| Subject: Part 1 |
Author:
KGilbert
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Date Posted: 09:15:11 12/13/01 Thu
In reply to:
KGilbert
's message, "Twin Souls (NC-17)" on 09:13:25 12/13/01 Thu
She knew she should be used to sleeping alone by now; she had done it for long enough. Sometimes, though, her bed . . . her life felt so empty without him . . . whichever side of him she was thinking about. Nikita sighed, as she lay on her back, staring at her ceiling. There was a dim reflection of moonlight on it which gave her something to half-focus on. Her mind was spiraling around in thoughts of Michael, as she struggled to define him. "Split personalities," she pondered. "No." She shook her head. "Schizophrenic?" She laughed slightly. "Sort of, but not quite. . . . Jekyll and Hyde? Nah, same thing." She sighed. "Self-contained? Purposely mysterious? Just f---ing annoying?"
A low rumble of a laugh escaped from her, as she actually smiled, giving up --for a few minutes--on her labels. She hated, in some ways, that she spent so much time trying to understand him, but she knew that--unlike ordinary people--she had little else to focus on: her bills were paid; her career--unless it was cut short by injury or cancellation--was set; she had no real social life, hobbies, or friends to spend her spare time with, and Michael was the closest approximation to a significant other she had found.
She sighed slightly. It was hard not to think about him lately, too. After all, ever since he had spent three days with her--innocent and trusting--before returning to his usual, hardened self, it was difficult not to try to figure out who he really was . . . and why she really cared for him.
There were times, certainly, that she hated him--that, in return for all the cruelty, brutality, and lies she had had to witness him force on others and herself, she wanted to hurt him--to attack him with all the knowledge of inflicting pain he had given her. She couldn't stand that side of him--was absolutely repelled by his actions.
She knew, however, that this was part of the man she loved--that the man whose face seemed carved from unfeeling stone could sometimes have the eyes of a brutalized prisoner of war--staring out at her through barbed wire. And, in his cruelty, as well, there was sometimes a brutal softness, as she had witnessed again a few days ago with his actions with Lisa Fanning.
She still didn't know what to make of this incident. She knew that-to Michael's mind--he had helped his old target, but to Nikita he had only damned her further. She still wasn't even sure of the woman's fate; for all she knew, the poor girl was still wandering lost in some forest--either with her husband there to torture her or with his blood now soiling her soul. In fact, she could even have taken the isotope herself and now be lying dead somewhere, understanding that it was her only real way out.
She let out a disgusted breath. Did Michael ever think of that? Did those possibilities even occur to him? . . . Or had he simply not cared enough to ponder it?
She covered her eyes and closed them. She could never get a grasp on him--never understand him. On the one hand, he was cruel, manipulative, and cunning. On the other, he was gentle, tender, and beautiful. . . . How the *hell* did they manage to coexist?
She lowered her hand and looked at the ceiling again. In a way, she supposed, they didn't. They seemed in constant conflict--his eyes soft and tender one minute, hard and uncaring the next. He would do his best to destroy her soul--to crush all feeling from her, yet he would go to ridiculous and foolhardy lengths to save her life. She laughed and shook her head; he wasn't an easy man to love.
She did love him, though, in a way she could never explain and would never comprehend. She just wasn't entirely sure which side of him she did love. While she had never enjoyed--had never gotten off on his cruelty, his flat, inexpressive face and voice could never stop the rush of raw desire she felt when he stood next to her.
She knew, however, that she needed to feel his tenderness, as well, although she had experienced it so rarely. His repressed side, though, had been the embodiment of this emotion. . . . God, she missed him.
Which side of him did she want, then? Was she lying when she told herself that she only wanted his gentle side? Was there something twisted enough in her to be attracted to his Section persona? She shook her head again; she really didn't know.
Her mind returned to her previous dilemma, therefore. "Twin-souled," she decided. It was the closest she would come to a definition.
She rolled over on her side and decided to try to force herself to sleep--anything to try to clear her mind of him, for awhile. It was hard being in love with two, very different, men . . . especially when they were both the same person.
*********************************
Nikita should have known, of course, that her dreams wouldn't bring her relief from her thoughts of him. In them, instead, she awoke to the hormone-stirring feeling of a very skilled mouth on her neck--tongue and teeth arousingly tormenting her delicate flesh. She moaned, opening her eyes to discover that the soft feeling on her face was a mass of auburn hair; his stubbled cheek rubbed against her soft one, and he occasionally ran the rough hair on his chin over her shoulder to remind her, even further, of her need for him.
