Push and Pull II

written by Shrift

Nikita was sitting in the chair outside the bathroom when Thompson burst through the door.

"What’s going on?" she demanded, snapping instantly onto alert.

"Where’s Michael?" he asked nonchalantly, entirely at odds with his entrance into the room.

"Why?" she snapped, eyes narrowing.

"Well, Operations wanted to speak with Michael and Birkoff said he couldn’t raise either of you. So he sent me up here to-"

Thompson’s narrative was abruptly cut off by Michael exiting the bathroom. He had slipped on his jeans again; Michael was barefoot, bare-chested, and dripping wet.

Nikita’s pupils dilated and she lost all feeling from her neck down. Dear Jesus, she thought desperately. How can I want him again already?

She pushed her hair behind her ears and was satisfied that only the ends were still damp from her impromptu shower with Michael. She had left the bathroom first when she finally recovered from Michael’s explosive lovemaking.

He had stayed to actually finish washing, something which Nikita hadn’t given him time for in her seduction. The sweet sense of fulfillment that had imbued Nikita with distinctly satisfied air was fraying apart.

Her groin clenched as Michael stalked forward, his jeans molded to him like a second skin. A skin which, at that moment, Nikita would cheerfully wrestle with the devil to be able to peel off. Unable to help herself, Nikita tracked the rivulets of water as they dripped from the nape of his neck and down his powerful back, until disappearing down the loose waist of his jeans. Michael hadn’t bothered to button the top snap.

Yup, Nikita decided. He’s trying to drive me insane.

He raised a muscled arm and placed the com-unit in his ear.

"Was there an equipment malfunction?" Nikita could hear Birkoff ask.

"Hold on, Birkoff."

Michael turned around and approached Nikita. He came to a stop in front of her, to shield his actions and her flushed face from Thompson’s view. He reached out and plucked Nikita’s com-unit from her ear; Michael very quickly teased a wire loose while it was en route to his own ear.

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

Michael shifted so that his lean silhouette faced Nikita. He tested the com-unit in plain sight of Thompson, whose mouth was still gaping over Michael’s disheveled appearance.

"Birkoff, you do copy?" Michael replaced Nikita’s unit with his own. "Birkoff?"

"I’m reading you, Michael."

"Equipment failure. A wire must have worked loose during Nikita’s last sweep of the room," Michael said quietly. Water continued to drip from his hair, rolling down his nose and chest.

Nikita stomped into the bathroom and threw him a towel. Michael caught it with one hand.

"Operations is pissed. He wants to talk to you, now," Birkoff warned.

"Concerning?"

"The level one collateral. That’s all I know."

"Stand by," Michael said.

"What? What am I supposed to tell Operations?"

"I’m dripping on the carpet, Birkoff."

"Oh. Oh. Ah..." The computer genius was at a loss for words. Had it been anyone else, he might have cracked some joke about how to properly use a condom. That was definitely out. Birkoff couldn’t restrain the chuckle that erupted from the thought of giving Michael advice on prophylactics.

"Don’t say that too loud, Michael. I’ve got a lot of female sysops on duty right now and I don’t need them overloading the system with requests for the real-time surveillance," Birkoff finally said with droll sarcasm.

To his surprise, Michael gave a slight, answering laugh. "Stand by." Birkoff rarely indulged in banter with Michael on an open channel. Michael’s off-kilter brand of humor had always amused him, but Birkoff knew well enough to keep the fact that Michael even had a sense of humor under wraps. Hearing Michael and Birkoff exchange witticisms had unsettled many a Cold Op when Birkoff first came to Section. Apparently, Michael’s reputation as a cold-hearted bastard didn’t jibe well with the Team Leader’s uncanny ability to craft really bad puns.

Nikita averted her eyes when Michael ran the towel efficiently over his chest and back. He paused to take the com-unit from his ear, then vainly attempted to towel dry his hair. Without looking, he threw the damp towel back at Nikita and ran taming fingers through his softly curling hair.

Before placing the unit back in his ear, Michael pinned Thompson with a stony glare. "Where’s the collateral?"

"They’re still eating lunch," Thompson replied immediately.

"Who’s with them now?"

"Lee and Krebbs."

Michael nodded Thompson’s dismissal and activated his com-unit. "Ready, Birkoff."

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

"Why the delay, Michael?" Operations said; his irritation was palpable. A smile ghosted Michael’s face. He knew, to the exact detail, what expression resided on his superior’s face.

"I was in the shower."

There was a faint thrum of silence on the other end. Clearly, Operations had trouble with such a mundane concept. More times than Michael could count, the older man seemed almost taken aback to discover that Michael was still human, that he was not a robot to be hauled out of the closet when a profile called for him.

"There’s a charity ball tomorrow night that Jeffrey was scheduled to attend. We received new Intel that Jose Fernandez will be there," Operations forged on gruffly.

"He took out the original contract on Pfizer’s life," Michael stated.

"Yes. I want you to engage Mr. Fernandez in negotiations. Persuade him to forget about Jeffrey’s indiscretions."

In simpler terms, Operations wanted him to fix it, Michael thought. To fix it so that Operations wouldn’t have to explain to an old friend why he had let his son die.

"Understood," Michael said.

"The profile is being downloaded to your PDA. That will be all."

Michael gathered his PDA from the table and began skimming the profile. The charity ball was a very formal occasion, and it appeared that security would be tight. The guest list was a conglomeration of old money, nouveau riche, high-ranking government officials and the glitz of Hollywood.

It also appeared that a vital part of their cover would need to be supplied. Madeline was too busy interrogating Fernandez’s associates to take care of a tiny, but nevertheless important, detail.

