******************
Title: The Secret Garden
Author:  Titaniafae (dee@viscerate.com)
URL:  http://fanfiction.net
      http://viscerate.com/
Author's Note: This is dedicated to all those who begged 
for more. I adored the feedback (good and bad) I got from 
my first fic, so please don't be shy about letting me know 
what you think this time. Remember, you asked for this. :-) 
Maybe not this exactly, but this is where my mind went. 
Straight into the gutter. Ker-plunk. :-) Well, not straight, I 
meander around a bit. But I get there eventually. Oh, and if 
anyone makes any self-insertion allegations about me in 
the form of Ororo (which I am known to do about L/R 
'shippers and Rogue), they're absolutely 100% correct. I'd 
sell a kidney to be in her position. :-)
           
******************
Part One: Moonlight and Memories


My first thought upon awakening is that it was all a dream. 
The sawdust feel in the back of my throat and the 
heaviness of my head tells me the alcohol part at least was 
entirely truthful. I give up sitting as a bad idea, and fall 
back onto the pillow. I have never drunk that much before. 
I usually have more control. But as soon as Scott removed 
his shirt... 

The thought sends a tremour through me even now. Such 
a small thing, his bare torso, bathed in the warm glow of 
the firelight. A chest I had seen half a hundred times 
before, perfectly innocently. But my own reaction rendered 
this innocent no longer. Your stomach doesn't twist that 
way when a friend strips in front of you. I prayed no one 
would see my blush in the firelight. I was so nervous Logan 
could smell it. 

Goddess, what a mess. I thought at the time that this was 
completely unworkable - thinking about a close colleague 
like that. I should never have let it start. Except it started so 
gradually, I do not think I could have stopped it. 
Sometimes, when I try to trace my feelings back to their 
source, I wonder if maybe it has been building since the 
first time I met him, so long ago. But he was with Jean, and 
that was that. 

All of us had been shocked when Scott and Jean gathered 
us to make their announcement. It was a perfectly 
amicable separation, Jean declared, but no one looking at 
the ticking muscle in Scott's jaw believed that. The entire 
mansion was treading on eggshells from that moment, 
every second expecting Scott to explode. Except, of 
course, he never did. It did not surprise me. He has always 
been so cautious, so careful, so controlled. The perfect 
leader. 

I admire control and restraint. I told him that. I wished the 
words back as soon as they were out of my mouth, and yet 
I also rejoiced at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he 
would see what I was saying. I admire you, Scott. You are 
everything I admire. 

A dream, I decide. The memories are shot through with 
silvered moonlight. They seem unreal. A beautiful dream, 
one I will treasure, but a dream nonetheless. It's better that 
way, I tell myself. Less problems all around. 

With a groan, I roll out of bed, one hand pressed to my 
forehead. The sky outside, thankfully, is clouded over, a 
flat sheen of dark grey. It mirrors my mood perfectly, and I 
wonder if my emotions have been meddling again. At this 
point, though, I honestly do not care. Gingerly, I dress, 
moving slowly. A glance in the mirror before I go 
downstairs for breakfast tells me I look as awful as I feel. 

I am not first in the kitchen. Jean is half-slumped over a 
cloudy glass of aspirin, her usually glorious hair as limp as 
she is. Across the table, Rogue watches her closely. She 
looks up as I enter, looking faintly startled that I too appear 
hungover. She does not say anything, though. 

Jean groans slightly, lifting her head from her hand and 
opening her eyes a fraction. "Mornin' Ororo," she whispers. 
She clears her throat, and winces a little. "Whose idea was 
this anyway?" 

"Logan's," I remind her, and take a glass out of the 
cupboard. Water is what I need. Rehydrate myself. Then I 
might begin to feel human again. 

I am half-way through my first glass of water when Scott 
enters. I cannot see his eyes behind his glasses, but he 
looks paler than usual. He greets Jean and Rogue, his 
voice a little rough, and turns to me. "Water," he notes. 
"What an excellent idea." And he reaches past me to take 
a glass. 

In that moment I know. It is in the way he leans closer than 
he usually would. His breath is so warm on the back of my 
neck. His hip brushes my buttock. Then he moves back, 
leaning away to fill his glass. But I still know. 

It was not a dream. 

The knowledge is like a jolt of electricity through my 
system. Suddenly my fingers are trembling so much I have 
to put the glass down on the bench before I drop it. I close 
my eyes and take a deep, skaky breath. But that does not 
work, because playing across my closed eyelids is the 
image of him, shirtless in the liquid moonlight. Not a 
dream. A memory. 