"Michael," she groaned. Her hand grabbed his shoulder, and she turned her head to lick the tiny hairs on his cheek, before biting at his jaw.
He let out a groan and pulled back from her neck to kiss her soundly--deeply. He then lightly grazed his teeth over her lips before looking at her.
"Hi." He kissed her possessively again.
Nikita was utterly confused but too overwhelmed by the kiss to pull away. His mouth conquered hers, demanding her sweetness, making any denial from her impossible. . . . She practically forgot to breathe.
He pulled away from her finally, as her head followed him involuntarily. He got off the bed long enough to pull the sheets off of her roughly, flinging them to the floor.
She saw that he was in his mission clothes, right down to the ludicrously-tight pants he favored; she had always wondered how he managed to wear them without risking either injury or permanent impotence. She forced herself to refocus on his eyes, her mind finally returning to her. She asked the obvious question. "Why are you here?"
He remounted the bed and covered her, taking hold of her hands and pressing them down to either side of her head. He pressed his hard arousal against the center of her desire. "Does it matter?" he asked before kissing her possessively again, his tongue filling her, making her yield to his demands.
"I guess not," she thought with some fragment of consciousness.
Michael's kiss was ruthless, letting her know who was in control; he stopped once or twice to nibble lightly at her lips before invading her mouth once more. His thumbs stroked sensuously over the palms of the hands he imprisoned.
While Nikita's body had no trouble with her situation--rapturously accepting his need for her, her mind refused to easily follow its course. When he sat back from her finally, therefore, she asked, looking briefly at his clothes before refocusing on him, "Am I a mission?" Her eyes were hard.
His hands ran up under the slip of a nightgown she wore, pushing it up. "I don't need a mission for you." His hands felt her breasts before he pulled the nightgown over her head and threw it on the floor. "All I need is an opportunity."
His hands returned to her breasts then, his fingers rubbing her aching nipples between them, as he kissed her nippingly again. He moved down to trace his teeth over her cheek and down to her neck and began marking her with bites which inflamed her desire.
Her hands clawed at his jacket, as she involuntarily arched her neck toward him, her breasts into his hands; her body and soul were completely divided. "So I'm just easy?" she suggested angrily. "Something to take when you can't get anyone else?"
He bit her harder, to her slight, pleasured groan. His fingers pinched her nipples once more before moving to claw at her back, holding her toward him, as his rough chin trailed achingly down her body. "There is no one else . . .not voluntarily."
He rubbed his stubble over her nipple, to her whimper of delight. "You're my lover." He ran his teeth over the aroused bud. "That's all that's real." Then, he possessed it, suckling it firmly before nibbling on it. His teeth closed over it in just the way he knew pleased her most.
She screamed softly in need, and his hand came up to torment its twin, while he continued his attentions. She was panting, her body in such need for him it was hurting her.
Her mind, though, was still caught up in their antagonism. Her hands held him to her, demanding that he continue, while her words flowed, as though they were from some other being. "Liar." He bit her harder, to her shudder of pleasure. Her body almost wanted her to make him angry, so he would further this erotic cruelty; her mind tried to ignore it. "You just want me, because I'm easy to control."
He grazed his teeth over her, as he pulled back; she pushed her breast up to him, trying to follow. He gave her a final lick and looked up at her. "No. I want you, because you can't be contained. . . . You're the freest soul I've ever known."
His face was still completely controlled, his words simple statements of fact. He leaned down to her other nipple and licked up over it repeatedly, like a cat smoothing its fur. She let out a moan. His mouth then took her in, suckling her deeply; his other hand ran a finger gently over the neglected bud, which was enough to send shards of pleasure throughout her body.
She whimpered, still holding him to her. It was only several minutes later, when he was moving down her once again--his hands running down to her underwear, that her mind returned again. Her voice was breathy, though. "So, I just fulfill some desire for you?"
He stopped to plunge his tongue into her belly button, as one finger rubbed over her panties, teasing her sensitive bud through them. When her navel was slightly red and very happy with his attentions, he moved further down. "No." He stripped off her underwear. "You're my only desire."