Michael handed Nikita the PDA and allowed her to read it for a few minutes. "Do you have a suitable gown?"

Nikita shook her head and continued to read.

"We need to go shopping," Michael said. Nikita’s head jerked up, and he saw the laughter bubbling in her eyes. Michael’s mouth twitched. He had never expected to say those words to Nikita, either.

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

Nikita gave Michael a sidelong glance as they entered the brightly lit mall. He was actually there, in his standard Section black, walking beside her.

The devastating normalcy of what they were doing disturbed Nikita on a fundamental level.

In fact, Nikita thought, she had never done these so-called normal things until she had been recruited into Section One. Simple things like grocery shopping, sitting in a coffee shop, or going to the mall had not been part of her life on the street. Until her relationship with Gray Wellman, Nikita had never been on what would be called a normal date.

The irony of it all was not lost on her.

Nikita had danced with Michael; she had sparred with him, physically and verbally; she had pulled a gun on him and he her; she had played house with him. But the only non-mission related, normal thing Nikita and her sometime-lover had ever done together was sip coffee.

And now they were shopping. Together. In a mall.

Although it was mission-related, it lacked that palpable edge that permeated all the other occasions. Michael was still in real-time contact with Section. They were shopping for the appropriate clothes for a charity ball, in which Michael hoped to obtain closure for their current mission.

But, still...

Michael was walking beside her in what Nikita thought of as his "office clothes", looking sleek and dangerous. He was holding her hand with his warm grip, lightly stroking of one thumb over her flesh.. The mission called for them to act as a newlywed couple, but whatever the profile, Nikita meant it. And so did Michael. Perhaps that was why Madeline paired them; they were a believable couple because situations like these allowed Michael and Nikita to act out their fantasies of a normal life.

"Where are we going?" Nikita asked, deciding to halt the mental acrobatics.

Michael slowed to a stop and bestowed her with a sweet smile. "I don’t know the layout of the mall, Nikita," he chided. He brought her captive hand to his mouth, gently branding her skin with a brush of his lips and a slight flick of his tongue.

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

Weak-kneed by Michael’s kiss and the brief mental image of him exhaustively profiling a trip to the mall, Nikita started giggling. Michael’s supporting arms wrapped around her as she fell forward, nose buried in his shirt and hands clutching at the lapels of his black jacket.

Whether they were aware of it or not, Nikita and Michael looked the part of a perfect couple to the shoppers who passed by; their appearance of happiness brought a soft smile to one very pregnant woman’s face.

"What’s our P.O.S.?" Nikita choked out, freeing one hand to wipe the wetness from the corner of her eye. That caused Michael’s shoulders to shake with silent laughter. He lowered his forehead onto her shoulder, hugging her about the hips.

"If we can’t find you a dress, we’ll be canceled," was Michael’s muffled reply.

"From the guest list," Nikita tacked on hurriedly. The pressure of her hand at his nape brought Michael’s head up. The same very pregnant woman had finally waddled within comfortable speaking distance, and she was beaming at them.

"I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how long have you two been married?" she said in a soft contralto. Nikita’s eyes went to the ring on her left finger. She had worn it so many times with Michael on past missions, it seemed almost an extension of herself.

"Only a few weeks," Michael said, allowing his accent to thicken.

Nikita spared Michael a swift, emotion-filled look before turning to the woman:
"But we’ve been together for about five years."

"Oui."

Nikita gave Michael a slight, open-palmed rap on the shoulder. Turn off the charm. She’s pregnant, her eyes told him. He answered with an innocent stare and wound his fingers through the blonde strands of her hair.

"Five years?" the woman exclaimed, eyes growing wide. "And you still flirt with each other?"

Nikita blinked in surprise. She had never really thought about it that way. "Well, yeah."

"I love my husband, but you two look like you really belong together." She winked and began her slow waddle away.

Nikita leaned her head against Michael’s cheek. "Huh."

"Let’s go," Michael said. They turned and he reclaimed her hand.

In a conscious and unspoken decision, they both decided not to discuss the woman’s words.

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

Nikita wandered through the racks of the extremely exclusive store that had caught her fancy. The cheapest dress so far had the price tag of three thousand dollars. At her questioning look, Michael had replied: "I have Section’s credit card."

Nikita had grinned wickedly; Michael’s lips twitched in response.

The saleswoman had been dogging Nikita’s steps since they had entered the store, but Nikita suspected that had more to do with Michael’s presence than the chance of a sale. He had given the girl a heart-breaking smile when she had asked if they needed any help.

"We’re just browsing," he had answered. The young woman had experienced a total, knee-knocking meltdown when his French accent reached her ears. Nikita felt pity for her; she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of his charm.

She had jumped at Nikita’s request for a fitting room, and led her to an airy, private room in the back.

Michael hung back in the doorway. "Coming, Michael?" Nikita asked, lips curved seductively. His eyes became suffused with a warm green, and he followed her. Behind him, the saleswoman looked like she was ready to faint with jealousy.

The first dress Nikita tried on was the one. It was a pearl-colored gown of soft silk. The dress was backless, skimming just above the curve of her buttocks; the front fell in soft folds, hugging her in all the right places. Nikita saw Michael’s eyes glittering appreciatively in the mirror.

Instead of halting the process and buying the dress, Nikita insisted that she try on the four other gowns she had brought with her. The next was a royal blue and sequined, but Nikita found it was too big in the bust and not quite long enough. She shrugged out of it and moved on to the next dress while Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Watching her move around in her underwear.

