Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just playing. I'll put'em back when I'm done.

Rating: NC-17

Synopsis: Making up can be such sweet misery.

"You have to go now!"

Those words still rang in her mind. She had said them to his ghost, told him to leave, to go away, so that she might live and be whatever she could be with the remains of her shattered heart still trying to uphold some kind of rudimentary function inside her rib cage.

Somehow, it didn't seem fair. He had died. She had seen him die. She had held him, tried to comfort him, tried to console herself with the fact that she would now have to face life without him, alone, marooned in her own galaxy.

And then they had returned, to Moya. And there he was, short of a few memories that had made up their whole relationship, but still him. His mannerisms, his words, his whole way. He was John, her John, and yet he wasn't. It was hard to define. Maybe it was her mind's way of dealing with the grief, drawing parallels between the two, comparing them and finding no differences. But there were none. He didn't have the memories, but that didn't make him any less John Crichton.

Raising her eyes, she briefly gazed at him across the table in the galley, noting the telltale signs of his physical difference. The missing scar above his eyebrow. The missing contentment in his expression. This one was still haunted by the Scorpius-clone. This one was still suffering silently.

With an inaudible sigh, she dropped her gaze to her plate and the tasteless blob of a foodcube, which had always been enough before, but which was nothing to her now. She wanted real food, something that had taste, something that looked like more than this square of green nothingness, designed to last forever and keep the body satisfied.

But what about the mind? Wasn't the mind supposed to be satisfied as well? Wasn't that the whole idea with living? She nearly smiled at her own thoughts. Not Sebacean thoughts. Not Peacekeeper thoughts. Those were Human thoughts. Earth-people thoughts. John thoughts.

What was the deal about being happy anyway? Happiness was frail and useless. It had no real purpose and it could be created artificially. So, why did Humans strive to be happy instead of fulfilling whatever role their births had put them in? Or didn't they have a role? Were they born just for the frell of it? Were they byproducts of reckless recreation, which had no other purpose than to fulfill some unexplained need to reproduce?

She found herself glancing quickly over at him again, briefly catching his eyes as he did the same. She didn't flinch, didn't look away, but he did. A look of guilt flashed over his face and he quickly dropped his eyes to the foodcube, untouched, residing on his plate. His eyes were sad. She had learned to identify that emotion. She had seen it in D'Argo's eyes when he thought of his son, of his wife, of his lost opportunity to marry again. She had seen it in Zhaan's eyes when she had remembered her crime, had felt guilty for losing control. She saw it in Chiana's eyes whenever she remembered whatever might make her sad. Her brother, perhaps, or the betrayal by her own people.

Aeryn didn't know which was worse. The Peacekeepers had disowned her, mostly because of Crais. She had learned that her previous life had been worth nothing, that she had feelings and rights. But those feelings had brought her to this point where she knew neither in nor out, didn't know how to respond, how to react. Was it worse to realize that your whole race would rather put you in suspended animation for one hundred cycles to mess with your mind and make you less than you were than to know that the corps you had been born into wanted to kill you?

She figured that her destiny, her fate did not differ that much from Chiana's. But unlike herself, Chiana was a sensuous being, not ready to commit to anything but her own wants and needs, but willing to hand out her warmth and laughter at the spur of a moment. Aeryn's eyes flicked to the young Nebari, who was teasing her Interion counterpart mercilessly and giggling delightedly at the hissy-fit responses that produced. If anyone on Moya could teach her how to behave around men from other races, it was Chiana.

That thought brought a smile to her lips, which she was quick to hide. They were all emotional creatures, no matter what creed, race or level they came from. Even Rygel was emotional at times. Even Rygel had confessed to having had a better half, a female he had wanted to be with. Zhaan had also had a better half. She had killed him, of course, but she had known happiness. D'Argo had been married, had spawned a child, both lost to him now. But he had also known happiness. Chiana had her brother. And for a brief while, she'd had D'Argo. Pilot and Moya had each other. Stark and Zhaan did have each other while she was still with them. It seemed like everybody had been in love at one time or another.

Glancing back over at John, she felt a new realization blooming in her mind. All of them had loved twice, hadn't they? Zhaan had loved the man she had killed, but she had also loved Stark. Chiana loved her brother, albeit platonically, and she had loved D'Argo and his son. Moya and Pilot would always have each other unless some Peacekeeper bastard decided they shouldn't be bonded any more. So why couldn't she love John again? How many did she know of who had this unique chance to re-find the one they had lost? None that she could think of.