He plunged two fingers easily into her slick, smooth passage and began to tease her bud with the tip of his tongue. She gasped, her hips pressing against him. A third finger followed the others and began stroking her, as he suckled the bud firmly.
All questions were on hold for Nikita. She could only take in how good he felt, how well he understood her desires. Her stomach was knotted in need, her thighs taut, as they responded to his rhythm. Her hands were knotted in the sheets.
His tongue began flicking remorselessly against the bud, as his fingers stroked roughly at a very tender spot inside her. Her hips ground against him in response, in ever-increasing, burning tension.
He moved to finish her off by running his teeth lightly over her bud, as it quivered, before his tongue stroked over it once more. His hand gave a brutal stroke inside her.
She let out a short scream, as she bucked against him, hips lifted up to him. He suckled the bud again for a second, as she began to come down slightly and then looked up at her. His hands took hold of her hips. "You're my second skin." He plunged his tongue into her still-quivering depths.
She began whimpering ceaselessly, arousal building on arousal. He caught one of her hands and pulled it to rest on his head, asking her to guide him. She ran the other hand into his hair, as well, and willingly agreed.
She held him to her and led him to all her secret places of need, sometimes holding him lightly, as his tongue brushed her depths in feather-like strokes, other times holding him firmly, as his tongue beat into her ceaselessly.
She knew he needed no instructions on how to please her, but she was incredibly aroused by his willing submission. His hands held her from behind to help him please her; his hair brushed against her thighs, as he moved on her.
She led him first one place, then another--one second a light lick to her bud, next a deep, ceaseless beating against some tender inner spot. Her breathing was beyond erratic, as he fervently stroked a spot on one of her walls.
He was everywhere she needed him at just the right moment. "Deeper," she gasped, moving him. His tongue flicked far into her, exactly matching her perilously-aroused needs; it sent a spark of raw desire vibrating into her, to her astonished gasp. He pressed himself slightly forward and repeated his action at an even greater depth and force, and she let out a cry, as her walls trembled tightly around him.
Tears ran down her face. "Ohhhh," she moaned.
He continued feasting on her delicately, as her hands ceased their pressure on his head, her body relaxing. She stroked his hair lightly. Her eyes were closed; she couldn't believe the shockwaves of pleasure which continued to tremble through her.
Michael left her beautiful core finally, once her tremors began to subside. He licked once more at her bud and then continued up her body, tasting again all those parts he loved.
She was still warm with the pleasure he had given her, when she opened her eyes. Reality, however, set in for her, as she looked into his emotionless face and felt his body against her--still clothed in his mission wear. His eyes did hold deep desire and need, but this was still Section's Michael--the one who had hurt her so often.
She took hold of him from behind and pressed his aroused flesh against herself. "Come here to work off the after-effects of a mission?" she asked angrily. Her fingers clawed into his curves, and she felt him jump against her core.
"No." He was touching her face, examining it. "Missions don't arouse me." He looked in her eyes; his words were still matter-of-fact. "You do."
Her eyes were angry. She couldn't quite get over the fact that her body needed this badly a man she knew to be cruel; she had no desire to be played by him again, either. "Why are you here?" Her fingers pinched his curves, and she felt his arousal growing painfully in its confinement in response.
He groaned and tilted his head back, eyes closed. "To remind you," he managed, in a low breath.
She examined him analytically, as her hands continued their painfully erotic torment. "Of what?"
He pressed himself hard against her, to her whimper--her eyes closing, head back. He looked up at her. "That you're mine." He ground himself against her, and she whimpered again.
She forced herself to look up at him. "I'm not yours." Her hips thrust against him, however, denying her words.
The move wasn't lost on him. "Yes . . . you are." He thrust back at her. "We're mated."
Her nails ran under his mission jacket to claw down the black t-shirt he wore. "Like animals?"
His hands ran down to hold her up to him from behind. "Precisely." He thrust against her, knowing the slick material of the pants added an interesting friction for them both. "Everything else is a lie."
Nikita forced him to break his hold on her, as she pulled off his jacket. "I've got news for you, Michael." She pulled up his shirt as well and tugged it off of him; he kept constant eye contact with her, except for the split second the shirt was actually in front of his eyes. She dug her nails in his shoulders and pulled him firmly against her again. "I don't even like you." She ran her hand into his hair and kissed him soundly, roughly. She leaned back. "In fact, I usually hate you."