The final dress was a hideous chiffon creation which Nikita had picked up on a lark because the price tag was disgustingly high. When she wrestled it on, unable to get the zipper all the way up the high back, Nikita actually giggled at her reflection.

"What do you think, Michael?"

He uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the wall.

"It’s disgraceful. Take it off," he said huskily. Nikita closed her eyes when she felt his hands caress her back through the chiffon. The lowering zipper rasped softly.

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

Michael’s mouth traced the path of his fingers as Nikita’s dress pooled on the floor. Her eyes closed and her head lolled back.

"Mmm," she moaned. When Michael’s lips left her back, Nikita opened her eyes and kicked the dress into the corner. She made to pick up her clothes.

"What are you doing?" Michael whispered in her ear, pressing his length against her.

"Getting dressed," Nikita’s voice grew airy on the last syllable. Michael was lightly nuzzling her neck.

"Why?" He moved his lips to the sensitive dip in her shoulder, hands traveling down her arms to lock around her midsection. She covered his hands with her own to halt his subtle stroking downward.

"Here?" she gasped at his reflection.

He met her eyes in the mirror and slowly moved his head. Keeping eye contact, Michael delicately licked her earlobe and pulled it between his teeth.

Nikita’s brain fogged. She had one last, coherent thought: every time I think Michael has performed the most erotic act I will ever see, he goes and improves on it.

"Take your shirt off," Nikita ordered quietly. Michael held eye contact while shedding his jacket, breaking it only during the brief seconds where his face was obscured by the dark fabric. She could see in the mirror that his hair was mussed and started to turn around to smooth it.

"No," Michael said, preventing her from shifting position with his strong hands. "Like this."

Nikita stared into his eyes as he ran the backs of his fingers along one cheek. Nikita reached up and took his hand, slipping his thumb into her mouth. She saw his lips part; her hair fluttered from his warm exhalation as her tongue swirled and teeth scraped against his calluses. With a gentle pull, he removed his from her grasp and rubbed his dampened thumb over her hardening nipple.

Her eyes fluttered shut at his feather-light touch. He bit her on the neck and caressed the spot with his tongue at her gasp.

"Keep your eyes open, Ni-ki-ta. No matter what."

Before Nikita could pry open her eyes, she felt Michael’s body slide down hers. When she looked again, she stood nude in front of Michael. The wild hunger etched across his face sent a fierce tremor of hot desire through her blood.

She reached her arms behind her back and unclasped Michael’s belt. "Take them off." Her voice was rough, made more sensual by passion.

Still staring into her eyes, she felt his hands unbutton his pants behind her. Michael stepped out of the black fabric and molded his body to her back.

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

Michael’s hand traveled down her body, past her throat, breasts, navel. He slipped two fingers between her folds and brushed lightly at her sensitized flesh. The other hand was caressing the undersides of her breasts. Nikita’s hands fluttered; she didn’t know where to put them. She lifted one arm to tangle in Michael’s hair and the other covered his hand at her breasts.

Nikita clenched tightly at Michael’s hair as he slipped two fingers inside her. As he stroked her inner walls, her hips bucked against his hand.

This time, she kept her feverish gaze locked on his. Her hips bucked again as his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Impatience was written over her flushed face. He raised his left hand and threaded his fingers through her hair. He rubbed the moisture from her arousal over the other peak of her breast.

Guided by the gentle pressure of his upper body, Nikita leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of the mirror. His left hand and arm covered hers. His right, he wrapped securely around her narrow waist.

"My heaven is in front of me," he whispered to her reflection. And then he was in her.

She gasped as he filled her to the hilt; Nikita could see him visibly restrain himself and wait for her to adjust to the position. Slowly, he began stroking into her, pulling out almost all the way and rotating his hips. Eventually, Nikita’s need for more of him made her impatient. She matched his thrusts and squeezed with her inner muscles to keep him inside longer.

Michael responded by deepening his stroke, growing even harder inside her from the friction.

And still their eyes were locked.

Michael thrust faster and harder, moving the hand from her waist to her clit; he circled it with the rough pad of his thumb. Once. Twice.

The combined sensations drove Nikita over the edge. Her eyelids fluttered, but remained open. Her pupils dilated, pulse roared; all sound turned into a low buzz in her ears. But when she saw Michael, felt his frenzied final stroke in her, saw his half-lidded eyes and open, panting mouth, it pushed her into a higher sensory plane.

Every inch of her skin tingled; her skin burned where it touched his. The blood in her veins turned to liquid fire. Nikita spiraled up, forgetting how to stand, how to breathe, knowing that Michael spiraled with her.

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

Nikita moved in a daze. Her senses were dulled and her mind commanded her body sluggishly. She felt the same light-headed weakness as when she had bummed smokes on an empty stomach during her earlier years. The same feebleness as when the doctors in med lab gave her industrial strength painkillers after a long, sleepless mission and then expected her to be able to walk under her own power.

Or when Michael decided to make violent, intense love to her.

Nikita glanced in the mirror and saw Michael shrugging on his jacket. His eyes met hers, and Nikita watched as he walked to join her. His slow, smooth forward motion of bone and muscle had the power to flutter her pulse.

He molded himself to her back again. Nikita pulled his arms around her body so he could hold her up, keep her steady.

"Ready, Ni-ki-ta?" he said to her reflection, rubbing his cheek against hers.

Nikita saw him, saw them, in the mirror and wondered anew at who this couple was that fit perfectly together, devoid of inhibition.

"Yeah," she whispered back, incapable of expressing what it was she felt at that moment in such a limited format as words.

A knock fell lightly on the fitting room door. Michael and Nikita turned their heads as one, without breaking any physical contact, as the saleswoman stuck her head through the door.

