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ATTENTION: Stories marked with an * may contain material which would be better appreciated by those over 18. Parental Discretion is advised. This is your responsibility, not ours.
"Just Desserts"* NC-17
Sequel to Hors-d'oeuvre
If I can't dance, I don't want to be part your revolution."
-- Emma Goldman, philosopher, wild woman, happy-footed anarchist.
Who said that leftists couldn't dance? Somewhere along the way, the revolution may have lost its dialectics, but there was still a back beat it couldn't lose yet. Any old way they used it. All around Nikita and Michael, the party throbbed with the rebel yell of rock 'n roll. Electric attitude, amped to a hundred and forty decibels.
There was a beat, and they were dancing, not demonstrating, to it. The party was packed, live action from wall to wall. The hot stuffy room smelled of spilled beer and sweat. From a distance, the dancers' waving arms and jumping legs melded into one multi-limbed monster, which rampaged in the middle of a kick-ass fit.
The piper inciting it to riot was a spare four-piece band. Each member seemed as though they'd indulged in too many late nights, crystal meth, and cigarettes. All the musicians were lean bundles of energy, so slight that a stiff breeze could blow any of them over the makeshift stage at any moment. But despite their frail appearance, the music they played bellowed with surprising rage and volume. An electric guitar blasted rapid-fire notes like an AK-47, its reverb and wails renting the air into noisy fragments of protest.
The singer combed her fingers through her rainbow-colored hair so that the short bits stuck together in odd damp tufts. She grinned down on the crowd, and gripped the microphone so tight that her biceps, shiny with perspiration, tensed. "You say you want a re-e-e-volution, we-e-ell you know, we all want to change the world ..."
While the singer reassured everyone that it was evolution, Nikita passed the monolithic speakers, and the bass notes rumbled through her guts. She and Michael sidestepped the dancers' flailing limbs as they walked towards the refreshment table near the back of the room, which stank of burned rubber. Behind the table, a tall gaunt man had a far-off soulful look as he fished inside the base of a blender. He was chanting, "Visualize the motor, and it may happen."
Nikita collared Michael. "Now see that guy. He can't even run his own blender. That's Stan the Man. That's your techno-terrorist. He can't even look at a blender without something dire happening. He's all thumbs. Mechanically inept. Machines mystify him. Are you telling me that he steals satellites and sells them?"
"He's not my terrorist," replied Michael mildly as he lifted the box of pastries out of danger, and quickly avoided a collision with another dancing dervish.
Behind the refreshment table, a short girl, who was built sturdily like a Shetland pony, walked out of the kitchen and advanced on Stan, still chanting, now probing the blender with a rubber spatula. The girl confiscated the pitcher from the hapless mechanic.
"Hey." Even though Stan towered over the younger woman, he couldn't grab the pitcher that she held just out of reach. They shared the same blonde corkscrew hair, but he had the stretched-out stringy build of someone who did too much yoga while she looked like a dollop.
"Now, Dad."
"My name ... is ... Stan. Call me 'Stan', not Dad. Dad's are a dime a dozen. You can't distract me. Give that back to me right now, young lady. Or you'll ... you'll regret it. Goddam it. I sound like my father. I promised myself I would never say that." Under his thinning hair, the man's face was flushed from his exertions. He tried again. "Mary, don't you remember anything they taught you in Buddhist summer camp?"
"Sure I do. I can nom mee oh-ho reng gay kee-oh with the best of them." She laughed at her father's horrified look. "I'm just kidding."
"Mar-i-posa." He drew out the syllables in her name until they almost sounded like three separate words, each invested with love and exasperation. Awkwardly Stan unfolded his lanky body, joint by Ichabod Crane-like joint, until he extended to his full height. He pointed to the lead singer, who was strutting around the stage in a leather vest and a skirt roughly the size of a place mat. "Good thing your mother didn't hear you right now. Mariposa Beasley, that was ... religio-ism."
"Religio-WHAT?!"
"I don't know. It's some kind of '-ism'. There's racism, sexism, ageism. There must be some kind of religio-ism. Do you need to take another sensitivity training?"
"C'mon. It was a joke." At her father's look, Mary glanced down at her shoes, then up at him again. The young woman shrugged. "Okay, it was an insensitive joke. I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry about taking your drinks away. Just think about it. Calmly. Rationally," said Mary in a patient tone as if they'd had this exact discussion before. "I think it's great that you and Mom are throwing a benefit for the women's shelter. We're raising a lot of money."
"Sanctuary does good work. I like to support them. It's a good cause."
"Dad, I love you, but I can't let you serve this stuff. You don't want anyone to drink this and get sick ..."
"It's a health drink. Everything in it is organic."
"Shit is organic. That doesn't make it good for you to eat," muttered Mary under her breath. She was backing away from her father when she noticed the newcomers at the table for the first time. Relief eased the cross expression on her face. "Hey, Nikita. I'm glad you're here." The young woman set the pitcher down on the table, reached over, and gave Nikita a quick hug. It was like a squeezing a bun fresh out of the oven, warm and soft, a faint scent of cinnamon.
When they were done, Mary rocked back on her heels, and folded her arms across her chest so that her tee shirt stretched across her ample curves. She looked at Michael with delighted speculation, then glanced shrewdly back at Nikita. "And what's this?"
Michael slid the box on to the table. "The pastries."
"Sugar. Processed refined P-O-I-S-O-N. White death," sniffed Stan scornfully. "We should only sell natural things. Whole grains, honey, beer. Not this white death."
Mary ignored him, clearly a habit of longstanding. "Oh good. The éclairs. Any cream puffs?" She undid the white flaps of the box, and lifted the lid to peeked inside. When she smiled, her dimple deepened like a thumb indentation in soft dough as if someone had just checked the proofing.
"Nikita did not say," replied Michael.
"No, Nikita doesn't say much. I think she has lots of secrets. Heaps of them. By the way, I'm Mary." She pointed to her de rigueur tee-shirt, which read "Over the Moon," and was dusted here and there with flour. "I work at this bakery shop with Nikita."
"My daughter. Raised completely raw and organic. It's the crowd she hangs out with. First it's just one Twinkie. Then one Twinkie leads to the harder stuff. Down the slippery slope. Before you know it, she's a ... a baker." Stan pronounced the last word as if he said "drug pusher" instead. He looked deeply ashamed.
"Really, Dad."
"Where did we go wrong?"
"Stan, you can only do so much." Nikita patted his arm consolingly. "Children are their own people."
"They come through you, but they are not from you," offered Michael.
"Ah. Kalil Gibran. That's so true. So heavy." Stan sadly shook his head, clearly inconsolable. "Mariposa works for a franchise. The Establishment. It's so embarrassing."
"Oh, and this menace-to-society is my father, Stan Beasley. And you're ...?"
"Michael. I'm Nikita's ..."
"Friend," interrupted Nikita, casually cocking her arm on one hip and turning so that her elbow just happened to jab Michael in his side.
Mary's eyes sparkled. "It's good to have friends. We all need friends. Good friends." She looked expectantly at Nikita, but since no one offered any clarification, Mary added, "Even better to have a friend who can help you out on this next shift. Ocean was supposed to be here, but I don't see him anywhere. Anarchists. They're never on time for anything."
"That's okay." Nikita walked behind the table, and began arranging the French pastries on a platter. "I can sell refreshments by myself. Michael's too busy. He's just leaving on his way to ..."
"Actually that meeting has been cancelled. Nikita must have forgotten. I'd be happy to help," said Michael. "In any way I can."
"Good man. We could always use a volunteer." Stan handed him a paper cup, that was accumulating suspicious oily stains on the bottom. "This is my latest drink. I call it the 'elixir of youth'. Tell me what you think."
"It's very green. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so green," laughed Nikita.
Michael tilted the cup to one side as if checking the legs of the drink, but it stuck like gum to the bottom of the cup. "What's in it?"
"Oh no. That would be telling. It's my special recipe. No psychotropics. Everything legal. You can never tell when the feds are around. Big Brother watching. But even without the stardust, it's good stuff. Wow. It could take you on a trip and a half. An intergalactic ride. Far Out. You're there."
"That's okay." Mary grabbed Michael's arm. She threw an annoyed look at her father. "Don't mind Stan. You don't have to try it. It could be dangerous."
"An adventure," corrected Nikita. "Better not try it then. Michael's very ... conservative. Sticks to the rules. He doesn't like danger."
