STANDARD DISCLAIMERS:  They ain't mine, and if their owner, 
Dick Wolf, knew what I was doing with `em, he'd probably have 
a coronary.  No profits made, etc., etc., so hopefully he won't 
sue me when he recovers.

This takes place in Season Five, sometime after the first 
episode, and mentions a character from "Family Values" (I do 
overlap cases, since I figure that's how it occurs in reality).  I 
don't follow the dates given on the show since they don't seem 
to be continuous between episodes, but I do try to follow the 
episode sequence.

Send comments to trigfish@yahoo.com.  I love feedback of all 
kinds--even the "Ewww, that's gross!" kind.

And just in case it hasn't already been made abundantly clear, 
this is *slash*.  So, we're talking M/M NC-17 here. If that's not 
your dish, turn back now!  Last warning...OK, here we go!

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

**One Night in Gramercy Park**


Detective Logan looked up at the clock on the wall, realised that 
the sun must have set hours ago, and sighed.  Lennie had left 
early for the week-end, as had a good chunk of the 27's force. 
Even Lt. Anita had closed up shop around 4:00pm, planning to 
pick up her family and head out to Conneticut for a week-end of 
bonding.  The reason for the sudden evacuation was the warm, 
beautiful weather--probably the last indian summer week-end 
before winter began to truly invade New York.  So, the citizens 
had been fleeing their fair city all day, in search of one last 
chance at fresh country air and sun before buckling down for the 
coming cold--and that included the cops.  Only the poor saps 
stuck on roster were still hanging around...along with Logan.

Lennie had asked him to come along on his trip upstate to visit 
one of his daughters, but Mike avoided family gatherings--either 
his own or others--as a matter of principle.  Besides, he wasn't in 
the mood for company.  That now-familiar restlessness was 
back with a vengeance, and he could feel shadows jumping at 
him in the periphery of his vision, and until they backed off, he 
wasn't leaving the brightly-lit, always bustling confines of the 
precinct.  Once upon a time, a night of cruising the local meat 
markets and picking up something feminine, uncomplicated, and 
disposable would have done the trick.  Or he would have just 
called up one of the many numbers in his address book--over 
300 names, all looking for a good time.  But, none of that 
seemed to work anymore...not after--

Logan cut himself off mentally with a rough shake.  'No way.  I'm 
not getting into that again.'  In an effort to distract himself, he 
shuffled through all the papers he'd spread across his desk, 
trying to sort out what he should do next.  There was the final 
draft of the Nguyen case to write up, and Forensics had sent 
down the final report on the Grimsey apartment.  Then, there 
was the Laura Madsen case--no, definitely not that one.  He 
wanted to drown in nice, safe boring busywork.  The Nguyen 
case, then--a garden-variety armed robbery gone bad.  Mind 
numbing and time-consuming.

Ten minutes later, it was beginning to work.  Slowly, slowly, his 
overactive brain began sliding into neutral and the shadows 
started to recede.  He clacked away at the ancient typewriter, 
wishing once again that the city would spring for desktop 
computers.  Ever since his nephew introduced him to the 
wonderful world of PC's a couple of years ago, he'd come to 
loathe working in plain old paper and ink.  He smiled faintly to 
himself, remembering the look on Jeff's face when he described 
the hardware-free environment in which he worked ("That's like, 
*so* paleolithic, Uncle Mike!").

Suddenly, the phone at his side rang loudly, startling him back to 
reality.  Glancing down at his work, Logan was saddened to note 
that he was almost finished the report.  Soon, he'd have to think 
of something else distracting to do.  Annoyed, he reached for 
the phone.  "Logan."

A familiar whisky chuckle sent a tiny shiver trickling down his 
nape.  "Hi.  I was hoping I wasn't the only one still at the office."

Logan grinned despite himself, feeling his mood lighten for the 
first time in hours. "Yeah, well, you know what they say about 
rest and the wicked."

That chuckle again, deeper this time, suddenly darkening 
intimately.  "You feeling wicked, Detective?"

The large, drafty squad room suddenly became hot and low on 
oxygen as Logan felt the words hit him.  Jesus, but Jack McCoy 
was good at that.  With a few words, the man had Logan 
flushing and fidgeting in his seat, his clothes suddenly itchy and 
tight. Must be a lawyer thing.  He had to take a deep, calming 
breath before he could answer.  "Always."

