Nikita looked back up at Walter with laughter in her eyes. "Let's just say I won't have any problems winning the Horniest Housewife of the Year Award."

Walter's eyes bulged and he started choking with supressed laughter. "You-you..." he gasped. Nikita rounded the counter and pounded him on the back, shrugging at a few stray operatives looking on with interest. Walter finished his coughing fit and wiped at the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Get out of here. I've got work to do," he threatened, swatting at her backside as Nikita danced away from his station.

She glanced at Michael's office on her way to see Madeline. His door was shut, as usual, but the blinds were open and his dark-clad figure leaned over his desk. Nikita hesitated, but decided she got to see enough of Michael outside of Section; she got to see her Michael, not Section Michael. There was no need for her to see him in his office right now, and it would probably give Madeline ammunition to use against her.

"Hello, Nikita," Madeline said blandly, turning away from the scrolling computer monitor at her desk. She waited until Nikita ensconced herself in the highly functional chair before asking her first deceptively vague question. "What progress have you made?"

"Michael and I have established ourselves as a believable couple and I've met everyone on my street except the target."

"Have you been in their homes?"

Nikita blinked at the question, but couldn't find anything subversive about the query. "I've been in the Ramsey and Johannson houses. There's a dinner party this week, and we'll go to the Davis home." She remained silent and returned Madeline's inscrutably polite gaze. "Why, Madeline?"

"What kind of security do they use?"

Nikita flopped back in her chair and concentrated. "From what I gather, most people in the area use a local home security agency. Nothing fancy, just motion lights and a home invasion alarm wired into the doors."

"It's our understanding that the target regularly attends neighborhood watch meetings. The next meeting isn't due for another month, so you and Michael are going to do something about it."

"You want us to go breaking and entering?" Nikita drawled, forcing herself to hide her anger and dismay.

"Yes."

"I'd rather not steal from the people who are befriending me, Madeline."

"That's not necessary. It would be more desirable for you and Michael to steal from strangers; that way you are less likely to be recognized," Madeline said smoothly.

"Is Michael working up the profile?" Nikita asked.

"I thought you could do it." Nikita nodded her acceptance and got up to leave. As she reached the door, Madeline's voice rang out. "One more thing, Nikita. Is Mr. Nelson being...entertained?"

Nikita turned around easily, her face unreadable. "He must like what he sees. He's got a camera trained on our bedroom."

"Good."

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

Michael firmly closed the back door and wound his arm around Nikita's waist as they walked across their backyard. The air was growing milder as the spring season progressed, but there was still a slight chill in the air. Nikita snuggled against Michael's warmth as they cut through the low hedge and skirted the Ramsey's covered swimming pool. Nikita rapped her knuckles on the sliding glass doors, stepping back with Michael when a brown eye peered at them from between the blinds. The hanging blinds whisked aside and the two Section operatives were presented with the grinning face of Tracy's husband, George. He was dressed in slacks and a sweater that bulged over his small beer belly.

"Come in, please!" he laughed. "I've never been so happy to see adults in my entire life." George grimaced as one of his children wailed from another room; his graying mustache quirked at the corners as he took in Michael and Nikita's reactions. Michael looked mildly amused and Nikita was grinning at him.

George had a good feeling about neighbors like that, ones who didn't get all huffy or weird over recalcitrant children.

"What's the problem?" Nikita asked as George ushered them to the stools at the breakfast nook.

"Oh, the usual teenager stuff. My youngest just broke up with her boyfriend. Middle child is excruciatingly embarrassed that her parents are throwing a party. My oldest keeps badgering me for some of the champagne," George rambled, poking at the contents of a covered dish hidden by the counter partition.

"Champagne?" Nikita said, sliding her hand under the counter to rest on Michael's hard thigh.

"Yep. Appetizers are oysters on the half shell. My wife tells me oysters and champagne are an aphrodisiac," George winked. He watched with friendly interest as the couple in front of him went still and exchanged glances that would have scorched his hair had he inadvertently stepped between them.

Nikita's hand kneaded Michael's thigh; his fingers brushed across the back of her bare neck, tangling in the strands that escaped from her stylish top knot. They broke the gaze after several minutes when George cleared his throat and muttered something like, "newlyweds". She turned to him, hoping that her cheeks weren't as flushed as they felt. "Where is Tracy, anyway?"

"Oh, she's still getting ready." George turned and winked at Michael. "You know how women are."

Nikita gave Michael's thigh a hard squeeze when his lips parted to make a response. "Don't even think about it, honey."

The doorbell chimed near the front of the house. George grinned at Michael and said, "Didn't mean to get you in any trouble with the wife, there." He left them alone in the kitchen.

"You're going to make them think I'm henpecked," Michael said, propping his chin in his hand.

Nikita scooted her stool closer to his. "You deserve it. I had a hard time explaining that bite mark to Lydia the other day."

Michael's eyes darkened and his fingers strayed from her neck to her shoulder. "This mark?" he asked, tracing the fading red mark after pushing back the fabric.

"Yeah. Kiss it and make it better."

Michael bent forward obligingly and nibbled at her shoulder, his cinnamon curls brushing sensually on her sensitive skin. "Better?" he murmured.

"Almost. A little to the right," Nikita sighed. Her free arm slid up Michael's back, over the dark green silk shirt she had asked him to wear.

"Well, what do we have here?" a voice boomed.

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

Michael and Nikita pulled apart slowly; his hand remained at her neck, her hand on his thigh. They turned together to face the new arrivals. The man who had spoken stood with his beefy arms crossed, eyeing them lewdly with a wide-legged stance. His petite wife cowered next to him, her resemblance to Lydia indicating that they were Mr. and Mrs. Davis. Lydia walked around him, pulling her husband by the hand.

"Hey, you two!" she called cheerfully. She lead Dan to the counter and waved the other couple over. "Lisa, Mark, this is Michael and Nikita Christophe. They moved into the old Kincaid place a few weeks ago."

Mark Davis stood where he was, and his wife didn't seem inclined to make a move without his approval. She nodded slightly at Michael and Nikita, casting her eyes down to the carpet after her attempt at politeness. Dan nudged Lydia and gave her a prompting stare.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Nikita, you've met Dan, right?"

Nikita smiled and extended her hand. "Briefly. Obviously, this is my husband."

Dan and Michael shook hands with a hearty grip, assessing each other. Dan was tall and handsome, in an athletic way. In the exchange, each man kept a proprietary hand on his wife. Suddenly, Dan grinned. "It's good to finally meet the couple that has the neighborhood buzzing."

Michael leaned back lazily on the stool and quirked the corners of his mouth. "Buzzing?"

Lydia rapped her palm on Dan's bicep and turned back towards Michael. "He's joking. It's just the usual gossip when somebody new moves in."

"Ha!" The outburst came from Mark Davis. He dropped his arms and plowed forward; he dropped his large frame into a chair at the dining room table. "You two should invest in some blinds," he said arrogantly. His wife scuttled to his side, a deep flush staining her cheeks. Lydia glared at her brother-in-law with a strained expression that indicated Mark Davis was a singularly uncouth man. Dan shrugged and threw his arm around his wife's shoulders.

Nikita turned to Michael and grinned at him. She leaned forward to murmur in his ear. "Looks like we've made quite an impression." She raised her voice and fixed her amused gaze on Lydia. "I didn't realize we had such an audience."

"You decorated the house," Michael said, entwining his fingers in a loose lock of her hair.

Lydia's giggle dissolved some of the tension in the room. Tracy chose that moment to sweep into the room, her husband and seventeen-year-old son trailing in her wake.

"Mo-om...can't I have a sip?"

Tracy sighed and smiled at Nikita in exasperation. "Children."

"I'm almost an adult," her lanky son protested, brushing his fingers through his dyed-platinum hair when he realized he was the center of attention.

"So?" George chuckled, cheerfully mussing his son's hair as he walked by.

Tracy quit fussing the covered dishes and stared in disappointment at the dining room. "Oh, no. George, we don't have enough chairs!"

George chuckled again. "That's easily remedied. We'll just sit on each other's laps."

Nikita was laughing at Tracy's expression when she felt herself being lifted from her stool. The backs of her thighs came into contact with Michael's muscled legs, her shoulder with his chest. Michael kissed her nose at her startled look.

"Works for me," she smiled.

"When in Rome," Dan quipped, swinging Lydia up and settling her on his lap next to Michael and Nikita. She squeaked indignantly, but didn't seem any more inclined to move than Nikita. "Great idea, George," he said over her shoulder.

Tracy shook her head and began distributing small plates heaped with oysters while George poured the chilled champagne. His son hounded his steps, whining for a taste of the sparkling liquid.

"I have a suggestion," Nikita finally said.

Tracy brushed her hair back in relief. "What?"

"Let him have some champagne," she answered. "After he tries an oyster."

"What do you say, Tim?" George said, clapping his son on the back when the laughter died down. "Is it a deal?"

Tim eyed the plate of pale oysters with a disgusted ambivalence. "Is that the only way?"

"'Fraid so, son."

Tim sighed deeply and picked up an oyster shell. He sniffed at him and wrenched his nose away from the offending oyster. "This is so gross." Tim cast his gaze around the room. When he realized Nikita was watching, his shoulders straightened and he lifted the oyster shell to his lips. Nikita watched beneath lowered lashes as the muscles in the young man's throat worked convulsively before he spat the slimy mollusk into the sink.

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

After the saliva-coated mollusk stopped sliding in the sink, everyone had laughingly insisted that Tim be given a glass of champagne for braving the oyster. Nikita had assured the young man that oysters were an "acquired taste."

The doorbell rang just as everyone was stretching and standing, ready to move on to the main course at Lydia and Dan's house. Tracy puttered in the kitchen, putting away a few dishes. She sent her husband to the door with an irritated flick of her hand.

"Here I am, fashionably late, as always," came a voice from the foyer. Amy Muldoon appeared, striding forward on stiletto heels and a slinky dress. "Oh, you started without me," she sigh, screwing her painted lips into an exaggerated moue of disappointment.

Nikita arched her eyebrow at Lydia, her face turned away from the barracuda. Lydia grimaced and shrugged. "She found out and invited herself," she whispered.

Michael and Nikita reached for each other as Amy Muldoon moved farther into the dining room. They each snaked an arm around the other's waist and Nikita rested her head on Michael's shoulder with a contented sigh. Undaunted, the barracuda stopped in front of them and rubbed her arm over Michael's bicep.

"Michael, I'm so glad you're here! Nikita," she added as an afterthought. "It's good to see you again."

"Hello, Amy," Nikita replied breezily, snuggling closer to Michael's silk-covered chest.

"Everybody ready?" Tracy called, shrugging on her coat near the sliding-glass door. The group walked leisurely through the backyards around the side of Michael and Nikita's house. They paused for a car to pass before crossing the street.