Michael lifted his chin, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as if to say, "Is that so?" Then his mouth tugged at one corner before smoothing out a second later. Finally he said, "Someone needs to consider the consequences."
"Consequences? You'll be okay. The outcome's solid. Rock solid. Hey, Michael. Why don't you live dangerously for a change? Take a chance. Just do it." Nikita tapped her finger against the side of his cup. "Bois-moi."
Drink me. Michael looked coolly at Nikita one last time before he murmured, "Santé!" Then he tilted his head, peeled back the sides of the cup, and let the green slurry ooze off the bottom into his mouth. He swallowed convulsively, his eyes widened.
"Well?" asked Stan anxiously. "Well, what do you think?"
Michael took the stack of paper cups, and started setting up a row on the table. "Pour them out. I think they will sell very well. They have a certain something."
Stan whooped, his fist pumping in the air. "I knew I liked you. The moment you walked in with Nikita. I knew you were all right. If we're going to make more, I should stock up on more spirulina and bee pollen. And my secret ingredient! There's a stash down in the basement. See ya." He ran into the kitchen, almost bursting with excitement like a boy allowed to play after-hours, uncertain what he wanted to do first.
"Maybe this is a guy thing." Mary rolled her eyes. She pretended to stuff a finger down her throat and gag. "You must be joking."
"Not at all." Michael deftly scooped out the drink with a spatula.
"He never jokes," said Nikita. "Never."
"I don't understand. Dad's stuff is usually dreadful. Mom and I use it to kill the slugs in the backyard. They're the only ones that seem to love it."
"I'm not surprised. That's it. That's exactly it," said Michael. "Slugs love beer, alcohol of any kind." He turned to Nikita. "It is their fatal attraction. It is not good for them, but they cannot help themselves. They cannot stay away. It lures them. They are utterly helpless."
Nikita paused in the middle of rearranging the drinks. A paper cup crinkled under her trembling fingers. She hastily put it down before she gave herself away, hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt. "Oh? What exactly are we talking about here? Are you talking about Stan's drinks?"
"Certainly. What else? The key to any cocktail is its secret ingredient." Michael held up the spatula as if he were instructing a class at the lectern. A dark green glob defied gravity, and stayed stuck to the handle despite its vertical position. "And Stan's secret is this ... vodka."
"What? No way. I don't believe you. Dad only drinks beer. Natural, he says."
"Vodka is natural. Distilled from natural potatoes. One hundred percent." Michael's lips quirked. "Don't light any matches near it."
"No wonder it's an elixir of youth. It's a goddam preservative. Far out," laughed Nikita. "Far freaking out." ###
After Mary had left, Nikita edged away from Michael, her foot shoving some empty boxes aside to make more room. It was cramped quarters behind the refreshment table. He made the space seem even smaller. Something about him overwhelmed her. He always did.
Nikita stepped into the far corner between the wall and the table. Looked him up, then down again. Tried to ignore how her mouth watered. Damn. Jeans never looked so good, had never felt so soft. She rubbed her palms against her skirt as if she could wipe away the memory of textures. Of him.
Concentrate. Assess. Act. The best defense is offense. "Since when do you go around spouting Kalil Gibran? My God. Next it will be Rod McKuen. Is this part of your cover? Part of a new profile insertion you haven't bothered to tell me about?" Again.
Michael only shrugged, watching her impassively. "You don't know everything about me. I read poetry. Poets have words for what the rest cannot say. What is locked inside ..." He lifted his eyebrows just once, then his face settled into the familiar work-a-day mask, revealing nothing. "Now. We've met Stan Beasley. Which one is his wife Margo? There weren't any good photo's. All blurry."
"Because she never stays still. She's always on the go." Nikita pointed to the lead singer. "That's her. She couldn't be Mary's mom. She doesn't look like a mother, period." Margo Beasley should be a woman with cats-eye glasses and a matronly apron tied a little too tightly around a comfortable stomach; a perennial PTA/soccer mom, complete with station wagon, poodle in the back. But this incarnation of Mrs. Beasley was a black-leather rock 'n roll queen who shimmied across the stage with the energy of a sixteen year old.
As the music heated, Margo mopped her forehead with the back of one hand while she leaned on the microphone stand with the other. "Remember. Our band's called 'World Domination'. We thank you for coming to support Sanctuary. Now we're gonna take a break, and turn the show over to you. Every donor gets their five minutes of fame at the mike. So be generous. Don't be shy. Now's your chance. Every dollar, every dance, every poem or song at the open mike will keep the shelter open another day." Margo raised a clenched fist in the air, and the electric riff exploded into a wild crash of cymbals, which blended with the crowd's call for more. Whoops and shrill whistles punctuated the sound of stamping feet. People clapped in unison. The cadence picked up speed until the thundering momentum couldn't be sustained any longer, and dissolved into air.
World Domination? Jeez. What a name for a band. Whatever happened to ones like the Marvelettes or the Dixie Cups? Nikita's ears buzzed as if they still heard the feedback from the mountain-high amplifiers. It was as though her brain had become accustomed to noise and was trying to fill in the eerie quiet with sound of its own. But now she was too busy to be bothered. Since the band was taking five, dancers were catching their breath, and refreshments were selling at a brisk pace. Much to Nikita's surprise, they had almost sold all of Stan's concoction.
Stan, who was nowhere in sight. For all Nikita knew he could be auctioning Hubbell space telescope right now. But he probably wasn't. He couldn't possibly be. The intell must be faulty. She was hunting a wild goose, whose only secret was a weakness for lunchmeats and vodka.
"Hey, guys." Margo poked around the tray of pastries. She lifted a croissant, revealing an oily imprint on the doily underneath it. "Any more with SPAM?"
"I'll look," said Nikita, stifling a laugh, as she bent down and checked the box under the table. Michael's lips had pursed briefly with unguarded astonishment. His rare expression had been worth a million dollars. When Nikita was certain she could control her grin, she stood up again. "Sorry. All gone. They sell out really quickly. They always do."
But Margo Beasley was nobody's fool. Her eyes turned into black slits, shiny as the rivets studding her vest. "I imagine they do if Stan's around. Even though he talks big, he's the cholesterol king. That man ... One day his ticker's going to go boom. So how many did he eat this time? Besides the two he buys every morning. As if I didn't know."
Uh oh. Dietary sins. Since when did a baker become a confessor? Time to change the subject. "I like your hair, Margo. The colors are great. All of them."
"Yeah. What the hell. I was going gray anyway. Half the women I know are coloring their hair back. Why bother with boring ash blonde? I'm more of a Technicolor gal myself."
"That you are." Nikita pointed to the other pastries. "There's still some baloney and cheese ones left."
Margo made a face. "No thanks. Wouldn't touch the stuff. I'm vegan. I told Stan. Lips that touch SPAM shall not touch mine. But I weakened. So help me. Some feminist I am." She sighed heavily, tugging down her leather vest with no shirt underneath it. "I dress tough, but inside, I'm just a agar-agar marshmallow. Pitiful, huh? Oh well, women in love do the damnedest things. Things we swore we'd never do. Never say never again. I'll just have one of those Tibetan whey sticks."
Margo picked up a dusky beige clump that looked as though it had been extruded from a cat's anus. But she didn't seem to mind its unappetizing appearance. She handed over a dollar, and walked away, chomping down with the vigorous jaw motions required to eat it.
Chuckling to herself, Nikita turned without looking, and bumped into someone warm, solid. Michael. His hip slid along hers. She stepped back hastily, and almost tripped over an empty bag. "Excuse me."
" 's okay." He didn't even look up from the platter he was restocking with cookies. His tone sounded politely impersonal as though he hardly knew her, hadn't kissed the hell out of her just half an hour ago. Her lips still felt bruised, but Nikita wanted more. Wanted to feel that firm hungry pressure along her mouth, along all of her. Every inch ached with wanting as she watched him talk with a dyspeptic-looking customer, who agonized over the no-wheat, no-sugar, no-ingredient cookies.
"Why not take two? They're on special." Michael held up a tray instead of a Glock. Brownies, not bullets. The most lethal man on the planet was working a bake sale. It was so goddam bizarre. Those hard lips softened into a shy smile as he charmed a Trotskyite into buying another bourgeois dessert. Then Michael counted out change with the usual quiet competence he used to do everything. "Seventy, eighty, ninety makes a dollar. Here you go. My pleasure."
