The look the two of them were engaged in was broken a second later by another arrival, though. The door popped open once more, and an almost-bald head poked around it--brandishing a wine bottle. "Well, well, well--looks like everyone's here." Mick came further in. "Good thing I brought a second bottle, then, isn't?" He held them both up.

Julie rolled her eyes. "Can't we ever keep you away from this?"

"Darlin'--I'm hurt." He held one of the bottles to his chest with a wounded expression. "Now, why wouldn't you want your Uncle Mickky to join in the festivities?"

Terry raised an eyebrow at him. "Because you're a low-life slimeball." She had caught him looking down her cleavage once too often before.

"Ouch, baby." He looked her up and down. "Now, you'd think that being in the family way would have changed that dour attitude about life. Still, a month or so on, I'm guessing things will turn around, . . ."

He was making his way further into the room; Davenport closed the door behind him. Mick was never invited to this dinner, he had heard from all reports, but he tended to show up anyway. This little gauntlet for him, then--he supposed--was simply part of the annual ritual.

This assumption was right, of course. Still, the man was obviously about to go on, when Terry interrupted him. "And who told *you* about it?"

"I have ears, luv." He held the bottles up to them. "Things get 'round, y'know."

Julie pulled one of the, now-circling, bottles from him in partial frustration; Mick had a definite tendency to talk with his hands--and whatever was in them. Part of her knew, though, that it wasn't really Thanksgiving till Mick arrived unannounced. "I hope it's not more of that cheap stuff again, at least. That stuff's better for cleaning toilets than drinking."

"Only the best for my kith and kin, my dear," he bragged. He turned to the assembled company. "I will have you know that I have a friend in the wine business." He looked back to Julie. "Very good deals."

She rolled her eyes and tugged the other bottle from his hand, taking it over to the kitchen.

Mick saw that his presence had been accepted. He turned to everyone, then. "C'mon, now, how 'bout a little holiday song?" He lifted his hands to conduct, as he began--not as badly off-key as everyone had expected, "Over the river and through the woods, . . ."

The entire roomful of people rolled their eyes. "Shut up, Mick," they chorused.

He shrugged. "Just trying to be festive," he claimed, utterly oblivious to insult. "It's your bleedin' 'oliday, innit?"

Julie saved them from more of the same. "Food's ready. Grab a plate and take what you want."

"But eat what you take?" Birkoff chimed in. It was his first year.

"Nah," she shrugged. "We do doggie bags."

Michelle looked around the room. Something had dawned on her; she had been too focused on her thoughts--and her cooking--to really ask before. "Where do we sit?"

"Wherever you can find, dollface. Wherever you can find," Mick answered her.

And with that, the ritual began in earnest.

*********

Nik was fortunate; it was his year, among the bartenders, to have this night off. It wasn't like he couldn't use the time, though. His apartment, as usual, was a mess.

He let out a slight, happy sigh. Still, there were other reasons why having this year off was important to him, too. . . . Michelle was with him. That, indeed, made it special.

He smiled, as he took another rinsed plate from her and put it in his dishwasher. They took turns with this sort of task, and even the unusually huge load before them had not made her change her mind about that decision.

His eyes took her in. She was focused on her work, but she also smiled just slightly, as she felt his eyes watching her. God, he loved her.

He thought back over the day, then. He had cherished every one of the Thanksgivings he had shared with his friends before, had been amazed more than once just at the sheer amount of food they seemed to have. He had even objected at first to having such a lavish dinner; it had seemed such a waste, and he had been sure that his time would have been better spent at the homeless shelter he still devoted the odd afternoon, and what money he could, to.

Julie, though, had convinced him otherwise. She had never tried to discourage his work, of course, but she had pointed out--with some accuracy, he had realized--that Thanksgiving was probably one of the few times that shelters like the one he worked at actually got volunteers and food relatively easily; it was one of those few times of the year when the news--and people in general--remembered that the homeless existed.

He had settled, then, on simply donating what he could--either food or money--to the shelter and then spending the day with his friends. He had found it to be, in fact, extremely healing--had provided a comfort, had filled in a soothing spot, for all of those pleasant childhood memories he would never have. In his maturity, then, he had created the family with those he cared about which he had been denied earlier. And he had always loved every second of it.

His heart warmed even further. This year, however, had been even more special. Before, there had been friends and loved ones, but never someone he was so deeply devoted to as Michelle. Sharing this with her, indeed, had made everything even more perfect.

He looked at her again and saw now, though, that she was deep in thought. He suspected, in fact, that her reverie had something to do with meeting Walter; the two of them, indeed, had--he had thought--almost been putting on a show for him, had been pretending to get along for his benefit. Underneath this, however, he suspected that there were some rather serious tensions there.

He didn't know what--or why--this was, of course, but he had decided simply to give it time. He loved them both so deeply, after all; he couldn't imagine that they wouldn't love each other, as well, in the end.

Michelle felt his eyes on her and repressed a sigh, as she neared the end of her work. She had loved this day, had adored seeing him so completely relaxed and among the people he cared the most for, had loved seeing how much they cared for him, as well. Still, her silent standoff with Walter had worried her slightly. She suspected, indeed, that it was going to lead somewhere soon, but she was entirely uncertain as to where that might be. She supposed, then, that she would just have to wait.

She handed him the last plate, and he loaded it, starting the dishwasher. She watched him in his work and felt her heart reaching out for him. She had felt a distance from him today, indeed, because of his uncle's distrust of her--and it had scared her terribly; she wanted, then, to reconnect with him--to feel him hold her close, to feel his undeniable desire for her--to reassure herself that their bond was real, that she had imagined nothing.

She turned to him, then; her eyes were full of sensual insinuation, as she stared into his. "I liked today."

He smiled. "So did I."

Her eyes ran down his body, leaving a warm trail against his skin, before she came back up to stare at his lips; she leaned forward and caught the lower one between her teeth, tugging on it gently, till it pulled back from her again. "I'm going to like tonight even better."

Her eyes were intent and desire-filled; his breath stuttered in his lungs. "What did you have in mind?" he prodded softly.

Her smile returned, her lips opening--inviting his stare, which they soon received. "Something new." Her heated eyes caught his once more.

His burning blood was running through him strongly now. If she had intended on making him shudder with need, she was succeeding.

Her smile grew deeper, and his mind ran back through so much of their wonderful past. He remembered, indeed, all of their previous nights and days together--and all of the amazing pathways they had already allowed their passion to take. Each of them had enjoyed both dominance and surrender; they had tried pretty much every position which they could think of, as well--had found their way into every one which seemed even remotely plausible or interesting--and had tested out the properties of every room in both of their homes. They had mastered the arts of pleasing everywhere on their lover's body, too--and had brought one another to shattering climaxes with many skilled and eager parts. What, part of him wondered--then, was left?

Her smile grew even more sensual, as her hand stroked over his cheek. Her eyes, though, were tender and evaluating; she knew he might not be entirely comfortable with her idea, at first. "You know I only want to bring you pleasure, 'Kita?"

Something in her tone worried him; his eyes grew a little unsure. Just what was she into, anyway? He nodded, however--his love for her unchanged.

Her encouragement continued. "I'd never hurt you, my love; I'd never want to." She leaned in to give him a soft, brief kiss--but one which stroked just a hint of her tongue subtly along his. "I just want to show you what you've given me--trust."