"Mmm.  I was hoping you might be.  You almost done?"

As if he could get anything productive done *now*.  "Pretty 
much."  "Me, too.  Hungry?"

Oh, God!  Logan hoped fervently that no one was looking in his 
particular direction right now.  It must be pretty damned obvious 
that he wasn't talking shop by now, and the 27th's rumour mill 
was on par with that of any juniour high school.    Hopefully, 
they'd just think it was one of his on-off girlfriends.  "Very."

"In that case, we can't go to your place.  Unless, through some 
miraculous event, you actually went shopping."

Logan smiled as the seductive, teasing tone faded a little in real 
exasperation.  In the past five days since they reached their... 
understanding, Jack had spent four nights at his apartment, and 
the complaints about lack of groceries had become something of 
a tradition.  Mike had little interest in cooking, and consequently 
either ate before he got home, or ordered take-out, both of 
which Jack seemed adverse to doing, stating that he ate enough 
of  `that crap' at work.  "I think I still have that old lettuce.  And 
some beer, maybe."

"Nevermind.  Tonight, it's my treat.  I'll give you directions to my 
place."

"Wow...my first official visit to the McCoy manor." 

"True.  I'll have to think of something...appropriate for tonight, 
then."  The way the whisky-husky voice murmured the words, as 
well as their many implications, made Mike miss the directions 
the first time around, and had to ask for a repeat, much to 
McCoy's amusement.

"Think you can find your way, Detective?"

"You bet your ass...well, actually, you are, aren't you?"

"Cute.  If you want to find out, you'd better show up in a couple 
of hours."

Mike hung up in a far better frame of mind than he'd been in all 
day.  Not even bothering to finish the nearly-done Nguyen 
write-up, he shoved it and the other various files into his "open" 
box.   Humming unconciously to himself, he cleared his desk 
quickly, then reached for his jacket.

"You cutting out, Mike?"  He spun to face a middle-aged 
detective in a badly rumpled suit.  "Thought you were gonna 
keep us company."

Mike threw the man a familiar mischievious grin.  "Something 
better came up, Duggan.   You guys keep having fun without 
me."

*  *  *

Logan stopped by his apartment long enough to shower and 
change clothes, then set out for Gramercy Park.  He easily 
found the right place, being as familiar with this neighbourhood 
as any other in Manhattan.   He drove by beautifully renovated, 
sprawling homes and elegant parks, through a retail sector full 
of curio shops and banks, to a hidden away cul-de-sac 
decorated with tiny gingerbread-like brownstones.   The relative 
tranquility that made Gramercy stand out in this city of lights 
seemed to concentrate on this very street, enveloping the 
tree-sheltered old buildings.  Volvos, Lincolns, and other 
yuppiemobiles lined the street...except for a familiar sleek 
motorcycle in front of one door.

`Wonder what the neighbours think of that.'  Mike grinned at the 
thought of Jack with his bike and jeans and smartass attitude 
living amongst bankers and lawyers.  Then, as he rang the 
doorbell, he remembered with a start that Jack *was* a lawyer. 
He kept forgetting that.

"It's open!" came the muffled reply from beyond the door.  Mike 
hesitated, stunned, then tentatively turned the knob.  The door 
swung open easily.  A heavy, mouthwatering aroma spilled out 
at him as he entered.  Mike glanced around the brightly lit 
rooms, locking the door behind him instinctively.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't it.  In 
direct contrast to the quiet, orderly street outside, inside was a 
riot of colors and shapes.   Mismatched furniture lay scattered 
about, covered with various articles of clothing.  Newspapers, 
magazines, and case files blended seamlessly across most flat 
surfaces, interspersed with framed photographs of nameless 
people and places.   An expensive sound system--the only thing 
that was free of debris--filled the place with Ella Fitzgerald's 
serene alto.

Mike took it all in, shocked into silence.  Then, he remembered 
the paper-strewn, post-it-notes-covered office that Claire 
complained about regularly, and realized that he should have 
expected as much. He followed his nose towards the bright, 
warm kitchen at the end of the tiny house, and was stunned for 
the third time in as many minutes when he saw EADA McCoy 
dressed in faded jeans and a white undershirt, tending several 
bubbling pots expertly.