He gave her a brief, ironic smile and then captured her lips in his, holding her head in his hands and pushing her back into the bed. After a minute, he released her lips, leaning back. "Good." He nipped at her.
She dragged her head back. "*Good*?" she asked incredulously.
He held down her shoulders to make certain she didn't try to leave; he still had on his Section face. "It doesn't matter. . . . You can give me your hate, your disgust, your rage; you can tear me apart daily with your bare hands. . . . So long as you have some emotion for me, I'll live. . . .But the day you look at me with indifference is the day I will end my life." His voice was a whisper; his eyes burned into her.
She shook her head. "That's sick," she responded. "We're sick."
He shook his head in return. "It doesn't matter. It's still the truth of our lives. We're still mated."
His eyes grew more dangerous, and he smiled slightly at her again. "Now, my lioness," he put his hands on her wrists, "if you're so angry," he rolled them both over, until she was on top of him, "show me your rage."
Her eyes burned at him, in desire and in anger over how badly his lies had twisted her need for him--had made it dark and dangerous. She wanted to just deny him, but she knew that wasn't possible.
She leaned in close to him, their lips almost touching; if he wanted a lioness, he would get it. "You want to see my rage?" she challenged.
"Yes," he stated in his matter-of-fact way.
She growled at his equilibrium at their situation. She nipped at his lips, tongue flicking out to taste them afterwards. When he opened his mouth, she nipped at one of his lips and then moved out of their range, sliding down to graze her teeth over his throat, nipping at it. He groaned. Her teeth ran over to torment a sensitive spot on his neck, biting at it roughly.
Michael groaned and held her to him, as she marked him. "Harder," he begged. His hips thrust into hers.
She obliged his request, as he shuddered, moaning under her. Her hands stroked down to trace over his stomach, slowly working up toward the taut, small nipples which she could feel pressing toward her.
He tried to move her hand up to one, aching to feel her touch on his sensitive skin, but she slapped his hand away. Then, to remind him who had control here, she moved down to set her teeth at the crook of his neck, marring the delicate skin there, as he cried out for more, holding her to him.
Her fingers, meanwhile, finally reached their destination and lightly flicked against his nipples. His arousal jumped in response. "More," he gasped.
Running her teeth up off the skin of his neck and releasing him--to his strangled cry--she then licked down his chest to capture one tender bud in her teeth. He gave a throaty scream and held her head firmly to him. "More, . . .please, more."
Nikita indulged him by suckling him sharply, her hand tormenting the twin. "Yes," he gasped. "God, yes."
She continued by flicking her tongue rapidly over him before running along him with her teeth. His breathing was incredibly unsteady. She then licked it goodbye and suckled his other nipple briefly before moving lower, knowing his real need was elsewhere.
His boots and socks were quickly removed before she came up to straddle his thighs. She locked eyes with him, as she lightly stroked her fingers over his need. He took in a breath and closed his eyes, head back. She leaned down and placed a light kiss on him to his strangled gasp. Then, very delicately, she released his tortured arousal.
A few seconds later, the rest of his clothes off and discarded, she straddled him again. She smiled down at his need; he was never a small man, but his current arousal had swollen him to truly impressive proportions. Her hand closed around his length and stroked lightly along it. Then, she leaned her head down to expel her hot breath over him.
He gave a strangled gasp and looked up at her desperately. "`Kita . . .please."
She smiled at him and flicked the very tip of her tongue lightly against him. He let out a cry, as his breathing grew more imperilled.
She took pity on him and slipped the head into her mouth, as her hand caressed the tightened sac below his shaft. He wasn't breathing. She sucked the head, as her other hand slowly traced the vein along him. Michael gasped sharply.
She continued her torture, nibbling lightly at the tip before running her tongue under its edge. She then plunged her mouth down over him, while encircling the bottom of his shaft with her hand, stroking him.
He let out a moaning scream, as he unconsciously arched his hips at her. God, he wanted this worship to continue, but he needed more. He *had* to be inside of her. He wouldn't last this way for long.
"`Kita?" his voice gasped out. He hadn't the will left to physically stop her.
She ran one hard suck up to his tip, releasing him with a final lick. She smiled knowingly, with fake innocence. "Yes, Michael?"