"Scorpius has a problem!"

Her contemplations were interrupted when Crais strode into the galley, looking upset about whatever discovery he had made. He looked anything but happy.

"So? Nobody cares about Scorpius and his problems," Chiana replied, looking annoyed.

"You're right about that," D'Argo agreed, his eyes on Crais.

"It's a problem that concerns us all," Crais claimed, his gaze settling on John who looked rather indifferent and kept staring at his foodcube.

"Well?" Rygel asked, eying the ex-Peacekeeper with as much annoyance as Chiana had displayed.

"He has reached an impasse in his work," Crais strove to explain. "I just picked up a message on the grid. The effort to find Moya has been doubled. Tripled even. He wants Crichton back at any cost."

John raised his head, his eyes on Aeryn for a mere microt before he turned his head to face Crais. "What the hell does he want from me now?"

Aeryn eyed him, feeling her stomach knot at the sound of sheer hopelessness in his voice. He sounded defeated already.

"Isn't it obvious?" Crais asked, oblivious to the other man's discomfort. "He must have encountered a problem with the wormhole technology you have hidden away in your brain. He wants you back to find the answer."

John flinched visibly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "That's just great," he mumbled. "Just what I needed to make the day perfect."

With a frown, Aeryn followed the exchange between Crais and John. John's response was far less heated than she had expected from him. He had made it continuously clear that he would not go back in the Aurora chair or be re-captured by Scorpius and now that he learned that Scorpius had upped the search for him again, he didn't lose his cool. He got angry, but he didn't lose his cool.

"I hope you understand the implications of this, Crichton," Crais said in a biting tone of voice. "We are all at risk here. It's not only you."

"I know that, Crais," John replied, giving him a dark look to underline his words. "What do you want me to do about it, huh? I can't dissuade ..." he continued, but trailed off in the middle of it, his expression becoming stony. Then he dropped his gaze and turned back to his plate. "I'll deal with it," he said, his tone as chilly as Crais'.

"Deal with it? How?" Aeryn asked, knowing full well what had not been said. Her gaze rested on John, demanding an answer.

He merely stared at his plate and made no move to reply.

"No," she said. She could not believe that Crais could even think of demanding such a sacrifice from any of them. "There is no way that we are going to hand anybody over to anyone. I don't care what the consequences are."

"Be reasonable, Officer Sun," Crais tried.

Aeryn found herself losing control over her otherwise well-established feelings as she rose, her hands on the table top, her eyes glowing with the intensity of her dislike of the mere idea. "Reasonable? If it hadn't been for you and your vengefulness, Scorpius would never have known of John's existence. He would never have hurt him, never have put that frelling chip in his brain. If anybody should be reminded to be reasonable here, it would have to be you," she snarled, feeling her anger rise. She was indignant on behalf of John. She was scared to lose him again and that proved to her the one thing she had tried to determine earlier.

"I agree," D'Argo said and rose, too.

"So do I," Rygel said, raising his head as high as he could, surprising all present with jumping to John's defense.

"We guard our own," Aeryn stated and straightened her back while folding her arms over her chest. "Nobody is going anywhere and that's final. We stick together and watch each others backs. That's what we do best anyway."

"But ..." Crais tried, his expression showing bewilderment at her reaction.

"No buts," D'Argo inserted, his tone of voice strong. "As Aeryn said, we guard our own. We will find a way out of this."

Aeryn felt a certain amount of elation that D'Argo and Rygel were both agreeing with her. What she didn't like was that John said nothing. He just sat there, his eyes on his plate, and it gave her a bad feeling. "Nobody's going anywhere. We stay together," she agreed.

Crais shook his head, his expression stuck somewhere between annoyed and dismayed. "You are insane," he claimed. "All of you. I am certain that Crichton knows how crazy you really are. For him to remain aboard Moya would be to condemn all of us. I am sorry, but I will not take that chance. Anyone not willing to die for a lost cause can come with me. I will leave on Talyn within the arn."

Aeryn felt her core temperature rise as she stared at him. "Coward," she snarled.

"What did you just call me?" Crais demanded, his expression tensing.

"I called you a frelling coward," she repeated, her eyes glowing with anger. "I have realized that this is what you do best, isn't it, Crais? You run away. Whenever there is the slightest opposition, you turn tail and run. Well, run then. Run away like you always do. Hide out there in the nothingness and let us deal with a very real threat to one of our friends."