A sudden gust of wind rattles the windows. Scott pauses in 
his drinking, quirks an eyebrow. "Interesting weather 
today," he says blandly. But I can hear the joking tone, so 
subtle in his voice. I can hear it and I love it. He is teasing 
me. Laughing at my lack of control and feeling smug, no 
doubt, in the knowledge that he caused it. 

I admit, it is a small shock to realise this sort of behaviour 
is coming from Scott, our stone-faced leader. All the time I 
have worked and lived alongside him, I never saw this 
other side to him, except for the barest hints now and then. 
A smile given in something other than grim satisfaction. A 
line a little more flippant. I knew his lighter side had to 
exist. It is just that while you are on the job is no time to be 
joking around. And Scott is always on the job. Always 
business-like, always apparently emotionless. Apparently. 
I, of all people, know that how much emotion you show 
bears no relation to how much you feel. 

Still waters run deep. Trite, but true. 

I wonder what other surprises Scott holds, hidden away 
from all but Jean. Until now. I feel like he is my very own 
secret garden, and I have been handed a key. I almost do 
not want to unlock the gate, worried that he may not live up 
to my anticipation in the flesh. 

In the flesh. Moonlight-rimmed memories spring into my 
mind, and I have to hold tight to my emotions to stop the 
weather betraying me yet again. 

Do not get melodramatic, Ororo. You know you want to 
peel him like an onion. Physically and mentally. Find out if 
the rest of that body is as fantasy-inducing as his chest. If 
the rest of his personality is as emotionally erogenous. 

The thought brings a smile to my face - how could it not? I 
know he sees it as I empty my glass and place it on the 
draining board. I wonder how I could tease him in return. 
Mentally? The idea of teasing him physically is almost 
enough to scatter my carefully husbanded control to the 
wind. I wonder if he has this difficulty. Gripping hard to his 
self-control, that most precious commodity. Relishing how 
close it comes to slipping out of his grasp. 

I turn and step back to lean against the cabinets to watch 
him drain his water. His poise is perfect, as always. 
Despite the hungover tinges, he is still Scott. Still 
implacable and inpenetrable. 

Jean groans from the table, setting down her half-drunk 
glass of aspirin with a thunk. One hand is over her eyes; 
the only thing holding her head up is her elbow braced 
against the table. "God, I feel awful," she whimpers. 

"Finish your aspirin and go back to bed," I suggest calmly. 
"You will feel better if you sleep a little. Take some water, 
though. And drink it. You are dehydrated. That is why you 
have a headache." 

Jean nods slightly, and tilts her head back to drain the 
glass, grimacing slightly as she sets it back on the table. 

"Ah'll take her upstairs." Rogue jumps up, her eyes still a 
little wide. Three hungover teachers is obviously more than 
she can manage in one morning. Besides, it is the chance 
to do something unselfishly nice for Jean. Not one of us 
would baulk at that opportunity. 

Unless the thought of being alone in the kitchen with Scott 
made us irrationally weak at the knees. I open the fridge 
beside me, pulling out one of the chilled bottles of water 
there. Scott passes me a clean glass, and I pass both to 
Rogue, who takes them with one hand as she helps Jean 
up with the other. Walking carefully, and a little unsteadily, 
Jean totters out of the room on Rogue's arm. 

The door swings shut behind them, and silence descends 
on the kitchen. I lean on the fridge, the white surface cool 
against my back even through my shirt. Scott leans back 
against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. I am 
watching him watching me. There are perhaps three steps 
separating us. I count them. 

"Do you regret last night?" he suddenly asks. 

Does he honestly think -? I replay my behaviour this 
morning; I have not been precisely encouraging. Though 
not discouraging. Is he feeling insecure? My smile returns. 
"I regret not being sober enough to remember it as well as 
I wish I could," I reply honestly. The alcohol-fragmented 
memories are tantalising. The taste of him, layered with 
scotch and gin. His sweat-slicked shoulder briefly under 
my fingers. 

"Perhaps a repeat performance could be arranged," Scott 
murmurs, his voice low. His answering smile is quick and 
somehow intimate. He is still poised, however, and that 
brief perhaps-moment of uncertainty has disappeared 
behind his usual wall of confident calm. 

I realise in that moment that I want to make his composure 
slip. And I wonder if I could do it. Interrupt that regular 
breathing, make it ragged. Illicit a gasp from those lips. 
Make that body shudder involuntarily. 

Oh Goddess, could I make him scream? 