"Ooh! It's so chilly," Amy Muldoon pouted, shivering dramatically. She slanted a gaze at Michael's face and brushed up against his arm as they walked across the street.

"Yes," Michael replied. His arm tightened around Nikita and she slipped both her arms around his midsection. "Are you cold, 'Kita?"

Nikita chuckled and kissed his hand at her shoulder. "Definitely not." Amy Muldoon's sultry smile disappeared from her mouth and she put on a burst of speed to sway her hips in front of them.

When they entered the house, Lydia admonished them to all sit down at the table while she brought out the main course. She had thoughtfully put out place cards on the table; Nikita and Michael found Amy Muldoon sitting across from them.

Lydia hurriedly set out the dishes. Nikita felt herself salivating from the smell of the Standing Rib Roast and helped herself to a large portion; she shot Michael a dirty look as he plopped a spoonful of buttered brussel sprouts on her plate.

He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. "They're good for you."

After the initial serving, conversation erupted between the clanking of forks and sips of red wine. "Honestly, Lydia! I don't know you got this Timbale of Corn to come out so perfectly. What's your secret?" Amy Muldoon simpered.

Michael had been faintly relieved at her lack of attention until he felt a stocking-clad foot slide up his calf. He glanced up from his meal smoothly, but the barracuda seemed engrossed in the conversation. The foot continued to roam, stroking over his knee and sliding up his thigh. Michael didn't betray a thing when the arch of her foot lay flush against his crotch, his lap covered by the tablecloth.

Nikita appeared to be done with her meal and held her wine glass in her left hand. Michael picked up her right hand and kissed her knuckles ostentatiously, slowly lowering it to his lap.

Nikita shot him an amused smile as she felt a foot hastily pull away under the table. There was a muffled bump as Amy Muldoon cracked her knee cap on the underside of the table.

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

The group was slightly tipsy as it left Mark and Lisa Davis', having feasted upon Macedoine of Fruits in Champagne and Bourbon-soaked Chocolate Truffles. The combination of the champagne drenched strawberries, blueberries, peaches and melons with the cocoa-covered Truffles had tantalized Nikita's palate to her last taste bud. Michael had slung his arm around her and hugged her close as they strolled down the street, and Amy Muldoon was keeping her distance.

When everyone had shuffled into their house, Nikita quickly turned on the coffee maker and began lining bottles up on the counter. "This is the bar, and we're your bartenders," she announced. "You can order something traditional, or try one of the house specials."

"I'll have a cognac," Amy sniffed, graciously accepting her snifter from Michael.

"House specials?" Lydia grinned, propping her elbows on the makeshift bar. "What are they?"

Michael came up behind Nikita and dropped a kiss on her neck. "There's the 'Naughty Nikita' drink."

Nikita smiled. "And the 'Mikey Meltdown' drink."

Lydia dissolved into giggles and propped her head on her palm. "What are they made of?"

"Can't tell you that. It's top secret," Nikita answered, keeping a straight face. Michael buried his nose in her neck and took a deep breath, staving off a chuckle.

"I'll take a Naughty Nikita, then. Give my husband a Mikey Meltdown. We'll be brave," Lydia said finally, shaking he head. "Tracy! What are you having?"

Tracy stepped up to the counter with a wicked smile on her face. "Do either of you know how to make a 'Screaming Orgasm'?" Her husband guffawed behind her.

"If you insist," Nikita said doubtfully, pulling at her lip. "Is the table okay, or do you want to come upstairs and watch?"

Tracy flushed rosily and clapped her hand over her mouth. "So that's where the 'naughty' in the 'Naughty Nikita' came from!" Michael nodded sagely and placed her Screaming Orgasm on a napkin in front of her.

"Thank God you didn't asked for a 'Sex on the Beach' or a 'Violent F-"

"That's quite enough, George!" Tracy interrupted, sipping demurely at her drink.

"I'll have a Scotch on the rocks, Michael," George continued, giving Tracy's arm a squeeze.

"Lisa? Would you like anything?" Nikita called.

Lisa glanced up at Nikita as if startled, and then cast a searching look at her husband. "Go ahead," Mark growled. "Bring me back a Jack and Coke."

Everyone eventually moved to the living room to sit down; Nikita stayed behind a moment to straighten the counter and to cap some of the bottles. Her trained ear heard the muffled footfalls of someone large, and so she was prepared when Mark Davis slammed his glass down.

"I need a refill," he said.

"What's the magic word?" Nikita replied sourly, putting her hand on her hip.

"You're a hot little number, aren't you? I bet your pansy husband doesn't give you what you need," Mark growled, his olive complexion reddening from the alcohol.

"That's not the magic word," Nikita replied tightly.

"Yeah, you want it," Mark crooned, walking around the counter with the exaggerated carefulness of someone who is very drunk and trying to hide it. He reached out a hand for her and Nikita dodged him, taking a step back.

"Don't," she warned, her eyes flashed and her lower jaw jutted out.

"What? That pretty boy gonna come and beat me up?" Mark reached out again. A moment later, Nikita had his arm twisted grotesquely around his back.

"No, I will," she gritted.

"Nikita? What's going on?" Tracy stood at the doorway to the living room, a worried frown creasing her forehead.

"Oh, I was just showing some self-defense moves to Mark. He didn't think they'd be effective on a man his size," Nikita said truthfully. Tracy's expression brightened, but she still looked on Mark with an expression of distaste.

Ah, Nikita thought. He's probably done this before.

Nikita released Mark and accompanied Tracy into the living room. "You know self-defense? I was just saying to Lydia that they were looking for someone to take over a few class-dates at the YWCA."

"I, no, really I couldn't," Nikita protested. "I'm not licensed to teach."

"Oh, come on, Nikita! You just have to do it! Tracy and I are in the class."

Nikita smiled self-effacingly. "I suppose I could give it a shot. Amy, why don't you sit in on a few classes?"

The barracuda looked up and blinked owlishly. "Me? Take self-defense?"

"You really should, you know," Nikita went on. "You're the one in the room who should be there the most. You're single and live alone...who knows what could happen?"

"Well, I don't know," she hedged.

"She's right, you know," George said helpfully, sparking murmurs of agreement from the rest of the room.

"I insist," Nikita said firmly.

All eyes on the room turned towards her. Amy swallowed and managed a pained smile. "Sure. Why not?"

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

The party continued until nearly two in the morning. Tracy and George said their bleary-eyed good-byes and stumbled through the back door into the yard. Dan and Lydia linked arms and waved to everyone, crossing the street to their brick home. Mark and Lisa followed them out, until only Amy was left.

She smiled coyly at Michael, who was standing near the doorway. "It's late and it's not safe for a woman to walk alone...will you walk me home, Michael?"

Michael turned to Nikita and asked her with his eyes. She walked to his side and rested a proprietary hand on his chest. "Hurry," she said, smiling into his eyes.

His fingers rose and brushed down her temple, coming to rest under her jaw. He tilted her chin up and brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss was hard, possessive; his velvety tongue tangled with hers, stroking against the silken walls of her mouth. They pulled apart, eyes connecting. He said, "I'll be right back." He rubbed his lips against hers again in promise.

He retrieved his leather jacket from the hall closet and squeezed her hand as he walked through the door with Amy Muldoon.

The crisp night breeze ruffled Michael's hair as he strode next to the petite woman. He maintained a definite space between his body and hers, alert to the sounds of cars and dogs barking. To Michael's relief, Amy didn't attempt to lure him into conversation; he was content to quietly savor the image of Nikita waiting for him in their home.

The distance to Amy's house was not great, and only about five minutes had elapsed since they had left the comfort of the house. She preceded him up the steps, swaying her hips invitingly, and dug into her purse. Amy took her time unlocking the door, pretending a simpering female incompetence. Michael obligingly took the keys from her hand. A second later, the lock snapped open and he dropped the keys in her palm.

"Would you like to come in?" Amy purred. Seeing the blank expression on Michael's face, her features hardened. She lunged toward him, pressing her lips against his and sliding her hands inside his jacket. Her fingernails scraped down the silk at his chest, moving around until she cupped the curves of his buttocks. Amy pulled him hard against her and ground her hips. Michael let her grope, arms hanging loose at his sides. Sensing his non-participation, Amy jerked away and stared at him. Her lips parted in shock at his carefully blank expression, his complete and utter unarousal. Something flickered in her eyes and Amy seemed to rally her courage, reaching for him again.

"Are you finished?" he asked quietly. His blank tone acted as a slap in the face. She snatched her hand back as the words sank in completely. Amy gulped and scuttled into her house. The slamming door rattled the door knocker, provoking a resounding echo through the neighborhood.

Michael walked down the steps in his usual, precise manner and began striding home. The twitch of a curtain across from the barracuda's house warned Michael that someone had observed the scene; he wondered idly how fast the word would spread of his rejection of the notorious homewrecker.

Nikita flung open the door when his footsteps sounded on the wooden porch. Her blue eyes narrowed as she assessed him. "Michael," she began. Michael shushed her with his fingertips and forced her back so he could step inside the house. He closed the door behind him and shrugged off his leather jacket; Nikita waited impatiently at his side. "Did she touch you?"

Nikita's gorge rose when Michael turned to face her. She was angry. Not with Michael, but with the woman who dared put her hands on him.

"Nikita --"

"I'll bet she was on you like a PMS-ing woman to a candy bar," Nikita snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. Her chin jutted forward belligerently. The subtle change in his expression told her that he acknowledged the humor, and was faintly amused by the analogy in the midst of the situation. Nikita felt his eyes boring into her, warming her. She clutched at her anger.

"I want you," he said simply.

Nikita's knees quivered, arms dropping at her sides as her stomach flipped end over end. "But-" she protested, feeling her anger sliding through her fingers. Michael raised his hands to her biceps and began backing her towards the kitchen table. "She -"

Michael's hands flexed slightly on her arms. "I want you."

Nikita felt the edge of the table pressing into the back of her thighs. Her eyes searched Michael's face and found the answers. "She tried to seduce you."

"I want you," he repeated, easing her up to sit on the table.

His words sparked a thundering in her veins. "You rejected her," Nikita moaned, Michael's teeth nipping at her sensitive neck. His hands spread her knees so he could move between them.

"Nikita," he sighed into her neck. His palms slid onto her cheeks and held her head still, feathering kisses over her brow, nose, lips. "I want you."

"I'm a slow learner," Nikita replied finally. She reached her hands out and roughly pulled Michael closer. "What do you want?"

Michael growled low in his throat and bit her neck, running his hot tongue over the reddening mark. "I want you," he rasped.