Her face flushed at the tableau they presented, securely enfolded into one whole. The high color on her cheeks deepened as she took in Nikita’s glassy eyes and the musky scent that permeated the room.

"Uh, have you found a-anything that you like?" the woman stuttered, bracing herself in the doorway.

Nikita arched her neck to look at Michael’s face. "The pearl-colored one, right Michael?" Nikita’s voice was hoarse and thready.

His eyes searched her face hungrily. "Oui. You have a halo when you wear it." An ineffably sweet smile broke over Nikita’s face.

The saleswoman blinked rapidly and cleared her throat. The sensual heat pouring off the couple was sending her pulse raging. To keep herself from fainting dead away, the saleswoman moved into the room and gathered up the pearl-colored dress.

"I’ll take it up to the register. What about accessories?"

Nikita modeled the shoes in front of the mirror, pulling up her slacks to view the straps at her ankles. She swung around to look for Michael’s approval. He sprawled in one of the chairs with a pair of silk gloves slung over one shoulder.

"What do you think, honey?" Nikita teased, approaching him. She reveled in the jealous looks the other women were casting her way. Of all the other husbands in the boutique holding their wives’ hand bags, only Michael was attentive and far from tame. He was entirely focused on her, and she him.

"Perfection." His accent caressed the syllables. He stood up and motioned for her to take his seat. Michael knelt down and began unwinding the straps from her ankles. Nikita clenched her hands on the armrests of the chair; the soft pads of his fingers were doing devastating things to the insides of her ankles and the bottoms of her feet. With one last caress, he moved to the other foot. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Nikita brushed her fingers through the rough-silk texture of his hair.

Michael gently fitted her pumps back on her feet and rose in one fluid motion. He held out his hand. "Done?"

Nikita grasped his hand and pulled herself up, linking her arm with his. "No. I need jewelry."

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

"Is Monsieur certain he would like this piece?" The sales clerk at the jewelry store was a stuffy, older man. He dipped one hand into his waistcoat and examined the credit card that Michael had handed him.

"Yes." Michael’s answer was unequivocal. He leaned against the glass counter and brushed an imaginary fluff of lint from his Gaultier suit. Nikita stood, grinning, behind him. When the clerk waffled, she propped her chin on Michael’s shoulder.

"Is he worried about our credit limit, sweetie?" she asked Michael brightly.

"Hush, Nikita," Michael told her, stopping a reply by tugging her lower lip between his teeth.

"A-hem," the sales clerk cleared his throat. Michael broke the kiss and licked his lips, before turning his stare back to the clerk.

"Yes?"

The clerk appeared slightly offended by Michael’s brusque tone. "Is Monsieur certain--"

"Do it," Michael interrupted. He hadn’t shifted his position, but his bemused air had dissipated into a tangible choler, crackling through the intervening space by way of Michael’s quicksilver eyes.

The sales clerk cleared his throat and began ringing up the order, delicately folding the string of pearls into a velvet box. He punched the numbers into the computer. Nikita could tell when the information regarding the credit limit appeared on the screen; his eyes widened, bulged, and finally blinked. At the sight of all those zeros, an unctuous manner slithered over him like a second skin.

Michael signed the receipt dispassionately.

"I am terribly sorry about all the trouble. I do hope you will continue to shop here in the future," he said.

Michael gathered up the bag. "I’m sure we won’t."

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

Right after the confrontation in the jewelry store, Nikita realized that they were passing a Baskin Robbins. Her stomach growled audibly at the thought of ice cream. She and Michael had skipped dinner to complete their shopping before the mall closed.

Ever observant, Michael swung around and pressed the back of his hand against her rumbling tummy.

She flicked her eyes to the menu. Michael followed her gaze. "Buy me an ice cream cone?" she asked, opening her eyes saucer-wide and pouting innocently.

He nodded, a smile ghosting his face as he led her to the nearly empty counter.

"Can I help you?"

"Two scoops of Triple Chocolate Fudge on a sugar cone, please," Nikita ordered. Her cheeks flushed with anticipation; due to her unhappy childhood, ice cream was always a special treat. "What about you, Michael?"

He kneaded her neck from behind with his fingers. "I’m fine."

When the cashier quoted her a price, Nikita reached around and dug into the front of Michael’s pants for change. Nikita gave him a quick kiss on the nose at his heated gaze and turned back to the very flustered girl in an apron.

Nikita lapped at the ice cream the moment the cashier handed it to her, nearly dripping melted ice cream on her blouse when she received her change. Michael started to lead her away, but found Nikita lacked the coordination to eat and walk simultaneously. Feeling Michael stare at her for a few minutes while she devoured the ice cream, she thrust the cone under his nose. "Try some."

His amused gaze met hers and held contact as he leaned forward and darted his tongue into the thick, chocolate concoction. There was a dab of chocolate at the corner of his mouth when he pulled back. Nikita held the cone to one side and leaned forward to flick her tongue lightly at the spot.

Michael tilted his head and ran his tongue along the rim of her lips, capturing her mouth at her involuntary gasp. His lips were cool and sleek on hers, tasting faintly of chocolate.

Suddenly, Nikita jerked back. "Oh, damn!"

Melted chocolate ran from the cone and down her hand, where it was slowly dripping to the floor.

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

Nikita transferred the cone to her other hand and looked helplessly at Michael. Rather than returning to the counter and taking a handful of napkins, Michael lifted her wrist to his mouth. With the complacent delicacy of a jungle cat, he began lapping at the chocolate rivulets that ran along her hand and wrist.