Plaisir. His accent broadened the last syllable, rolled the "r" so that the English word became Gallicized. Just the sound ruffled her in all the secret places.
Why was Michael here? He was making her crazy, standing too close. Not close enough, whispered another part of her. He was ignoring her, but Nikita felt his nearness as if he were touching her right now. His very presence seemed like a fire just an arm' breadth away, radiating wave after wave of heat. She could feel it - his heat - beat at her without actually touching the flame.
Her head was starting to spin. She couldn't think clearly. Must be low sugar. Nothing to eat since this morning, her appetite blunted by her work in the bakery; being elbow-deep in dough, a constant smell of caramelized sugar almost burning her nose with its high-octane charge. She'd been running on fumes since four in the morning when the first batch hit the ovens.
She should eat something, anything. Nikita dug into her pocket for a couple of bucks, and stuffed them into the cash box. She grabbed the closest thing without really looking, took a bite, and swallowed quickly before her body rebelled against the muddy molasses taste of whatever she was eating. Undoubtedly something organic. God help her.
She chewed mechanically, forced it down. K-rations tasted better than this, but she was doing her job. After all, it would be bad p.r. if the person selling food spit out the merchandise. Even Michael seemed to notice. The way he looked at her made Nikita's mouth dry. The next bite lodged half-way in her throat. She coughed, then waved away the green drink he offered. Finally she managed to speak. "What is it? Do I have something on my face?" She wiped a hand across her mouth. His eyes followed her gesture, then lingered. "Want something to eat?"
"Pardon?"
"Are you hungry?"
"Always."
Always? Did he mean that? Christ. She was obsessed, everything revolving around hormones and heat. Frantically, she pried her tongue off the roof of her mouth. Idiot. Speak. She nodded her head towards the table. "Okay. Why don't you eat something? Pick something out. It's on me. My treat."
"Your treat." He seemed to smile at a private joke. "What do you recommend?"
Pointing to the croissants with questionable fillings, Nikita lifted an eyebrow. Michael grunted. She moved to another tray. Nikita picked up a Tibetan whey stick.
"Definitely not," he said with a quick shake of his head.
"How about an éclair? They're the real kind. Fresh whipped cream. Not the custard filling."
A wistful look seemed to pass over his face, softened the stern lines, made him seem boyish all of a sudden. "An éclair. I haven't had one since I was small."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "It's a long story. Not a very interesting one."
"I'm interested."
"No. I shouldn't." He turned his back on the tray, on her. Even though the room was hot, he buttoned up his jacket, and watched the next performer at the open mike. A folksinger paid a mournful tribute to oppressed trees everywhere. Then a pot-bellied poet howled some free verse, accompanied by bongo drums, more enthusiastic than skilled.
Nikita walked up to Michael. "Well, whenever you think you shouldn't, that means you definitely should. Should. Shouldn't. You have so many rules. Come on, Michael." She showed him an éclair. "You're French. That makes you an authority. I've always wondered. How do you eat these? The right way?"
"Properly, you mean?" His nostrils flared a little. "I can't believe you care about what's proper or not. You never have."
She pretended to look hurt. "Oh no. I'm serious. Some foods are naturally messy - sushi, cherry tomatoes, éclairs. There's no way to eat them without looking like a starving monkey. You know. Food spraying every which way. So how do you ... do it?"
"How do you?"
His voice sounded lower. Had she imagined it? "Well, I'm impatient. I like to get to the good stuff right way. I can't wait."
"You never could," he murmured.
She tried to ignore the desire flickering inside her, the fire he seemed to naturally ignite. This wasn't the time. This wasn't the place. She was supposed to be watching Stan the Man for anything suspicious. But something compelled her, pushed her past the protocols, the natural inhibitions. She lifted the éclair, and aimed her best sultry smile at him.
"How do I eat it? I nibble around one end until I can't stop myself. Then I put the whole thing in my mouth, as much as I can, and I suck out the cream - all of it - until there's nothing left but the empty shell. Nothing. I can't help it," she continued. "I want it all. Fast. Before it goes away. Life's so uncertain. You got to grab the moment while you can. Gobble it all down."
Michael ran a finger under his collar. He moved restlessly, one hand slipping into his pocket, making an adjustment.
She gave him the éclair. "Well?"
He held it, considering. Michael took a deep breath. "When I was younger ..."
"Yes?"
"When I was younger, I used to eat it fast. Vite. But then I discovered that I enjoyed it more if I made it last longer."
"Longer?"
"Yes," he said softly. "Waiting makes it better. It always does. Otherwise, you miss all the flavors, the textures. Why rush through the total pleasure of the experience?"
Her skin prickled, the silk sticking damply to her cheeks, the back of her neck. Nikita let the sari slip from her head to her shoulders, but even the air circulating around her didn't cool her off. Nothing could. She watched his mouth shape around each word. She listened, mesmerized. Powerless.
"First, I slowly remove the chocolate icing with my lips. Maybe my teeth gently scrape off every little bit so all is uncovered. There is nothing left but the bare pastry. Then ..." He lazily ran his thumb along the crevice; pushing, parting, his finger sliding between the widening layers. "Ah! I love that sound. Like a moist sigh." Finally, the éclair split open into two halves, its filling revealed for the first time. "Voilà! There is all the cream, waiting there for you. Waiting for you to take your time, to enjoy every last wonderful lick. Sometimes the cream oozes out. It takes a quick tongue to catch every drop. You must not hesitate. Then go deeper. Find every hidden pocket. Taste it all. All of it. Oh, look." Michael showed his fingertip, which was now frosted white. He sampled it, smiled. "Did you make this?"
She nodded mutely, unable to form any words just now.
"Délicieux! I never realized how much I like your whip cream."
How could he do that? Hold the éclair in his wide palm, looking so innocent, making her feel so indecent, as if they'd just made love in front of a room full of strangers. Her cheeks flamed. There was no hiding it this time. He lifted the éclair. His mouth gradually opened, revealing his crooked eyetooth, his tongue reaching out ... Oh my God. He was actually going to ...
"Hi, guys. Hey. Hello." Mary ran up to the table, patted Nikita on the back twice before getting any reaction. "How's business? Do you have change for a twenty?" She looked closely at Nikita, whose face reddened further under the intense examination. "Are you okay? Lord, it's stuffy in here. You look like you're going to pass out. Must be getting to you."
Michael was getting to her all right in all the right places. In the game of seduction, he was the master, she the novice. And how she hated those skills as much as they tantalized her. This round to him. She'd started out ahead, but at the last moment, Michael had managed to turn the tables on her. Damn. What wizardry was this? He'd cast a spell over her, and now she was tempted beyond belief. Tempted to touch, to taste. Everything. All of him. Now.
Her legs still felt wobbly. Climbing up a skyscraper would be easier than pretending to act normally after that last demonstration. And he hadn't even touched her yet. Didn't need to.
It took a great deal of effort, but Nikita managed to open the cash box with relatively steady hands. There was nothing she could do about her blushing. Thinking about it only made it worse. She probably looked like a goddam tomato. Nikita wanted to pull the sari over her head and hide. She prayed for an infamous California earthquake. Maybe the ground would split open right now, and swallow her whole. No such luck. She handed Mary the dollar bills.
"Sorry. Looks like I was interrupting. But I can't figure out what."
"No problem," replied Nikita shortly.
"Things seem to be baking back here. Broiling. Woo, baby. Practically burning up between you two. What gives?"
"Nothing happened. Nothing ever does," Nikita whispered. "I told you. We're just ... good friends."
"Good friends," snorted Mary. "Yeah right. Good friends! The most suspicious phrase in the English language. Don't believe it for a second. Trying to sell me short? Girl, I saw the way he was looking at you. Like you were dessert, and he was ready to eat you up."
"Shhh. Michael will hear you."
"I don't see how. He's not anywhere near us. He's up on the stage."
"What?" Nikita's head whipped around. What was he doing now? Michael stood in the spotlight, a little aloof from the whole room. He held the microphone with one hand, his posture erect as if he were at a briefing instead of a party. She had seen him like this before, when he was steeling himself to do something painful because it was necessary, the right thing to do, whatever the cost.
His face was turned a little to the side and away from the crowd as if he were in a trance, focused elsewhere. For him, the party had disappeared. Now he seemed to be traveling some interior landscape instead, searching for something, perhaps courage. His breath caught for a moment, then expelled in a short hard puff. Finally, he said, "I have a poem to read. It was written for lovers everywhere, but tonight. Tonight it is for someone in particular. She denies it. But she knows who she is." He looked down at the ground, his mouth smiling faintly before it disappeared just as quickly. "It is called 'The Loving Cup.' In French, 'La coupe d'amour'.