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

Nikita squeezed his hips between her thighs, pleasure coursing up from her pure feminine reaction to his admission of desire. She loved it when he took the initiative with her, when she was only required to react to his wants. She loved it when he displayed his passion for her first, feeding her desire to be reassured of his need for her.

Nikita gasped and fisted her hands in Michael's cinnamon hair; his mouth was diligently tugging at her hardened nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. He suckled, wetting the fabric with his agile tongue. Michael's mouth left her and he breathed a puff of warm air over the damp cloth, flicking her nipple with his thumb. He turned to her neglected breast.

When his mouth left her, Nikita whimpered and arched her hips against him. She struggled to get closer to his warm, hard body, raising her head to capture his full lips. Michael dodged the kiss, his hands kneading her hips.

"What do you want, Nikita?"

"You." Her hands crept up and began unfastening the buttons of his silk shirt.

"More specific, Nikita," he chided, rotating her hips on his hardened arousal.

Nikita groaned, becoming light-headed with desire. She kissed him defiantly where his pulse beat in the hollow of his throat and yanked his shirt down until it tangled up on his elbows. "I want you," Nikita sighed. She bit him lightly along his collarbone, her passion growing heavier as she felt his groan vibrate through his chest. "I want you in me." She scraped her teeth down his pectoral muscle and flicked a tongue over his flat nipple. "On this table." Her hands dropped from his ridged abdomen to the waist of his pants. "I want you now, Michael." His silk shirt floated to the floor.

Michael's hands took the hem of her dress and began sliding it up her long legs with excruciating slowness. When his hands reached her thighs, Michael tilted her toward him. "Put your arms around my neck," he beseeched, loving her with his changeable green eyes.

Nikita rocked forward and clutched at his shoulders, rubbing her clothed breasts over his naked chest. He eased the fabric up over the curve of her buttocks, caressing her skin with the rough pads of his fingers. Michael leaned forward and set her back on the cool table.

"Lift your arms," he rasped. He pulled the dress up and off, flinging it to the side. After her moment of blindness, Nikita drank in his rapt expression as it traveled from her face and settled on her bra-less chest. He bent again, hot mouth roughly teasing each sensitized breast. Nikita's hands caressed the curve of his back, tracing over the hot skin.

Nikita's hands fumbled with the snap of his pants. Michael came to her aid when she began tugging the slacks down his hips. Nikita leaned back provocatively on her elbows and watched him shed his clothing, her eyes half-lidded. When the hard lines of his body were revealed, Michael tugged Nikita's hips to the edge of the table. He slipped his fingers under the elastic of her underwear, pulling it taut against her throbbing wetness.

"Take them off," she groaned, eyelids fluttering. Michael kneeled and teased the scrap of silk down her legs, following its path with his mouth. Nikita's jaw locked and a scream gurgled in her throat when Michael parted her folds with his fingers and delved inside with his tongue. She locked her thighs around his neck and lay back on the table, the small of her back arching upwards. He lapped at her liquid depths, alternating his stroking with hard jabs and soft licks. His thumbs rubbed circles on the sensitive skin at the back of her thighs.

Nikita gyrated wildly against his seeking mouth as he began tilting his head back and forth, scraping his stubble against her skin and reaching even deeper inside with his tongue. Delicious pressure coiled tighter and tighter until it burst behind her eyes. Nikita arched off the table as if her spine had been shortened, breathing heavily with pleasure as Michael's tongue continued to stroke within her contracting muscles.

"Mi-chael," she gasped, her voice cracking with desire. He pressed a kiss to each of her slightly abraded inner thighs and stood up. His swollen arousal rubbed against her as he leaned over and planted his hands beside her ribcage.

"Nikita, what do you want me to do?"

"Take me," she said, still breathless. When he simply smiled down on her, eyes darkened from passion, Nikita added, "Now." She clutched at his shoulders and hauled herself up. She tasted her own muskiness on his lips, pushing her over the edge into wildness.

Michael rubbed the head of his shaft against her teasingly before finally penetrating her. Nikita clenched her teeth and moaned her frustration when his hands locked her hips to the table, forcing her to endure the torture of his hard arousal sliding into her inch by inch. Nikita was ready to scream from the pleasure-pain his rigid length was evoking, when Michael finally buried himself completely inside her.

"Hard, Michael," Nikita ordered, biting his earlobe fiercely. She laughed with wild pleasure as he jumped inside her. "Yes," she hissed as Michael began stroking into her. Nikita bit at his jaw just below his earlobe, biting him again when he groaned in response. She worried at his neck with her tongue and teeth, abrading his skin. Michael pounded into her relentlessly, but it wasn't enough to assuage her intense aching. Nikita wound her arms and around his waist and cupped his buttocks, grinding into his harsh thrusts.

Sensing her desperation, Michael said, "Lie back." Nikita gazed into his eyes, with her blonde hair fanned on the wooden table, doing as he said and trusting in his ability to give her pleasure. Without breaking their intimate connection, he drew her calves up to rest on his shoulders. Nikita gasped as the new position allowed him to slide even farther inside; she flashed Michael a smile.

Thank God I'm flexible, she thought, knowing Michael was thinking it, too.

He ground into her with force, and Nikita splayed her arms and grasped the edge of the table. Michael anchored her hips, and pulled her against him as he beat into her. Nikita was letting out small, keening gasps as he stroked up one wall, twisted their hips, and stroked up another. His head was hitting her so deeply, Nikita might have been worried about damage, had she not been enjoying it so much.

No, enjoying was not the word. She felt his swollen length thrusting into her, felt him in every pore, every jangling nerve. Everything in her body arched toward him, toward his straining muscles. Nikita opened her eyes and gazed at his face, framed by sweat-dampened curls of cinnamon hair. She locked eyes with Michael as he brought her up over the edge and plunged her into the roaring cataclysm. As she contracted around him, Michael continued to thrust against her overly sensitized walls; the added stimulus locked Nikita's jaw into a soundless scream of supreme release.

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

When her body ceased its shuddering contractions, Nikita realized dimly that Michael was still hard inside her. Incredibly, he had held back his release. In fact, he had swelled even larger, causing a delicious friction in what was already an admittedly tight fit.

Nikita gave her hips a little twitch and delighted in Michael's low groan, his neck temptingly exposed as he threw back his head. Desire rejuvenated her tired muscles, buzzing in her ears.

"Chair," she rasped quietly when Michael again looked her in the eye. A slow smile spread over his lips and he scooped her up against his chest. When her full weight was pressing Michael's hard erection into her, Nikita nearly lost her carefully gathered control.

"Oooh," she moaned, wrapping her arms around his strong neck to steady herself. Michael lifted her and backed to one of the high-backed chairs surrounding the kitchen table. He collapsed bonelessly onto the chair, roughly letting Nikita's weight at their joined hips drive his arousal deeply inside. Nikita sat on motionless on his splayed thighs, gasping into his teeth-marked neck. "Wicked man," she hissed when her lungs started working again. He chuckled into her throat when Nikita drew herself up. She grinned at him and wrapped her hands on the high back of the chair. She wedged her heels into the lower slats of the chair, unmercifully smiling as Michael's chuckle blended into a moan.

His mouth tugged at a nipple in retaliation, her position giving him the perfect access to suckle at her small, perfect breasts. Nikita used her strong arms and legs to lever herself up and she ground down on Michael's pulsing arousal. He took her entire breast into his mouth, scraping the soft tissue with his teeth, licking lines up and across with his tongue.

Nikita arched her neck back and rode him harder, pulling herself down on him and squeezing with her inner muscles. Michael's teeth closed on her neck, stinging her skin, to Nikita's vicious gratification. She increased her pace, his hands moving to her hips to help her along. He began bucking upwards to meet her downward thrust, biting the muscles along her shoulder each time she gyrated her hips.

Nikita moved her feet back to spread her thighs wider and arched her back even more. Michael's gasping breath at her neck drove her wild; she pressed her dangerously aroused breasts into his chest, feeling his erection jump spasmodically when her hardened nipples scraped up and down his pectorals. The air was filled with harsh breathing and muffled grunts as they ground together, muscles straining, filmed with sweat. Nikita thrust down on him quickly, gyrating her hips in her drive for his release.

When she could feel his muscles begin trembling beneath her, Nikita decided to give him a push. She clamped her knees to the sides of the chair and arched backwards until her lower back rested on Michael's thighs. He was deep inside her, his hard length rubbing against her clit.

"'Kita," he choked, his voice guttural and unnaturally deep. Her inner muscles clamped around his arousal, thighs pressing into his waist as she used her abdominal muscles to pull herself back up. When she rocked back upright, the friction was too much. Nikita came, and Michael with her. Their shared orgasm was as violent as their lovemaking, their muscles drawn taut as the paroxysms of her inner muscles closed around his beating erection. Gasping sighs wracked their lungs and they shuddered together.

Michael wrapped his arms around Nikita's midsection and hugged her tightly to him; she drooped against his chest, exhausted from the aftermath.

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

They sat there for what seemed like hours, folded in the other's arms, feeling pleasantly weak and satisfied. Michael brushed Nikita's sweat-tangled hair from her face, uncovering her Cheshire grin. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was deep and even, but Michael sensed that she was awake. He pressed a soft kiss against her forehead and tried not to move. In the state he was in, another twitch of Nikita's hips would send them right back to the beginning.

"Michael?" she sighed, her lashes still spread becomingly on her cheeks.

"Yes, 'Kita?"

"Hold me tighter," she said, her tone distracted. She snuggled against him, resting her right cheek on his shoulder.

"I didn't want to hurt you," Michael said. He raised a finger and traced it along the reddening marks on her throat, neck, breasts...

"Any more than you already have, you mean," she joked, cracking open her eyelids. "I won't break, Michael. Even if I did, I'd really enjoy it."

Michael didn't answer her; he simply continued running his fingers through her hair, lifting up the strands and watching them float back down to her flushed skin. Her fingers crept up to the abraded marks across his shoulders. Nikita levered herself up and delicately licked the rough spot she had created earlier. Michael's hoarse gasp encouraged her to do it again, moving along his shoulder to his neck.

"Ni-ki-ta," he rasped, his accent thick on the syllables. "Don't--"

Nikita gasped in surprise as she felt him stirring inside her. She grinned down into his eyes, showing him her surprise and her very real pleasure. "Yes, Michael," Nikita purred. "Yes." She bent her head and kissed him languorously, rocking against him with aching slowness. He surged to life inside her, filling her emptiness again. Nikita felt his muscles gather and gazed at him questioningly. Michael searched her face and stood up. She clutched at his neck and shivered as Michael began walking towards the stairs.