She eyed him, waiting for a response. If she was right, he would avoid the confrontation and leave. If she was mistaken, she would apologize to him. But Crais proved her right. He squared his shoulders in a defensive manner, turned on his heel and strode out of the galley, intent on leaving them all behind.

Raising her eyes toward the ceiling, Aeryn thought closely about her options for a moment. "Moya? How does Talyn feel about this?" she then asked.

Her question was answered by a brief silence. Then Pilot's image appeared in the clamshell. "Moya informs me that Talyn is not happy about it, but will comply with Crais' wish to leave."

"Good. Let them leave. But tell Talyn to stay in touch in case we need his help," Aeryn replied.

"Moya has already done so," Pilot said. "What will we do now?" he then asked, a tinge of concern in his voice.

Staring ahead of herself for a moment, she tried to consider all the options she could come up with, which were fairly limited, then looked over at the clamshell. "Tell Moya to head deeper into the Uncharted Territories," she then said.

"Consider it done," Pilot replied and his image disappeared again.

"Aeryn ..." John tried, but she cut him off.

"No, John. We are not going to hand you over to Scorpius and you are not going to go to him yourself either. And there is no way in Hezmana that I will allow you to leave Moya just to protect us. Like it or not, you are not capable of taking care of yourself out here. You'd end up in Peacekeeper hands faster than Moya can fly around a small moon. There will be no discussing it," she said and sat down again.

"You heard Crais. I'm putting you all at risk," he said.

Aeryn looked over at him, met his eyes, and felt her heart skip a beat. If she allowed him to play the hero again, to leave her again, she would die on the inside. She found herself caring less for the rest of the group than for him and knew that she was fueled by selfishness. But she felt she had a right to be selfish now. She had lost him once already. She was not going to lose him again. "You've been putting us all at risk ever since Scorpius discovered that frelling wormhole technology in your mind, John. But that has not convinced any of us to abandon you before. Why should we do so now?"

John blinked rapidly a few times, then glanced around at the others, who met his eyes with determination. "You all feel that way?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course," Chiana said with a chuckle. "Don't think for one microt you'll get rid of us that easily."

"Chiana is right, John. So is Aeryn. We would never abandon you," D'Argo agreed.

"I concur," Rygel said and stuffed another foodcube in his mouth.

"That would be very unblezed," Jool said with determination.

Aeryn nodded in agreement and acceptance of their support, then turned her attention back to John, who looked a little lost and confused.

"I'm ..." John tried, then quickly looked back down at his plate, trying to hide what was too obvious to all of them. "Thanks, guys," he mumbled, his tone somewhat unsteady.

Aeryn merely smiled and returned her attention to her meal with more ardor than before. Something she had never noticed about herself before was that she enjoyed being in charge. But she felt that this battle had been far from won. John was not convinced he should stay. So she would have to give him a reason.


Some time later

He stood very still with some type of tool in one hand and a rag in the other, staring somewhat helplessly at whatever he was trying to fix. Aeryn never took her eyes off him as she slowly made her way into the maintenance bay while she was trying to understand why he attracted her so much. She loved him, would always love him, even though she did not understand that feeling. It made no sense at all.

Tilting her head to one side, she stopped and continued to eye him. He was lost somewhere in his own mind, maybe remembering things from his home, maybe trying to come up with a reason for staying. Or maybe he was trying to convince himself to go to keep them all safe. He just kept giving and giving and never really expected anything in return.

"Hey," she said and clasped her hands behind her back. She knew what she most of all wanted to do right then, but would give it some time before carrying out her emergency plan.

He raised his head a little and looked at her, seemingly surprised to see her. "Hey," he said back, his expression not losing any of the helplessness. He didn't make any move to put down the tool and the rag either.

"What are you doing?" she asked, trying to discern what state of mind he was in.

"Trying to fix ...," he said, waving at the gadget on the worktable, "... this."

She sent a glance to the tabletop, recognizing the lumar-burner, and couldn't help a small smile from slipping over her lips. "You don't even know what it is?" she asked.

He shrugged and looked back down at it for a microt. "No clue," he admitted. "I figured it didn't work, so I tried to fix it. Kind of hard when you don't know what it's supposed to do."

"It's a lumar-burner. A ... torch," she said, trying to explain what a lumar-burner did. "For welding."