Nikita stepped forward and leaned against Michael for support, bumping her elbow on the packages she had thrust into his arms; his hot tongue tingled the sensitive skin on her inner wrists, causing her pulse to thrum pleasurably in her ears.

Whether it was a conscious decision, Michael’s distracting mouth kept Nikita from finishing the cone. When he released her right hand, chocolate had overflowed onto the other one. He raised an eyebrow.

"Oops?" Nikita shrugged, a half-smile tugging her cheek. Michael guided the cone in her sticky hand to her mouth.

"Eat."

Nikita crunched obligingly at the leaking sugar cone, almost choking when Michael tilted his head to lick the chocolate drippings from her hand again. When her knees trembled, Michael pulled her hips to his with his free hand. His fingers drew lazy circles on her lower back.

Nikita crunched at the cone faster, determined that Michael’s mouth soon be occupied somewhere else. The last bite disappeared into her mouth and Nikita was one breath away from tasting Michael’s lips.

"Excuse me."

Nikita ignored the imperious voice and fluttered a breathy, half-kiss over Michael’s warm lips.

"Excuse me," the voice continued again. "This is so disgusting."

Nikita wrenched her mouth from Michael’s and turned towards the speaker. Then she looked down. The arrogant voice belonged to a teenage girl, short, with braided hair and multiple piercings. Another girl with cropped, green-dyed hair tugged on her arm, attempting to pull her away.

"Come on, Sam. Let’s go."

Sam wrenched her elbow out of her friend’s grasp and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. "This is a public place," she snapped.

Nikita hazarded a glance at Michael’s face. He had adopted the same wickedly amused look as when he had shown up at her apartment the one time Nikita had turned off her cellular. She had only wanted one uninterrupted hour with her boyfriend, Gray. Michael had knocked on her door and introduced himself as her cousin, an art dealer. His easy manner and wild claims that Nikita "talked about Gray all the time" had been the one incontrovertible piece of evidence, Nikita decided, that Michael definitely had retained possession of a sense of humor.

Nikita wrenched her gaze from Michael’s arresting visage and gave the girl a once over. "Your point being?"

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

"There are children here," the girl responded. She looked as though she might stamp her foot in frustration.

Nikita’s eyes narrowed when Michael began nuzzling her earlobe. "Children like you?" she challenged quietly.

Sam huffed in reaction to the insult and lifted her chin. "There’s a time and place for that," she waved her hand at them disgustedly, "kind of thing. Get a room."

Oh, but they had a room, Nikita thought. With a mirror. And a shower. The absence of Michael’s warmth pressed to her body yanked Nikita’s mind from that errant train of thought. Nikita barely registered the packages settling at her feet.

She saw the change come over him, the subtle rippling of facial muscles that signaled that Michael had turned on his raw sensuality like throwing a switch. Nikita knew the difference, now, between that Michael and her Michael. She knew that when Michael was with her, all training and pretense were stripped away. His ardent glances and impassioned kisses stemmed from real emotion, real attraction. Together, they were kinetic.

That realization didn’t help Nikita any when Michael advanced on the girl, intent on his prey. It didn’t help any when the girl froze, a small animal mesmerized by the panther’s gaze. Nikita was jealous that his warmth was gone, his face out of reach, his attentions diverted from her for one second.

Nikita wasn’t jealous of the girl. She had learned better.

Michael halted only inches away, invading the girl’s personal space with his body and his projected magnetism. His eyes searched her face, pausing briefly at her trembling lips.

"Is your name Samantha?" His soft voice rippled through the air, imbuing the syllables of her name with a sensual foreignness.

Bereft of speech, the girl nodded jerkily. Her green-haired friend gasped.

Michael reached out and gently pulled one hand free from her tightly clenched arms. He ran the fingers of his other hand over her palm. "Forgive me, petite. When it comes to my ‘Kita, I can’t control myself."

Nikita’s pulse soared at his voice, at his admission. Her heart stuttered as Michael turned the girl’s palm over and brushed her knuckles with a kiss. The skin of her hand tingled at the tactile memory. Michael gently lowered the stunned girl’s hand and backed away.

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

Nikita stepped through the door that Michael held open for her; the plastic garment bag, hooked on one finger, trailed over one finger.

"Michael."

"I see it."

Moments later, she found him settling his jacket securely around her shoulders. Nikita hitched her neck around, intending to give him an amused grin. She was a cold op, not a shrinking violet. "Michael..."

His fingertips brushed against her lips, face half-illuminated by the mall’s fluorescent lights. "Let me," he pleaded, silently willing her to let him pretend.

Unwilling to break the spell, Nikita whispered, "Do we run for it?"

Michael hefted the bags in his hand and gave an evaluating glance out the doors. When his eyes slid back to her face, his lips twitched playfully. "Race you."

They darted into the dark, heavy rain drops splattering on their hair and cheeks. Nikita giggled as she pushed Michael to the side, taking the lead with the garment bag a plume of plastic behind her.

Michael tapped her on the shoulder as he ran past, instantly regaining his balance from her playful shove. He was at the side door of the black van several seconds ahead of her, unlocking it and setting the shopping bags inside. He held out his hand for her dress. Nikita gave it to him and watched in surprise as he tossed the bag into the back and pulled the door shut. Michael rested his back against the black mission van and crossed his arms in front of him.

Rain pelted down between them. Nikita shivered from the cool rain and the after effects of the ice cream. "Michael," she protested, a quaver creeping into her voice from the chill. He reached forward and pulled Nikita’s shivering body snug against his hips.

The faint protestations of damp cloth rubbing at damp cloth were overwhelmed by Michael’s distorted moan. "Ni-ki-ta." Her shivering body and their wet clothes were creating an intense friction, hardening him. The first spark of heat bloomed low in Nikita’s belly, raging to life when Michael slanted his lips over her mouth.