His eyes looked a little worried now. He did trust her, of course--knew she would never hurt him, especially like this. Still, he suspected that she was going to ask something of him which he was a little afraid to give. "Michelle, . . ." he began, tentatively.

Her fingers stroked over his lips, stopping his words; her eyes were loving, and a little demanding. "Just give yourself to me tonight, 'Kita. I promise I'll repay your trust," her hand stroked down his chest, past a small, hard bud, and then further on, "many times over."

He wanted her, of course, but he could feel something in her, something odd--and was a little frightened by it. She had taken control in their lovemaking more than once before, but there was something about her now which suggested that she was planning on going even further; he had never really allowed her to hold him down for very long, physically, indeed, yet there was something now which suggested that she wanted to change that. He knew he trusted her, of course but it was just . . .

Terrible, scarring memories tumbled through his mind for a moment, and he realized that he could no longer put off the inevitable; sooner or later, she would have to know--or she would never understand his instinctive fears. "I need to tell you something," he said finally, very sadly--and with more than a little trepidation.

She shook her head. "I know." His eyes widened, afraid, beginning to see that she might; she explained. "I see it in your fear when you're held down, in the look you have when you're cornered. I know you've been hurt." She couldn't bring herself to say the word; it tormented her too deeply to think of anyone harming this beautiful man that much.

He was continuing on anyway, although part of him could see that she had gotten the point; his anxieties were practically making him want to babble, unable to truly take in that she could really have comprehended and still be talking to him. "One of my mother's boyfriends . . ."

She shook her head again and stroked her fingers over his lips softly, stopping him. She could tell that he wanted her to know--to understand his reticence, and his pain--but she wasn't at all certain that he actually wanted to repeat the details right now. "I know. You don't have to tell it all to me right now, unless you want to."

He closed his eyes, taking a slightly relieved breath, as he nodded slightly. He wasn't sure he ever really wanted to.

She nodded, as well, although he didn't see her. "You can tell me about it later, if you want. I'll always listen."

He caught her hand and opened his eyes once more; his voice was slightly hoarse with tears. He was still waiting for her to turn him away. "You don't . . ." He couldn't make the words come out right; when he did, though, they were self-accusing. "I'm not really the man you think I am."

She shook her head once more. She knew he had no secrets here; he was just punishing himself, probably as he had always been taught to by others in the past. Her answer was determined. "Yes, you are--and much, much more." She leaned in to take his lips, her tongue stroking into his mouth gently--tasting him softly, until his desire won out and he kissed her back for a minute.

She pulled away finally, leaving one more tender kiss on his lips. She had decided to be as open with him as possible, to show him through her absolute honesty that there was nothing to fear from her, that she would never see him as lessened. "You were hurt, my love." She shook her head. "I wish I could change that, could take it away." She looked deep into his eyes, leaning in to kiss his lips once more. "But the truth is still what I already know."

She continued by giving him a slightly deeper kiss before pulling back; he groaned slightly in pleasure. She was winning him over with every gentle touch. "You're a man unlike any other I've known--a lover more perfect and intense than any I've ever dreamed."

Her hand was in his hair, as she kissed him profoundly again; he held her in it for a minute, before she finally pulled back. Her eyes were still serious. "If I had been able to form you myself--to plan and shape you, to decide all the ways you'd touch me, the perfect ecstasy you give me, I couldn't have done half as good a job as I've found in you."

His eyes were loving; both of her hands stroked his face, as he listened, enraptured, to her words. "You are perfect, my one." She kissed him once more, addicted to his lips. "I don't know how I ever lived without you--but all of my definitions of pleasure before, some of them wracking, . . . none of them come *close* to you."

She gave him another deep, intense kiss, as he moaned; it lasted for almost a minute, as he held her in it--breathing raggedly, before she pulled back to laser her gaze into him, her look irrefutable. She would *not* let him misunderstand or fear any longer. "Share this with me tonight, 'Kita," she begged. "You taught me pleasure." Her teeth nipped at his lower lip lightly. "Let me teach you trust."

He was incredibly touched by the honesty of her words--loved her more than he ever had before. Something, some sense of shame and inferiority, still existed within him, though, couldn't be overcome so easily.

His hands stroked down her back, his need trembling in him, but he had to know one more thing; he spoke from all the fears he had been taught so often. "You don't think I'm less than a real man?"

Her eyes burned at him, angry at the words, at the very thought; her hands grabbed his shoulders tightly. "You are the best and most real man I've ever known." Her eyes grew even more heated, demanding, as her hands slipped down to grab his soft curves, pulling the beginnings of the arousal she always gave him by her sheer presence into her. He hardened further at her move, his breath rasping.

Her own breath was hot over his lips. "Now let me show you how much I need you." She grazed her teeth over his lower lip once more, as her words became even more erotically fierce. "I want you to scream for me--to be half as overpoweringly orgasmic as you make me." One hand ran back up to his hair. "Do you agree?"

He had lost words, was too overwhelmed. Some part of him wanted to tell her his whole truth at length, of course, but he saw now that it could wait; his body was making that abundantly obvious. Besides, the promise of unspeakable pleasures was in her fiery eyes. . . . He wasn't sure he was physically capable of turning away.

He nodded, and she gave him a feral smile. She wasn't consciously certain what it was that had made her decide on this path, but she knew now that it was the right one. She needed him to give her control, needed him to know without doubt that she was the one who gave him the truest and most nearly-destructive pleasure of his life.

Something like a growl emitted from her, then. "Good." She pulled him back into a deep, hard, breath-stealing kiss, and he groaned deeply in it. She pulled his aching arousal harder against her, as well, and the groan deepened.

He was holding onto her desperately. Lord, he wanted this now--wanted her. Nothing within him felt real anymore without this.

She pulled back from him once more with another light stroke of her teeth over his lip. Her smile and her eyes burned him sensually. "Come," her passion-deep, accented voice ordered. She pulled him by his shirt into his bedroom.

Once they were there, as well, she wasted little time. She gave him another hard, intense kiss--to his deep moan, as her hands came down to unbutton his shirt; a few seconds later, she was pulling it off of him and tossing it to the floor.

He was so lost to her already. Her nails raked lightly down his back--down her own, previous, faint lines, ones which hadn't yet healed, and his need spiked dangerously; her tongue was conquering his mouth, controlling and inflaming his desire. He shook, groaning.

God, this was what she wanted, was just the reaction she needed from him; it made her desire even more insane. She pulled back from the kiss for just a second. "Shoes," she ordered, before capturing his mouth once more.

He was lost to her completely, the torment of his earlier thoughts forgotten. He groaned again, as he moved to take off his shoes and socks with his feet; her hands were already beginning to unbutton his jeans. Her kiss continued to demand his pleasure, as well, as he finished his task.

She unzipped his jeans, then, revealing him carefully. He was throbbing heavily in his need for her. He had never felt so desperate to be taken, by anyone--was aching for her touch.

She could feel this, of course--and it made her desire wild. She pushed the rest of his clothes down to reveal him, wanting to taste him so desperately; he stepped out of them shakily. She was so hungry for this that it seemed to melt everything like sanity, to make her insane.

She went to her knees, her tongue tracing down his body. His gasp shuddered throughout him, his eyes wide, as her heated gaze held his own. She smiled ferally at him, and then moved her mouth down around his shaft, taking him in deep.

His gasp stuttered in his lungs; he was shaking. She knew that he usually didn't want this--not quite this way, anyway; still, right now, she wanted him as deep as she could have him, was hungrier than words could express to be the one who gave him ecstasy--and she had decided that he could just accept it.