J'ai traversé des déserts sans fins.
J'ai sillonné les mers,
à la recherche
à la recherche de la seule
et unique."
Nikita's hands flew to her mouth before she could stop herself. She moved slowly, wasn't aware that she walked around the table towards him. Closer. One step, then another. Closer to the lodestone that drew her, attracted her from the very first moment they had met. His force pulled at her. Inexorable. Magnetic. Magic. Everyone else in the room seemed to vanish. There was only the two of them. Only her ... and Michael.
"Ma faim est sans limites.
Ma soif me brûle.
Je brûle pour toi.
Pour toi,
et pour toi seule."
Michael paused, and suddenly looked at the refreshment table, his eyes widening when he didn't see her there. He scanned the crowd, over the heads of people, systematically surveying the room, sector by sector, as they'd both been trained to do. A faint groove formed between his eyebrows while he sought her, each sweep faster than the last. Then Michael found her a few feet away from the door. His eyes blazed like an emerald laser beam that pinned Nikita down, bore right through all the excuses, the evasions, the self-deceptions. Straight from his core to hers.
"Tu es ma coupe d'amour.
J'étreins ta claire et blonde beauté,
aussi pâle que la lune des amants,
et je m'abreuve à ta source
encore et encore.
Je te bois jusqu'à la lie, mon amour.
Ivresse!
Une seule gorgée
ne saura me suffire.
Et cependant, tu étancheras toujours ma soif,
Tel un banquet sous les cieux
pour l'éternité."
He bowed his head, and quickly left the stage. The room had fallen silent. Most probably hadn't understood the French, but the impassioned cadence had been unmistakable. Who couldn't recognize love when they heard it, whatever language it was spoken in? Even Nikita couldn't ignore his message this time around. For once, she understood. No tricks. No games. Just love in its undiluted naked state: flawed, human, whole. For once, she heard him, really heard what he was saying. And accepted the truth, and the unspoken plea underneath it all.
Come to me, Ni-kee-ta.
His thoughts were calling her, conjuring up the truth ... He had never spoken of love before. He'd talked of need, of want, of "being on the right track" like they were two trains chugging down a line. But until now, he had never mentioned love. And she had never acknowledged it either. A weakness, yes. A terrible hunger. But she had never named the feeling, never given him the words.
The room suddenly stifled her. The air felt humid with their desire, barely suppressed. Nikita gulped. Her lungs clogged. Her chest heaved, working harder to breath. Sweat beaded on her skin and trickled down her back as she fought for air. She needed more air. More space. Walls were closing in on her, surrounding her. She needed ... Nikita turned and ran out of the room.
##
The world hadn't ended. It hadn't even rocked on its axis. It only felt that way. All around her, the crickets still chirped. Life continued as if nothing had happened. But everything had.
The sari still clung to Nikita's skin, sticky with perspiration from her mad dash out of the party, down the block, and into the garden in front of her apartment. She leaned over. Her hands squeezed her knees as she sucked in another lung full of air. She stood there, breathing heavily, listening to the party sounds drift down the street. The band was playing again, the thump-bump of the bass followed by an electric guitar's wailing. The crickets paused as if wondering what kind of animal made that loud ungainly noise. Silently, cautiously, they waited before they gradually resumed - one song after another - until their night music mixed with the audacious rock 'n roll.
Wearily, Nikita sat down on a glider underneath the peach tree. She felt resigned, knowing in her bones that he'd arrive at any moment. She didn't understand him. Not really. He was mysterious in so many goddam frustrating ways, but certain things were crystal clear to her. Michael was determined, relentless ... ruthless if need be. Nikita could delay the outcome, but there was no escaping him, no escape from her own feelings. If she was honest, she could at least admit it to herself. But Nikita wouldn't give him the satisfaction of discovering that so quickly. Not yet. So he was hunting her? Fine. She'd lead him on a chase. She refused to be easy prey.
Whiiiiiz-click. Whiz. The glider swung, catching slightly before it slid forward again on its track. Nikita's toes dragged against the sweet grass and thyme, then pointed up towards the full moon, which looked like a milky white wheel of new cheese. It loomed over the rooftops near the horizon, peeking in and out between the fingers of fog. The moon seemed larger than usual, almost supernaturally huge, and very close. She could almost - but not quite - touch it with her toes. Nikita swung back again.
Sighing, she leaned her head against the back rest of the glider. Stupid. Why had she run away? She had often dreamed about such a declaration, only later to wake up angry, desperate, desolate that her dreams taunted her with impossibilities. She had waited so long for this moment; waiting for when he'd realize his feelings, hoping he'd finally treat her as man treats a woman. And what had she done? Panicked like a rookie on her first cold mission. Palsy. Total mental wipe-out. Absolute. Nikita hadn't acted like the woman she knew she was, could be. Instead, she'd run from the party like a foolish schoolgirl.
The moon had been there within her grasp, and she had let it slip through her fingertips. Hell. She had dropped it and run. Run from the one person in all the world she wanted.
The wood gate creaked, then latched with a bang of metal against metal. Footsteps crunched across the gravel, sounding lower and louder as someone approached. It was almost brutally loud, not his usual cat-like stealth. Michael could move with a lethal silence if he wanted to. No, this was a warning. I'm coming. This is your last chance, Nikita. Coming for you. It's time.
She heard him as if he spoke aloud. It had to be him. She could feel him, like calling to like. Nikita turned towards the sound. A shadow emerged from the other shadows in the garden. There. A lean black figure, edged by moonlight. He sauntered towards her, his shoulders slightly rolling with each predatory step. Michael. Unmistakably Michael. Her heart jolted against her ribs. It was one thing to tease a lion. Another thing all together to face him.
Even though her legs were unreliable, Nikita forced herself to stand. The glider hit the back of her calves, but she ignored the sharp short pain, refused to flinch when he stopped in front of her. Michael scanned her face just as she surveyed his, hoping for a clue, knowing that he would be just as unreadable as he always was.
Wide-spaced eyes, cool and opaque as old abandoned jade. A definite nose set over lips, pressed into a thin unsmiling line. Nothing defensive about his posture. Michael carried his arms a little to either side with deceptive casualness, palms out as if to show he was unarmed. The night turned his clothes and hers into combat black. They both look geared up for action. But this battle hadn't been ordered by Section. This battle was as old as the beginning of time, when Eve had first bitten the apple, then offered it to Adam.
Nikita said, "I know I left my post. It was inexcusable. But before you say anything, before you file a report about my ... my lapse, you should know that I placed surveillance in the Beasleys' home."
"Fine."
"We'll collect all the information we need. If there's anything there at all."
"Nikita, that's fine. It's not important."
Not important? His words startled her like a slap. He couldn't have said that. Michael? Mister-Duty-and-Honor? Not care? Her hearing must be on the blink. Why not? Everything else seemed haywire right now. Damn hormones.
"It doesn't matter." Michael's fingers clenched. "It doesn't matter," he repeated more firmly before he looked away. Gravel rattled. His feet shifted, broadened his stance as if preparing for a hit, ready to keep his balance no matter what might come his way. "I ..." He paused, swallowed. His brows formed a thick brown slash across his forehead. "Merde," he muttered. "Aren't you studying French? How much ...? What's your proficiency level? Any improvement?"
Interrogation. Trainer to recruit. His blunt tone took her aback. "Sixty percent," she replied automatically.
Michael grunted, and glanced away again so that she could see only his stark profile. A terrible stillness settled over him.
Look at me, damn you. I'm not invisible. I'm here. Languages had always been a sore point between them. The only thing worse than her cooking was her skill with languages. Her cheeks warmed at the reminder. "I know enough French to translate some of that poem. Something about looking for food. How dare you!"
Michael's head snapped back as if he were startled. "What are you talking about?"
"What?! Don't pretend you don't know, Monsieur Samuelle. After the éclair, after your ... I can't believe you had the nerve to go on stage, and recite a poem about dessert. Dedicate it to me! I'd expect that from ..." She was about to say "Lucas," but bit back the name in time. It wouldn't be smart to mention Lucas right now. Nikita glared at Michael before she turned away, her skirt eddying around her legs. She strode to the peach tree, rested a hand on its trunk. "What did you say? 'Poets have words for what the rest cannot say'. Yeah, right. Well, there's a good reason why no one speaks of it. It's porno. It doesn't matter if the poem was written in French. It's still porno."