"Michael?" Nikita asked, her eyes widening and taking on a wicked gleam. His smile was slight, but she saw it and braced herself as Michael took the first step up. The motion of his climbing the stairs while buried inside her elicited delicious sensations. Each step up was a small thrust against one of her inner walls, frustratingly short. She rested her forehead to his, sighing deeply at each torturously slow step.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Nikita could hold back no longer. Her muscles spasmed around him in a gentle, languorous climax. She could see his warm green eyes through her fluttering eyelashes, could feel his strong hands flexing on her skin. Michael carried her into the bedroom while she contracted around his arousal and kneeled on the bed. Nikita felt the soft, cool sheets at her back as he lowered her down. She whimpered when his full weight shifted so they were both lying on their sides, gently rocking together. He tangled his legs in hers, barely brushing the skin on her exposed arm and back with his fingertips. Nikita nestled against him, tangling her fingers in his hair and resting the arch of her foot on the back of his calf.

The sensation was intensely erotic, this slow rocking of hips. Their oversensitized skins touched from forehead to foot. Their eyes were locked, half-lidded, pupils dilated so that only a small ring of color was visible. Lips rubbing softly, limbs entangled, they moved together through the night.

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

Nikita felt herself coming awake. Her cheek was pressed against something warm and hard; Michael's musky scent was filling her nose, bringing with it feelings of safety, comfort, and spicy arousal. Her legs were trapped against his by a tightly wound sheet that was binding them from hip to knee. Nikita smiled into his chest when she felt him begin running his fingers through her hair and down her naked back.

"'ow do you feel?" His accent was always thick in the morning, voice rough from sleep.

Nikita made a low purring sound deep in her throat and snuggled closer his warm body. "I feel...well-used." She slid her chin across his chest to peer up into his green eyes. He was staring down at her so seriously, Nikita felt the need to cheer him up. She untangled her hand from the sheets and slipped it between their bodies. During its torturously slow trek downwards, Nikita said, "The phrase, 'ridden hard and put away wet' comes to mind..."

Nikita let out a throaty little moan of approval as her searching hand found him under the covers, already hardening from the husky sound of her voice. Her eyes went back to his face, finding a small smile tilting the corners of his sensual mouth. Michael's fingers brushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear and gently pulled her hand from beneath the covers. He brought her hand up to his kiss-swollen lips and suckled at her palm, teeth worrying at the skin between her forefinger and thumb.

"Let me see your hand," Nikita said lazily, growing pleasantly aroused by the ministrations of his mouth. Michael gave her his version of a quizzical look, and allowed her to pull his right hand to her face. Nikita traced her fingers up his life line and over the various calluses he had acquired. She flipped his hand over and examined it back, caressing his skin with the pads of her fingers.

"'Kita?" His head was tilted, eyebrows raised under a curtain of curly hair.

"Well, it's just that you don't have large hands," Nikita explained, pressing her left palm to Michael's. His hand was only slightly larger. She glanced up from their joined hands to see the skin around Michael's eyes crinkled. From amusement.

"Is that a problem?" he asked.

"It isn't the hands that matter," Nikita conceded with a wicked grin. "Let's see, the distance from your elbow to your wrist is supposed to be the size of your foot." Nikita extended his muscled forearm, tracing her fingers across the bulging veins. His body was so different from hers, and right now she was embarking on a delightful discovery. "Impressive, Michael." She flicked her glance back at his face, heartened to see a rare grin curving his chiseled profile. "Now I'll see if that's accurate."

At that, Nikita began wriggling over him; she managed to turn around, presenting Michael with her very bare rear end and wiggling back under the covers. She slithered down his body, pleased to hear a muffled groan through the sheets. Her tousled blonde head emerged from the sheets at the foot of the bed. She grasped Michael's foot with one hand, running her finger down his arch with the other.

"Report."

Nikita's neck snapped around and she stared incredulously at Michael's uttered command. It appeared his sense of humor was back again, always unexpected.

"You have large feet, Michael," Nikita responded, barely managing a serious expression.

"What does that mean?" he asked His head was leaning on his palm, elbow dug into the pillow.

"You know what that means," Nikita purred, rubbing her abdomen over Michael's burgeoning arousal. He gave no indication of his desire, smiling down on her from his relaxed position. Piqued, Nikita ran her fingers down his arch again. This time, she felt his muscles twitch almost imperceptibly. Experimentally, she tickled the bottom of his foot. Nikita felt his thigh muscles clench beneath her.

Nikita raised herself up on her palms and grinned at him. "You're ticklish there!"

"Nikita," he warned, raising his head from his palm. It was too late; she had already turned her attention back to his feet, intent on tickling the sensitive soles of his feet. Nikita attacked his feet with gusto, clamping her arm around his calves and tickling furiously with her free hand. Unable to kick without fear of causing injury, Michael writhed beneath her. Nikita giggled at his grunt of frustration and began tickling his other foot.

"Oomph!" Nikita grunted. Michael's hands were at her knees, hauling her up through the covers and away from his feet. His arm clamped around her waist and he hauled her up to lay flush against his chest; his heavy arousal pressed into her from behind.

"Michael!" she protested, jerking at his hold. Michael was ruthlessly tickling her abdomen, fingers flicking at the skin around her waist and at the side under her arms. "Sto-op," she gasped. Nikita writhed around in his hold, grasping his hands in hers and pressing them up against the head board.

"You started it," Michael said from his submissive position beneath her, his expression serious.

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

Nikita's chest heaved from the tickling session, pushing her breasts forward perilously close to Michael's face. She grinned as his serious expression faded into one of intense appreciation.

"Do you want me to finish it, Michael?" she purred, gyrating her hips. His hands clenched at hers where they were joined above his head.

Nikita was leaning in to capture his lips when a knock fell on the door. "Whoever it is --" Nikita growled, biting off her exclamation. She pushed herself back violently and slipped off the bed, padding to the window. Nikita bent down and peered at the back door. "What's Tracy doing here?"

Nikita turned back to Michael. He was sprawled on the mussed sheets, cinnamon hair curling in his eyes. His prominent arousal was displayed advantageously by his bent knee, his upper body raised on his elbows. Nikita licked her lips, her throat going dry at the sight of his hard body.

"I'd better get the door," she rasped, pulling her robe off the closet door knob.

I'm already up, Nikita thought. And I certainly don't want anyone but me seeing him like this!

Nikita belted her robe and walked out of the bedroom, feeling Michael's eyes burning into her back. Out of his sight, she winced slightly as she made her way down the stairs. Her hips and back were sore from the workout from the night before, but she wasn't about to let on to Michael.

Her feet shushed softly on the linoleum as she crossed the kitchen. Nikita flicked the dead bolt and unlatched the chain, opening the door just wide enough to poke her head outside.

"Good morning," Nikita greeted, wincing a little at the bright sunlight. "Or should I be saying, 'Good afternoon'?"

"It's two," Tracy said, laughing at Nikita's pained expression. "Can I come in for a minute? I think I left my purse here last night."

"Oh, sure," Nikita said, swinging the door open wider. Tracy stepped inside with a friendly smile and followed her into the kitchen, where Tracy's steps faltered. She took in the dishes still strewn about from last night, and the condition of the kitchen table and chair. Nikita stepped forward and hurriedly bundled last night's discarded clothes into a ball, tucking it under her arm.

"Unh." Tracy blinked, seeming to realize she had just made some incomprehensible sound communicating her embarrassment and envy, and turned her wide eyes on Nikita. "I think I left my purse in the living room."

"Okay," Nikita said, clutching her robe around her neck in an attempt to hide the further evidence of her and Michael's wild abandon. She trailed Tracy into the living room and hitched her hip up on the arm of the couch.

"So, uh, is Michael here?" Tracy asked hesitantly, searching quickly through the room.

"Yes," Nikita answered, her eyes widening innocently. "He's upstairs."

Tracy knelt down and tugged at a black strap that was peeking out from under the couch. "There it is!" Her purse slid out and Tracy picked it up gratefully. "I don't even know why I brought it with me."

"Need anything else?" Nikita asked, jumping up from the couch and heading towards the back door.

Tracy got the hint. "No, I have to go. I'm taking my kids shopping. That's why I needed the purse!"

Nikita shut the door quickly behind her, watching Tracy glance up at their bedroom window and shake her head as she crossed the lawn. Nikita threw the bolt and chain home and practically ran back upstairs.

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

Nikita bounded up the stairs, pausing in the doorway. Michael had turned on his side, away from the door. One muscled arm clamped a pillow over his head, curls peeking from beneath the pillow case. The length of his back was exposed above the rumpled sheets rucked up to his waist. Nikita dredged her eyes down from his strong shoulders, lingering momentarily on the red half-moons her fingernails had dug into his shoulder blades, to where his muscled back tapered to his hips.

Nikita sighed softly from the doorway and stepped into the room. She had advanced halfway to the bed when Michael flipped over. He brought the pillow with him, staring up at her sideways with half-lidded green eyes. Nikita felt her knees liquefy as the sheet stretched taut across his thighs, a lazy smile playing on his lips. Michael was beautiful in his child-like repose, a hand tucked up under his chin. Her eyes wandered again.

There's nothing child-like about the rest of him, she thought.

Overcome with the need to touch the sprawled man she could claim as hers, Nikita knelt down at his side of the bed and propped her folded forearms next to his pillow. She leaned forward and placed teasing kiss on his lips. Michael slid his hand out from underneath his stubbled chin and brushed his thumb over her temple.

"Where were we?" Nikita asked. Her fingers were tracing patterns down Michael's smooth chest.

"You were going to finish something," Michael prompted, dragging his thumb across her swollen lips.

Nikita's blue eyes glowed with the hunger that had been pulsing in her groin since Michael's soft caress had brought her from sleep. She parted her lips and bit Michael's thumb, wanting to devour him in her need. Nikita climbed up onto the bed and Michael shifted to give her room. She pressed her hands against his shoulders in a silent command to lean back; Nikita untied the belt of her robe and straddled Michael with her thighs, barely touching his skin. Suddenly, she grasped his hands and flung them above his head.

"Like this?" she whispered, rising to her knees so the robe fell tantalizingly open.

"Yes."

Nikita shoved the sheet down with her foot and pressed against his still-hard arousal. His hips bucked up as she rocked, threading his fingers through hers at the head board.

"Do you want me, Michael?" Nikita asked. She danced over the head of his arousal, watching his eyes darken and change color with desire.

Voice rough, Michael growled, "Yes, Nikita. I want you."

"Good," she purred, lowering herself down. The pulsing ache in her groin amplified as he entered her, his hard length rubbing at her much-used inner walls. The friction was delicious; Nikita arched back and lowered herself until Michael was completely buried inside her. And then the world turned over.

Michael had flipped her onto her back, his hands holding hers captive above their heads. His powerful muscles shifted and he thrust into her. Nikita gasped at the sensitivity of her inner walls and dug her heels into the mattress to meet his hard strokes. Consumed with a need to control his desire, Nikita flipped Michael over. She landed on top with a groan and writhed on him. Their muscles strained together, simultaneously gyrating towards each other and fighting for dominance.