He had to close his eyes, unable to withstand the frighteningly beautiful sight of her devotion. She was stroking lightly along his entire length, was making him tremble wildly in his need; he had seen, as well, that this was what she wanted. Oh God, he wasn't sure he would survive this. "Mi-chelle," he barely managed to get out.

She ran her teeth up along him very softly, and he almost exploded from the incredible shock of sensations within him. His eyes opened to meet her, their depths watery.

She licked over the head of his cock once and then smiled at him. "Lie down on the bed," she ordered, rising again. He looked down her still-clothed body, but there was little blood left in his brain to allow him to think. "Do it," she ordered again.

He groaned, giving in. He simply hadn't the ability left to argue; he had been stripped of everything except desire.

She thought for half a second, after taking a moment to appreciate her view. She and Nikita had both left various items at the other's apartment, just to be sure. She looked in a drawer where she had stored some of her clothes. Yes, these would do nicely.

She held up the stockings to him, and his breath snagged further, eyes widening. Still, she saw no panic there now, only desire. God, she loved him--loved his trust. "Do it," she ordered again quietly.

He understood completely. His breath was stuttering through his lungs; his shaft was so heavy with aching warmth that it throbbed ruthlessly in its need for her.

He lifted his arms up over his head, then, and watched as she stalked toward him, stockings in hand. Her smile was feral and controlling; he felt his shaft jump in response.

"Very good, my love," she whispered to him before she attached each of his hands to a bedpost. The stockings were perfect for the task; they allowed her to continue this approach, but they were soft and also weak enough for him to be able to get out of, if he wanted to. She had no desire for his fear, after all; she only wanted his ecstasy.

Once he was secured, she smiled down on him and stood a little distance away, beginning to unbutton her shirt slowly; his eyes focused completely on her work, and her smile deepened. She loved it when he watched.

Soon, the shirt was discarded, and all that hid her breasts was a black, lacy bra. "Yes," he begged, captivated completely by her movements.

She teased him for a few seconds, however, running her fingers over herself lightly, taunting him with the trail over her breasts his own hands would take, if he could. Her nipples were erect, wanted him desperately; all of her did. She was rather hoping, in fact, that what she was about to do would, in the end, make him utterly needy and feral. She adored, after all, being the plaything of his desire just as much as he loved its opposite.

She saw his cock twitch in her peripheral vision, and she finally took pity on him, unclasping the bra. A second later, it was on the floor.

He let out a loud groan, as he watched her; she was still teasing him, was running her hands over her own, lovely breasts--taunting him with all of the things he so wanted to do. He saw her tweak her nipples, just before she let out a low moan, her head going back, her eyes half-closing.

He hadn't even realized that it was possible to be quite this hard. His blood was boiling, aching in him, at her teasing insinuations. He couldn't stand anymore. "Michelle," his ragged voice begged.

She focused on him once more and gave him a feral smile. "It's not as good as you," she purred. She saw him shaking, and her smile deepened; her hands ran further down her body. "More?"

"Yes," he gasped out. If he couldn't see the whole of her soon, he would die.

She smiled at him, as she reached under her skirt, not allowing a good view of her treasures. A few seconds later, both her pantyhose and underwear were in a heap on the floor.

"Oh God," he moaned. "Please."

Her smile was still taunting, but there was a tender quality to it, too. She reached behind herself to unzip her skirt and slid it down over her hips, allowing it to meet its end on the floor, as well.

He was shaking in front of her, his body strung out--his look tortured. She wasn't sure she had ever seen his shaft look quite so . . . impressive--and it was always a thing to be worshiped.

She came to stand beside the bed, then. Her hand ran down his chest lightly, grazing over him--not quite touching any of his most desperate spots. "You want this?" she asked quietly.

He was gasping slightly. "I want *you*," he begged.

She moved quickly, then; she had an absolutely panther-like quality when she wanted it. She knelt on the bed and straddled his thighs, as her hands ran in slow lines up his chest, her nails teasing him. He let out a low sort of "Arrh!" sound, his head falling back to reveal his throat, his eyes closing.

She ran her tongue just under his chin. "I love that you want me so much," she whispered. She bit his jaw lightly.

He trembled, eyes still closed. "Mi-chelle."

"Mmm," she murmured, beginning to give small bites along his jaw line. "You taste good." His gasping pants grew louder, as he clung to his bonds. She bit a lovely spot of need on his neck, and he trembled desperately beneath her. "Good," she whispered, biting him perfectly again. "I'm going to show you how much you need me."

Her tongue ran down his throat, tickled by his rumbling moan. She bit more strongly at the joint of his shoulder and neck, loving this; she intended to show him a side of herself she had long denied, one which could be absolutely crude in its need.

She moved up to bite his earlobe, before whispering in his ear. "You'll come when I tell you to."

His eyes popped open once more, his look astounded and insane. "Yessss," he rumbled.

Their gaze held, then, as she moved further down his body, her tongue teasing him. Just as he thought she was moving past them, though, she changed direction and caught one of his achingly-needy buds in her teeth. He let out a scream and trembled further. "Yes!"

Her teeth loved him roughly, then, playing every indelicate desire she knew lay within him. They were perfectly matched as lovers, after all; both of them needed both absolute trust and tenderness, but their passion also made them seek out an insanely desperate reaffirmation of sheer need, as well.

They, truly, were perfect as a whole. Neither one was even constitutionally capable of hurting the other here; they were both pure creatures of love--and they played it out through the most intense and instinctive acts of passion.

He was letting out little grunts of needs. She made the blood course so desperately within him that he quaked. He had to have more. "Yes," he begged.

She let go of this nipple with a small growl, her tongue flicking over him, as well. She looked like nothing so much as a lioness feasting on her prey--and he had never been more desperate to be devoured. "Please," he begged again.

The growl rumbled in her, as she leaned down to draw her teeth over his other tiny bud, giving him just the pressure she knew he needed. He closed his eyes to groan. "Uhhh."

The growl in her grew louder; she couldn't wait any longer. She ran her tongue down his center and along the line of hair which led to his shaft, her eyes holding his the entire way.

He could barely breathe. He was just lost to her, his need for her so intense he could no longer think at all; all he could do was experience.

She stopped just as she was about to reach him, however, and sat up, her eyes still feral. One hand, too, began to caress his sac, while the fingers of the other danced lightly over the length of his hard shaft. "I love how you feel," she murmured. She began caressing his sac more firmly, and his shaft grew even harder, defining rigidity.

"Ahhh," he groaned loudly, his head sinking back into the pillows. There were no words for this sort of need; it wasn't possible to express it. . . . If he didn't have her soon, he would die.

She smiled at him again. God, she loved this; she increased his desperation with her words. "You taste even better, though," her sultry voice whispered.

It was only a second later that he felt her take him into her mouth and then into her throat, with a deep "Mmm."

"Aaaaaaa!" he screamed. He was practically ripping his bonds in his desperation. He wished, though, that she would change her technique here slightly. He needed to know that she wanted this.

Oh, she did want this. Still, she knew his thoughts, understood his needs. Besides, her hand was needy for him, as well; he always felt so good.

Her mouth and hand began a tight, intense rhythm along him, then, as he let out grunting groans. His hips were instinctively trying to meet her lips, and she encouraged him by letting go of his sac and grabbing onto his soft curves; her nails dug into him just slightly, telling him how much she wanted this, too.