Confusion crinkled Michael's face. He blinked at her once, twice, then slowly said, "What is this about dessert?"
"Duh-sehr. Dessert. Something about sailing the seas, looking for dessert. Well, good luck. This bake shop's closed. Happy hunting."
"Not 'dessert'. Desert. A place with sand. The Sahara. Day-zuht."
"Sounds the same to me."
"They are not. Duh-sehr. Day-zuht."
"Whatever. What difference does it make?"
"All the difference in the world." His accent thickened a little. Even though he spoke quietly, exasperation underscored each of his syllables.
Nikita scuffed a foot against the ground, then turned and lounged against the tree. "Ohhh," she said slowly, realization dawning at last. "So you weren't talking about my ... You didn't mean to humiliate me."
"Humiliate?" He said something under his breath, a terse nasal word that sounded colloquial and rude. "What do you know about humiliation? You weren't the one on stage. Saying that ... in front of everyone ... Jésus. I look for you, and all I see is your back. You run away. Rejection."
She fought the impulse to reach out and smooth away the single crease in his brow, the muscle ticking at his jaw. "No. You're wrong. Not rejection."
"No?"
Nikita shook her head, the sari falling about her shoulders, as a soft summer breeze rustled through the leaves. Perfume surrounded them: delicious, rich and redolent as roses. "Doesn't that smell good?"
His eyes were locked on her. "Yes."
"Do you want some?"
"Yes."
His gaze never shifted, not even as one song from the party blended into another, then a third. Something thudded louder, a little faster. It might be the drums. It might be her heart. She wasn't sure which. Nikita lifted one hand to the lowest branch. "I meant a peach."
"Ah."
It cost her a lot, but Nikita managed to pull herself from his magnetic gaze. She made herself uncoil from her lounging position, and stood up. She took one step away from the tree. Towards him. "Well, I'm a woman of action."
Michael smiled, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Thank God for that. Wait. Nikita. What are you ...?"
She had spent an entire childhood climbing trees, an adulthood scaling industrial towers to higher heights for more dangerous purposes than this. The air swished by Nikita as she swung herself up with one easy twist. Something snagged. Damn. Of course. Climbing was easier in combat gear, and not some fool dress.
"Are you okay?"
"Perfect. The air's very nice up here." She slid her feet along the branch. And boots. Boots would be nice instead of these little slippers. Oh well. She could just hear Walter right now. Don't blame your equipment, sugar. Well, Walter, never had to do anything in a dress. At least, she didn't think so. Not that she'd heard.
"Nikita."
"Michael. You sound almost worried." Giggling, she detached her sari from a branch, then wiggled out of the fabric. The tree shook under her. Leaves fluttered.
"Come back."
She dropped the silk, and it drifted down, down, eventually catching on Michael's shoulder. He peered up anxiously at her, squinting, trying to see her in the dark. Next, her sandals followed - thonk, thonk - as they landed on the grass. Nikita leaned against the trunk while she peeled off one stocking, then the other. They floated like silver streamers through the sky before they curled and crumpled on the ground.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
"Bon Dieu."
"I don't want to get a run in my stockings. They're my good pair." Ah. Better. The rough bark bit into her feet as she scooted along the bough, then reached out with one hand. "The ones on the top are better. Why are the best ones always a little too far away?" She leaned farther. A branch cracked.
"Oops. Not that one. Here." Nikita climbed to the next level. Her fingers brushed aside the leaves, found the round black shadows. One light twist, and their fragrance exploded in the air when stem separated from twig. Sweet. Sweet and thick, so thick she could almost taste them already. The peaches gave, warm and heavy, into her palm.
She bunched up her skirt into a makeshift basket, and put the peaches inside its folds. Carefully Nikita cradled them as she climbed down. Descending was always harder. Darkness flattened everything into two dimensions, and made depth difficult to judge. Sometimes her foot pawed in the air where she thought a branch might be, or thudded hard against wood that was closer than she imagined. She balanced with only one hand. Nikita lowered herself to the next bough. "Almost there," she called out confidently, and stepped into nothing. Shit.
Wind whistled past her ears as Nikita fell. She twisted mid-air, trying to protect the peaches, trying to keep her muscles relaxed, expecting to hit the dirt at any moment. But instead of the ground, she felt strong arms catch her, pulling her against a hard muscled body; heard the grunt on impact when her head banged against his head, her hip jabbing his solar plexus. He staggered backwards a few steps before he righted himself. Steady as a rock. Solid. Michael's arms started to tighten.
"Mind the peaches. You'll squish them." One hand pushed against his chest as she broke out of his embrace with a quick eel-like wriggle.
"The peaches," Michael muttered. "But of course ... You are insane. Do you know that? You almost broke your neck."
Laughing, Nikita shoved the hair out of her eyes as she eased back into the glider. Michael sat next to her, leaving a cautious twelve inches between them. She picked up a peach, smelled it, and sighed. "Wonderful. You can't get anything like this in a grocery store. More convenient, but the store-bought ones are always a little hard. Taste bland. Like papier-mâché. Better to pick your own."
"Is it worth the risk?"
"Absolutely. There's no other choice. You can't settle for less." Nikita gently squeezed the peach. "See. You can tell it's the right time. Firm, but just the right amount of give. It's ready. Ripe. How do you say 'ripe' in French?"
"Mûre."
"Mûre," she repeated dutifully. Nikita offered the peach to him, but he didn't take it. "What's the matter? Worried about worms?"
"Are you?" he asked solemnly.
"There might be one or two bad spots. I can't promise that it's perfect."
"I don't want perfection. I never did."
"Well, then?" Nikita's smile wavered, uncertain but hopeful. She held out the peach and waited. His eyes flitted over her as if she were a strange new discovery, some anomaly in his life, and he was still assimilating information, assessing risks, deciding. Should. Shouldn't. All the rules said not to. All the rules were wrong.
Please, Michael. Please, my love.
His brow lifted as if he heard her. Michael leaned closer, his lips parting. She held it for him as his mouth fastened on the peach, bit and sucked at the same time. The wet tearing sound made her gasp.
"Michael?"
"Hmm?" He gave a little sigh of satisfaction as he took another bite, settled into the job of eating it. Ssslurp. He made it sound very, very good.
"Your poem ... My mistake. I'm sorry. I misunderstood."
Michael took the peach from her, and weighed it in his hand, passing it from palm to palm. He remained silent. Apparently he wasn't going to give her a gallant excuse, an easy way out.
"I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."
" 'S okay," he finally said.
"Your poem. La coupe de what?"
"D'amour. La coupe d'amour. The loving cup."
"Will you say it again?"
"I don't think ... I could repeat myself. I don't think I could."
"Please. I didn't understand the poem. I don't know enough French. I'm practicing, but it's slow."
"The language will come ... And the understanding, in time. If you want. If you don't give up."
"I want to learn."
"Do you? D'accord. Just don't ..."
"Don't what?"
"... look at me. I can't say it if you're looking at me."
The stern lines of his face seemed chiseled from granite. What was it? This man confronted armed terrorists, jumped through plate glass windows, went head-to-head with Operations. But the look on Michael's face suggested that he'd rather do just that instead of repeating the lines of his poem right now. What did he fear? Nikita felt touched. Her smile broadened. "But it's dark. You can't see anything anyway." He moved a little further away from her.
"Well, okay." She covered her eyes. "Okay. I'm not l-o-o-o-ooking. Go ahead. No mumbling."
"Nikita." A puff of laughter escaped from him. "You are ... impossible." Staring straight ahead, Michael rubbed his chin. He opened his mouth, hesitated. Then he cleared his throat a couple of times, and tried again, his voice so hushed she could barely hear him:
"Endless deserts I have walked. I've sailed the seven seas, Searching searching for the one, the only one."
Nikita peeked through her fingers. He was looking at her as he'd never looked at her before. His eyes warmed and deepened to the rich green hue of jade finally placed over the heart where it belonged; rediscovered, alive, when once it had been stony cold. Michael's gaze intensified as the timber of his voice thickened. Tingling gathered in her toes, grew stronger, sparked into a current.
"My hunger has no end. My thirst burns. I burn for you. For you, only you."