Gasping, Michael wrestled Nikita onto her back and rocked into her with hard, harsh strokes. He bent down and nibbled at Nikita's breast, biting her nipple when she tried to flip him over again. Nikita groaned and ground her hips upwards to meet his thrusts, aching with the need to be filled by him. His hot mouth came down on her breast again, tantalizing the skin with his rough velvet tongue until she keened with ecstasy.

They tumbled again, but Michael refused to cede dominance. His mouth was everywhere, nipping at her neck, lips, breasts. Nikita gave up the struggle and strained with him, her heels pressed to the backs of his thighs. Michael thrust into her deeply once, twice, filling her so utterly that Nikita couldn't breathe. He thrust into her again, his tongue mimicking his actions by sliding into her mouth and holding her scream of release captive.

"Michael," she sighed. Her hands jerked spasmodically in his grip, still joined above their heads. He brushed his lips over her forehead as they came together, the contractions radiating outwards from where their bodies were joined. They shuddered there, sprawling diagonally across the bed, the sheets pulled from the mattress and twisted beneath them.

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

Nikita woke with a start, snuggled in Michael's warm embrace, his body still half-covering hers on the extremely rumpled bed. Michael's stomach rumbled again, provoking an answering snarl from her tummy. He raised his head from its rest on her shoulder and peered sleepily into her eyes.

"Hungry, 'Kita?" he murmured, nuzzling her cheek. His stubble rasped erotically over her skin.

"Lunch. I need food," she answered decisively. Her stomach snarled again and she giggled as Michael glanced down at her abdomen as if he expected an alien to burst from her ribcage.

"Closer to dinner," Michael said, peering at the light pouring in from the windows. He rolled to her side, propping his curly head on one lithe arm. Nikita stretched, clasping her hands above her head and lifting her lower back from the bed.

"Oooh," she groaned, as her over-worked muscles clamored at the movement.

Michael leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Go take a shower. I'll cook."

"How can I refuse?" Nikita replied. She grinned up at him and pushed a lock of his hair behind an ear.

"You can't."

Nikita smiled saucily at his commanding tone and hauled herself upright, padding to the bathroom with a sway to her hips. She shot him a look over her shoulder before entering the bathroom, pleased that he was still lying there on the bed and pointedly watching her every step. Nikita left the door open a crack and turned on the taps, gratefully stepping under the pounding spray. Hot water poured over her very satisfied and very sore body; the steamy water combined with her weariness made Nikita dizzy, and she quickly decided to switch to a bath. She lowered herself into the tub, sighing with pleasure and rested her head on the lip.

When she opened her eyelids, she saw a pair of amused green eyes staring back at her. Michael was crouched by the tub, hair damp and wearing only a pair of frayed jeans.

He must have used the half-bath downstairs, Nikita thought muzzily.

"'Kita," Michael cajoled, tracing his fingers down her jaw.

"Mmm?" Nikita answered, blinking at him in sweet disorientation.

"Your food is ready."

"Okay," Nikita replied vaguely, her eyes closing again. Michael's hands closed under her arms and beneath her knees, lifting her from the cooling water. He set her down and hit the drain. Water gurgled happily out of the tub as Michael gently toweled her dry. He wrapped the towel around her long hair turban-like and coaxed her into a robe. Swinging her into his arms again, Michael walked down the stairs and deposited her in a chair at the kitchen table. By now, Nikita had mostly recovered her senses but was unwilling to stop Michael's sweet ministrations.

"Michael?"

He half-turned from where he was preparing a plate, his damp jeans molding the fabric to his thighs. "Yes?"

"Feed me."

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

The dinner had been a simple affair, with Nikita noisily slurping down the bowl of broccoli and cheese soup that Michael placed in front of her. She had nipped at his fingers ravenously when Michael tried to wipe away a drop of soup from her chin.

"More," she had demanded, eyeing his plate with unconcealed interest. Michael had hastily refilled her bowl and brought a plate of cold chicken sandwiches to the table. He had regarded her with a mixed expression of horror and amusement when Nikita had exclaimed that the sandwich was the best she had ever eaten, and sprayed him with bits of bread and half-chewed chicken in her exuberance.

With a pained look, Michael had removed the dishes from the table when the food disappeared into her mouth to keep her from licking at the crumbs; to spite him, Nikita had sucked noisily at her fingers and smacked her lips in appreciation.

Madeline's deportment lessons be damned, she had thought merrily. I'm feeling good.

After Michael had cleared away the mess she had made, Nikita decided to push her luck some more.

"Michael? Can I have a back rub?"

He had sighed heavily, obviously unwilling to deny her anything. "Yes, Nikita."

*

Now they were back in a rental car, going through the motions to avoid possible tails on the way to take out their target. Nikita discreetly checked her purse to make sure the compact spray gun didn't cause any suspicious bulges and rearranged her shoulder holster underneath her polyvinyl jacket. She and Michael were both dressed in unremarkable clothes popular in trendy clubs, a combination of silk and leather.

Well, Nikita thought, they'd be unremarkable on anyone else.

Nikita's eyes dipped down to Michael's leather-covered thigh just as the thick muscle bulged when Michael braked for a stop light. She swept her eyes up to admire his hands on the steering wheel, less dangerous territory when viewed from afar. Nikita sighed softly and leaned back in her seat, almost lulled by the companionable silence. A tiny smile curved her lips when she again realized the kooky routine she and Michael had adopted for this mission: bake cookies, then do some industrial espionage; clean the garage, then take out a terrorist. Instead of picking up dry-cleaning, she restocked their supply of bullets.

"Ready?"

Michael's voice knocked Nikita out of her reverie. She smiled at him and he got out first to open her door. Nikita had the sneaking suspicion he wasn't doing it so much out of chivalry than the fact that Michael didn't want her to flash the loiterers in the parking lot.

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

Nikita and Michael strode together to the entrance of the club, heels falling on the pavement in sync. Michael's shoulders swayed in time with Nikita's hips. A breeze fluttered their jackets, ruffling Nikita's unbound golden hair and teasing Michael's curls from behind his ears. Together, they were an imposing pair, garnering gawking stares from those who waited in line. If someone were to make the observation that they looked like a Valkyrie and a panther, Nikita would snort and Michael would simply blink. Deep down, each would acknowledge the inherent rightness of the observation of the other while simultaneously shrugging off the description of one's self. The bouncer took one look at the two operatives and stood aside, recognizing style when he saw it.

The pair prowled into the club, all traces of their earlier playfulness gone from their features. By tacit agreement, Michael and Nikita headed to the bar and automatically took up positions covering all the exits.

"ETA?" Nikita whispered, leaning forward until a cinnamon curl tickled her nose.

"Surveillance indicates the target arrives around eleven," Michael replied, shifting his gaze to signal the bartender.

Nikita nodded and sipped delicately at her newly delivered drink, keeping up a sweeping pattern with her eyes. Michael's nearness buzzed in her nerve ends, but didn't distract her; rather, the slight electrical current soothed her and heightened her already acute senses. The minute change in Michael's posture alerted her to the entrance of the target before he had the chance to make any verbal confirmation.

Nikita therefore didn't twitch a muscle when Michael whispered, "We have visual on the target."

This is why we have an unparalleled success rate on our paired missions, Nikita thought.

She remained immobile as Michael rose from his stool and began threading his way through the crowd towards the back of the club. When Michael disappeared from her line of sight, Nikita set her drink down and prepared for action.

Heroin chic just doesn't do it for me, Nikita thought acidly when Von Sants came into view.

His hair was black and stringy from a lack of a rigorous personal hygiene regimen, but his face was handsome enough when one looked past the thin line of facial hair outlining his jaw. Von Sants' features seemed to be a mix of Spanish and Asian, combining dark skin and almond-shaped eyes. Nikita gauged him to be around thirty, but knew from the profile that he was several years older. And wily.

Nikita schooled her features into an appropriate look of boredom and hauteur, and crossed her legs to provide an ample expanse of thigh. When Sants scanned the room seconds later, his dark eyes fixed on her hemline, and he advanced towards the bar.

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

It hadn't been easy, Nikita mused, to lure him into the club bathroom. In fact, it had been downright wearying.

Sants' initial, "Hello," had revealed that the terrorist possessed a rich, accented voice. Nikita shivered when she realized she might have found his throaty murmur seductive had she not been aware of his proclivity toward bombing women and children. And then, there was Michael. His slightly accented, soft voice echoed in her ears saying, "We have visual on the target." Odd, how the most innocuous phrase could be turned into an erotic caress from his lips. His voice had ruined her for all men, she was sure.

Ah, Michael.

Nikita had fallen back on all the powers of observation her former trainer had onerously drilled into her in order to convince Sants of her interest. She had slowly allowed her carefully schooled expression of cool disinterest to melt into one of sexual appraisal. Still, Von Sants hadn't been easily convinced.

"What are you doing here alone?" he had asked. A common come-on for most men on the prowl, Sants imbued the question with sensuality and just enough curiosity to raise Nikita's hackles. She had to approach him with the utmost caution.

"To tell the truth," Nikita said, running the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass, "I just got out of a relationship."

"Mmm," Sants grunted, sipping at his drink. No, not grunted. Purred. "Long-term?"

Nikita flashed him a saucy smile. "Long-term for me."

"So you decided to treat yourself to a night on the town?"

"Something like that," Nikita agreed, flicking her eyes down his compact form.

"Tell me something--" he paused, tilting his head towards her questioningly.

"Nikita," she supplied, gifting him with the full attention of her blue eyes.

"Tell me something, Nikita. What kind of man would let a woman like you get away?"

Nikita answered his seductive tone in kind, letting her voice grow husky. "He wasn't much of a man."

The banter had continued on like that for what seemed like ages to Nikita. It was a dangerous combination of thrusts and parries, what Nikita hoped would be construed as a conscious imitation of foreplay. Still, she must have successfully communicated her desire to Sants; when she finally whispered her proposition into his ear, his eyes had gleamed in delighted response.

"You're a bad girl," he murmured, drawing her up from her bar stool.

"I know what I want," she said, inexorably pulling him through the crowd and tantalizing him with a decisive sway to her hips. She finally backed into the men's bathroom, holding Sants by his hands. "Don't keep me waiting."

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

Nikita tried to recall a time when she had been more relieved to see Michael. Perhaps when she'd driven up with Madeline in Eastern Europe, callously running down Petrosian's soldiers, and been rocked with a vast wave of joy to see him walking under his own power. But that relief had a different flavor; here, in the men's bathroom, Nikita was fiercely glad that Michael was going to take over the mission and accept the volatile Sants into his very capable hands.