Oh God, this felt good. Her mouth loved him so tightly, caressed the rising ache in him. The fact, as well, that she so obviously was enjoying her work made him simply tremble in near explosion. He would always need her so much.

His groans grew louder, then, and her own moans joined his. She loved this, loved being able to give and control his pleasure so, loved the feel and taste of him, loved the quaking need which she felt in his incredible, heavy shaft. She stroked along him more tightly, and he trembled further, her moan joining his. . . . He would never know just how much she adored this.

He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. He was barely breathing now, was shaking uncontrollably. His cock was so heavy and was beating so hard within the tight, demanding shelter of her erotic mouth and hand that he was utterly mindless. The aching warmth of it had risen in him so far that he knew he could only hold on for another few seconds; he felt like he was about to leave his body.

She could feel it; she knew. She could sense it in him, in the fever of his shaft, in the tremor of his form, in the way his sac had tightened further, had drawn up; she could feel it, too, in his heart, in his mind and soul--could feel the absolute love and need which controlled him. He was on the verge of a nearly-cataclysmic explosion. And she wanted him to experience every second of it very, very badly.

Her hand tightened even further on him, then, as she ran her teeth lightly up his long shaft. He quaked beneath her--gasping, and she drew her teeth across his tip softly, letting him go, but staying close.

He let out almost a whimper and opened his wide, tear-filled eyes; she smiled and licked over the almost-too-sensitive head of his cock once more. "Come," she demanded softly. She took the head in her mouth and drew on him strongly, before her teeth touched him lightly once again; her hand caressed one more hard stroke up his quivering length, as her tongue licked over him once more.

His body jerked strongly against her, as he gave up his struggle. All of his warmth, then, exploded from him into her, as he saw her eyes light happily.

He heard and felt a moaning "Mmmmm" from her, and he closed his eyes again, lost. He was letting out a long, trembling, whimpering sound; his soul felt like it had floated away.

God, she adored this, adored the pleasure she could give him. She closed her mouth around him tightly and stroked him of his beautiful, aching warmth--welcoming it into herself. Her hand on his curves encouraged his desperate thrusts.

The whimpering moan continued. To him, it seemed to go on for lifetimes, for an eternity of quaking bliss so powerful as to be absolutely transforming. He felt like he was a new person--as though he had been completely reborn in his love and desire for her; nothing painful in his past existed. . . . All there was was Michelle.

She watched him through it all--and adored every second. She knew that he had absolutely lost track of anything except desire and bliss--and that was exactly what she wanted. Nothing else could be as perfect as his need.

She continued stroking along him, therefore, until he was utterly sated, but she didn't stop then. She knew how easily re-aroused he was by her, knew his powers of recovery. She wasn't entirely certain whether it was due to his youth or whether it was simply Nikita himself, but she had no desire to question. It was an ability in him she adored.

Her tongue continued, then, to caress along him, just to be certain that his blood didn't decide to rest completely tonight. She continued on, too, until he was panting once more, his shaft responding to her again. She looked up at him.

Dear God, she could kill a man. No sooner had the aching crest of the unspeakably strong and erotic orgasm she had given him passed, than she was already tempting him with another. . . . How on earth would he survive her?

There was no simple answer to that question, of course. What he did know, however, was that he couldn't stay submissive now. She had just given him the most amazing sensation of his life; his blood was ringing in his ears, his heart thudding from the sheer overstimulation of it. He needed her--and he needed her *now*.

He managed, then, to maneuver his hands out of his bonds. Then, using some of the skills she herself had taught him, he grabbed and rolled her over beneath him.

He caught her eyes for a split second, before he kissed her long and deep--tasting himself on her tongue, conquering her with his need. She had started a fire in him that had to be sated. And--this time--he was in control.

Her heart was pounding further for him, desperate. She just had no words for how much she wanted this now, for how amazing he made her feel--for the way her blood ached for him. She wanted him, wanted to be his absolute slave in pleasure; no one else could make her feel like this. . . . She needed him completely.

He broke from the kiss finally to smile at her wildly. "You're mine, Michelle." His smile grew deeper, as his eyes looked over the bonds which had held him. "And this time, it's your turn to yield."

Her eyes were wide and needy, as she looked into his. She felt her hands being raised above her, and she groaned in absolute capitulation, helping him to bind her. She could remember no other time in her life when she would have wanted this, but 'Kita was no other lover. He was desire in human form, was need distilled. Her original plan was coming true, then; he was now returning her feral need.

He finished binding her hands in the stockings. They weren't very efficient bonds by this point, of course, but she had no desire to fight her way out of them.

His wild smile shone down on her, as his hands ran softly over her imprisoned arms. "Do you like that?"

She groaned loudly. "Like" was too mild a word; she was mad for it--for him. "Yes," her husky voice ground out. Her eyes were begging for more.

He saw her absolute desire to be controlled by him, and his need grew further--grew wilder. Her total trust of him was the most erotic and completely arousing thing he had ever experienced; his hands stroked further down her, till they were playing just over the sides of her breasts. "I didn't promise to be gentle," he warned softly.

She trembled, wanting him with a power she couldn't even have defined. She shook her head slightly. "Don't be," she begged.

His shaft was alive again, was desperate to take total advantage of the amazing opportunity he had before him. He, though, planned to make her a bit wilder before he showed her the absolute lengths of his desire.

He leaned down and placed little, nipping kisses over her lips, tasting them with his tongue, as well. Her mouth was open--gasping, moaning--trying to catch his own. He laughed slightly. "I like how much you want me," he whispered her earlier words back to her; she moaned desperately.

He smiled at her ferally and then ran his teeth softly over her lower lip, enjoying his explorations. "You taste good."

She moaned. "That's you," she pointed out.

The growl he emitted was lost in his throat, as he kissed her--deeply and roughly. She moaned beneath him, as well, molding her body to his--turning her head to the side, begging for more.

He let her go finally, stroking his tongue along hers, as he did; his eyes were alight. "For someone so proper," he kissed her softly again, his eyes holding hers, "you can be very crude sometimes."

She leaned up enough to capture his mouth once more in another hot, hungry kiss. God, she wanted to be devoured by him, wanted to be burned alive in his aching need for her; she wanted to be spared nothing in a passion so incendiary that it would engulf them both, leaving nothing behind.

She continued the kiss, with his approval, for a little over a minute--loving the incredible taste of him, wanting more. When she finally did pull back, however, her eyes burned him, as she answered his observation. "Only for you."

A growl echoed through him; his shaft was beating even harder. He had never felt so much desire before, had never so wanted to totally devour his partner.

His thumbs began to stroke over her nipples, teasing them strongly with need. "You want me crude?" His eyes were burning her.

Her breath caught at his feverous look. "I want you rough," she begged. Their eyes locked for another second, as she panted. She was desperate to make sure that he understood her absolutely; her words flowed, as her look showed him her soul. "I love you, Ni-ki-ta--and I want you to make me yours completely, without pity."

His breath was stuttering in his lungs again, with both the words and the look. He couldn't wait another second.

His hands ran into her silken locks, then, and he held her in a fierce, devouring kiss for several long seconds; she pressed herself up toward him, wanting more.

He let her go finally--to her moan, his teeth stroking along her lower lip in parting--no longer able to wait to taste her. He caught her eyes for just a second, though, then--assured of her unshakable need--lowered his head to begin to bite gently along her jawline.