"You timed it perfectly!  The gumbo's almost ready, the rice is 
set, and the crawfish just finished steaming.  Can you pass me 
the coriander?"  Jack flashed him a grin, then returned his 
attention to the pots, waving distractedly with his free hand at a 
ceramic bowl on the counter near Mike.  It was filled with some 
sort of chopped, sweet-smelling green plant that Mike guessed was herbal.  Bewildered, Mike passed him the bowl, which 
earned him a muffled "Thanks" as its contents were carefully 
emptied into one of the more delectable-smelling pots.   He 
watched mutely as the other man worked.  Much as he loved 
good food, he'd never had much interest in its preparation--he 
had neither the time nor the patience.  But, he'd sat in Elaine 
Cerreta's kitchen--both at her home and at her five-star Italian 
restaurant--enough times to know a pro when he saw one. 
EADA Jack McCoy, lawyer and motorcycle enthusiast, wearer of 
Armani suits and faded jeans...and now, apparently, he was a 
gourmet chef as well.   Mike grinned, wondering how many other 
surprises Jack had in store for him tonight.

As if in answer to his unasked question, he suddenly felt 
something brush past his leg.  He jumped instinctively, then 
looked down.  A noticeably overweight short-haired calico cat 
met his gaze cooly.

"Oh, that's Chloe.  She usually shows up around dinnertime, 
especially if seafood's on the menu." 

Mike stared at the animal with a mixture of irritation and dismay. 
"You own a cat, McCoy?" he demanded accusingly.  Jack 
looked up at him as he moved the heavier pot off the range, 
then smiled at his expression.

"You don't like cats, Detective?"

Mike shrugged vaguely.  He didn't much care for cats one way 
or the other...or dogs, or birds, or whatever other type of animal 
people always insisted on sharing their homes with.  "I'm not into 
pets.  And, besides, I would have figured you for a Doberman 
kind of guy.  You know, to go with the `bike."

Jack laughed as he stirred the pot, and Mike reflected not for the 
first time on how much he liked that rich whisky laugh.  "Nah.  I 
love big dogs, but that kind of creature would go nuts in this 
pint-sized condo.  Besides, Chloe's a leftover from my last 
girlfriend of a few years ago.  She took the sofa and new TV.  I 
got the cat.  Sometimes, I think I got the better deal."

"Uh-huh."  Mike and the cat eyed each other a moment more, 
then the animal turned its back to him indifferently and moved 
towards Jack, twining sinuously around his legs and mewing a 
soft complaint.  Mike watched in bemusement as the man that 
most junior DAs lived in fear of reached down to rub the tiny 
head affectionately.   His bemusement quickly turned to dismay 
when Jack pulled one of the ruby-red crawfish that was making 
his mouth water out of the pot and gave it to the cat.  It quickly 
snatched the delicacy and headed for a corner of the kitchen 
that was obviously considered its own, where it proceeded to 
devour its find. 

"No wonder the thing is fat." 

Twin glares were levelled at him--one black and almond-shaped, 
the other golden and slitted.  Mike laughed despite himself.

"What's so funny, Logan?"

Mike controlled himself, hearing the coldness enter the warm, 
seductive voice.  "I'm just wondering if it's just luck, or if you go 
out of your way to break every stereotype out there."  He smiled 
fondly. "Jack McCoy, the walking exception."

The coldness faded, and Mike was rewarded with one of those 
playful grins that he was coming to associate with Jack.  It 
usually meant that there was something mischievious going on 
beneath that uncombed hair. Smiling slyly, Jack crooked a finger 
invitingly at him. "C'mere, Detective."

Mike certainly didn't need to be asked twice.  He'd been wanting 
to invade Jack's personal space since he heard his sensuously 
velvet voice on the phone over an hour ago.  He stepped into 
the pool of heat and succulent scents coming from the pots 
surrounding them, till even they faded into the heat and scent 
that was Jack McCoy.  Dark almond-shaped eyes watched his 
every move with mild amusement, and when he got close 
enough, a long-fingered hand reached out to brush through his 
hair.  That was another thing with Jack--he was always running 
his fingers through Mike's hair. He could make the gesture 
gentle and soothing, as he often did during their post-coital 
lazing.  Or, he could make it into one of the most erotic things 
Mike had ever experienced, like he did now.  Shuddering as 
nimble fingers danced caressingly along his skull, Mike slid his 
arms eagerly along Jack's back.  He leaned in for a kiss, but 
was stopped by a soft finger on his lips.  He regarded the other 
man, puzzled, while Jack stirred the pot still at his side.  Then, 
he pulled out the ladle, which was coated in gumbo, and held it 
out to Mike.