He could feel her heat pressed against his thighs. His eyes were heated and feral. "Come here."
She smiled; she rather enjoyed tormenting him this way. "What if I don't want to?"
He was upon her, before she realized he had moved, turning her under him. His eyes were aflame. "Then, I'll just have to convince you otherwise."
His hands ran long strokes up and down her willing body. He bent his head to worship at an overly-sensitive, aroused nipple, as his hands ran down to stroke up her outer thighs, holding them up around his hips. His arousal throbbed against her.
His tongue stroked back and forth over the nipple. "You don't want me?"
She groaned, holding him to her, still silent. She didn't want to give him the sort of control over her that her need for him had always engendered.
His hands slid around to her inner thighs and parted them, stroking against their silk. His arousal nudged her core.
One hand parted her depths, and he teased her with the tip of his shaft. She whimpered. He moved up to lick one of his fresh marks on her neck. "Tell me you want me."
Her hands were on his back, as her hips were trying to thrust to take him in. He held her away.
She didn't want to need him this badly. "No," she moaned in answer.
He moved to taste her throat. His shaft would dip into her depths just enough to tease her and then pull back out. Her core was practically glowing with heat and need for him. "Tell me."
"Michael." Her hands ran down to try to pull him into her, but he stopped holding down her hip and caught them, trapping them over her head with one hand.
He locked eyes with her. "Say it." He was stroking shallowly just in and out of her.
She closed her eyes.
"Look at me," he demanded quietly. He was in complete control of himself. She did as he asked, eyes flaring. "Say it." He held completely still at her depths.
She was caught between blazing, insane desire for him and fury--at him and herself--for having this feeling. She gritted her teeth, giving in angrily. "I need you."
He smiled slightly.
"I want you." She surrendered to her body and him in quiet fury.
"Good," he stated plainly. He took hold of her hip and gave her the reward for her admission. He slid slowly into her, stretching her with his entry.
She gasped and closed her eyes. "More," she said, through gritted teeth.
He completed his entry in one final stroke which left her shaking. He still had her hands pinned; his other hand was on her lower back.
She wrapped her legs around him. "Bastard," she whispered, once her immediate trembling ceased. Her feet pushed him into her. She opened her eyes. "Do it. . . . Hard."
His face softened, and he released her arms, leaning down to kiss her softly, his hands stroking her face. He ran his hands down her body to hold her hips, as he began moving in her.
They both closed their eyes. Every stroke was perfection. "More," she moaned, her anger flaring her need.
He increased his pace, moving almost completely in and out of her with every stroke. He leaned in to kiss her, and she accepted it, losing herself in his mouth for a minute. Then, she pulled back and looked at him. "I hate wanting you, Michael. I hate . . . uhhhh," he moved a stroke deeper, "uhhhh-ohhhh . . . more." She caught her breath for a second, closing her eyes. "I hate needing you."
Still watching her, he moved his hands behind her and rode her deeper. Her hands clawed his shoulders.
"Damn you . . . more." She looked at him. "I hate that you feel so God-damned good." She whimpered, as he rode her further in.
His face was still almost impassive, although his breathing was very ragged. "Do you like it?" His pace was relentless, matching her heartbeat; he played her desires as though they shared one body. His hands were on her lower back.
She closed her eyes again. "Yes."
"Look at me." She did, reluctantly. "I'm *yours*," he insisted. "*No one else* has me like this." He was on his knees, using them to help propel himself into her. His hands moved further up her body. His voice was desperate and breathy, although his eyes were steady. "You *own*--you *are* my desires."
He propped himself on his arms and changed his strokes, giving her long thrusts, purposely rubbing against the entrance to her depths and down one wall with each one; she was quivering slightly beneath him. "Now shut up, admit that we're mated," he continued his pattern but stroked her harder to emphasize his point, "and let me please you."
She nodded shakily at him, unable to overcome her physical needs. He dipped his head to suckle her breast. His strokes got harder, as he made sure they hit her with just the sort of rough pleasure she wanted. "Oh . . . more . . .Michael," she begged, her mind surrendering to him further.
He held her hips up to him, as he sat up. His hips danced roughly against her, bending her to his will. She was groaning, head back. "Tell me what you want." His eyes burned at her.
She looked up at him, her breathing unsteady, her eyes wet. His rhythm burned in her, escalating her desire. "More, Michael, please."