I clamp down on my own self-control, containing the 
tremour that threatens to run through my own limbs. I want 
to do it. I want to shred his self-control. I want to do all 
those things. And I want him to do it all to me, too. A tussle 
of wills, perhaps? A wrestle for self-control... 

Breathe, Ororo. 

"That could be pleasant," I reply, equally quietly. "But there 
was something vaguely... unsatisfying about last night." A 
lie; it was perfection. But it is time for a little of that teasing. 

Scott raises his eyebrows. "Unsatisfying?" he repeats. 

"Hmmm," I indicate agreement, not attempting to hide the 
smirk that seems to find its own way onto my face. "Yes. 
Maybe it is just my faulty memory, but everything seemed 
to stop before... well, before it got good." Part of me gapes 
at this, like I am behaving wantonly. It feels unnatural, but it 
also feels good, especially as, watching closely, I see his 
grip on his folded arms tighten. A minor sign, but one 
nonetheless, and it heartens me. "I was a little 
disappointed," I finish. 

"That's no good," Scott answers mildly. For all his casual 
stance, however, there is a new tightness in his posture 
that was not there before. His voice is a little more rough 
as he continues, "I would apologise, but I don't regret a 
single thing about last night." 

Even through his glasses, his gaze is direct, stapling me 
against the fridge. The heat of that gaze and the lines of 
tension in his body give me the strength of will to stretch a 
little, press my hips back against the fridge. "Well," I almost 
whisper, "actions speak louder than words, anyway." 

His arms drop from their folded position and he leans 
forward slightly. A surge of something akin to exultation 
ripples through me as I realise he is going to do it. He is 
going to cross the few steps between us. And then my 
imagination takes over, a thousand flights of fancy taking 
me in an instant. He could cross the space and lean 
against the fridge behind my shoulder, a repetition of last 
night. He could pin me to the fridge with his body, rather 
than his eyes, a glorious weight and heat. He could grab 
me by the hips, like he did when we were dancing, and pull 
me against him. All my fantasies end the same way, 
though; his mouth descends on mine, and I shatter. 

I am not to discover which is correct, however, as at that 
moment the kitchen door opens and Logan swaggers in. 
Quick as lightning, Scott leans back against the sink, his 
face empty of expression and his posture all casual calm 
once more. I push off from the fridge, though, doubting my 
ability to simply stand there any more. Not when I do not 
want Logan to know what is happening between Scott and 
I before we know ourselves. Not when Logan probably 
wants to gloat about his lack of hangover and all I want is 
to feel Scott's hands and breath hot on my skin. The 
situation constitutes a rare and unusual form of torture. 

"I am going to go and have a shower," I declare. Hot water 
and steam might clear up this hangover. On the other 
hand, maybe a cold shower is called for. 

Logan steps aside to let me out the door, a smirk on his 
face. "Not feeling too well, 'Ro?" he asks smugly. 

"On the contrary," I reply, smiling at him, though my words 
are all for the man over my shoulder, "I have never felt 
better.

******************
Part Two: Imaginings and Intimacy

Author's Note: Yes, I am conservative with my ratings, but 
I've got in trouble before. This is dedicated to Sophia for 
being wonderful, beta-reading this and telling me it wasn't 
as silly as I thought it was. Thank you, thank you, thank 
you. Incidentally, am I the only one who, when I'm writing a 
sex scene, feels my mother looking over my shoulder and 
saying: "Where did you get *that* from?"

***

I tilt my head back to let the spray drum against my closed 
eyelids, my hands braced against the wall. I decided on 
hot in the end, and although the steady pounding of water 
is relieving my body's aches, it is doing nothing for the 
tempest that rages in my mind. A welter of images and 
emotions threatens to overwhelm me. There are less 
pleasant things to drown in, but one day I must do 
something about reining in my overactive imagination. 
Then again, until last night, I had no idea it could be so... 
creative. 

I am bombarded by what might have been in the kitchen 
just now, but for Logan's intervention, variations on the 
theme and continuations. I doubt anyone would eat on that 
table ever again had my subconscious had its way. Finally, 
my skittish mind veers away from that topic, to what had 
been, last night in the warm, firelit den. That first twist of 
alcohol in my system as I imperiously demanded that he 
take off his shirt, barely believing it even as the words left 
my mouth. My difficulty in maintaining composure when his 
business-like removal of the shirt left me with the heady 
sensation he was performing a strip-tease. I dared Logan 
to dance, but all I wanted was to see Scott. More of Scott. 

