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"I've missed you."

Nikita's eyes glistened with tears. Did he? Or was this another manipulation?

She shook her head and looked away, not wanting him to see the weakness of a falling teardrop.

"Ni-ki-ta," his voice beckoned. His hand slid atop hers, as it rested on the tabletop.

"Michael, please. . ." she begged, unable to stop her voice from breaking.

"Tell me to go," he said softly, "and I will."

Nikita looked up at that remark, straight into pleading green eyes that almost immediately shuttered themselves by staring down at her hand on the table.

"Tell me, " he said softer still. His hand grasped her wrist and began to draw her out of her chair. Nitita stood, half-willingly, half in confusion.

Michael's pull on her wrist was relentless, but gentle as he guided her around the table to where he was seated. When she was standing over him, he relinquished his hold on her hand, to run his hands down the outside of her thighs. He carefully guided her until she was standing astride his lap, then tugged her down onto it.

While Nikita debated what to say or do next, Michael leaned his body into hers, resting his face against her shoulder, and wrapping his arms around her waist. For a moment, she was reminded of Michael after his encounter with Perez—the sweet, lost boy who had wanted to dance. It had been an illusion, an aberration, and yet, Nikita wondered if somewhere deep down, that Michael still existed. The one that needed her—the one that could say, "I love you."

Suddenly, Michael's hands moved beneath her sweater, stroking slowly upwards. The sensation was like electricity arcing between his fingers and her back. Nikita sucked in her breath and shivered beneath his touch.

His touch. He so seldom gave it and yet every time he did, she couldn't get enough of it.

'Are you going to fall for this again?' her inner voice suddenly complained. 'This is Section Seduction Training 101!'

'But I love him,' her heart beat back. Her body couldn't deny it. Her pulse throbbed in her wrists and in her throat.

'Yeah? And he knows it too! It's a game to him! Next he'll kiss you, and you'll do anything he wants!'

But Michael's hands stopped their upward movement when they reached their goal—her shoulders. He lifted his head and pulled her closer—face to face. Eye to eye. Within an eyelash of touching her mouth with his own.

'Told you!' Came the disgusted comment of her inner voice as it threw up its imaginary hands.

But Michael didn't kiss her. In fact, he removed his hands from beneath her shirt and let his arms drop to his sides so that he was no longer holding her. The only part of him that touched her at all, was his lap beneath her bottom.

'If you had any sense at all, you'd run like hell!' Nikita's inner voice ordered.

And then he said, "Forgive me."

Nikita's face crumpled with grief, even as her body went rigid. She started to get up, but Michael stayed her with a word.

"Please?" And still he made no move to touch her.

Nikita composed herself, sat back down and looked into his eyes. Those sometimes jade, sometimes smoky, jungle-green eyes of his. The truth of him was buried there. Those eyes that kept her imprisoned in chains composed of cobwebs. No force, hardly any substance, yet stronger than steel.

"Are you going to say you're sorry, again?" She asked with an edge of sarcasm to cover the telltale sniff of her runny nose.

"No. I've already told you that. Many times." He continued to watch her face intently.

She let loose a despondent chuckle, "Which time, did you mean it?"

"Always," he said sadly, still not looking away, "I always meant it, Ni-ki-ta."

Eye to eye.

Of course! How simple! The truth of him was hidden in his gaze. How could she have missed this for so long? When he told the truth, he told it with his eyes. It was why he always seemed to look away when he spoke to her in Section! He couldn't look her in the eye and lie.

'Couldn't he?' The tiny voice interrupted.

Nikita shook her head at the voice. She didn't know. She simply didn't know anymore.

"Michael," Nikita took his face between her two hands. "I want the truth. Why did you come over to dinner tonight?"

"Because I missed you." He didn't look away. 'Truth?'

"You sure it wasn't because you missed Elena? You loved her, didn't you?"

"No." His eyes looked away. Nikita closed her eyes in pain. 'Liar!'