"Is it ready, Mike?"

Mike grinned, then licked the offered ladle gingerly.  Almost 
immediately, the taste hit him.  Pungent, rich, and delicious. 
Mike's eyes snapped open in surprise.  God, that tasted good!

"Thank you, Detective."  It was only when Jack chuckled that 
Mike realized that he'd spoken aloud.  "I try my best.  Here.  You 
spilled some."  Mike felt the familiar rush of molten heat rise up 
in him as fine, strong fingers cupped his chin and brushed along 
his lower lip.  His breath caught in his throat as he watched that 
same finger return to Jack's mouth, and be licked clean of any 
remaining gumbo.  Suddenly, his jeans were uncomfortably 
tight.  He leaned in to devour that tempting mouth....and growled 
impatiently when he was stopped again.  The dark eyes were 
laughing, but he could see the reciprocal desire in their depths 
clearly.

"I don't want it to get cold, Mike.  Besides," a light kiss brushed 
his lips--delicious and far too brief.  "Dessert always comes after 
the main course, m'boy." Jack patted Mike's ass playfully.  "The 
table is set.  Get the wine from the fridge while I bring this over."

Mike sighed resignedly as Jack pulled out of his embrace and 
returned to his gumbo.  Walking a little stiffly (his jeans were still 
chafing), he moved towards the refridgerator, and pulled out a 
bottle of red wine.  He glanced at the label, and was stunned at 
what he saw.  "Jesus, Jack!  This is a 1987 Merlot!  What'ya do? 
Walk into the store and ask for the most ridiculously expensive 
wine they had?" 

"Actually, yes."

Mike stared at him, realizing that he was serious.  "Shit.  What's 
the occaision?"

Jack shrugged as he filled the dishes on the table with the heavy 
gumbo, adding rice and crawfish along the side.  "I just felt like 
splurging.  I rarely get the chance to really go all out these days. 
Hell, it's been over two months since I had a chance to cook like 
this.  Besides, it tastes better if you know you had to sacrifice for 
it."  He spun to face Mike again.  "And, anyways, how do you 
know so much about wine, Detective?  I'd never even heard of 
the damned thing till that snotty French guy at the winery pulled 
it out."

Mike smiled as he popped the cork expertly, letting the heavy, 
rich bouquet fill the tiny kitchen.  It complemented the spicy food 
perfectly.  "My grandfather.  He spent countless summers trying 
to get me to appreciate the fact that human civilization revolved 
around whether you could tell a Savoy white from a Vicchy."

Jack laughed.  "Did it work?"

"Nope.  Despite his best efforts, I still only drink Guiness.  But," 
he sniffed the wine appreciatively.  "I'll make an exception this 
time."  He filled Jack's and his own glasses as they sat.  "So, 
how do you know so much about cajun cooking, Counselor?"

Jack grinned at him rakishly from beneath an unruly shock of 
dark hair, and Mike felt his skin prickle pleasantly.  "My 
grandmother.   She spent countless summers trying to get my 
sister to appreciate the fact that human civilization revolved 
around making jerk chicken and crawfish gumbo properly."

Mike laughed.  "I guess it didn't work exactly as planned."

"Not exactly, no.  But, my grandmother figured that one out of 
two wasn't bad."  He raised his glass, sloshing the blood red 
contents lightly.  "To well-meaning if ineffective grandparents."

Mike chuckled and followed suit.  "Hell, if this tastes half as good 
as I'm thinking it will, I'd say they were pretty damned effective." 
They clinked glasses.

"Well, then," Jack raised his fork.  "Let's find out just how 
effective they were, shall we?"