But despite all my feverish imaginings during that game, 
he'd seemed so calm, collected, completely at ease. My 
heart had sunk. I didn't think he was interested. I could 
almost hear his reply, feel his breath on my cheek; 'I'm 
very interested.' 

Goddess. I reach out and shut off the water quickly, raising 
my hands to wipe the excess water from my eyes, wring it 
from my hair. Stepping out of the shower, I reach for a 
towel. I need to find him, before my mind drives me entirely 
mad. 

I dress for comfort, still not feeling entirely well, in track 
pants and a T-shirt. I am hurriedly towelling my hair when a 
thought occurs to me; a thought I can scarcely believe is 
crossing my mind. Though why it should surprise me given 
my current tendencies, I don't know. Slinging my towel 
over one shoulder, I open the drawer of my bedside table, 
reaching to the back to retrieve the package Jean and I 
had bought once in a flurry of unwarranted girlish 
excitement about a date I went on. It had been a waste, 
the man an idiot, and the package had sat, unneeded, ever 
since. 

Feeling almost guilty, I reach into the package and pull out 
one of the small, foil-wrapped circles. It sits on my palm, 
almost burning, like the blush I can feel creeping up my 
neck. It is as good as a declaration of intent, taking this 
with me. Hello world; I, Ororo Munroe, am going to find 
Scott Summers and have sex with him. But honestly, who 
do I think I am fooling? Myself, with that contraction of my 
stomach and a tingle on my skin? So I take one, slip it into 
my pocket. As a just-in-case, nothing more. 

After hanging up the towel, I pull out the package again, 
and take another one. Definitely just in case. My cheeks 
burning up, with bare feet and damp hair, I leave my room. 

Scott is not in his room. I step as quietly as possible past 
the door of Jean's room, hearing Logan's rumbling voice in 
low tones as I pass. Scott is nowhere downstairs either, 
not in the kitchen, or the den, or the library that it causes a 
flutter in my stomach just to enter. So I head downstairs 
again, descending into the metallic corridors of the 
business-side of the school. Past the med-lab, further 
along, and I know where he is now. The Danger Room. 

There are the sounds of the room in use, muffled 
considerably by the padding on the walls. It is not the sort 
of place you just walk into unannounced on the best of 
days, and I am feeling more than a little nervous now. I 
raise a hand, take a deep breath, and knock. 

A last muffled thud from inside, then his voice, calling: 
"Come in." 

I open the door just enough to slip inside, then I lean back 
against it, pushing it closed. Only then do I allow myself to 
look at Scott, standing in the centre of the room. His 
physical appearance is like a punch to the stomach, forcing 
the breath out of my lungs. His hair is sweat-darkened 
around his face and his lips are slightly parted as he 
breathes heavily. His chest - bare, as it usually is while he 
is training - heaves with each breath. He is wearing track 
pants, his feet planted in a firm, unshakable stance. He 
looks like he has been working hard, sweat-slicked, but 
business-like, calm. 

My thoughts are anything but. I want him. Badly. 

"Ororo," he greets me, my name expelled on an 
exhalation. 

"Scott," I return. Part of my mind is screaming at me not to 
waste my breath in talking, just to throw myself on him. But 
I do not consider it. Well, not seriously, anyway. While 
such actions have their good points - their very many good 
points - it would be too much of an admission, too much a 
loss of control. He is going to have to work harder than that 
to break me. And I, in turn, will work to break him. Fair is, 
after all, fair. "Mind if I join you? A little exercise might help 
clear my head." I step away from the door, but towards the 
empty floor, not him. He watches me, completely calm, as I 
take up position a few metres away from him. I raise an 
eyebrow at him. "Are you going to turn the program back 
on?" 

Now one corner of his mouth quirks up, and he shakes his 
head. "The training programs are good, but there's nothing 
quite like a little one-on-one." 

Wonderful. We have not even begun and already my heart 
is racing. But the teasing is good; it lightens an 
atmosphere I had not even noticed was so tense, and I 
laugh and flip my damp hair over my shoulder. "Well then, 
come on." 

As he leaps in on the offensive, I wonder briefly if he 
expects me to be lenient, make this just a little love-fight, a 
play tussle. Not on his life. Besides, Logan has been 
teaching me a little, and I have a few surprises up my 
sleeve. Scott does not seem disconcerted as he is forced 
back step by step. Only a few steps, though, and then he 
seizes the initiative once more, and this time I am the one 
to retreat. 