She was groaning, as she tried to hold herself closer to him. He was making her tremble in sparking desire. If he had entered her that very second she would only have thanked him.

He wasn't ready to relieve her tension quite yet though; he was enjoying the incredible rumbling sounds she kept emitting, the ones which trembled against his mouth at her throat, as he kissed down it.

His hands began to caress her breasts once more, his thumbs softly tormenting the hardened buds. She groaned loudly, as her desire quaked through her, and he groaned in response, beginning to trace down more of her, his desire becoming hungrier at every inch of flesh his tongue caressed.

He nipped an ungentle but utterly perfect line down all the most tender spots on the side of her neck, and she let out a crying groan. His teeth began to nibble roughly at the joint of her shoulder and neck, too, and she trembled more strongly. "More," she begged.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take, before his aching need overtook him. He was already so desperate to be deep inside her, wanted to hear those aching little moans of hers, as he stroked her ruthlessly.

Still, he was adoring every second of this. He let go of her neck, as his tongue traced further, down her breastbone. The fingers which had been tormenting her needy buds took hold of them and tugged gently, till the hard points pulled back from his fingers. He loved this.

She let out another desperate moan. She wasn't sure--no, she *was* sure . . . she had never felt like this before, had never felt such need, such love, and such bone-deep trust. Everything here made her insane with arousal. Her captivity to his sweet will, his absolute, unfettered desire, the growing madness in them both for a union which would give no quarter or absolution--all of it made her want to be his, to want to be his possession and his instrument. She wanted to watch him take his own aching, intense pleasure from her--wanted it with a sharp need which made everything even more erotic and arousing. . . . If he didn't take her soon, if he didn't make her his--show his absolute need for *her*--immediately she might simply begin to weep.

He wouldn't see that happen, however--not for those reasons, at least. His mouth came down to one of her breasts, and he began to suckle her roughly. "Yes!" she screamed. Oh God--bliss.

His devotion continued. Her depths wanted him so much she was whimpering for him now. The sound was making him insane; the screaming, aching madness within him was growing.

He stroked his tongue over the tip of her incredibly-sensitized nipple, as his teeth continued to stroke along it, and she let out a whimpering moan. He trembled. God, he wanted her. No one else could ever make him feel this way; nothing else in life was her. . . . Everything else was meaningless.

"More," she begged. She was quivering.

He knew the bud he had been so erotically torturing was so sensitive now that it was almost unbearable. He let it go and ran his tongue around it softly, and he saw tears flowing from her closed eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

He lifted his head and watched her for a second, his love for her almost choking him. She was so beautiful when she was in need; it almost made her otherworldly, made her indescribably ravishing.

His hands stroked up her arms, and he was caught for a second between his tenderness and his scalding passion. She opened her eyes to focus on him, though, and he fell into their incredible depths. "Please," she whispered. Her need was undisguised.

His hands ran down to stroke over the sides of her hips. "You want me?" he asked.

She trembled beneath him, her eyes begging. "Yes, everything." Her eyes grew more wild, her words becoming more crude. "Every inch."

His breathing stuttered again, his body shaking slightly; his insanity had returned. His shaft was intensely hard once more with sheer longing. "You'll get it," he promised ferally.

"Yes," she pleaded. She was aching for more of his touch. "Do your worst."

His smile was wild and taunting, as he lowered his head to her other breast; he opened his mouth to enclose it, but instead of suckling her, he ran his teeth over her with a rough, perfect strength.

She trembled, letting out a crying groan, as she felt his tongue brush over the tip; her head was back, her eyes closed. "Yes."

He repeated the move once more to her increasing sounds of pleasure, but then began to move down her once more. He had to taste her. The scent of her pleasure, of her need, was making him tremble. He wanted to devour her completely.

He placed little, licking kisses down her, running his tongue into her belly button, as he passed it. She moaned loudly. He then continued moving further down, teasing her ever more the closer he came.

She was lost to her desire; her hands wrapped further in the stockings, her legs parting, begging for his touch. She was certain she would die without it.

He smiled and took pity on her finally, if only slightly. He could see the sweet honey on her thighs, and his need for her sharpened further; her desire for him made him unspeakably desperate.

He flicked his tongue over the tiny, waiting bud at the flower of her depths, and she writhed on the bed, screaming for more. He smiled, loving her.

His tongue ran over the small, needy bud three more times--each one leaving her gasping and desperate. She could smell her own desire perfuming the air, mixing with the musky scent of him; it was enough to practically overwhelm her. She was so close to the edge now, her depths so tight and desperate for attention, that she was certain that anything he did could push her over.

His next move, then, made her gasp. His fingers came up to pinch her sweet bud at just the same time that he moved his tongue deep inside her walls and began lapping at her ambrosia in long strokes. His nail ran just over the almost-too-sensitized bud, too, and she imploded in desire.

She let out a desperate little whimpering scream, as a pleasure which warmed her terribly coursed through every inch of her body, pulling on the exquisite tongue which stroked through her so well. His continued attention, too, made her quake and toss. She was crying with it, panting.

He watched her, could feel it all in her--and it broke the last bond of patience he had in him. Simply tasting her had been too much, had made him too desperate. His shaft was so hard, was throbbing so insanely he knew he couldn't stand another second apart from her. He had to take her now.

He knew, of course, that he had her permission, as well; he didn't wait, then, to ask for it again. He simply placed one last kiss on the flower of her depths and then sat up to watch her.

Her look was so beautiful now, as she continued to quake in desire; he refused to wait another second. He grasped her hips softly, then, and began to enter her incredible, caressing walls.

She felt him, of course, taking her over, moving into her--inch by perfect, thickened inch. She hadn't stopped shaking yet, hadn't stopped trembling from her last perfect release, and now he was inside her. Dear God--it was too perfect to describe.

"Yes," he heard her plead, in a very small voice. He closed his eyes and continued his entrance, too lost--too aroused to be able to watch her.

She heard his fast breathing, his deep groans, and her desperation for him grew. She spread her thighs further, holding her hips up to him, unspeakably needy for the whole, hard length of him deep within her--hungry for it. "Please," she begged.

He opened his eyes once more to see her loving eyes begging him for more. He quaked slightly. She felt so good, her walls still trembling from the pleasure he had already given her. It was just too much.

He saw it in her eyes, as well. She didn't want him to wait, wanted all of him right now. His hunger took him over, then, canceling out everything else. He wanted to give himself to her till she quaked in desire; he wanted to hear her groans.

He took hold of both of her hips firmly, then, and began to enter her more deeply, more completely, in small, circling strokes. He had filled her entirely a few seconds later, as well, but he no longer wanted to wait for the rest of him to follow; he knew, too, that she didn't want to wait, either. "Yes," she begged, barely breathing.

He clasped her hips tightly, then, and they both began to stroke in circles--sliding his long cock further out each time before moving it in more deeply. Each stroke brought them closer to being one.

Their eyes were closed, their heads back; they were barely surviving the strength of the feelings here. It was too perfect, made them both too whole.

He heard her whimper, however, and he focused on her once more. Her lips were open now, and she had a look almost of revelation on her face. . . . It was a look that made him unspeakably hungry.

"Look at me," he demanded quietly. She did, panting. "You want me?" he asked her softly, tauntingly.

She let out a desperate little groan. They both knew it would only be one more stroke before he was in her completely--and she wanted that more than she wanted life. "*Yes*," she begged.