"Figures," he mumbled, then put the tool and the rag down next to the burner before looking up to meet her eyes again. "Aeryn, I should go," he added.

"Go where, John? Where do you want to go?" she asked, her expression painfully calm. "You can't honestly tell me that you're considering going back to Scorpius, can you? That would be crazy. You have no chance if you do that. He will get whatever he wants from you and then discard you like a used rag. You know that. There is no mercy to be had in the hands of a Peacekeeper. And even less in the hands of Scorpius."

He stared at her for a breathless microt, then blinked rapidly and looked away. "What do I have to stay for?" he asked, his tone almost meek. "Everybody is going to go home some day. If I go home, he might trace me and I can't risk that."

She understood his preoccupation so much better now, but she felt the need to correct him on one account. "Everybody but me, John. I have nowhere to go," she said. "All I have now is this," she added, making a sweeping gesture to encompass Moya. "I could stay with Pilot and Moya for the rest of my life, but I would miss ... contemporary company." She stepped up to the other side of the workbench and fingered the rag, somewhat lost in thought for a microt. "Until I met you, I didn't know there was more than what I was bred for. What I was raised to do. I was content to serve, to obey, to do as I was told." Hesitating, she tilted her head to the left, her eyes on the rag. "I never knew there was more to life than that," she went on and looked up to meet his eyes. "But you showed me otherwise. I had a life that I liked. I was good at it. It was easy." Smiling vaguely, she shook her head at the thoughts running through her mind. "I am not good with emotions. I don't know what to do with half of them and the other half I just don't understand. I fell in love and I've experienced first hand what it means to have a broken heart. I thought that nothing could undo what had been done when you ... when he died on me. He went off to be the hero. He sacrificed himself for everybody. And all I could think was how unfair it was ... how angry I was at everybody else and him. You." She sighed heavily. "This is so frelling confusing, John. All these emotions, all this ... touchy-feely stuff. I don't know how to handle it. I have no basis for knowing. So, if you leave now, you leave the job half done. Do you want that?"

All while she talked, he had merely stared at her, his expression unreadable. But she was not surprised to see the tears in his eyes. He was emotional, much more so than any Sebacean male she had ever met. And it was both endearing and frustrating at the same time. Half the time she didn't know how to handle her own emotions, let alone his. And he always seemed to turn to her when he was sad or upset about something. What advice could she give him? She didn't know anything about feelings.

"No, I don't want that," he said after a moment and rubbed the back of one hand over his lips before meeting her eyes again. "I want you to be happy, Aeryn. I want you to experience what true bliss is all about. But I don't think I'm the one who can teach you. Not any more."

"Why not?" she asked, braced herself with her hands on the edge of the workbench and leaned a little closer. "You started this. You have to see it through."

He eyed her, his expression tight. "You mean 'he' started this," he corrected her and dropped his gaze to the workbench.

"No, John," she countered. "'You' started this. Cycles ago. You provoked a change in me, but you have to see it through to the end."

With a sigh, he placed his hands on the tabletop and bent his back a little. With his eyes closed, he just stood there for a microt, neck bent, arms tense, and all she wanted was to reach out and touch him. It was almost a physical ache in her. Almost unaware she was doing it, she bit down on the right side of her lower lip and her fingers jerked lightly. So close and yet so far away. Should she dare an approach? Would he push her away?

"I'm not good at this any more," he said and his tone was sad, laced with self-loathing and regret.

The brief rise in her core temperature dropped again and she flinched in almost touchable agony at his tone alone. Then she reached out, placed a hand over his and curled her fingers inward. "If you're not good at this any more, how am I supposed to learn?" she asked and smiled a little when he looked up to face her.

There was a weariness in his eyes, a helpless fear she could not understand, and she realized immediately that she would have pulled back and left him standing there only a cycle ago. Now, however, she grabbed his hand hard.

"I have nothing to teach you, Aeryn," he said and shook his head. To her immediate surprise, he pulled his hand out of hers and took a step back. "Nothing at all. I'm living a lie."

"The frell you are," she countered. "John, we all care about you here. None of us want to see you get hurt. And Cholok knows you've been hurt enough out here."

"Spare me the sermon, Aeryn," he said, his tone suddenly dismissive, his expression tense and pale. "I know how naive I've been. And what a liability I've become. You don't need to remind me."