His lips were cool and slick. Michael’s tongue, slipping past her lips to tangle with hers, was scalding and insistent.

Surfacing, breathless from the kiss, Nikita’s fingertips burned and she wondered at it. Her fingers were touching Michael’s chest, scorched through the sodden fabric.

Michael fastened his lips to her neck and fumbled for the door of the van. Nikita lent a hand and they wrenched the door open, tumbling inside.

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

Michael pulled himself back into the van with his elbows. Nikita followed him in on her hands and knees, lips locked with his. When their feet cleared the door, Michael maneuvered himself to his knees, nibbling at Nikita’s throat. She felt his muscles flex as he slammed the door shut behind her.

Nikita clawed at his sodden T-shirt, his jacket falling off her shoulders in her eagerness. She flung the damp cloth into a corner and ran her palms down his smooth, glistening skin. His muscles bunched and Michael pulled her around, lying her flat on the gray carpet in the van.

He loomed over her, cold droplets of water falling from his hair to land on the heated skin of her face and neck. Michael teased the buttons open on her blouse, gently peeling the silk back from her moist skin. Then he leaned forward, his mouth hovering just above her breastbone, and blew a soft puff of warm air. He continued down her body, their only contact through his heated breath.

Nikita watched him avidly as he reached the valley between her breasts, darting out his tongue to lap up the drops of water collecting there. Nikita arched her back in pleasure and Michael continued down, nuzzling her abdomen. His mouth ravished her belly button while his dexterous fingers removed her belt. He dragged his fingers down the sides of her legs as he peeled her slacks and panties from her writhing body, pulling off her shoes.

He shook his head as he prowled back up her body, scattering another wash of cold droplets over her naked thighs and abdomen. Nikita hissed with pleasure and propped herself up on her elbows.

She met Michael’s eyes and watched a slow smile spread over his face at the need that must have been written on her every clenched muscle. His hands slid under her thighs, pulling them apart and resting their backs on his warm shoulders. Michael rubbed his stubbled cheek teasingly against her inner thigh, biting the tender skin when she squeezed his neck.

Nikita’s thighs squeezed again in violent reaction to the first questing pass of his tongue over the engorged flesh of her inner folds. His hot tongue probed again; the chill water dripped from his hair, onto her thighs and the apex Michael lovingly explored. The jumble of sensations took Nikita’s breath away. When Michael penetrated her with his tongue, black spots edged her vision and Nikita clutched at air.

His hands held her bucking hips firmly in place, fingers hypnotically brushing the tender, ticklish skin at her waist. Michael’s tongue stroked into her firmly, bringing his thumb to stroke a counterpoint against Nikita’s clit.

Nikita heard herself breathing raggedly as the pressure built quickly in her groin. She threaded her fingers through Michael’s wet hair to pull his mouth closer to her pleasure.

Nikita arched her back in ecstasy as her orgasm flowed through her, every muscle taut. Michael’s lips were fastened around her tiny nub, the suction sending a firestorm rippling out from the source.

Nikita’s mouth opened but no sound came out, thighs tightly squeezed around Michael’s neck as she gasped in air in rapid-fire breaths.

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

When Nikita could pry open her eyes, she saw Michael waiting patiently. Saw his need to ravage sublimated to his stronger desire to please her. His animal want was etched every hard plane of his face and flickered in the green hue of his eyes.

Nikita was infused by the need to reciprocate his domination, the need to control his passion for him. The need to dole out his pleasure and to make him burn.

Nikita reversed their positions, crawling up to straddle the straining bulge in Michael’s pants She extricated herself from her soaked blouse and swatted Michael’s hands away when they caressed upwards.

"You don’t move unless I tell you," she purred. Something sparked in Michael’s eyes as he rolled back into a submissive position.

"Am I under orders to please you?"

Nikita reared her head back, clenching her thighs over Michael’s. That’s a lingering demon, she thought, that will be exorcised right now. She unclasped her bra and deliberately shrugged the straps down her arms. The scrap of lace settled on Michael’s chest. Then Nikita lunged forward, her lips hovering above his sensual mouth. Her hair formed a damp curtain around their faces.

"Yes," she answered huskily. "You are." She felt his breath catch.

"Good," he murmured.

Encouraged by his reply, Nikita reached out her hands and captured his wrists above his head. She dipped her neck down and dragged her hair across his chest, leaving damp trails of water in its wake. Nikita flipped her hair back over her shoulders with a jerk of her neck and leaned back down to clean the water with her lips and the tip of her tongue.

When her searching mouth brushed over his flat nipple, once, twice, she felt his muscles clench and release beneath her. Nikita’s mouth fastened on the sensitive nub and she heard a ragged sigh escape his lips.

Then she moved again, down his body, mimicking his earlier actions. Nikita could feel Michael’s body quiver when she darted her tongue into his navel, biting at the soft skin just above his belt.

She began to feel an answering throb when she realized the amount of control he was exerting upon his powerful body: a powerful body that, for the moment, was all hers.

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

Nikita saw Michael gliding across the room in his tuxedo, with two glasses of champagne in his hands. She suppressed a smile as he ignored the various come-hither stares and blatant attempts to lure him into conversation. Michael was sleek and unapproachable; the man-eaters in the ritzy crowd were fairly champing at the bit to get his attention.

Nikita had threatened him before he left her side. "Michael, if you leave me here with Krissy and Pfizer for more than five minutes, I swear I’ll tell everyone in Section that you read poetry."