"You're lying, Michael," she said softly, dropping her hands and looking defeated.

He looked back at her and relented, "Yes. I loved Elena. But I wasn't in love with her."

It was Nikita's turn to look away as she asked, "Our night together . . . in Lyons,"

"Yes?" He asked softly, as his hand touched, then caressed her cheek to smooth away a tear.

"Did it mean anything to you?" She started to cry, and covered her face with her hands.

"Nikita. Look at me." Michael replied gently.

She obeyed, her eyes wet and rebellious. She expected to be hurt and flinched when Michael took her face in his hands.

"It meant everything to me."

Green eyes stared intently into blue.

Truth.

Nikita melted into his arms and Michael held her tightly, his eyes squeezed shut against the fear of almost losing her again.

* * *

They sat together, holding each other, wordlessly until Nikita leaned down and kissed him.

It was a gentle invitation—a warm mouth sliding sensuously against a warm mouth. It quickly became hungry and desperate.

"Michael . . ." His name escaped on a whisper.

Michael slipped his arms beneath her bottom and leaned forward, pushing himself and Nikita out of the chair.

"Where?" He whispered, giving her the choice—the couch, or her bedroom.

Nikita glanced at her room as he set her lightly on her feet.

"Will you stay?" She asked breathlessly against his throat.

"If you wish it," he answered.

Her answer was a non-verbal tug on his hand as she led him to her bedroom, stopping only to turn out lights.

They undressed each other in the dark, standing together, one warm body pressed against another.

Michael outlined her with his hands and in his mind as she kissed him.

No passive lover, was Nikita, Michael had learned to his joy in Lyons. She loved, like she lived, openly, passionately, and truthfully. When he tumbled her onto the bed, she responded by rolling atop him and became the aggressor, making love to him with her lips, her hands, her mouth.

It was only when he entered the heated confines of her body, did she finally surrender to his control.

"Oh, Michael . . ." Nikita tossed her head in the agony of ultimate pleasure, clasping him tightly to herself. He found her mouth, and kissed her, just as he found his own.

In the intimate silence that followed, with Michael's arms around her, Nikita heard him ask, "Am I forgiven?"

"Yes, Michael," she whispered back. "Always. I love you."

His arms tightened around her briefly. The words meant more to him than she would ever know. He stroked her back until she was asleep.

"I love you too." He confessed to the darkness. "Always."

* * *

Nikita sat on her balcony in the early morning light. It was a cool morning, but looked to be the beginning of a glorious new day.

'Am I forgiven?' he had said. Not 'I love you', but 'Am I forgiven?'

Nikita sighed and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear.

Would she ever understand him? It was doubtful.

Did she trust him? Her mind tiptoed around answering that question for the moment. Did she love him? Yes. Quite hopelessly.

Nikita finished her coffee, got to her feet and went inside.

The morning sun painted the floor of her apartment with golden light as she tiptoed up the steps to her bedroom. She had to be sure. Sure he was really there and not some phantom lover of her dreams.

She seated herself at the edge of the bed and reached out to take his hand—it was solid, real, and still warm from sleep.

He opened his eyes.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," Michael answered, his hand turning in hers, then sliding over to cover hers.

"Feels strange," she said, oddly feeling shy. "We're really together now."

His eyes questioned hers as he spoke. "If we want to be," came his soft reply.

Nikita pondered that briefly, then smiled. "Well, . . . I wanna be."

"So do I," Michael answered yet his voice was somber, almost sad. His fingers still clung to hers.

The tone of it reminded Nikita of their true situation. "Section won't like it. What do you think they will do?"

Michael heard a faint trace of fear in her voice. He sat up and gently moved several strands of her hand behind her ear. Section could do just about anything and they both knew it.

"We'll have to see," he said, bending to kiss her neck.

Nikita's eyes slid shut as he wooed her to forget. Until there was no more Section. . . only Michael's arms around her.

End