His hands on her hips tightened. "Good," his husky voice whispered. One more long, deep stroke later, then, and he was in her to the hilt.

She gasped, overwhelmed by it. It never mattered to her how many times they had been together now; every one was astounding. Every one made her quake.

He was so big, filled her so perfectly. It was as though God had made him for no other purpose but to fit inside her--and herself for no purpose but to enclose him deeply. They were a perfect match.

Nik's head was back, as he groaned loudly, his eyes closed once more. Dear Lord, there was nothing else on earth like this--nothing else on earth like *her*. She gave him feelings he had never wholly believed to be possible before her. She was aching, perfect desire.

She had been watching his face, as she panted, still not able to wholly become used to the revelation of having him within her. His face, though, was even more amazing--showed every perfect emotion in him, all of them directed to her. . . . She loved him more than she could ever possibly say.

"You are so beautiful," she finally managed to whisper, however.

He groaned and looked down at her--at his lover, his heart, the other side to his soul. No one could ever rival her; no one could match her perfection.

He lay himself down on top of her, then, looking deeply into her eyes. One hand stroked lightly over her cheek. "I love you so much," he whispered. His eyes traced up over her willing bonds and then back to her eyes, his look heated. "And I want to make love to you until you ache with joy."

She quivered slightly beneath him. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes wide.

He caught her, then, in a deep, hot, impassioned kiss and began his rhythm. His hands were on her lower back, as he began his strokes deep within her, the head of him working her most tender core in a way which made her quake.

She broke from the kiss with a gasp, unable to do anything but feel. "Oh God," she moaned; she wrapped her legs around him tightly. The tip of his cock continued to create an aching light deep within her core. "More," she begged.

He kissed tenderly around her face, as he held her to him tightly. He was running his shaft through her in long, slow strokes, caressing her to her deepest core and then coming back to tease near the entrance to her depths, before returning again.

"Ohhhh," she moaned, her eyes closed. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together, as he continued his slow arousal of her; their needy nipples stroked over each other's in little shockwaves of pleasure.

God, this felt too good--but she still wanted more, was insane for it. He was too gentle; she wanted to see his most ruthless desire. "Please, 'Kita," she begged. He bit a perfect spot on her neck, and she moaned for a second. "Please show me you want me. Show me your desire."

He groaned slightly and bit another spot more roughly. She groaned desperately, as well, in return. It was too much to have her beg; it made him ache with need.

Still, part of him was afraid of hurting her; she read his concern, however--and dismissed it. "Do it, please," she begged. "Give me everything inside you." She kissed his temple and decided to be cruder. "Love me till I ache--then ride me harder."

She was biting his earlobe, as a rumbling growl issued from him; he looked up at her, his eyes warning. He was giving her deep, tight thrusts. "You don't know what you're asking for."

She was trembling but wanted more. Her eyes led his up to her bonds and then back down, reminding him of her love for her utter possession of her. "Show me." She nipped over his lips. "But do it rough."

His eyes flashed at her, and she captured his mouth deeply for a long moment. "I want to be your crudest fantasy." She bit his earlobe, harder, once more. "Now," her hot breath whispered.

She had played him too well. He broke finally, unable to resist the siren call of her need for him.

He caught her mouth in a deep, hot kiss and moved her hips further down the bed, closer to him. His hands held them, too, as he used the tip of his cock to begin to roughly work a shakingly needy, tender spot within her.

She was screaming slightly through the kiss. Her body was taut, both with her own desire and the pull of her bonds. The way he stroked her was sending the most incredible light singing deep inside her, was trembling from her core and out through her heated veins. She was shaking.

He growled and pulled back from the kiss. "You like it like that, don't you?"

She let out a little moaning shudder and closed her eyes, overwhelmed by his wild need. "Y-yes," she whispered. "More."

His hands held her hips where he wanted them, as he worked her core more roughly, with an expertise born of indescribable desire. "I love stroking you," he smiled ferally at her. He moved her slightly, increasing the incredible friction which ached in her deepest core. "You feel like heaven."

She let out a desperate groan. She couldn't even think anymore; all there was was him--was the perfection of his love for her, was the way her body ached for more of him.

He held her just where he wanted her, continuing to stroke over her, rough and deep. "Good," he murmured of her whimpering response. His mouth, then, began to trail down all the spots of need along her neck, giving each one the rough attention it deserved.

She whimpered again and pulled him further into her with her heels. He always gave her what she needed, knew it without comment or request. His mouth's descent, too, was making her burn. God, she needed more.

Just as she was thinking this, however, Nikita lifted her legs slightly--moved them further up his body. Then, as his mouth moved down to begin to softly torment one of her much-aroused nipples again, he began to give her longer, rougher strokes.

God, that felt good; she was crying now. Every thrust hit her in a way that left her trembling. His mouth, too, stoked the inferno which was blazing further within her. All of the feelings, indeed, seemed to course through her, centering in the core of all her desire. "Jesus," she moaned.

God, he was lost to her. There was just nothing on earth which wasn't her, which wasn't the desire and love she alone gave him.

Every long stroke through her enclosed him in a way which increased the throbbing ache of his length perilously. He truly was beginning to wonder how much longer he would last.

Still, he was *so* hungry for her. His mouth began to alternate kissing around her breasts with suckling the lovely little nipples; it, indeed, was tender.

His, now even larger, shaft was not, though. His fever was running high, was making him desperate for even more of her.

His hands, then, began to run her more roughly, more sharply, over his thick cock, hitting her sensitized core hard with each increasingly-desperate stroke.

She was half certain that she was losing track of who she was, but she wanted even more of the feeling. She let out a whimpering cry and moved her knees further up her body, begging for him to go deeper. She was insane for every inch.

He growled loudly and began nibbling on her nipple once more. His hands, too, pulled her even closer to him--aiming his thrusts even more deeply into the silk of her core. Dear God, he didn't know if he could survive much more; she just felt too perfect.

His thrusts were growing increasingly more feral. She lay back her head, and let out a loud, long, moaning scream. He hit her deeper still, and she trembled wildly.

That one reaction was it, though; he couldn't take much more. His thrusts became almost brutal in their need; the fire roared through his blood, as he rode the fire he felt in hers. His mouth, too, began to kiss its way up her again, licking up her throat.

By the time he was back to her mouth, she had tears flowing from her eyes constantly, her body shaking wildly; her eyes were closed. He growled. God, he loved this--loved *her*.

His hands stroked back up to bury themselves in her hair; his breath was hot on her face. His thrusts now were short and ruthless, as he rode her incredibly far in; his groans were loud with each one. "I love this," he growled.

She looked back at him finally with eyes which belonged to him alone, which were cloudy with sheer pleasure. He moaned and kissed her deeply, ruthlessly, as his short thrusts worked her into a near-frenzy; she was trembling uncontrollably, as she moaned beneath him.

He broke the kiss finally to focus on her once more, ready to tell her all the truths of his heart. "I need you like I need to breathe; I love you more than is safe for my sanity."

His hands ran back down her to dig his fingers into her soft curves, his tiny, brutal strokes constant. He kissed her deeply again, unable to keep away from that sweet mouth, and she whimpered, lost to him so completely it was as though anything outside of him had stopped existing.

When he broke from the kiss again, he focused on her with a furious passion; she let out a desperate, pleading moan, giving herself to him entirely. "There is nothing which will ever come close to making love to you, nothing which is anywhere near as perfect as feeling your body giving itself up to me, than feeling your desire--your joy."