It had been an empty vow, but Nikita’s face had warmed at the knowing gleam in his eye. He had bent to ostensibly communicate over the loud chatter; instead, he had traced the outline of her non-linked ear with his tongue and whispered some unintelligible French phrase.

Nikita couldn’t translate it, but she understood it. He had used the same phrase back in the mission van--

Oh, God, Nikita thought. Of all the places.

Nikita had told Michael he couldn’t move, but she hadn’t barred Michael from speaking. His soft, fluid voice had taunted her, teased her. Inflamed her.

"Am I under orders to please you?"

His pleasure at her spoken, "yes," had finally driven out one of her and Michael’s past demons. After receiving such intense pleasure from Michael, both physically and spiritually, Nikita had wanted to dominate him. She had done so, momentarily. Then Michael began to speak, and his words caressed her as intimately as his now captive hands had done only moments earlier. In the jumble of English and French, along with a scattering of phrases in languages Nikita could barely recognize, she heard desire. She heard beauty. Nikita heard love.

"Don’t you think so?"

Nikita registered that Krissy’s high voice had been sounding in her ears for several minutes. Nikita’s eyebrows knitted together and she turned her attention to the stylish blonde woman, studiously ignoring the persistent ache in her groin.

"Excuse me, Krissy. What were you saying?" Nikita prompted.

Pfizer snorted loudly and downed the rest of his champagne. "Blondes! They’re all alike!"

Michael materialized at her side, pressing the cool champagne glass into her hand. "Target sighted, Birkoff." Nikita took a delicate sip of the liquid, slanting her eyes at Michael’s face. He nodded to her. "Moving to intercept."

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

Michael danced her past Jose Fernandez, and Nikita grimly sublimated her emotions to flirt with the target. He was a dark, compact man. Not unhandsome. He looked younger than his age.

Vanity, Nikita thought grimly, always brings the powerful down to a level of vulnerability. Why Fernandez could possibly think she would be interested when she was dancing in Michael’s arms, Nikita could not fathom.

Maybe she could. Seduction and the manipulation of desire were both remarkably successful techniques. If it were Michael giving her a heated gaze while dancing with another woman, Nikita knew she would follow him to the ends of the earth at a whispered suggestion.

Perhaps she was no different from Jose Fernandez, in that respect. Then again, maybe it was just Michael.

Nikita stepped gracefully away from Michael as the song ended, feeling her skin tingle where his hands had been. She ignored the anguished cries of her body and heart as Michael swept another woman onto the dance floor. Nikita drew in a steadying breath, hoping selfishly that he was feeling the same.

Jose Fernandez had spotted her, standing alone near the bar. Nikita knew he was making his way over to her without looking, and without asking Birkoff under her breath.

"What’s a beautiful woman like you doing alone?" a softly accented voice murmured in her ear. Nikita allowed a lushly seductive smile to curve her lips and turned to face the target.

"I’m not alone, now," she purred. Her training stopped her from tracking Michael across the room as he danced with a petite Asian woman. In fact, Nikita forced herself to block Michael out completely as she leisurely invited Fernandez to explore a back room.

It didn’t take her very long to convince him. Nikita couldn’t decide whether to feel pride in her work, or wonder if she had played it too easy. Seduction was old hat for her, but it was extremely stupid to get complacent about it.

From the expectant gleam in the target’s eye and his roving hands as she led him out into the dark recesses of the mansion, she knew her deception had been undetected. Nikita’s wariness dispersed into a cloud of satisfaction when black-clad operatives thrust a thrashing Fernandez into a chair. Nikita moved to a corner to observe.

They were strapping him in as Michael walked through the door. Although he was resplendent in his tuxedo, Michael’s demeanor was arctic. He held up two fingers and motioned down the hall. Two operatives broke away from the shadows and moved into position.

"What it this all about?" Fernandez asked laconically. Michael unbuttoned his jacket with one hand and slipped his hands into his pockets. The action revealed Michael’s holster and the gleaming gun nestled under his arm. Michael paced behind Fernandez, who twisted his neck around in an attempt to keep Michael in his line of sight. "Who are you?"

Michael still didn’t answer.

"DEA? FBI?"

Michael walked back in front of Fernandez and clasped his hands loosely.

"Don’t tell me you are a Spook," Jose Fernandez continued, his mouth twisted into an arrogant grin. Michael gave him a glacial smile that didn’t touch his eyes; somehow, the smile was more frightening than his enigmatic silence or his blank stare. Fernandez’s grin slipped from his face and his leg developed a nervous jig.

"What do you want?" he demanded, near hysteria, accent sharply pronounced.

"We have your colleagues. Antonio Gutierrez and James Petersen. They’ve been very… forthcoming," Michael said quietly.

The skin on the target’s face sallowed. "What is this?"

"We can crush your operation within hours," Michael said. "We know your major contacts, distributors, and buyers."

"What do you want from me?" This time, the question was an imploring whisper.

Michael moved forward until he loomed over the target and he was forced to crane his neck to continue looking at his captor. "You have taken a contract out on Jeffrey Pfizer’s life. We don’t appreciate that."

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

Nikita’s footsteps echoed through the stark hallway in Section. Michael had called twenty minutes prior and whispered, "Josephine." His voice reminded her of the last time she had seen him, more than a week ago.

The look of shock on Pfizer’s face had been priceless. Michael had waltzed up to him, Nikita clinging to his arm, and had actually been pleasant.

"We’ll need to wait for confirmation, but I believe your problem has been resolved satisfactorily," Michael had said. Nikita chuckled at his diplomatic language.

"Yeah, you resolved him satisfactorily, all right," she commented dryly.