Scott is right; there is nothing like a little one-on-one. 
Adrenaline surges through my veins, and it does clear my 
head, blowing the hangover-cobwebs away. It is warm in 
the Danger Room, and soon my skin is prickled with sweat 
as well. Back and forth we trade blows, neither really 
having an advantage. He fights with precision and 
economy, every movement using just as much energy as it 
needs. Nothing flashy, just compact grace. He is 
magnificent, I allow myself to concede, somewhere in the 
back of my mind. I had watched him in action before, of 
course, but never through eyes veiled in desire. 

Then it comes, just a tiny over-extension, and I pounce, 
moving all-out on the offensive. Scott backs away, barely 
managing to defend. But somehow, just a pace from the 
wall, he dodges my final blow, catching my wrist and 
swinging me around with the force of my own momentum. 
My breath rushes out in a gasp as my back hits the wall. 

I have no chance to regain it, either. His body presses me 
back against the wall, every glorious inch along the length 
of me, and his mouth captures mine. My beautiful, delicate 
memories of last night are incinerated in the heat of this 
embrace. There is nothing delicate here. His tongue is 
ravaging, his lips hard and demanding, and so is his body, 
pushing against mine. 

I have died and gone to heaven. I swallow the moan that 
wells up in my throat and concentrate on giving as good as 
I am getting. My tongue slithers against his, my mouth as 
hungry, and I splay my fingers on his back, desperate to 
touch as much of him as possible. 

When he breaks the kiss, leaning back a fraction, we are 
both breathing heavily. I run my hands up over his chest, 
because he is there and I want to and I can. 

"That was an unorthodox move," I say, somewhat 
surprised to note that my voice is a little breathless and 
husky, but otherwise steady. "Not that I am complaining, of 
course." 

Scott smiles. "It seemed appropriate." His voice is steady 
as well, even as he leans back towards me, whispering, 
"You're a drug, Ororo. The more I have, the more I need..." 

This kiss lingers somewhere between our previous two. I 
slide one hand up the nape of his neck, curling my fingers 
in his hair as the work of his lips and tongue surpasses the 
fantastic and enters the realms of 'knee-weakening'. His 
hands sit, warm and heavy, on my hips. My other hand 
drifts down his back, fingertips skimming the flesh, over the 
waistband of his trackpants to grip one of those muscular 
buttocks. I pull him to me, quick and hard. 

Scott's sharp inhalation is as intoxicating as the feeling of 
him against me. His teeth nip my bottom lip even as his 
hands sweep up from their resting places, sliding 
underneath my T-shirt to smooth up my back and press my 
torso against his. I am left, open-mouthed and breathing 
heavily, as his lips leave mine to trail a hot, wet line along 
my jaw to the hollow just under my ear. His hands on my 
back are maddening, sliding over my skin until his fingers 
find the clasp of my bra. And just as all my attention is 
focused on the anticipation of him unfastening it, his thigh 
slips between mine, pressing hard against me. The sigh is 
torn from me, my lips shaping his name. "Oh, Scott..." 

"Yes," he rasps, his voice low and husky in my ear. My bra 
unfastens with a sudden snap; one of Scott's hands 
presses against my back, holding me to him, while the 
other slides around my ribs. "Say my name again," he 
demands, nibbling on my ear lobe. 

"Scott." I love his name; I love saying it here, now. My 
voice is still steady, though low. Steady, that is, until his 
fingers move up, brushing over my nipple, already over-
sensitised. I gasp. "Oh Goddess... Scott -" I am cut off as 
his mouth covers mine, swallowing my faint moan as he 
takes my nipple between his thumb and finger, cupping my 
breast. I am left helpless, writhing against him. I arch 
forward, squeezing his thigh between mine, and he breaks 
the kiss with a gasp of his own. 

Both hands tug at the bottom of my shirt now, and I raise 
my arms so Scott can pull it off over my head. It is tossed 
into the corner, and a moment later my bra follows it. I lean 
back against the wall as his hot gaze, hidden behind those 
glasses now as always, travels over my naked torso. 
"Ororo," he says, my name sounding somewhere between 
a groan and a prayer. His hands run down my sides, over 
my waist, down my hips as he leans closer again. "You are 
so beautiful..." 

That, of course, is when he finds them. Those incriminating 
foil packages that I had forgotten until his hand brushes 
over the lump in my pocket. He pulls them out, and with 
one look he knows it all; he reads their statement, gleans 
my intent, and not just one, but two. 