She moaned loudly and leaned her head back again, eyes closed. She felt his lips trail down her throat once more.

She was shaking, was so lost to her joy that she thought she might go mad. She couldn't take anymore before she exploded.

He was as deep inside her as it was possible to go, was deeper than she would have imagined possible, and his perfect, hard length was working her into a frenzy so pure, so cataclysmic she wasn't sure she could survive it. "Please," her voice barely got out.

"Yes," he moaned, panting. He kissed over her cheek. "Come for me, my love." His hands reached up to rip hers from her bonds. He kissed her temple, as her nails dug into his shoulders now. "Give yourself to me completely." He gave her an indescribably, ruthlessly beautiful stroke, as she screamed. "You are mine," he whispered in her ear. His cock beat a deep, trembling rhythm over her core for one more second. "And I am yours."

When the next overwhelming stroke connected with her tingling, tautly-desired core, she simply came apart, her body seeming to shatter into a hundred, tiny stars. She let out a deep, aching, "Ohhhhhh," and trailed her nails in ridges down his back; they then sunk into his soft curves, holding him deep within her--increasing the perfection and scope of her explosion, as her panting cries went on.

"God," he moaned. Her last move was too much.

Her next, though, took away all effort at control. He felt her soft lips kiss his temple. "My angel," her passion-hoarse voice whimpered reverently, ecstatically.

He let out a desperate noise, as he trembled above her for one last, perfect second. Then, the tide of absolute pleasure began to sweep over him, and he buried his face in her fragrant, soft curls, letting out a sighing breath. "I love you."

At that moment, the tidal wave engulfed him--sweeping her away even further, as well, in the complete ecstasy of her love and desire for him. Her soft walls caressed him tightly, lovingly, desperately--welcoming all of his warmth, loving it, soothed by it in trembling release.

He simply groaned and held her to him, as he shook above her. Everything in him seemed to have stopped for this--seemed to hang suspended in this moment, comforted by a love and a rushing, complete satiation unlike any other.

There was nothing else like this, for either of them; there never could be. This was everything anyone could ever hope for in life--was love, was ecstasy, was a soul's ecstatic embrace, . . . was absolute Nirvana.

*********

His mind was full of a dozen different expletives. For all the years he had been around, you would think that he finally would have learned to be cautious, that he would have come to understand that it was not just himself who could be hurt. Now, though, despite all the hopes he had had for him, it looked like hell was coming down on his nephew. . . . And he himself was the only one to blame.

Walter's exhaled breath was disgusted, as he paced his apartment, his mind still turning wildly. Nikita's hell, admittedly, could have come in worse forms, of course; this one, in fact, was a *very* beautiful woman, but that didn't make it any better, really. He sighed sadly. Now, he just wished that he knew where to begin in trying to save the kid.

He gave up on pacing and let out a small grunt, collapsing on his couch, his mind still thinking over this unexpected new enemy. "Michelle Samuelle, my ass," he muttered softly. Michelle *Wolfe* was more like it. He shuddered just slightly. That, indeed, wasn't a name you could shift off by just pretending it didn't exist.

He continued pondering, his mind focusing on this new enemy further. She was quite the looker, of course; he could see why Nikky had been attracted to her, but those looks also gave her away. Her eyes may have been a different color than her mother's, but they could hold no less steely determination, he was sure. No Wolfe, as far as he could tell--after all, ever strayed very far from the den.

He rolled his eyes heavenward and leaned forward, rubbing his face in his hands. God, he hated this. All in all, it hadn't exactly been the sort of Thanksgiving he had been looking forward to. He had never expected to go to it and find that his nephew had been compromised, indeed. Not exactly your average, friendly family gathering.

What made it all worse, too--he knew, was that it was his fault, was his past, which had gotten Nikky into this. He was holding his face in his hands. It wasn't, of course, like he had had a whole lot of choice, or had taken a lot of joy in his work, but he had done it, nonetheless. . . . He just hated that, now, one of the two people he cared most for in the world might have to pay for it--for something that kid had never even been involved in.

He leaned back finally, his hands hanging limply against his thighs, as his mind ran through all of the paths which had led him to this point. If only he had known where his interest in, very minor, explosives as a kid would have led him, he would never have gone near the stuff. After all, all he had done when he was young was set off *really* small charges in places where no one could get hurt; he had even stood by with a fire extinguisher to make sure that nothing bad came of any of it.

This, however--he admitted, had only been the beginning. It had been in his college years that his life had taken a real turn for the worse. His own college years, of course, had come later than most people's; it had taken him a long time to work up the cash, mostly by doing demolition work on construction teams. Still, by the time he had been in his late 20s, he had been making friends with some pretty wild-eyed Sixties radicals--mostly, he admitted, because he liked the way they partied.

His look got a little nostalgic, before his mind continued on once more. Most of the crowd he hung out with, of course, would no more have used violence than they would have grown wings out of their nostrils and take up hang gliding. What he hadn't known, though, was that some of his newfound "friends" were not as ethical; they, indeed, had pumped him for information on all of the types of explosives he had once used in his work--not to mention a few of his own, more innovative, ideas.

His look was sad and disgusted. God, he had been stupid--he realized now; he should have seen where it all was going, of course, but he just hadn't. He had been too damn happy actually not having to work in every awful sort of weather snap, too happy being accepted by some pretty lovely-looking women, to question his new good fortune.

His naivete, however, hadn't lasted too long; he had known what had happened from the moment the news had gotten to him, in fact--hell, from the moment he had heard the noise. One, large campus building gone--with a random life or two along with it. He shook his head. Despicable.

He sighed again. That, though, hadn't in any way been the worst of it--or the least of his anger. He had, indeed, felt so much guilt at having unintentionally been part of this sort of destruction that he had gone to the police and confessed his unwilling part in it--had offered to help them in any way he could. . . . Boy, had that been a mistake. It was soon after that, indeed, that he had begun to realize that neither side really played fair--and the deck would always be stacked in someone else's favor.

The police, after not exactly the gentlest of treatment, as well, had turned him over to a couple of federal officers, who had not divulged their names. Then, too, his treatment had really gone to hell--and he had learned a very important life lesson. In this world he had unintentionally been becoming part of, you could trust no one.

His angry recollections went on, his memories tumbling, as his mind went back over his whole, compromised life path, once again. It hadn't been too much later, after all, that one of the agents who came to see him--hell, they had never even bothered to tell him what agency they were with, at the time--had been all too familiar, had been one of his old "friends." . . . It had, indeed, been a set-up all along.

None of this, though, had been the worst of it. It had been at that point, in fact, that the offer had come: you can work for us, or you can die. Even disgusted as he had been, however, he still hadn't taken too much time coming to a decision. He had just been too young not to cooperate.

It was, then, with that one fateful decision that his new life had begun, one which had left the old one *far* behind him. Still, at the same time, it had merged into the previous one, as well; he had, in fact, been sent back to school part-time, with the instructions to pretend that everything was normal--and a cover story, in case anyone asked questions. He hadn't been put to work with them, even, at first. They had simply been training him, bit by bit.

He still remembered it so clearly. It was in this period, indeed, that he had only helped in consulting, from time to time. It had started out so almost-benevolently, in fact--had he not remembered how he had been recruited--that he almost might have thought he had been doing good, as they had always suggested.