Michael swung open the door of the last paint-chipped stall just as Sants' roving hands swept upwards and contacted with her holster. His flash of surprised anger was overridden by fear as Michael's hand closed over his mouth. Nikita neatly side-stepped the two men and hurried out the door to guard the bathroom, while Michael wrestled Sants into the stall. She heard a faint puff of air as Michael released the contents of the spray gun into Von Sants' neck before the door closed behind her.

Inside, Michael had slammed Sants into the back of the stall. Sants' legs splayed haphazardly over the sweaty toilet reservoir tank he sat upon, Michael's fingers digging into his neck. Hard enough to interfere with his breathing, yet without using so much pressure as to cause bruising. Sants' struggles grew progressively weaker as the poison seeped into his system. After a final twitch, the breath rattled from his throat, muscles going slack.

Grimly, Michael began arranging Sants into the appropriate position. He was well known for his hard-core drug use, and Michael had to make it appear like Sants had pulled an Elvis. Heart attack on the toilet...although Michael had decided against a peanut butter and banana sandwich as an accompaniment when initially drafting the profile.

Michael tugged Sants' tight leather pants down and propped the dead terrorist on the toilet seat, carefully balancing the bundle of loose muscles. Task done, Michael quietly exited the stall through the bottom, having locked it from the inside. He walked to the sink and thoroughly washed his hands of the residue from the bathroom floor.

He knocked on the door once and pulled it open, greeted by the back of Nikita's blonde head and the belligerent set of her shoulders.

"Sequence complete," he murmured behind her, leaning in to inhale her flowery scent after the powerful musk of Sants' cologne.

Nikita half-turned and flickered her eyelids to communicate her understanding. She and Michael started to move down the dead-end hallway and back to the dance floor when loud voices floated down the black-painted walls.

Michael and Nikita turned, their innate awareness of each other causing their reaction times to be only split-seconds apart. As one, they used the tried-and-true tactic of pretending to make-out to divert attention from their internecine activities. Michael backed Nikita into the wall opposite the bathrooms and pulled their hips together. At the same time, Nikita wound her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his hair.

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

Michael's mouth closed on hers as the rowdy group advanced down the hall towards the bathroom. A moan escaped Nikita's throat as she tasted him, his lips washing away the residual acrid tang of Sants' mouth. Despite the mission, Nikita felt the dormant force of her desire rise and unfold. She arched against Michael's body, her fingers pressing his head to hers. His silken mouth and rough tongue felt so good, so right...

For a fleeting moment, Nikita experienced a sort of revelation.

She wondered: Is this how he feels after a Valentine mission? Then, frantically: Am I using him?

Michael's hands at her hips rocked her against him; his not-so-gentle caress gave Nikita the concrete proof she was looking for. No, she was definitely not just using him. He wanted her, too, his muscles tensed with desire. The mission was complete, they were both safe and unhurt. All they needed to do was exit the club.

Contented with the explanation that, after involuntarily enduring another man's pawing, all she wanted to do was lose herself in the man she did want, Nikita strained closer. Their arms were wrapped tightly around each other, hips involved in a jerky, yet highly erotic, dance. Both breathed heavily, lips nipping, sucking, teasing.

Nikita's brain dimly registered the arrival of the few people for whom she and Michael were putting on this performance. Her senses automatically took in their positions, her eyes scanned them for hidden weapons under her passion-heavy lids. From the angle Michael was licking her neck, Nikita could tell he was doing the same thing. Her training bore her through the assault of Michael's tongue, but only his hands kept her upright as he continued.

The club goers by and large ignored them, acting blasé about the gorgeous pair practically devouring each other a few feet away. A few younger men turned bright red and mumbled something about using the bathroom later; one young woman stared at Michael's leather-covered rear end with a speculative leer on her face.

If Nikita hadn't been enjoying Michael's length pressed against her quite so much, she would have warned the girl off. And gleefully slapped her around if she had been belligerent. Nikita's mind fogged momentarily as Michael's teeth scraped along her bottom lip; she greedily parted her lips and delved her tongue into his mouth. When they broke apart, Michael nuzzled his lips along her jawbone.

Her thoughts vaguely returned to the girl leering at Michael, completely ignoring the men who were staring at her with lascivious interest. Nikita hated the women's locker room at Section just because of that, the incessant discussion of Michael's attributes. The length of his hair. The color of his eyes. The size of his endowment. Realistically, Nikita didn't mind them discussing Michael when she wasn't around to hear; the fact that he was so widely desired sometimes gave her a little charge when he proved that he wanted her and her alone. Nikita couldn't quite put a finger on why she disliked hearing them talk about him while she was within earshot. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was anger at their hope-filled expressions that she would set them straight on the facts they all wondered about. Maybe it was insecurity --

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

Nikita's thoughts shattered into incoherence when Michael lightly ground his hips against her. His lips tugged at her earlobe, driving all thoughts of insecurity from her mind as his arousal pressed into her hips.

If those women in the locker room only knew, Nikita mused, I would never hear the end of their questions. They'd probably try to tie me down and interrogate me in the White Room.

They had to know, anyway. As rumor had it, surveillance duty on Michael's missions was very popular. Especially surveillance on her and Michael's paired missions.

"We're clear," Michael murmured.

Nikita reached out and wound her fingers through his as Michael led her down the hallway. She didn't want to break contact with him; the reality of what they had done was sinking in, and Nikita suddenly felt ill.

She had just seduced a man into the bathroom, where he had met his death. And Michael had watched him die. Nikita shivered in a delayed reaction.

Sensing her disquiet, Michael sat down at the bar and drew her onto his lap. Nikita gratefully snuggled against him, tucking her head under his chin. They sat that way for a while, Michael sipping at his drink, supporting her with one strong arm. The bartender eventually made his way over to and cast Nikita an evaluating glance.

"She looks like she's had a few too many," he observed to Michael. His manner indicated that her supposed intoxication was unacceptable to the house rules. Instead of contradicting him, Michael simply nodded.

"Time to go, Nikita," he murmured into her ear. Nikita sighed and stood up, taking the criticism of the bartender in stride. She realized that if they argued with the man, they would surely fix themselves into his memory of this night, something the two operatives should avoid at all costs.

There must be something about us and bars, Nikita mused.

Michael led her back to their car and settled her in the passenger side, then walked around the front end and climbed into the driver's seat. He pulled out into traffic and began driving them to another club, where they were to meet Lucas again.

"You know, Michael, you're the only man I know who wouldn't blame this on PMS," Nikita quipped, feeling her equilibrium returning to normal. She'd done this sort of thing before, and doubtless, she would have to do it again. It was best if she moved on; the sooner, the better.

A street light flashed over Michael's face right after she spoke, illuminating the small quirk to his lips. He flicked his eyes over her briefly before returning his gaze to the road. His contained amusement caught her with surprise, until Nikita realized she had been using the term 'PMS' quite a bit in the last 24 hours.

Well, Nikita thought. Maybe there's merit to that idea. I'd better check the calendar.

"I know you, Nikita," Michael finally replied. Nikita rested her head against the passenger side window and stared at him, somewhat amused by his response.

"In other words, you're familiar with my mood swings," Nikita commented dryly.

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

Several minutes passed without response. Nikita grinned, realizing that silence was the best reply Michael could give. She could, and probably would, badly twist anything he might say. A uniquely female prerogative.

Very astute, Michael, Nikita observed to herself.

Ridiculously, Nikita found herself wondering what Michael's response would be if she ever asked, "Do I look fat in this?"

As they grew closer to their destination, Nikita steeled herself for another meeting with Lucas. He reminded her faintly of a seedier Mick Schtoppel, with even less class than the Section informant. If that were physically possible.

Michael pulled into the packed parking lot and maneuvered the car around several drunken people filing out of the club. He parked, and again solicitously opened her door. This time, Nikita couldn't resist.

"Very chivalrous, Michael. Is my skirt too short for you?"

Michael leaned forward and caught her full, lower lip between his teeth; he released it slowly, delicately scraping his teeth on the sensitive flesh.

"Not for me," he murmured. Nikita felt a full body flush swarm over her skin.

Nikita snaked an arm around Michael's lean waist, working her hand into the front pocket of his leather pants. "In that case, your pants aren't too tight for me." Nikita scraped her fingernails on his thigh through the fabric of his pocket.

A low sound rumbled up from Michael's chest, and he hooked his arm around her waist tightly. Nikita had to stop herself from purring in pleasure as his callused thumb rubbed up and down her side under her jacket, his touch dangerously warm through her silk shirt.

Again, the bouncer stepped aside when they approached the door. The couple before him obviously had their attentions fixed elsewhere, and he had the suspicion that he wouldn't like to find out how they would react were he to send them to the back of the line. Michael and Nikita didn't break apart as they walked through the club; the crowd seemed to melt before their sensual onslaught, giving way to superior animals stalking through the club's hunting grounds.

Michael and Nikita headed unerringly towards the booth that housed Lucas; unlike many couples, they flowed liquidly together. Their hips didn't bump, feet didn't tangle. Their bodies seemed melded together, swaying slightly with each smooth, forward step. When Lucas looked up from his rapid-fire conversation on his cellular, his jaw locked momentarily.

He wasn't sure how they managed it, sliding into the booth still joined together. The two didn't break their holds, but simply sat with the same grace in which they walked. Lucas quickly broke off the conversation and flipped his cellular closed. He tucked it into the back pocket of his garishly striped satin pants. Purple and lime green. His black silk shirt was open to the waist, revealing a bony, if toned, chest covered with beaded necklaces.

"You two give new meaning to, 'joined at the hip,'" Lucas remarked, grinning.

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

If Lucas expected a verbal answer to his comment, he didn't receive one. Michael regarded him with such a complete lack of expression that Lucas turned his hopeful gaze to Nikita. She was giving him a sidelong stare, a curtain of hair obscuring one eye. Suddenly, she flashed him a toothy grin. Lucas shifted in his seat, switching his gaze from face to face. The heat the couple had generated upon walking into the club still seemed to swarm between them, but Lucas' gut clenched at their united stares.

Cold. Frigid. Absolute zero. Downright spooky.

But if he were to stick his fingers between them, their sensual energy would crisp his skin right before one of them took his hand off with a snarl. There was no hope in playing the two off each other.

Lucas suddenly felt helplessly, hopelessly out of his league.

"Ahem," he choked, attempting to clear his throat. "Uh, I just got confirmation on Sants. Wh-what did you two, ah, use?"

"We suggest you read our contract," Michael said. The muscles on his angular face didn't so much as twitch as he succinctly delivered the sentence.

Beads of sweat were forming fast and furious at Lucas' temples; the silk under his arms and down his sides clung damply to his skin. Michael's softly accented, low voice was the most obliquely threatening thing Lucas had ever encountered.