He moved in closer, deeper. "Tell me."
His strokes were sweet, rough fire; there wasn't much left of her conscious mind. "Uhhhhh . . . Michael . . . PLEASE!"
"*What* *do* *you* *want*?" he demanded quietly.
She groaned desperately, willing to say--to do anything now to gain the aching release he tormented her with. "You! YOU! . . . Take me, Michael, PLEASE!" She was crying. Her legs were wrapped around him like a vise, her feet pressing him into her.
He smiled at her and slid himself up her body, resettling her hips to the bed. His hands grasped her shoulders, as he gave her long, very hard strokes. "Very good, my love." He bit along his marks on her neck, until he reached her breast; he suckled it roughly.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, as she let out little whimpering gasps with each stroke.
He licked the breast once more and looked up at her. "Now . . . come." He returned to her breast and bit her perfectly, as he gave her three sharp, shattering strokes in quick succession, each deeper than the last.
As the final one connected, she arched toward him and gave several little strangled gasps. Her nails tore at his shoulders. The hot, liquid pleasure radiated through her in spasms, tossing her body helplessly on the bed. She couldn't quite get out a coherent sound.
He licked around the nipple in circles and then looked up, as she was still struggling. "Good but not enough."
He lay himself over her and grabbed her hips. Then, he began pumping almost brutally into her, while she was still spasming around his shaft.
She gasped and tried to make a sound. "Mi . . . chael . . . no." She panted, overwhelmed by desire. "T-too much." She was arching desperately toward him, caught between thunderously escalating need and fear for her own sanity.
Her legs had loosened slightly around him; he took them and spread her thighs, holding them down, as he ravaged her willing, aching depths. "You're wrong. It's not enough."
His strokes created the most incredible, shuddering tension in every part of her core. She arched her hips up at him, meeting his every insane stroke and gave up to her need. "Oh--oh, God, Michael . . . harder."
He smiled, holding her thighs down, and commanded her depths with his almost-dangerous strokes. Finally, when her whole body was quivering and she was barely able to draw breath, he pulled back and flew into her with a stroke which exceeded them all, as his mouth came down to claim hers.
She felt the stroke, felt him twitch inside her, and she spasmed wildly beneath him, divesting herself completely to him with his kiss.
Her arms encircled him, clinging to him desperately, as the shock waves of her staggering release overpowered her, shook through her. She trembled around him, as she weeped through the kiss.
He held her more tenderly now, kissing around her face, as she still clung to him. "Yes, my love. . . . Perfect."
Quite awhile later, when she had regained some of her senses, she looked up at him in alarm. "Michael?" He was still throbbing in need inside of her. How the hell he managed this sort of thing she would never know.
"Ssh, my love." He stroked her face. "Are you mine?"
She wanted to be able to deny it, wanted to be able to rid herself of him, but she understood the truth of it now; there was a sensual understanding between them which transcended logic. It wasn't lust, though, was more than just physical need. . . . They were mated.
She nodded. He--and her own primal instincts--had proved his point. "Yes."
"Are you my mate?"
"Yes, but . . ." she began, unsure where his thoughts were heading.
He kissed her. "Then, I need you, my beautiful lioness."
She looked up at him, bewildered.
He held her hip and slowly pulled out of her. "No," she protested, groaning, unwilling to lose him.
He put his hands on her back and dipped his head to her breast again, suckling lightly on the ridiculously-overstimulated bud; he pressed his need temptingly against her. She whimpered.
He looked up at her. "Do you want me?"
She nodded. "Yes, Michael." He licked her breast to her intake of breath. "Yes, my lion."
"Good." He pulled back and rolled her over. He leaned over her and ran a hand under her--to her slick stomach. "Then, mate with me, my love." He pulled her up on her hands and knees.
Nikita agreed willingly, amazed at how much desire she felt for this man, how endlessly he could arouse her.
Michael pulled her wet hair off her back and trailed it over her right shoulder. His arms encircled her, leaning forward to stroke the slick skin of her body. His arousal teased her depths, as he bent his head to lick the sweat from her shoulder.
She moved back against him, waiting for his entry. He had awoken a primal need in her--to become one with her mate in the least human, most atavistic way.
Still tasting her shoulder, he asked, "Are you ready?"
"Yes." She turned her head to find his mouth, and they shared a deep, sweet kiss. His hand ran down her body and stroked her bud before holding her open for himself.