All he had been required to do at first, truly, was to i.d. bombs from explosion patterns, help establish which incendiaries would be easiest for a terrorist to acquire and carry in certain situations, etc. . . . It was only when he started seeing these supposedly hypothetical "scenarios" coming true in the news that he had known what was really going on. He was just being used again.

It had been then, too, when he had been pulled in full-time. He had, in fact, been offered a pretty good life, in return for traveling the world, helping to plan out the bombing du jour. It had stunk still, overall--of course, but it hadn't been prison or anything; it had, indeed, become a rather weird kind of job--even if he had lost track *long* ago of all of the ins and outs of the people they were killing. . . . He had spent too much time, indeed, just trying to keep their screams out of his nightmares.

Still--he sighed again--the routine had been established, and he had continued like that for almost 25 years--well into his 50s. In that time, too, he had managed to find one hell of a good woman in Belinda, who had helped to nurse him back to health after his only gunshot wound. He had been allowed to keep the relationship by his superiors, as well, after she had been cleared by security. . . . It had just gone unspoken that if she said anything about his lifestyle to anyone on the outside of it, she would die.

His mind focused in on the woman he loved again now. For some bizarre reason, though, she had put up with all the nonsense for him, anyway. He smiled slightly. God only knew why.

It had been during these years too, however--his mind switched paths slightly once again, when he had tried to catch up with his sister. He had been sent to consult in Australia--where he knew she had run--when he had decided to try to find her. And it had torn at his heart to discover that not only had she had a child in the years since she had run away from their father with some--to his mind--idiot, defected Russian bastard, but that she and the child (the idiot having been *long* gone) had been living on the street.

He closed his eyes for a second, shaking his head. God, that had hurt to find out. Roberta had never had a whole lot of self-will, of course; Dad had beaten that out of her a *long* time ago. Still, to find his much younger sister as a homeless drunk with a scared little kid in tow had just torn at him. . . . He had had to do something to help them.

He had, then, done all that he could at the time. He had gotten permission to take a few weeks off from his hell of a job and had then insinuated himself first, pretty easily, with a kid he had discovered to have darn good instincts and, second--once more, with his sister; he had found them both a place to stay, too, using what money he had saved up to pay a few months' rent. He had managed to find his sister a job, as well, and she had promised to clean up her act. Once they had seemed to be relatively stable, though, he had had to leave. . . . There just hadn't been much choice for him but to go on back.

He opened his eyes once more, but his gaze was still nostalgic and saddened. He had liked little Nikky from the first moment he had met him, he remembered; he had obviously been such a bright and likable kid, even while he was living in such a crappy little existence. He had just deserved so much better.

He had hated, too, that Roberta wasn't proving a better mother to him, of course, but, then, his sister had just never really had the time to sit back and figure out her life--had never been given the opportunity. His heart ached slightly, as he wondered, indeed, if this wasn't partly his fault. He, after all, might have been able to stand up to the idiot of a father they had both gotten stuck with a *whole* lot better than she could, but he hadn't really even tried--had been too scared to, if the truth was told. And his poor sister, being only a "useless girl" hadn't been allowed to escape from it like he had, had been stuck there to take it. It was all to his lasting shame, of course--and it had all been his sister's damnation.

He took a deep, calming breath. Still, he had, for awhile, hoped to keep it from being his nephew's, as well. He had really hoped that his intervention could put them both back on the right path, could save them. He swallowed heavily. That, though, just hadn't been the case.

He had tried, however--had tried to stay in touch with them both, had tried to look after them from afar. After awhile, though, the letters had simply stopped coming; a while after that, too, his own were being returned with a tersely-scrawled "Addressee gone--return to sender" on them. . . . It had taken him at least another year to figure out what had happened.

When he had, too, he had had a split second of wanting to strangle his sister, before he had realized once more that she just hadn't ever had the chance to see any other life. She, though--having been trained to look for the same kind of abuser over and over again (he had spent a period of a few years reading every self-help book on abuse he could find trying to figure her out), had simply found another one, after he had been forced to leave them on their own.

This one, too, had been worse--had taken possession of her small apartment and tossed her and her kid out on the street, after administering quite a few sound beatings to them both. He sighed. Some of the details he had gotten from a friend who had been on business in Australia; some he had pressed in bits and pieces from his nephew in more recent years. All of it, though, made him crazy.

He hadn't stopped trying to help them then, however; he had managed to find them both again, by proxy, a few years after that--had given Roberta some more money to start again. For several years, too, he had gotten, fairly impersonal, letters off and on from her telling him that things were fine but to send more money if he could. . . . It had only been years later, through Nikita, that he had found out why the letters had always sounded so strained; they had been dictated by a series of useless boyfriends, all of whom had disallowed her child to write to him at all. He swallowed hard. Damn, he hated it.

He took a deep breath once more; he was trying to calm himself, as he continued on to ponder the worst news he had received. That, indeed, had come several years later, when he had lost contact altogether with Roberta.

He looked back again on the things which had never quite happened. He had been, indeed, almost ready to retire, had been ready to get a pretty good life going for himself as a going-away present, with only the promise of his silence and that he would continue to "consult" when needed, in return--but all of that had disappeared when he had finally gotten word of what had happened to his sister and nephew. A friend had finally tracked Nikita down on the street, alone--just trying to survive. He sniffed, trying to ignore the tears in his eyes. From his friend's report, too, he had still somehow been the same sweet kid, if now probably even more, justifiably, frightened--even if he had also tried to hide it inside.

It had been this news, then, that had set Walter's new path, which had shattered all former plans. He had known, indeed, that that nice little house with the white picket fence just wasn't meant to be his. He had done little that he really felt was decent in his life, in fact, but this would change that--wouldn't even the balance sheet, by any means, but it would at least add *something* to the plus side. With Belinda's incredibly tolerant support, then, he hadn't hesitated to act.

His demands for his retirement had changed that day, indeed. He had gone to his leaders and told them that he would take a far more modest stipend and living place, if only they would help bring his nephew to the states and give him the money to get him settled reasonably. He pointed out that he would ask for nothing else, but this was non-negotiable. It was this or simple execution for him; there were no other choices.

His leaders, too--fortunately, hadn't really taken very long to consider. After all, what he was asking for really took less money from their, not too heavily taxed, coffers and also ensured his continued loyalty and use. They, then, had agreed--and Nikita had found himself with a passage on a long freighter trip to the states.

He sighed, thinking back into this last fact. That trip, of course, had been symbolic, too; his nephew's future hadn't exactly been paved with gold. Still, he had had a place to live, an unnaturally-quick citizenship, the means with which to get a job, and a relative around who finally gave a shit about him. . . . It hadn't been perfect, then, but it had certainly been better.

He wiped away a random tear in annoyance, pretending it wasn't really there. He had done all of this, then, to look after his nephew--had waited to listen to whatever details of his life the kid felt like divulging to him, which he knew still left a lot out. He had managed to get from Julie, too, a few, well--if not confirmations of his suspicions--then at least lack of denials on the rest; they made his blood boil, of course, but he had to accept them. There just wasn't any other choice for a reluctant realist.

Still, despite it all, Nik was amazing. The poor kid had been through a lot, indeed, but he was a survivor--was more than that, really--was one hell of a good man. He got a proud, avuncular smile on his slightly-trembling lips. Not much credit he could take for that, of course, but the kid was a phenomenon. . . . All he had wanted to do, then, was help him grow.