She briefly closed her eyes. Why did it always come out wrong? Why did they always misunderstand each other? But all the buts and whys would have to wait. Right now she was determined to deter him from leaving, from making his greatest mistake yet. She stepped around the workbench and grabbed his arms. "You are not a liability. That's not what I meant," she tried.

"You may not have meant that, Aeryn, but I am. I am putting you all at risk and I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to any of you because of me," he said and tried to pull back. But this time she wouldn't let go.

"No, John. Get it through your frelling head that we are not wanted because of you. We are wanted because of what we, individually, have done. And we all back you on this," she insisted. "Nobody is backing out. Nobody is turning away."

"But Crais ..." he tried, but Aeryn felt the distinct need to cut him off before he could blunder on about what Craid did and didn't do.

"Forget about Crais. Crais is not important. He's not a friend, he's just another renegade. His opinion doesn't count. What counts is that we stand behind you, that we will never leave you," she said sternly. She moved closer, her hands still locked around his arms. "'I' will never leave you," she stressed.

He blinked, stared at her like a sleeper just awaking from a nightmare. There was something new in his eyes, in his demeanor now, and she felt that she was finally getting through to him. "You?" he asked, his tone hesitant, testing.

"Yes, me," she agreed. "John, I've ... thought a lot about what has happened, about what I would do, what I felt I should do, but none of it matters now. None of it. Because I love you, I love John Crichton, and I cannot and will not face life without you any more."

"You love 'me'?" he asked, disbelief still vying for control in his tone.

"You," she confirmed. "Either one of you. There is no distinction in my mind any more. I love you. Do you understand? If you go away, I cannot go on." It was so hard to make him understand, to say it like it was, but she had realized that it was the only course of action she could take. He was set on 'saving' them all by going away, but she needed him to stay and at this point, she was willing to do whatever it took. She was willing to overcome her own fears and face him dead on.

To prove her point, she released his arms, wrapped her hands around his face and kissed him. He was hesitant at first, careful, almost shy, but as he realized the reality of what she was saying and doing, he opened up and let her in. Within microts, they were consumed by each other, kissing and touching, their hands everywhere, their lips barely apart for a split microt.

The need in her took over any rationality she might have had left and she drove him against the nearest wall, her fingers pulling and tearing at the fabric of his t-shirt. He grunted when his back collided needlessly hard with the wall, but he never let off her, never hesitated even a little.

Pieces of clothing flew this way and that, boots skittered under the worktable, gunbelts hit the floor and were pushed away by bare feet, and somehow they managed to maintain a steady, physical contact through it all.

Naked as the day they were born, they hit the floor. She felt a zipper or a button cutting into her back and she cared nothing for the feeling because it mingled with the heat and the need and the want. She spread her legs, wrapped them around his waist and moaned with pleasure when he entered her, his needs and wants the only important things in the universe right then.

He was needy and rather vocal about it too, groaning deeply when she clenched around him. Even lying on the floor, they were nothing but frantic activity and harsh movement. There was nothing soft and tender about this encounter and neither of them wanted it that way either.

They shifted around, rolled over so he was below her and she ground into him hard enough to almost cause bodily harm, but he made no sound of displeasure, but rather encouraged her to keep going. His right hand was locked almost painfully on her left hip, while his left hand was kneading her right breast. She kept pushing her fingers through his hair, kept running her palms over his face, neck and shoulders, all the while kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

Their coupling continued for what felt like forever and Aeryn couldn't care less is everybody else witnessed this interaction both audibly and visually. All she cared about was how this made her feel. Her mind was boiling with sensation, every dench of her body trembling with sexual exhaustion. Their sweat mingled, their skin slick with it. She slid her breasts over his chest, lapped at his face to relish the taste of the saltiness that was him. He was breathing hard, gulping in air and nearly pressing it out of his lungs again, his lids half closed. She could feel every muscle in his body, tense and jittering, felt every puff of breath like a cooling breeze on her hot, sweaty skin.

They came together in a confusion of tensing muscles and yammering release and after a few rippling after-shocks, she collapsed on top of him, her body as limp at that point as his.

It took him a while to get his breathing back under control, but he finally slipped his arms around her back and shifted a little. "Jesus," he muttered.

Aeryn shifted too and raised her head a little. She felt limp, felt almost incapable of moving. With a bit of convincing, she managed to get her head up high enough to give him a weak smile. "Frell," she replied.

"Not again. We just did," he said in a mock-suffering tone and gave her a tired smirk.