Not re-read. Just read. Indicating he somehow knew Lucas hadn't already read the contract, and insinuating it would be good for his health to do so.

"We have a clause which states that we don't have to reveal our methods," Nikita drawled. She leaned into Michael and rested her chin on his shoulder, staring Lucas down with her impenetrable blue eyes.

"What, is it a I-can-tell-you-but-then-I'd-have-to-kill-you kind of thing?" Lucas joked, his chuckle forced and tone too high. His thoughts were buzzing around his head, like swarming mosquitoes. What, these two didn't need to blink, for crying out loud? Next thing you know, they'll be telling me they don't need to eat...

"That's an addendum to the clause, yes," Nikita said helpfully, voice distorted by talking with her chin pressed on Michael's muscular shoulder. Michael brushed his cheekbone over the top of Nikita's head. The move didn't make him seem vulnerable; it was more like a jungle cat marking his territory.

Lucas had to struggle not to piss in his pants.

"What?" Lucas yelped, noticing Michael's expression had changed into something resembling irritation.

"We would like to discuss payment," Michael said. The way in which he said it caused Lucas to realize he had made Michael repeat himself. Something he was relatively sure the man did not like to do.

Sh*t! And there was that we again. What, were they incapable of using the pronoun, 'I'?

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you want," Lucas murmured vaguely, rummaging for his bag. He pulled out a PDA and Nikita supplied him with the numbers. "Yeah, payment in full," Lucas blurted, waiting for confirmation after typing in the digits.

Just then, Michael's cellular rang. He detached himself from Nikita and agilely stood up, moving out of vocal range of the booth. Lucas gave Nikita a optimistic smile, hoping she would be easier on his nerves when parted from her husband.

"So, uh, what do you do?" Lucas asked, hastily adding, "I mean, aside from your partnership."

Nikita's face was turned towards Lucas, but her eyes were tracking Michael as she spoke. "Actually, I'm working on my brownie recipe." She punctuated the statement by turning her gaze on him and again giving him that toothy grin. Humorless, not reaching her eyes.

"B-brownies?" Lucas choked. He swung his stare back and forth between Michael's broad back and Nikita's disconcerting smile. "My mother used to add chocolate chips," Lucas said faintly.

"Chocolate chips?" Nikita exclaimed. Her expression flickered, like the end of a tape reel in an old-style projector. Delight warred with coldness, resulting in a bizarre mixture of both that set Lucas' toes curling.

His PDA beeped as Michael rejoined them, his tall figure looming over the booth. "Uh, transfer went through."

Michael held out his hand and drew Nikita up from the booth. "We'll be in touch."

Linking their arms around their waists, Michael and Nikita left the club with an unhurried gait. She waited until they reached the parking lot to spring her question.

"Were you called in?"

"Yes. Briefing's in two hours."

Nikita halted and tilted her chin up. "And what about me?"

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

Michael had packed swiftly and given her a knee-knocking, sensual kiss good-bye. His rough-velvet tongue had plunged between her lips, hungrily lapping against the smooth walls of her mouth. The kiss had sucked her breath away, stealing any words of farewell. He had left her, nerves tingling, lips red and slightly parted, and walked out the door without a backward glance. Nikita watched the lights of his car pull out of the driveway in silence, leaning her head against the door jamb.

She wanted to go with him desperately, and at the same time, she didn't. Being excused from a mission because she had to maintain their cover was just fine in her book, but Nikita had settled perhaps too firmly into her role as Michael's wife. She didn't want to leave his side, not for any reason.

What was the mission? When would he return? Would he return?

Nikita shook her head free of these questions and climbed the stairs to their bedroom. She wearily divested herself of the club-going clothes and climbed into bed.

Damn the camera, she thought. Martin Nelson's seen plenty of me, already.

Nikita slipped into the covers and moved over to Michael's side of the bed, snuggling into the blankets that still held the faint musky scent of his skin. She breathed deep of his smell and, without thinking, wrapped herself around the pillow.

"This is a piss-poor Michael substitute," she murmured gruffly into the pillow. She giggled a little hysterically, realizing she was comparing Michael to a pillow, when she had yet to meet a real, live man who even came close to her former mentor. Nikita clamped her eyelids shut and willed herself to sleep.

As with all things similar to the watched kettle that never boils, Nikita found herself increasingly more awake with each passing second-hand click of the clock on the wall. She hugged to pillow closer and tried not to think of Michael, but each slight adjustment of her body to conform to the bed brought wafts of his scent to her hyperactive olfactory senses.

Oh, this is great, Nikita thought. I'm worried, h*rny, and PMS-ing. And alone.

Nikita sat up and wiggled up to the headboard, clutching the pillow to her chest. "As long as I'm awake," she said out loud to the empty room. "I might as well do something constructive."

It was in this frame of mind that Nikita planned her self-defense lesson for the coming Monday.

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

Nikita awoke that Monday with a fierce grin on her lips. She dressed with care, her black spandex exercise clothes closely mirroring her wicked mood. Nikita forced herself to drive carefully to the YWCA. It wouldn't be good if she were stopped for speeding and reckless driving; she might be tempted to flip the cop off and damn the consequences.

Nikita strode, loose-limbed and feral, into the YWCA and navigated her way to the room number Tracy had given her. The floor was covered by a thick mat, with chairs and a table at one end. At the other end was a heavy bag and pads.

Since she was early, Nikita decided to loosen up her muscles. She stretched and went through a few breathing exercises, centering herself and feeling more one with her body. That done, Nikita eyed the heavy bag with unconcealed interest. She prowled to the bag and gave it an exploratory jab with her fist. Pleased by the bag's steadiness and firmness, Nikita attacked the weight with a series of punches and kicks. Envisioning it as Amy, Nikita backed off and gave the bag a high kick that sent it swaying. A small sound made her turn.

Tracy, Lydia, and about ten other women were gathered just outside the door. They were staring at Nikita with a mixture of awe and fear. Tracy shook her head and broke away from the group, walking towards Nikita.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" she demanded, an incredulous smile on her face.

"Catholic school," Nikita replied easily, brushing her hand back through her disheveled hair. "If you think I'm good, you should have seen those nuns."

The group at the door tittered and began spilling into the room, the tension broken. The last person to enter was Amy Muldoon, dressed in fashionable workout clothes that probably cost as much as Nikita's CD collection.

"Amy," Nikita called gaily. "I'm so glad you could make it."

Amy gave her a tense wave, attempting unsuccessfully to hide behind a small group of chattering women.

"All right, everybody. Why don't we get started?" Nikita announced. The women slowly sorted themselves, sitting down in a semi-circle on the mat. "My name is Nikita. I was asked to be a guest teacher."

Nikita sat down cross-legged and smiled. "I should warn you, though, I'm not a licensed professional. Should I ask everyone to sign a waiver?" Her question was met with good-natured protests. "Well, I'm not going to teach you any of the moves I was doing before you came in," Nikita continued, waving at the heavy bag. "I'm going to concentrate on what you should do when you're attacked, most likely by someone who is bigger and stronger than you. Someone who might have a weapon."

Nikita stood up and moved to the center of the mat. "I'll need a volunteer." Some women giggled and cast their eyes down, shoving at their neighbor to stand up. "Amy, why don't you get up and help me? You, most of all, need to learn how to defend yourself."

"Oh, I don't think --"

Amy's protests were cut off by the enthusiastic group. Nikita simply grinned and waited for Amy to join her in the center of the mat. Amy Muldoon reluctantly stood up and moved near Nikita, leaving several feet of space between them.

"The first move I'm going to show you is..."

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

Amy Muldoon gasped as Nikita flipped her to the mat again. The fall had knocked the wind out of her; Nikita graciously helped Amy to her feet. The older woman rubbed at her back and shot Nikita a mulish expression.

Nikita grinned and turned to the group. "And that's how you can throw someone over your shoulder. If you're not careful, you can wrench a muscle."

Nikita continued with another move, demonstrating on Amy how to stomp on an attacker's instep, how to aim for the solar plexus, how to grasp the pinkie fingers and pull outward.

Nikita had been basically beating up on Amy Muldoon for the last forty-five minutes. Gleefully. Obdurately. Yet, careful not to cause any lasting damage. Amy rubbed her bottom and struggled to her feet. Nikita saw that she was ready to rebel, and quickly called an end to class.

"Thanks, Nikita. I really felt like I learned something!" Lydia exclaimed, fairly bouncing out of the room. The others began drifting out, drawn towards gossip and the parking lot.

"Amy! I'd like to talk with you for a second," Nikita said, coming up behind her. Nikita rested her hand on Amy's shoulder with what appeared to be a friendly grip.

"Wh-what do you want?" Amy blurted, trying to back away.

"You didn't enjoy the last hour, did you?" Nikita asked, tugging Amy forward. Her dangerously low voice belied the grin still plastered on her face.

"You used me on purpose," Amy whined, trying to wrench Nikita's strong grip from her shoulder.

"Yeah," Nikita breathed, closing in on her prey. "And I'll tell you why."

Amy's eyes widened in terror and Nikita pulled her in close enough so that her breath ruffled the loose hair around Amy's face.

"You're after my husband," Nikita said. Then, seeing Amy shaking her head, Nikita's voice growled out, "Don't try to deny it. Guess what, Amy? You don't get to have him. He doesn't want you."

"He --"

"Shut up," Nikita hissed, fingers tightening on Amy's shoulder. She would probably leave five, fingertip-shaped bruises on the barracuda's skin before she was done. Among other injuries. "If you touch him again...if you so much as flutter your eyelashes in Michael's general direction...so help me, I'll work you over so bad you'll be in traction for six months sucking pureed carrots from a f---ing straw."

Amy whimpered softly, her eyes widening in fear. Her jaw worked, but no words came out.

"Do you understand?" Nikita asked softly, her fingers clenching around the fabric of her expensive workout clothes.

She nodded convulsively. Once.

Nikita flashed her the same toothy grin that had brought Lucas such a bad case of nerves. It didn't fail her now. Amy scuttled backwards when Nikita loosened her grip and practically ran to the parking lot.

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

That evening, Tracy and Lydia gathered around Nikita's kitchen table and helped her soak up the remains of the alcohol from the dinner party.

"It was all I could do to keep from laughing," Lydia howled, banging her half-full glass on the table.

"The last time you threw her onto the mat, I thought all the silicone in her body would jiggle loose!" Tracy snickered, taking a gulp of scotch. "I hope she doesn't send you the bill from her plastic surgeon when she gets it all tucked back into place!"

Nikita smiled demurely and sipped at her drink. "I thought it went rather well."

"Well? I'll bet she won't be able to get out of bed tomorrow!" Lydia said, leaning precariously in her chair.