He teased her for a second, just inside her. Then he broke the kiss and closed his eyes, overwhelmed, as he slid slowly into her. Nikita let out a contented sigh.
He rested his head on her shoulder. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes."
She spread her legs a bit, inviting him in more. "Please . . . Michael," she begged. As he had needed his lioness before, now she needed her lion.
His mate wanted him. It was more than he could stand. He began moving in her with deep, slow strokes.
God, this felt good. "Yes . . . ohhh . . . more," she pleaded, meeting his rhythm.
He took hold of her hips and fell into complete synch with her. He was stroking faster, almost completely in and out of her beautiful, slick body.
His thrusts seemed to touch her soul. Her head was back. "Uhhh, more."
He began stroking more sharply up into her, loving her sounds, bewitched by her smooth, hot core. "`Kita," he moaned.
His voice, his need aroused her further. Her words were broken by her sighs of pleasure. "Please . . . please, Michael . . . I need . . . more. . . of you."
The beast was rising in him. He had to have more of her, too.
He parted her legs and wrapped them back around himself, still stroking hard into her, as she supported herself on her hands. Ohhh, yes. That was it.
"Uhhhhh . . . ohhhh . . . yes," she moaned, in utter agreement.
He was becoming primal, possessive. He lay over her, leaning over to her ear, forcing her arms and his legs to support them both--which they somehow managed.
He needed her wild. "Do you like this?" he whispered, still holding her thighs. He stroked her harder.
If her life had depended on it, she still couldn't have strung together an entire sentence; his body was working perfectly on needs she could never have consciously identified. "Uhhh . . . ohhh, Michael, yes . . . please."
"Are you mine, Ni-ki-ta?" He stroked her more quickly, incredibly aroused, increasingly feral.
Tears of pleasure were coming to her eyes. "Oh, God, yes . . . uhhh . . .more."
He obliged, getting a bit rougher. "Do you want anyone else?"
"No! No. . . . More." She was addicted to the feeling of him inside her.
"Who does your body belong to?" He began stroking her bud with his hand, leaving no doubt about her forthcoming answer.
She screamed, becoming overwhelmed. "God! God! . . . You, Michael-only you!"
He bit the side of her neck. "And who does mine belong to?"
She was quiet for a second, old fears reentering some fragment of consciousness. He gave a rougher thrust to prompt her, and the doubts dissolved somewhat. "Uhhh, God! Me."
"Say it louder," he demanded. She was going to get this point if he had to stroke them both into a coma.
"Uhhh . . . Me! You . . . uhhhh . . . you belong to me!" she told him, believing it more.
"Louder!"
Her fears subsided further. "Mine! You're mine!"
"Claim me!" he commanded, stroking much faster.
"UHHHH." She believed him more. Once she regained a bit of breath, she told him. "Uhhhhhh . . . YOU'RE MINE, MICHAEL!" It was a shout, if a breathy one.
His hand on her bud became as insistent as his thrusts. "And what is anyone else I'm with?" He was being entirely ruthless with her body.
"THEY'RE A LIE!" She screamed, as he stroked harder. "They're just . . .UHHHHH . . . a lie!"
"Yes." He had won; she believed.
He leaned forward even further, his thrusts brutal. "Come, my lioness. Come for your mate!" He pinched her bud.
"Oh God. Oh God . . . Uhhhh!" Michael stabbed deep into her, very hard. "Yes . . . God . . . MICHAELLLLL!!!"
He held onto her shoulders, holding her deep on him, feeling her deep, uncontrollable spasms around him. "Yes, yes. That's it. . . . My Nikita." He buried his head in her shoulder. "My Nikita."
She felt him thrust once more and then release himself in her, holding her incredibly close. She could feel his tears on her shoulder, as he trembled over her.
"Ohhhhh," he moaned, as his shaft danced uncontrollably within her in release.
"Yes, my lion," she whispered.
After several minutes, he pulled himself together enough to unwrap her legs from him and pull her to sit on his lap, her back still against him. He kissed her temple and her cheek.
She held his hands, as they held her. She rubbed her face up against him. "Mmmm . . . Michael."
He lowered them both down to the bed, settling on top of her. Then, murmuring, "Mine. . . . Mine," he drifted off to sleep, taking her with him.
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