She chuckled, couldn't help herself, and let her head drop back down on his chest. "I love you," she said. Even to herself, her voice sounded slurred.

"Yeah, me too," he countered and wove his fingers into her hair. "Love you, I mean," he added and chuckled half-heartedly.

"Does that mean you're staying?" she asked and raised her head again.

He eyed her for a microt, his expression definitely more relaxed now. "Do I get more of this?" he asked and briefly glanced at her chest.

"That goes without saying," she said and kissed his chin.

"Then, hell yeah. Why would I want to go out there if I can have all this?" he replied and grinned earnestly at her.

She arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "I wouldn't know. I didn't want you to leave in the first place." She kissed his chin again, then ran the tip of her tongue over his lower lip, which made his eyelids flutter half shut for a microt. "And I do love you," she added and slowly sat up.

Her movements caused him to groan a little helplessly, and then he slipped his hands onto her hips. "And I love you," he replied and sat up slowly, his hands trailing up her body. "More than life." His hands slipped under her arms, his thumbs slipped up over her breasts, and he licked his lips almost hungrily while he watched what he was doing. "More than liberty." He leaned forward a little and kissed her collarbone, ran his lips over her still moist skin. "More than chocolate and milk." His lips traced up her neck and she leaned her head back to give him better access. "More than chips and coke and sundays at the pool." He nibbled at the skin on the underside of her jawbone, kissed the skin tenderly and pressed down on her nipples, extracting a low-key moan from her. "More than football and baseball." He slipped one hand behind her back, bent her backwards and kissed her right breast. "More than fudge-sickles and home-made stew." He sucked on her skin, teasing the tip of the nipple with his tongue and she groaned deeply. "More than my damned module." His other hand trailed down over her stomach, down between her legs, and she jerked when his fingertips connected with already hyper-sensitive flesh. "More than sunrises and full moons." His fingers rubbed lightly, applying the right kind of pressure, and she pushed down against them, her hands resting on his shoulders squeezing hard. "More than anything I can think of."

She came again, painfully hard and fast, bucking against his fingers, both trying to pull away and push harder against them at the same time. He kissed and lapped at her skin, kept his fingers in place, applying pressure and releasing over and over, and she could feel the heat building within her again. She arched her back, then straightened up and wrapped jittering hands around his face. "Enough," she breathed and he complied by removing his hand. The lack of it almost made her collapse, but she felt she would lose her mind if he kept this up.

She kissed him tenderly, but felt the rise of unrequitedness in her loins. She was aching for him to touch her, to release the built-up heat, and the ache made her shift on his thighs a little uncomfortably. His fingertips trailed up and down her back, sending shivers through her that intensified the feeling building inside her. She shifted again, trailing her lips along the side of his face. "More," she whispered hoarsely into his ear, then nipped at the lope.

She more felt than saw him smile, felt his fingers find their way back down there, felt the tenseness building, the heat, the moisture. He shifted beneath her, tilted her backwards, laid her down gently on the floor on top of their discarded clothes, his fingers never leaving the pressure point. He bent down over her, blew gently on the taut skin of her stomach, trailed his lips down toward her pubic line. The thought of where he was going as well as the sensation of the pressure his fingers were applying sent her to new heights and she arched her back up off the floor, spread her legs a little wider, and groaned with expectation.

His tongue felt cool against her burning flesh and it sent a shock through her system that burned away any lingering remnants of sense and reason. She shifted her legs, placed her feet on his shoulders and pushed up toward him, needing more than anything to be released from this burning desire building to almost painful levels inside her.

She moaned, shifted again, her right foot slipping off his left shoulder and down his back. She curled her toes against the hot, moist skin just over his left shoulder blade while he delved deeper into her and rocked her universe in a way she had never tried before. The pleasure was so intense that she was torn between begging him to stop and never wanting it to end. She came again in a cataclysmic explosion of emotion, which started in her very core and spread out through every fiber of her body until it threatened to consume her. And then it abated and she felt satiated, satisfied and completely and utterly spent. She doubted she would have been able to move a muscle if an attack had been eminent.

He pushed her feet out of the way and leaned in over her, his eyes alight with an inner fire. "So, we're good, huh?" he asked in a husky tone of voice.

She smiled languidly up at him and nodded vaguely. "Oh yes," she breathed, slipped limp arms around his neck and pulled him towards her. "We're very good," she agreed and kissed him tenderly once more.

The End