.

She moaned more desperately with every one. "Yes." He bit her slightly more firmly, and she groaned, her back arching her toward him. "More," she begged.

Her legs were around him; her groans echoed in his soul. He could feel the honey of her tender depths teasing him, as well.

He was growing increasingly hungry for her--more and more needy. He moved to suckle at the joint of her shoulder and neck--teasing it with his teeth, and she moaned wildly. Her whole body felt alive with her need for him; she wanted him everywhere at once, wanted his touch--his love--more than she wanted to live.

He moved, then--with her full encouragement, further down--kissing her skin devotedly. He came to her breast slowly, and she felt his moan against her; it triggered another of hers.

His hands were on her back, were holding her close now, as she trembled slightly beneath him. He was kissing around the whole of her breast tenderly. She was shivering more thoroughly, as he teased her with a hot breath over her nipple. Everything he did felt so good, felt so right. He was so passionate and so tender; it made her ache for him unspeakably.

By the time he lapped lightly over her nipple, she was shuddering wildly beneath him. "Yes," she breathed. He kissed it softly. "Please."

He took her then into his lips as though she were a revelation and began to suckle her with a mouth which redefined shared passion. She moaned desperately. She couldn't remember the last time anything had felt so good--wasn't sure it ever quite had; he treated her--*her*--as though she were an object of worship. . . . Dear God, she loved him.

He felt her trembling moans against him and suckled her a little more firmly; the desperation of her moans increased. He knew what he was doing to her, of course--and he felt as though he had been blessed by her joy, by her beautiful body. She was so perfect, after all, and he loved her so much. . . . Nothing else could ever compare to this.

She held him to her more firmly, as she groaned out again. He moaned against her once more and grazed his teeth along her slightly.

She groaned out a stuttering breath. "More," her husky voice begged. She was addicted now--had to have more of him. She knew he had no idea how perfect he was. She wanted more of him now or she might go insane.

He listened to her words and began to suckle her a little more roughly, grazing her with his teeth. His cock was aching and heavy against her. He wanted her so much he was shaking.

He ran his teeth up along her again finally, licking over the sensitized little bud with the tip of his tongue, as he let it go. "Oh God--'Ki-ta," she moaned, as she looked at him again. He smiled at her and then lowered his head to her other breast.

She was shuddering desperately beneath him now, was lost completely to the desire he was giving. He took this nipple in his firmly-suckling--just slightly tormenting--mouth, and she let out a desperate cry of need.

He understood her message; they both needed more. He ran his teeth up along this nipple, then, and licked it goodbye.

The next, incredible sensation she felt was Nikita descending her, his mouth placing loving, perfect kisses down her body. She was trembling wildly. He stopped for a few seconds at her navel and ran his tongue down into it, and she gave a screaming moan. "Please," she gasped out, moving him further down.

God, he loved this--loved giving her such intense pleasure, such need. . . . He wanted to give her even more of it.

They were watching each other now, as he continued his descent. Her eyes were wide, as she felt him going lower; the feelings he was giving her made her ache.

She closed his eyes, then, as he finally reached his destination, and she let out a small whimper, as he breathed a puff of hot air over her. The nearness of him was practically killing her.

He dipped his head for a second, however--teasing her further, and licked a line down her thigh. She shuddered more steadily but looked back at him; her eyes were wide.

He smiled at her. "I do love you," he told her simply, a half second before--holding her eyes all the way--he leaned his head down to lick over her tender bud.

She quaked beneath him and closed her eyes, a tear running from one of them. He was just so perfect.

He smiled at her again and then took her perfect little bud in his mouth, savoring her taste. "Mmm," he moaned against her.

Her hands ran deeper in his hair, as she arched at him, crying out. Her eyes opened again to focus on him; they were lost to him completely.

He was suckling her softly, lovingly, as she groaned out desperately--holding him to her. He closed his eyes, adoring her desire, loving the fact that he was the one she was responding to--that he was the one who was giving her such pleasure; it warmed deep in his soul, helped heal wounds he hadn't fully realized could be.

He continued to switch off his techniques here, too, as the tears of sheer pleasure ran from her eyes. He teased lightly, suckled deeply, licked the broad expanse of his tongue over her too sensitized skin, as well--always switching half a second before she might explode.

She was trembling uncontrollably beneath him by now. The sparks of his devotions were being felt everywhere in her, but were especially strong deep inside her--where her body begged for his touch. She hoped she didn't just expire from happiness when that finally happened.