Mike had rarely enjoyed a meal so much. The food was indeed 
as delectable as suspected, and their conversation was light and 
happy. Jack made him laugh at his ruthlessly accurate 
descriptions of various judges he'd had to deal with that week, 
then Mike returned the favour by recalling his and Lennie's futile 
attempt to interview a nightclub full of drag queens without 
getting felt up.  One in particular had taken a great liking to 
Detective Briscoe, much to his partner's amusement.  Then, the 
conversation moved to whether Harleys' superior horsepower 
compensated for their slower acceleration times in comparison 
to Yamahas.  Then, they suddenly got on the topic of baseball, 
which became companionably heated when they realized that 
they supported rival teams.  Heady rich wine flowed, spicy 
seafood disappeared.  Soon, Mike found himself gazing at Jack 
across a graveyard of empty dishes and glasses, replete and 
more than a little punchy on expensive french red.

"Wow.  Are all the meals this great at Chateau McCoy?"

"Only when I'm properly inspired."  Dark, dark eyes flashed at 
Mike invitingly for a second, then flickered away as Jack moved 
to gather together dishes.  Mike caught a hint of a smile on the 
downturned face as he passed on the way to the sink, and 
quickly realized that he was being deliberately provoked.  The 
semi hard-on that he'd been adjusting himself around since  
Jack's little trick with the ladle quickly returned to life.  
Abandoning what was left of his meal, he rose and followed, 
pressing himself against Jack's back as the other man 
attempted to rinse his dishes.  But, Jack gave up all pretense as 
soon as Mike pressed a teasing kiss to the nape of his neck, 
spinning in his embrace and pouncing.

There was no other word for the way that Jack initiated foreplay. 
He always managed to turn Mike into a gibbering mess in 
seconds, and kept him incoherent and delerious from that 
moment on.  But, not this time.  This time, Mike was going to set 
the pace.  He was going to take his time to savour that lean, wiry 
body.  He wasn't going to let Jack distract him with those 
too-skilled hands...even if he had to tie them down.

Quickly, Mike snagged Jack's wrists even as he tried to slide his 
fingers down Mike's jeans.  Mike smiled at the puzzled, annoyed 
glare that earned him. 

"Uh-uh.  It's my turn this time, Counselor."  He watched as the 
dark eyes filled with a strange mixture of anticipation and 
anxiety.  He liked the anticipation, but could do without the other. 
Still holding Jack's wrists firmly, he captured his mouth gently 
and kissed him with soft thoroughness.  He felt wiry muscles 
squirm against him, trying to deepen the kiss, but he held back, 
keeping it exploratory and teasing.  Finally, when he felt the 
body in his embrace relax and surrender control, he pulled away 
slowly.

Jack remained limp in his arms, face upturned, eyes closed, 
licking his lips thoughtfully, as if trying to identify a familiar taste. 
Mike felt his heart rate quicken at the sight.  He had to resist 
every instinct telling him to just spin him around, bend him over, 
and bury himself as deep within that silken warmth as he could. 
But, no. No hard kitchen counter or slippery bathroom this time. 
He held himself in check, pulling Jack along as he led them 
upstairs, looking for the bedroom in the unfamiliar house. Jack 
clung to him silently, letting himself be transported along like a 
ragdoll and offering no directions.

The brownstone was small, and Mike found the bedroom easily. 
The decor matched downstairs, with expensive tailored jackets 
co-mingling with T-shirts and jeans hanging from a variety of 
places.  Quickly, Mike deposited Jack on the bed, pulling his 
wrists above his head and making him grip the wooden bars of 
the headboard.

"Keep your hands there, Counselor.  Think you can do this?"

The dark almond-shaped eyes blinked slowly, then smiled up at 
him. "I'll try...but, it's hard to resist touching you.  Your skin is 
so...." Jack sighed, then bucked sinuously, rubbing the length of 
his body against Mike decadently, letting his body complete his 
sentence.

Mike repressed a gasp, trying to restrain himself as Jack moved 
against him. A flicker of amusement in the slanted eyes 
confirmed his suspicions that Jack knew exactly what he was 
doing to him. God, but the man was sneaky!  Out of the corner 
of his eye, he spotted the solution to his problem.   Moving 
quickly, he reached up to the bedside table, grabbing the raw 
silk tie that was hanging off its corner.  The fabric was as 
smooth and cool as water, and just as soft.  He reached for one 
of Jack's wrists, then hesitated, asking silently for permission. 
Jack smiled slightly, and nodded, brushing Mike's cheek slowly 
before relinquishing his hand again.  Mike bestowed a gentle 
kiss on the inside of the fine-boned wrist, then wrapped the cloth 
around it carefully.  Then, he looped the fabric through the bars 
on the headboard, and repeated his actions with Jack's other 
wrist.  Then, he sat back to inspect his handiwork.