Electricity jumped from synapse to synapse, up her legs, and struck, a lightning bolt to her loins. Numb, her hands fell away, and landed on top of the peaches still gathered in her lap. Her trembling fingers picked up another fruit.
"No," he said. "Try mine. We can share my peach." The plush skin brushed across her cheek into her waiting mouth. Crunch. Her teeth broke through, then sunk into soft flesh, still warm from the sun. Juice dribbled down her chin. She reached up to wipe it away, but his hand tangled with hers.
"Let me," he murmured. The broad tip of his other thumb rubbed the corner of her mouth before he traced the vermilion "M" of her upper lip: up the slope, down the short valley, then slowly, slowly around the other side and along the plump bottom curve of her mouth. "There's more."
"M-m-m-more?" Her voice quivered like the rest of her body.
"Yes." His finger moved like a brush, dipping and swirling in the juice that dotted her face, then painting her mouth with it. He anointed every inch of her lips, leaving nothing untouched. Then his fingers smoothed damp strands of hair off her face, touched the shell of her ears, massaged her neck here and there, cradled her. He leaned closer, his words caressing her ear:
"You are my loving cup. I clasp your fair white beauty, pale as a lovers' moon, and drink deep deeper. Drink deeply of you, my love.
Intoxication! Just a little taste will never be enough. And yet, you will always satisfy me, A banquet under the heavens forever."
"L'éternité." whispered Nikita into his mouth.
##
Lips met like envoys in the dark, a rough bump before their first tentative touch adjusted and they began to explore forbidden territory. Dangerous. Delicious. Nikita slanted her head, sampled more, deeper. He opened, accepting her.
Divine. Luscious. Indescribably arousing.
Their kiss so sweet and tender that joy pierced her heart as they savored each other: lips, the honeyed recesses, tongue dancing along tongue, heat to heat. He tasted of peaches and spice, knowledge and yearning. A flavor uniquely Michael. But every time it was different. Each time it was never enough. Not then. Not now.
Their kiss turned succulent as leather bunched under her hands, then slipped from him. A button snagged, almost tore. Her shirt caught on the rim of her shoulders before pooling between them. Cool air washed over her skin as they moved closer. Limbs and lips braided together, a single plait of love so tight that it was hard to tell where he left off and she began. Then one appetite fed another, gentleness turned to greed. They devoured each other. Hungry. Muscular. Hot. Their fast was over.
Michael made a soft sound of protest when she broke away. She ran her palms up the sculpted muscles of his chest, and peeled off his warm cotton shirt. When it cleared his head, he grabbed her arms and pulled her on to his lap. Skin met skin: smooth and rough, soft and hard. Nikita shifted, straddling him. Worn denim rubbed underneath her thighs every time her pelvis rotated. Then his hand slipped under the folds of her skirt; lingered along her calf, knee, to her hip, then between, where everything centered.
Michael laughed, astonished. "Something's missing."
"Too busy ... for ... laundry." She caught a shaky breath.
"Mon Dieu," he murmured, his voice growing smoky. "All evening you've been running around without any ... like this?" His knuckles brushed where she lacked a certain article of clothing, where everything wept for him. Only him.
Nikita's skirt opened, slid down, and whispered to the ground. "Complaining?"
"No, ma petite chouchou. Do I look like a fool? But you are so rash. You don't think. There are consequences."
"Like what?"
"Like this." His fingers curled, insinuated. "And this." She moaned as he demonstrated his point. Michael's thumb drew quick deft lines, then circles in infinite wonderful patterns, connecting nerve to throbbing nerve. His teeth ran down her neck, dwelling in the special spot which pulsed just above her collar bone. He nibbled, and she melted with every little lick, then melted some more.
Michael flicked open the clasp of her bra. His prickly beard streaked over her shoulder and downwards, his satin lips following, comforting her chafed skin before capturing her breasts. One, then the other. He suckled. Hard. Dishing out torment, offering succor.
Over and over, Michael proved that he could do more than one thing at the same time. He was very talented. And motivated. She could feel his motivation growing beneath her. Nikita's hand drifted between them, encouraged him, squeezed.
Her head fell back as she rode his touch, the ripples beginning deep inside her. He shifted lower, kissing the small of her waist, the dip of her navel, her ring; his nose resting lower, there. Then Michael looked up at her like a supplicant, as if asking permission to go on. She smiled dreamily, assenting.
His hands splayed over her hips; lifting her, parting, uncovering. Her pelvis tilted forward to meet him. Nikita's eyes closed. She felt his breath, warmth, then devotion as Michael worshipped her completely, thoroughly. Her fingers tangled into his curls. Pressing him closer, she guided him, moved.
Now the ripples grew stronger, spreading outward, forming a passionate wave that gathered speed and power. "Stop," she said. "I want ..."
He shook his head, burrowed into her, gripped her stronger so she couldn't move. She was caught, powerless, between the demands of his mouth and his clever fingers.
"I can't."
"You can." He moved ruthlessly, determined not to be denied. "You will. Go over."
The wave carried her fast faster, lifting her higher, rushing towards the horizon. Then it peaked, pushed her into the clouds, and Nikita exploded somewhere into the infinite blue. She dissolved, scattered. She called his name, then collapsed, insensate, over him.
##
They lay cross-wise on the glider, her body trembling as she floated somewhere. She didn't know where, didn't know anything right now. She only existed, light as air. Only his arms anchored Nikita to reality.
"What about you?" She pressed a kiss to his temple.
"No hurry. I don't rush. I want to enjoy ... every moment." His moist fingers stroked her cheekbone, the hollows underneath. Michael soothed, gentled, then started again; pushing her, a little at a time, pushing her back out to sea. This time, she'd take him with her.
Snap. The fastener gave easily. The ridged muscles of his abdomen leapt under her fingertips as she traced the line of hair that grew thicker under his gaping waistband. Then Michael's zipper purred open, and his heat sprang into her palm. One stroke down, and his eyes closed. A stroke up, and he groaned, pushing into her touch, moaning louder when she abandoned him to dig her fingers into his jeans. Denim and boxers shooshed over his lean hips, then fell to the ground.
They came to each other, dressed only in moonlight and desire. Once they had come together in fury, in lust, in loneliness. But this time ... Oh, this time they came together in love. And everything tarnished between them was transformed into something new, so bright that it made her heart brim, then spill over with wild joy.
She took his hand, kissed each fingertip, then leaned over and kissed his forehead, his cheeks. "Michael." She kissed his mouth again, opening her heart, pouring her soul into him. They joined, and she settled around his heat, stretched, adjusted. Her hips rocked in an adagio of delight as pleasure lapped outwards, washing inwards in a slow sweet rush that swamped all her senses.
His legs bent, heels rocking beneath her, and the glider swung forward just as she slid down again. They merged deeper, and she flowed around him, surrounding him, surrendering. Surrendering everything, giving it all back again. Nikita became the sea enfolding him, taking him on wave after ardent wave, which built leisurely, lushly. A sigh here. A touch there, and the rhythm of their breathing accelerated into rapid staccato's.
"Now," she growled. Her heart roared, riotous as the surf, while his pulse pounded beneath her, within her. She forced back his head. His lids were half-hooded, his eyes distant and hazy like trees through the mist. "Look at me, Michael. Come to me. Now."
He jerked under her, his face wracked with rapture. She cupped his head, and drank in his love. All of it.
Michael's gaze cleared, focused. Green eyes stared into blue, sea into sky. "Ni-kee-ta ... I need you ..."
She ground down, hips slapping together in a fast furious roll. They rode a wave that grew mountainous, swelled into a tsunami, howling towards the land, carrying absolute destruction in its watery palm. Destruction and renewal.
"Need you ... Want you." His neck muscles corded as Michael arched into her. Fingers clenched her hips. He dove deeper, higher, the final twist. "Love you. I ... love you."
"Je t'aime," she cried out. Then she threw herself over the crest; sailed past the stars, the moon. The wave curled, crashed, thrusting them forward, and they tumbled down, cast on to the shore. Together.
##
Nikita floated in a pool of dreams, her body limp and languorous. Every muscle had melted like the after-effects of very hot water or equally hot love-making. She was drifting when ... Damn it. Sudden awareness splashed rudely like a rock thrown into water. She jerked alert.
"What?" Michael mumbled against her temple.