"I know Amy was eyeing Michael, but what did she do to get you so angry?" Tracy asked, her bright eyes inquisitive.

Nikita sighed and fortified herself with another sip of Dutch courage. "After the party Saturday night, Amy asked Michael to walk her home."

"Oh, no," Tracy gasped, a dismayed frown spreading on her face.

"She jumped him," Nikita confirmed. "Michael said he handled it, but --"

Nikita sighed and leaned back in her chair. Jealously hadn't motivated her to "teach" Amy a lesson; it was infinitely more complicated than that. She wasn't jealous of the bottle-blonde, man-hunting Amy Muldoon. She hated her for what she did to Michael.

Nikita swallowed some more alcohol. She couldn't explain her motivation to her friends; besides blowing her cover, Nikita doubted they would be able to understand. Michael had been subject to so many Valentine missions, to the pawing of women he didn't desire. He had been objectified to the very last cell of his body...

Amy had done the same thing, albeit on a lesser level. But still, the objectification of Michael was there. That was why Nikita despised the woman. Not because she saw her as a threat. And not because she thought Michael desired her.

"I'm not jealous of her," Nikita said finally. "I just don't want her to think she can grope my husband and get away with it."

"I would have ripped her hair out by its dyed roots," Lydia insisted after a moment, doubtless thinking of her own husband. "The slut."

Lydia's comment touched off a gale of giggles from Nikita and Tracy, and they clumsily filled each others' glasses to the brim.

"To Nikita," Lydia said, raising her cup. "For teaching Amy not to wear an outfit two sizes too small and two times too expensive when she's about to get her a-- kicked!"

"To Nikita," Tracy repeated. "For rearranging the silicone slut and keeping her away from other people's husbands!"

Nikita laughed and drank to their toast. "Oh! I almost forgot! Do either of you want a brownie? Someone gave me a new recipe to try..."

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

It took almost a whole day for Nikita to recover from her foray into brownies. She didn't call Tracy or Lydia to see how they fared, but obviously one of the ingredients had reacted badly with the copious amount of alcohol in her stomach. Even worse, on Wednesday Nikita was called into Section for a discussion with Madeline. Grateful to the cool weather, for once, Nikita donned a turtleneck to cover the fading marks Michael's passion had made. While her skin wasn't necessarily delicate, it was fair and practically showcased the various bites and abrasions and beard burn...

Nikita tried to shake her head clear of the images which were crowding her brain. Michael kissing his way up her abdomen, his mouth closing over her breast...straining against her, his damp curls caressing her cheek...

Stop, Nikita shouted to herself. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

To say that Madeline was highly observant would be a phenomenal understatement; Madeline would notice if Nikita entered with flushed skin, rosy lips, and glassy eyes. What conclusions the enigmatic woman might draw, Nikita wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Nikita entered Section and quickly strode through its halls. She intentionally passed by Michael's office before stopping at Walter's work station. The office was dark. He wasn't there.

"Hey, Walter," Nikita called, sidling up to the counter. Walter looked up, peering over the magnifying glasses perched on his nose.

"Hi, Sugar," Walter rasped. "Here to see Madeline?"

"Yeah," Nikita sighed, propping her chin on her hand. "Know anything?"

"No," Walter said, turning back to his soldering. He paused and gave her a sidelong glance. "Michael was called in on a Priority 8. Don't know when he'll be back."

Nikita's stomach quivered at the information, simultaneously lifting the worry of the unknown and replacing it with a very real fear. Her heart surged with gratitude that Walter had anticipated her question; a question she probably wouldn't have asked for fear of the repercussions.

Damn surveillance, Nikita thought to herself.

Out loud, Nikita smiled and said, "Thanks, Walter. You're one in a million."

Walter grunted and waved her away, barely managing to conceal his smile under a gruff exterior. Nikita danced away from his counter and left munitions, steeling herself for her appointment with Madeline. As usual, she had a few suspicions on what the topic of conversation was going to be...but Madeline was anything if predictable.

Predictable in her unpredictability? Nikita thought. Never mind. Concentrate.

"Good morning, Nikita," Madeline said as Nikita carefully made her way down the steps.

"Madeline."

Her brown hair curling softly around her face, Madeline politely waited until Nikita seated herself to continue the conversation. "I've looked over your profile."

Nikita nodded in comprehension. "For the breaking and entering to provoke a Neighborhood Watch meeting."

"Yes."

"What did you think of it?" Nikita said.

Madeline paused and folded her hands on the desk. "I found your profile sound and...quite inventive. We'll proceed as is."

Nikita blinked, trying to draw in an imperceptible deep breath from her surprise. "All right."

"I'm pleased with Michael's reports of your progress. You both seem to have integrated well into the neighborhood. Your and Michael's association with Lucas appears to be ingratiating you with members of Red Fist. I hear they were quite satisfied with your performance on the Sants mission."

"Yes, well...Michael and I...seem to intimidate Lucas," Nikita said. "It sways his opinion in our favor."

Madeline gave her one of those infamously misleading smiles. The skin crinkled around her eyes, and the older woman managed to genuinely appear amused. The smile faded slowly, as she inclined her upper body forward a fraction of an inch. "Another thing, Nikita. Are you and Michael practicing safe sex?"

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

"Wh-what?" Nikita stuttered.

No. No. Madeline couldn't have just asked her that question. Right? Madeline hadn't just asked if she and Michael were having safe sex...sort of like a mother asking her daughter if she was on birth control pills.

Wrong. Very wrong.

"Are you and Michael using condoms?" Madeline inquired again, her mellifluous voice downplaying the words. She might as well be asking if she and Michael liked basil better than oregano in their spaghetti sauce.

Nikita frantically scrambled for an answer. What should she say? Why did Madeline want to know? Thoughts crawled in and out of Nikita's mind for the second it took for her to formulate an answer.

"No," she said. Then, "Should we be?"

Might as well tell the truth. What else could she do? Say, Gee, Madeline, I was too busy jumping his bones to worry about using protection?

Nikita caught her lower lip as she thought about Madeline's question. It occurred to her that, considering her and Michael's pasts, it was monumentally stupid that they hadn't been using some form of protection.

I guess I'm so used to Michael looking out for me that I didn't even question it, Nikita thought to herself. With Michael, I have blinders on. No, not blinders. A blindfold. Oh, damn, shoot me now and put me out of my stupidity.

"Good," Madeline said. She sat back in her chair, seeming pleased.

Pleased? What? Nikita ceased her bemoaning and fixed her gaze on Madeline's face.

"It is essential that you appear to be husband and wife. A married couple should not be using prophylactics," Madeline continued. "Section has a birth control policy in place for you, Nikita...and all our operatives go through regular medical screenings. Neither you...or Michael...are in any danger."

Nikita cleared her throat and nodded. She realized she was still gnawing on her bottom lip and halted the nervous giveaway. "Good," she said. She couldn't think of any other response.

Madeline gave her a smile of dismissal. "That will be all, Nikita."

Nikita struggled to her feet and gawkily walked to the door of Madeline's pristine office. Waiting for a parting comment from Madeline that never came, Nikita stepped out the door and took a deep breath as the door swished shut behind her. Nikita clamped down on her jangling nerves and residual dizziness and made her way out of Section. She practically ran by Walter's station without a comment.

"How was it?" he called.

Nikita halted in her tracks and turned her dazed expression on the gray-haired munitions expert. "Don't ask," she rasped.

"That bad?" he said sympathetically, starting to move around his work station.

Nikita shook her head and started walking again. "You don't want to know, Walter. You really don't want to know."

"Oh, I think I do, Sugar," Walter contradicted, leer in place.

"Okay, I really don't want you to know," she shot over her shoulder.

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

Sex. That's all they wanted to talk about.

How am I going to get my mind out of the gutter like this? Nikita thought.

She sat at Tracy's kitchen table with Lydia, Lisa, and Tracy's fifteen-year-old daughter, Kara. Lydia and Kara were giggling over a Cosmo magazine.

"Shoo! Go away! It's a girls only party," Tracy was saying to her husband. "Take Tim with you to the den and watch football, or something."

George winked at her and started to drag his son into the den. "Women! They're going to drink all of my beer. And you know, son, there's nothing I can do about it..."

Nikita smiled wanly at Lisa, who was surprisingly sweet and talkative when her bully of a husband was out of town. Nikita leaned forward and wrinkled her nose. "Does anyone actually read those things?"

Lisa let out a tinkling laugh. "Of course! I read them for years through junior high and high school. Didn't you?"

Nikita coughed politely and curved her lips. "I...ah...had an unorthodox upbringing," she said tactfully.

Lisa's eyebrows lifted and she opened her mouth, ostensibly to question Nikita further about her youth. Fortuitously, Kara let out a high squeal of delight. The teenager pushed her bobbed hair behind her pierced ears and directed a wicked grin to the table at large.

"Here's an article I just have to read," she said. "It's called, Are You Meeting Your Sexual Quota?...it's right after the column on achieving incredible orgasms or whatever."

Nikita's lips quirked as she remembered Madeline instructing her during the Armel mission. While Nikita was fairly sure Madeline's assessment had been based in fact, she decided to test the waters. "I read somewhere that the average couple who've been married under five years have intimate relations at least twice a week."

Kara laughed in her face. "Intimate relations? Where'd you read that, in Redbook?"

Tracy finally made her way back to the table with a bowl full of tortilla chips, salsa, and another six-pack of beer. "Kara, I read Redbook."

"That's my point, mom," Kara snickered, ducking her mother's teasing swat. "Okay, here we go." Kara began reading the article out loud, melodramatically pronouncing the trendy buzz words with the disdain of a trendy young person. She swallowed giggles and kept reading when her mother poked her in the ribs and tried to wrestle the magazine from her be-ringed fingers.

Suddenly, her commentary stopped and she grinned at Nikita over the top of the glossy magazine. "Hey, Nikita! From the survey, it looks like you're right! The average couple has sex at least twice a week if they've been together under five years."

Forgoing comment, Nikita simply shrugged and popped the tab on another beer. She took a swig of the thin, acidic stuff. She had a feeling that, before the night was over, she was going to need it.

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

"Okay, everybody, time to spill," Lydia said, a wicked grin creasing her alcohol-brightened cheeks. "How often do you do it?"

Lisa and Kara turned bright red. Tracy guffawed. Nikita ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to scrunch down in her chair.

"You first," Tracy gasped. "You brought it up."

"Okay. Dan and I have sex three or four times a week," Lydia stated. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. "I can't believe I just told you that!"

Lisa coughed and her cheeks reddened even more. "I know Mark's hard to get along with, but he's really sweet when he's not around other people. We're about the same." She ducked her head and giggled, leaning into Lydia's shoulder.