"Ni-ki-ta," he warned. His warm palm slid over her hand on his arm.

But the champagne and the idea of finally getting away from the Pfizers made her bold. "He wet his pants, Michael."

Pfizer’s eyes had gone very round. "He w-what? Who?"

"The man who wanted to kill you. He pissed himself. Michael can be very intimidating, you know," Nikita drawled on recklessly. Michael dropped her arm and slid his hand around her waist, pulling her tightly to his side.

Michael dipped his head to her un-linked ear. "Hush, Ni-ki-ta." His lips brushed against her earlobe.

One didn’t refuse an order like that, Nikita thought, and promptly became the docile wife of the profile. Pfizer still hadn’t lost the poleaxed look when Birkoff called them in.

Nikita finally reached Walter’s counter. He was rummaging around behind the gate. "Walter! Do you know what mission’s on the pad?"

Nikita had learned from Michael that it was always better to be prepared, especially after a week’s down time.

"Hey, sugar," he greeted, shoving up the gate and joining her at his counter. "Nothing’s being sent up. I’ve only got the weapon’s manifest for the Kue mission, and that left egress hours ago."

Ah, that explained the noise coming from Michael’s end, Nikita thought suddenly. She knew the Kue mission was his.

"Then why-" she spoke aloud, halting when Walter gave her a conspiratorial look.

"I wanted to show you this juiced up nine millimeter. I’ve already had Michael field test it."

Walter extended the gun to her, and Nikita went through the motions of examining it. Nine? Michael?

Could Michael, in his oblique way, be attempting to communicate with her?

"I think Birkoff wanted to see you," Walter said, gathering up the nine-millimeter and moving it underneath the counter-top. Nikita stood slowly and threw him a curious glance.

"Thanks, Walter."

"Hi, Nikita," Birkoff said absentmindedly when she ambled to his console.

"You wanted to see me?" she prompted, caging the computer genius with her arms.

He swiveled his chair around. "Have you been to Volare’s recently?"

"Not really," she said. "Why?"

"I was asking Michael about clubs and he suggested it. I just wanted to know what you thought," Birkoff rambled, catching Nikita’s eye as she stepped away. He's getting better at this deception thing, Nikita thought. He’s certainly better than Walter.

"I liked it. You should get out, have some fun," she suggested, edging away. It was already five, and Nikita had just decided she needed to get a new dress.

"See you later, Nikita," Birkoff called to her retreating back, letting her know she was officially "not needed".

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

It was a quarter after nine and Nikita sipped anxiously at her champagne. She was perched on a bar stool in Volare’s, wearing a slinky blue dress with outrageously high slits up each thigh. She toyed with the wedding ring on her finger. She’d forgotten to take it off after debriefing. Madeline, it seemed, had also overlooked it.

Nikita bit her lip as possibilities for Michael’s absence crowded into her brain. Maybe something had gone wrong on the mission. Or he was delayed in debrief. Maybe he changed his mind.

No. He wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble if he didn’t intend to go through with it. Michael was nothing, if not thorough.

Nikita fought the image of a bloody Michael from her mind. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, dwell on that. If her imagination played out all the horrible things that could be happening to Michael at any given moment, she’d be throwing up in the bathroom in no time.

No. She wouldn’t doubt him, yet. Michael had made an effort, through the push and pull of daily life at Section. He’d nudged aside the politics and maneuvering for the moment to be with her. Patience was something Nikita was finally learning.

Nikita fidgeted and took another sip of her drink. She knew the instant Michael entered the building.

There was an electric charge in the air. The couple next to her chatted on as if nothing had happened, but Nikita’s back straightened. She smoothed her hair. Crossed her legs, letting the slit ride dangerously high. When she knew Michael was near, Nikita turned.

He was walking towards her, wearing black. Leather pants, leather jacket, T-shirt. He was carrying his motorcycle helmet under one arm and a small valise in the other. His hair was slightly mussed, and Nikita knew that he must have come straight from debrief.

Dangerous beauty, Nikita thought idly, resting her head on one palm.

Nikita would have sworn she heard a snapping sound when their eyes connected across the room. Unnoticed, a man headed back to his seat after seeing who the tall blonde was eyeing.

"Hi," he said. He lowered himself gracefully onto the bar stool next to her.

Nikita ran her index finger around the edge of her glass. "You’re late."

He smiled for her. "It couldn’t be avoided."

The bartender interrupted them momentarily, getting Michael a scotch, neat.

"Why are we here, Michael?" Nikita finally asked, allowing her vulnerability to show on her face.

Michael didn’t look away. "I consider myself still under orders," he said carefully.

"Am I under orders to please you?"

"Yes," she answered huskily. "You are." She felt his breath catch.

"Good," he murmured.

Nikita felt like her eyebrows must be buried in her hairline. "Still… under orders?" she repeated. Her stomach flip-flopped through an entire gymnastic floor routine.

Michael ducked his head down in amusement, taking a sip of scotch. Had his hair been longer, it would have fallen endearingly into his face. "Yes."

Nikita took a deep breath to steady herself. Then she made a decision. The stool squeaked in protest as she pulled it closer to Michael so that their knees touched. "Then let the games begin," she said saucily. Michael actually grinned and reached for the valise as she took another sip.

"Look."

Nikita clicked open the locks and cracked the case open. Nestled inside were a pair of neatly folded suede chaps. She snapped the lid shut and downed the rest of her drink in one gulp.

"You win. Let’s go."

The End

written by Shrift

Return to NC-17 La Femme Nikita Fan Fiction

©1999 La Femme Fiction

people have read this fic since April 2nd, 1999