She stirred. Their makeshift covering shifted, and cold air penetrated their nest of clothes. Goosebumps pricked her skin as Nikita started to sit up. "Let go." She pushed harder against Michael, but his arms snaked around her into an unbreakable embrace, all whipcord and sinew. Breasts rubbed against chest, and her eyes fluttered close. "Michael. Please. You're not helping." She pushed again, but this time, without any real enthusiasm, her body warring with her mind. Should. Shouldn't.
His lips curled against her cheek so that she felt, rather than saw, his smile. "I thought I was very helpful. But perhaps, you need ... more help? Can I be of assistance? Is this better?" His hand crept between them, swept lower.
Nikita bit back a moan. "No-o-o. No," she managed, unable to stop the fluttering in her chest, the flickering of heat. "I need to ..."
"Yes? There is need. And Need. What do you need, ma petite chouchou? Tell me. Show me."
Nikita grabbed his hands, held him for a moment. "The disc ..."
"What disc?" He twisted their joined fingers upwards, and brought them to his mouth.
"At the Beasleys. The one recording them. It's almost full. I need to change the disc. Otherwise, there will be a gap in the surveillance."
Michael brushed his lips over each of her knuckles. He gently bit the dell between her thumb and index, then soothed the mark of possession with his tongue. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry?" She yanked her hand back. "What do you mean?"
"The Beasleys are not important."
"Not important?" Nikita looked away, thinking hard. "That can only mean one thing. You knew this mission was candy-ass from the start. A set-up. Then why am I wasting my time?"
"Is this a complete waste? Being here? You and I? Together?"
She flushed. "No. No, that's not what I meant at all. It's been ... very nice." Nikita leaned over him so that her hair fell like a curtain around them. Then her hands framed his face, and she kissed away his frown. "It's been ... yummy. Tell me the truth. Did you arrange this? Why didn't you just tell me?"
Sighing, he settled back, caressed her belly. "Questions. So many questions. Yes, I did. And now I have a question for you. Your navel ring. It isn't real, is it?" Michael asked hopefully.
"Of course it's real. Look." She gently pulled on one end, and her skin tugged with it. "What would be the point if it wasn't real?"
"What's the point of it at all?" Michael looked disapproving, his eyebrows drawn together into a formidable "V." His lips thinned. "What's the point of undergoing that mutilation if you don't have to? Needless pain. Putting holes in your body on purpose."
"Come on. Live a little. It's great. It's supposed to increase my sensation. Make me feel more."
Michael grunted. "I don't think you need any ... help. As it is, well ... Jésus."
"Margo did it for me. She works at this body piercing store, Bella Punctata."
"Margo? That vegetarian? How can a vegetarian do something like this? Stick skewers into people? She can't even use a steak knife on a decent filet mignon."
"Being vegetarian has nothing to do with this. There was this great introductory bargain. You couldn't beat the price. A two-for-one deal."
"Two people for the price of one?"
"No."
"Two-for-one? That means ..." Michael's mouth gaped. His astonished eyes swept her body. He turned her head to either side, ran a finger behind her ears, checked her mouth.
Laughing, Nikita lifted her arm higher as his fingers skimmed from wrist to shoulder. "You're not even warm." He glanced at her armpits. "Nope. What's the matter? Can't find the other one?" She winked. "Then that will have to be my little secret."
"Secret? Your secret? Yours and Doctor Genova's."
"That's okay. She's a doctor. I'm sure she's seen stranger things in more interesting places ..." Nikita shrugged, enjoying Michael's clear discomfort.
His muttering was completely incomprehensible. Nikita doubted she'd find his curses in a French phrase book. At last, he said, " I don't remember seeing ... Mon Dieu!"
"Awww. I feel sorry for you. Are you stumped? I'll give you a hint. You'll have to look closer. Real close." She giggled.
He rolled her over on one side, and examined her back, buttocks, ankles. He lifted her leg, looked between her toes, kissed the big one.
"No. Getting colder."
"Here?" Michael kneaded her calves as if he were sculpting her muscles from clay.
"No ... warmer," she managed to say before the gasp of surprise escaped. Had the back of her knees always been so exquisitely sensitive?
His wide warm palm glided over her thighs, spreading them to either side. Michael kissed the jut of her hips as his thumbs ran along the sensitive crease.
Nikita groaned, her body conceding. "That's ... that's all right. You don't ... have to ... find it."
"Am I warmer?"
"You're hot ... very hot." Defenseless, her pelvis rose and fell as he looked closer. Closer still as his search turned personal; then the personal transformed into a searing wet flame of pleasure. Where she was wet, she grew wetter. Where she was hot, she grew hotter. Thoughts became impossible. Words became mangled into guttural sounds by the overwhelming hunger of her body, which burned. And burned. Still, she tried. "But, Michael ..."
His smile was broad, a little wicked. "You think too much. There's only one thing you should be thinking about right now." Michael took her hand, and placed it where he needed it most. "Focus. On the task."
"A task, hmm? My mission ... that matters?"
"Yes."
"Like this?"
"Y-e-es." Then his mouth opened again, but this time, no sound came out, anticipation making him mute, her body eloquent.
##
Michael slept in her arms with a peace that he probably hadn't known since childhood. The sweetness made her weep a little until sleep overcame her too, deep in the night. When she finally woke up, it was later than usual. Her body felt heavy with it, her mind thickened and drugged so that she awoke slowly, in stages. Michael was curled around her, holding her as if, even in sleep, he could never let her go. Wild grass and thyme were crushed beneath them into an impromptu bed, the herby smell tickling her nose. All around, their musk drifted, blending with the bower of perfume from the peach tree. Sharp and sweet, ripe with the aroma of their love.
The crickets had stopped chirping long ago, the owls silent and asleep as the city. Only the mourning doves were awake, singing up the sun with their hollow warbling, faint like wooden whistles faraway. Coo-woo-oo. Coo woo-oo.
The moon was fading, a pale white thumbprint in the sky, which turned rosy as the first fingers of dawn pushed past the fog on the eastern hills. The light softened, warmed, made everything seem as if it were glowing.
Her body glowed. Nikita was sure of it, feeling quiet joy radiate through her, the loving strength of his embrace. She turned in his arms, and studied how sleep eased the serious set of his face, relaxed for once like a young boy's. Gentle sunshine crept over Michael, and gilded his distinct nose, lips, the cleft in his chin, the hollow of his neck where his pulse now beat slowly, steadily after its wild erratic rhythm hours ago.
She watched him sleep. Another stolen moment of a very private pleasure. Nikita wanted a thousand more mornings like this. It would never be enough. She could never tire of this.
Something altered. His breathing? Eyes faintly flitting under his lids? No. She didn't actually see him wake up, but she felt it, knowing him as only lovers know each other: hearts reading beyond what the eye can see.
"Michael," she whispered.
His mouth tugged sluggishly at one corner. He inhaled, then exhaled on a long slow sigh, as if the last trace of his dreams were leaking out and evaporating into the air of the real world. He reached up, and twirled his fingers through her hair. "Good ... morning."
"Bon jour."
He smiled as if pleased by her effort. Then his eyes opened slowly, green-gold glancing over her face, examining her inside and out. "You're thinking again. I can tell. The wheels turning. What are you thinking, my love?"
"Well ..."
"What is it?"
"Michael, I don't understand French. I'm trying, but there's always something I can't figure out. Idioms. Expressions. I want to know. Why did you call me 'a cabbage'? Sometimes people call each other 'sweet pea' or 'pumpkin'. But cabbage? A vegetable?"
His fingers paused. "What?"
"Chou._ Doesn't that mean 'cabbage'?"
He laughed a little. "Among other things. Ah. Ma petite chouchou. That means ..." His voice dropped as he looked down and murmured into her shoulder.
"I can't hear you. You're mumbling again." She poked his chest.
Michael grabbed her finger. His stricken face looked like a man who thought he was going to sit on a chair but found himself on the floor instead: surprised mortification layered with embarrassment. He groaned. "It means ... Must we talk of this? Check your phrase book."
Nikita rested her chin on his chest, and counted his slow uneven breaths. She stared stubbornly at him. "I'm waiting."
He cleared his throat. "It means 'my dear'... like 'sweetheart' in English. Yes, chou is a cabbage. But it's also the word for 'cream puff'. And that is what reminded me ... of you."
"Me?"
"Mmm hmm. Èclairs are satisfactory, but I like cream puffs even more. You might say, they are ... my weakness."