The growl that wells up in his throat would have done 
Logan proud, and he yanks me towards him. One hand 
stays low, in the small of my back, pressing me against 
him even as the other hand tangles in my hair, holding me 
still as his tongue plunders my mouth. 

It is the end of restraint, as we sink to the floor. Our 
remaining clothes are an unwelcome impediment, to be 
shed as quickly as possible. So much of his skin against 
mine is dizzying, and I no longer bother to censor my sighs 
and gasps of pleasure. I feel my control slip out of my 
grasp, and know that my eyes have whited over, and 
outside the weather will be more than tumultuous. I am 
beyond caring, though. Nor does Scott bother about his 
moans, and when he whispers my name his voice breaks 
and I exult. His control, as mine, is shattered. 

When he finally takes me, however, it is with a rhythm slow 
and measured, increasingly hard and insistent. It leaves 
me speechless, inarticulate, clawing at his back and tilting 
back my head as he nips at my exposed throat, taking 
away the sting with a swirl of his tongue. Release cannot 
come soon enough, and I half-scream as explosive 
pleasure claims me. As I descend from the spiralling 
heights, he sags against me with a juddering groan that 
becomes my name. 

He rests his head on my shoulder as we lie together in 
silence, sweat making our limbs stick to each other. His 
fingers trace lightly over my stomach. "What're you 
thinking?" he murmurs. 

I smile lazily and run a finger down his spine. "I am 
wondering how my world managed to change so much in 
the last 24 hours, that I could go from distant wonderings 
to lying replete in your arms." 

Another slip, and he picks up on it, propping himself up on 
one elbow to look down at me, his face serious. "Distant 
wonderings? Ororo, how long have you... ah..." 

"Been interested in you?" He nods and I sigh. Now that it is 
out there, I may as well tell the truth. "I do not know when it 
began, to be honest. I have asked myself that as well. I do, 
however, know when I realised. About two months ago, 
after we returned from that mission where we attempted to 
capture Sabretooth. I was thinking that we all have our 
rituals to calm down after missions. I go off into my 
greenhouse, and you and Jean used to closet yourselves 
together. Then, I realised that you couldn't do that any 
longer, you weren't together." 

I take a deep breath, and smile as his attention is 
distracted by the rise of my chest. I tap him on the cheek. 
"Pay attention. Anyway, if I was thinking, I would have 
been suspicious right then, because I wasn't worried about 
how Jean was coping with her solitary post-mission stress, 
just about you. I went looking for you. You were down 
here, and I could hear the program running, it sounded like 
you had it turned way up. Then it finished, and I was about 
to knock when... when I heard you crying." I cannot look up 
at his face, so I look at the hand on my stomach instead. It 
slides further around my waist. "They were huge, heart-
rending sobs. It sounded... as if your heart was breaking. I 
was an inch away from coming in when I realised I didn't 
want to comfort you purely as a friend. It was startling, and 
confusing, and the more I watched you over the next while, 
the more I wanted things not to be purely friends. But it 
was stupid, I told myself, and it would disrupt the team, and 
when you get right down to it I didn't have the courage to 
say or do anything." 

There is silence, and I manage now to gather the courage 
to look up into his face. Not that that tells me much, since it 
is back to his usual composure. 

"I thought my heart was going to break," he says quietly, 
so I can barely hear him. "That night after the mission. It 
had finally really and truly struck home to me that I didn't 
have Jean any more. I felt so overwhelmed with the energy 
of the mission, and frustration and hurt. So I came down 
here and ripped through the program, fueled by pure 
emotion." You would not guess it from his dispassionate 
words now, but I believe him. I know him, this stone-faced 
man. "And after I cried so long and hard I thought I would 
never recover, I did. It was the beginning. Once I'd 
completely accepted that she was gone, I could start to 
move on." The hand around my waist pulls me closer to 
him, and he smiles down at me. "But the final part didn't 
come until you did get the courage to do something," he 
murmurs in my ear. "You followed me out of a dinner and 
told me to face my ghosts and you made me dance." His 
hand slides down to my hip, so warm on my skin, like his 
breath on my neck. "You put my hands on your hips and 
you told me I was in control. I dreamed about you after 
that, you know. The dreams I told you I only ever had 
about Jean. They're a hundred times better when you're 
the star." 

I wonder if this is a beautiful dream of my own, that some 
time very soon I am going to wake up from. And decide 
that if that is the case, I had better make the most of it 
while it lasts. So I roll against him, throwing a leg over his. 
With a swirl of my tongue in his ear, I purr: "Where did you 
put that second condom?" 


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