He knew how close she was, of course--and he wanted this desperately. Her every moan and gasp was heaven for him--made him absolutely insane for her; his shaft was aching with his desire, but he needed this--her beautiful, explosive release--even more.

He gave tiny, perfect flicks once more, then, over the lovely, sensitized bud, as her breathing went completely erratic; she was thrusting herself at him, was trembling everywhere. The need had her strung out, shivering.

He was watching her closely, loving her even more by the second. Lord, he wanted this. He stroked the tip of his tongue over her, massaging her with it, while he watched her entire body shake. He then drew his teeth over her oh-so-gently, just as he ran two fingers deep inside her; he suckled her once more.

Her whole body felt like it was shattering inward in pleasure. She thrust toward him uncontrollably, holding him to her, as she let out a long, desperate, screaming moan. Tears were running steadily from her eyes, as shards of light exploded deep within her.

He closed his eyes for a second, as he savored her pleasure, still suckling her softly. After a few seconds, however, he raised his head to watch her; his fingers continued to tease deep inside her soft, clinging walls.

His heart was beating more quickly, as he took her in. She was the most beautiful creature ever born, and her face was a study in ecstasy--ecstasy he himself had given her. A tear ran from him, as he removed his fingers from her finally, lowering his head again to taste deep within her.

She had no idea how long she had been lying there, trembling in fierce, beautiful release; she had no ability to calculate. All she knew was that this man she adored with everything in her soul had just brought her to an ecstasy so quaking it surpassed everything she had ever known.

It was when she felt his wonderful, talented tongue enter her, however, that the chains on her desire shattered absolutely. She looked up to see his bright, soulful eyes focused on her with utter devotion, and her need for him grew so strong it hurt. . . . She couldn't wait another second, for anything.

"`Kita," she breathed, beginning to pull him up her body. "Please."

He was loath to leave her intoxicating treasures, but he knew as well that he couldn't wait much longer; his desire had never been half so strong before, for anyone. He had to love her, indeed, until they were both weeping with pleasure.

"I need you," she breathed, as she pulled him above her. Her deep eyes pleaded, as her hand ran down his body, clasping his length finally, stroking him. The fact that he was even harder, even more aroused than before made her desperate. "Now."

His love for her made everything within him hers; he caught her eyes for one more second. "I love you, Michelle."

Her eyes were teary. "`Ki-ta," she moaned.

They had both moved him to her entrance; the very tip of him was touching her. His heart was shuddering in his chest with the absolute devotion he felt for her beautiful soul; he closed his eyes and lowered his lips to hers, capturing her in a deep kiss.

She moaned in it, as well--sharing all of his emotions, needing him fiercely--as her hands continued to caress his curves. She began, then, to pull him inside her.

A deep moan ran through them both with just that first sensation. It just felt too good; they had to see each other.

His teeth broke the kiss with a slight tug on her bottom lip, as their eyes met again. They held an intense, loving look, then, as he began to enter her deeply.

They were both trembling, were in awe. It was just so . . . right, so perfect. Every inch of their union made them both take in their breath; every fantasy was proved lacking.

Her eyes were wide and completely devoted, were amazed. She had *never* felt anything this good before. His shaft molded her into a shape she wanted to take on for the rest of her life--caressed her in such an erotic, arousing, aching way that she could do nothing except moan and pull him slowly further into her. She had never imagined anything so wonderful. "`Ki-ta," she breathed.

He could barely keep his eyes open. Every inch was a revelation for him; she felt like she had been made for him--had been molded for him alone. Her soft walls took him in, caressed along him--welcomed him in sweet rapture. The sheer erotic desire of it left him speechless and aching for more. . . . No one else had even come close.

He continued to fill her, as their look held; they were both shuddering and overwhelmed. They felt like they had been virginal and untried before this; all previous experience was meaningless.

He was beginning to fill her completely, as they both continued to gasp. There was something else about this too, was some sense of remembrance. The perfection of the union between them was reminiscent of experiences neither could remember, but only they alone could ever know; it was this sense of sensual deja vu which simply made them both feel as though they might expire from complete overstimulation, as well.

It wasn't just the fact that they were experiencing a sensual joy which surpassed every cherished fantasy, after all. They were lost, too, in an interlocking of souls which was even more amazing, more completely captivating yet. They could never get over it.