"Oh really? I never would have guessed that you had any weaknesses. You always do what's right, what's good. I thought you'd be a vegetable man. You know. Carrots, spinach, kale. No matter how bad they taste, you eat them. I bet you always eat your vegetables first. You can be such a fuddy-duddy sometimes."
"Fuddy-duddy? Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
"You know what I mean. Vegetables first. Clean your plate before you can have dessert. Do what's good for you. A fuddy-duddy always sticks to the rules, no matter what."
"Rules have their purpose. Without rules, there would be chaos."
"Yeah. Always lima beans. Never éclairs. No cream puffs."
"No cream puffs? Forget it! Then I will throw out my rulebook."
"Good. You're learning. Because life's uncertain. You should eat dessert first. You never know when you might get another chance."
"Yes, that is true," said Michael softly, a little sadly. He stroked her back as if reassuring himself that she was still there, still within reach. "But patience in some things is worthwhile. The rewards can be ... richer. Don't you agree?"
Nikita hummed to herself, pretending to consider his question. "Maybe. What are you thinking about?"
"Learning languages for instance. Taking the time to learn French. Be patient, Nikita. Don't give up yet."
"Hmmm. If there's a reason, a good reason, I never let go. Once I decide to study something, well, that's it. I'm very single-minded. I ... specialize. Can you say the same?"
"Yes," he said in hushed tones. "But not as well as the poets say it. All my life, I've been looking without really knowing it. It's taken all my life to discover the secret. There's only one subject that interests me. And that is you." He touched her forehead, mons, then rested his palm against her heart, which quickened at his touch. "It all comes together with you. Everything ... is complete."
"Oh." Nikita lifted her hand, felt the dull steady beat in his chest. They lay together for a long time: hand to heart, eye to eye, absolutely still. Two people breathed as one, listened to each other, to the sounds of another day beginning. The larks twittered on the branches overhead. A truck rumbled down the street.
Everything. Complete. Snap. She could almost hear the last piece of the puzzle fall into place; felt the satisfaction and wonder of seeing the whole picture for the first time. This. This was meant to be. From the very beginning, they were the pieces missing from each other. They suited one another: the perfect fit, their just dessert. Finally, she said, "We have a lot to learn."
"Yes. Both of us. Will you teach me? I will try."
Nikita nodded, her smile more brilliant than the sun now climbing the morning sky. "If you will teach me. Show me. Don't shut me out."
"D'accord."
"Well, there is one thing."
"Anything. Ask me." His muscles bunched, preparing for her next question.
"How do you say 'peach' in French?"
He glanced down, a little surprised, more than a little cautious. "La pêche," he said at last.
"Pehsh."
"Every French word has a gender, you know. Not like English - everything made neuter. In French, there is masculine, feminine. He. She. Both are necessary. Need each other to make a complete language. 'Peach' is feminine."
"Je voudrais la pêche, s'il vous plaît."
"You want another peach? You've already had one. Several."
She pouted. "Another. Un autre." Nikita sat up, stretched tight like a bow, then relaxed, muscle by muscle. She looked at him through her eyelashes, smiling very slowly. "You're not hungry now? That's too bad. Maybe I'll just start without you."
Suddenly he pounced on her. Nikita shrieked with surprise as they turned over and over on the grass until the sari wrapped around them like a soft cocoon. The smashed thyme released its dusty spicy scent. If it itched her nose, she didn't notice it now, was past caring. It was a long delicious time before he lifted his lips again. Michael murmured, "Start without me? I don't think so. That would be very rude."
"Well, then? How about ... just a little taste? Before breakfast."
Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Spoil our appetites?"
"Not spoil. Enhance. An appetizer. An hors-d'oeuvre."
"Hmm. Trying to tempt me?"
Her fingers threaded into the soft hair at the back of his neck, her thumb running along the sharp angle of his jaw and rasping against his thick morning beard. There was brown, burnt sienna, red, a blond hair here and there. So many colors made up one man. Michael. She was always discovering more.
"Tempt you? Always. Like you tempt me." And her head lowered once more, seeking him. Lips pressed to lips, sigh into sigh, sealing their pledge. A promise for now. For tomorrow. Forever.
FIN
Continued in _Xerophyte_
##
_Author's Note_
A word on peaches:
The peach fruit (any fruit, in fact) is female. It develops from the flower's ovary, and encloses the maturing seeds. The peach originates from China, where she is the symbol of long life, and was imported to Western Europe B.C. during Roman times. In order to bear delicious fruit, the peach tree needs a good winter chilling, then clear hot weather during the growing season. Rather like the cold/hot relationship between our spy duo, Michael and Nikita?!
(sources: McGee, On Food and Cooking: the Science and Lore of the Kitchen; Sunset Western Guide to Gardens.)
##
Many thanks to Silea and Kadyn for their translations. Kadyn made the poem seem more beautifully impassioned. Silea came up with an impressive list of endearments, and first asked why the heck you'd call someone a cabbage - even affectionately. Sylvie later explained. My thanks to Pam, who pointed the way to the lyrics. And, Andie, this story is the result of your (indirect) challenge to write something a little different, a little more sympathetic without requiring an anti-emetic. There. It's done. Your and Leigh's encouragement from the very beginning kept me posting on the storyboards.
##
Glossary
Bois-moi. Drink me.
D'accord. okay.
de rigueur by the rule.
"Délicieux! Delicious!
Give Him the Ooh-La-La, Cole Porter.
hors-d'oeuvre appetizer.
hundred and forty decibels the sound volume of a jet taking off.
"Je t'aime." I love you.
Je veux être seule. I want to be alone.
"Je voudrais la pêche, s'il vous plaît." I would like a peach, please.
Jésus Jesus.
La coupe d'amour
(translated by Kadyn)
J'ai traversé des déserts sans fins.
J'ai sillonné les mers,
à la recherche
à la recherche de la seule
et unique.
Ma faim est sans limites.
Ma soif me brûle.
Je brûle pour toi.
Pour toi,
et pour toi seule.
Tu es ma coupe d'amour.
J'étreins ta claire et blonde beauté,
aussi pâle que la lune des amants,
et je m'abreuve à ta source
encore et encore.
Je te bois jusqu'à la lie, mon amour.
Ivresse!
Une seule gorgée
ne saura me suffire.
Et cependant, tu étancheras toujours ma soif,
Tel un banquet sous les cieux
pour l'éternité._
The Loving Cup
(by F. for S.)
Endless deserts I have walked.
I've sailed the seven seas,
Searching
searching for the one,
the only one.
My hunger has no end.
My thirst burns.
I burn for you.
For you,
only you.
You are my loving cup.
I clasp your fair white beauty,
pale as a lovers' moon,
and drink deep
deeper.
Drink deeply of you, my love.
Intoxication!
Just a little taste
will never be enough.
And yet, you will always satisfy me,
A banquet under the heavens
forever.
(F. Yep (c) 1999)
Mange-moi Eat me.
Mariposa butterfly, Spanish.
merde shit.
Mi satellite es tu satellite. "My satellite is your satellite," an adaptation from Mi casa es tu casa or "My house is your house," Spanish.
Mohs scale a qualitative scale in which the hardness of a mineral is determined by its ability to scratch, or be scratched by, any one of 15 minerals arranged in the following order of increasing hardness: from talc (lowest) to diamonds (highest).
Mon Dieu My God.
ma petite chouchou my (little) dear. chou also means cream puff or cabbage.
mûre ripe.
nom mee oh-ho reng gay kee-oh Buddhist chant.
pêche peach.
Qu'est-ce que c'est? What is that?
Revolution, Lennon & McCartney.
Santé! Cheers!
Stumpy, aka. Dickie D., unfortunate Section operative first mentioned in Resurrection.
_There was still a back beat it couldn't lose yet. reference to "Rock And Roll Music" by Chuck Berry:
Just let me hear some of that
Rock And Roll Music,
Any old way you choose it;
It's got a back beat, you can't lose it,
Any old time you use it.
It's gotta be Rock And Roll Music,
If you want to dance with me,
If you want to dance with me.
They come through you, but they are not from you from "The Prophet" by Kalil Gibran:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself. They come through you, but they are not from you
And though they are with you
They belong not to you ...
[As every parent knows, much to our delight and exasperation, there are no truer words.]
vite quickly
Voilà! There you are!
All non-LFN characters are under copyright to F. Yep (c) 1999.
This is for S., who has shown me that the loving cup is bottomless, the possibilities endless; and who believes in thorough research.
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