Jack watched him, his lean frame deceptively relaxed looking. 
He looked calm, detached.  Only those dark elfin eyes gave 
away a hint of the fire beginning to simmer beneath.  Mike 
grinned, promising himself that the calmness would be the first 
to go.

He surveyed the body splayed below him, trying to decide where 
best to strike, then realized that he'd barely ever gotten the 
chance to really explore Jack.  The man was so damned good at 
completely overtaking him during sex.  This would be his first 
chance to turn the tables, and he planned on taking full 
advantage.  Deciding to start with what was closest at hand, he 
moved down and began a trail of nipping kisses along Jack's left 
bicep, following the line of the slender, hard muscle towards his 
torso.  He felt the smooth flesh prickle under his lips, and smiled 
smugly.  He was just getting started.

When Mike reached the edge of the short sleeve of Jack's 
undershirt, he traced its border carefully with the tip of his 
tongue, leaving a moist rim along the fabric, before continuing 
along his original path into the sensitive nook under Jack's arm. 
A soft, deliberate sigh whispered from up above, and the faint 
tremor he heard in it reassured him that he was having the 
desired effect.  He smiled, but didn't stop nibbling along the 
ridge of muscle through the thin cotton, tracing it to its juncture 
with Jack's chest.  Then, without warning, he dove his tongue 
into the nerve-rich crevice, letting Jack's scent--a mixture of 
cajun spices, fabric softener, and something that was distinctly 
Jack--surround his face.  The arm poised above him jerked, the 
muscles below his lips bulking momentarily as their owner forgot 
about the gentle but strong silk holding him still.  Mike chuckled 
in quiet triumph, then followed his original path along Jack's 
chest, his wet open-mouthed kisses causing the white cotton to 
cling to the skin below.  Eventually, he reached a small tent in 
the fabric where Jack's now-erect nipple stood at attention.  With 
an eager grin, Mike latched on, suckling and nipping fervently 
through the shirt.

A muffled groan filtered down from the head of the bed, but Mike 
ignored it, working the sensitive bud of flesh with his mouth. 
Finally, when he felt the lean, hard body beneath him begin to 
writhe against him, he relented.  With one swift move, he tugged 
the undershirt up and over Jack's head, letting it dangle around 
his suspended wrists.  He looked down, mesmerized, at his 
captive.  Thick black hair powdered with grey fell in beautiful 
disarray into eldritch-slanted eyes.  The calm surface had 
evaporated, and Mike wanted to drown in the fires he saw in 
their depths.  That sensitive mouth that always seemed on the 
verge of laughing was quirking up at the sides, as if Jack might 
break into snickers or choke out a cry at any given moment. 
Unable to resist, Mike leaned in for another kiss, losing himself 
for a moment in Jack's unbearable heat, letting the other man 
push up into his mouth with his tongue and do what he will. 
Even as Jack invaded his mouth, strong legs curled around his. 
They locked together, bodies coming together like puzzle 
pieces, and Mike found himself rocking mindlessly against Jack, 
falling under the spell of his dexterous seduction.  He pulled 
away sharply when he realized what was happening, producing 
a frustrated groan from the man in his arms.

"Christ, Jack.  You're the only guy I know who can be tied down 
to the bed with someone on top of you and *still* try to take over. 
Stop trying to distract me." 

Jack moaned-chuckled.  "At least take off my jeans.  I'm dying 
here!"

Mike sighed.  "You're missing the point here, Counselor.  You..." 
he pressed a sharp, biting kiss to the nipple he'd been working 
through the undershirt.  "...are not..."  Another bite-kiss on its 
neglected twin.  "...in control."  He nibbled at the spasming 
muscle at the base of Jack's neck.  "Okay?"

Jack, who had jumped and twitched at every nip, lay gasping 
below him, sloe eyes on fire. Still, he managed to nod and 
obediently untwined his legs from Mike's.  

"Good.  Now, just lie there, nice and quiet for once, and let me 
work here." Mike cheerfully ignored the glare that produced, and 
went back to his interrupted explorations.  He resumed his 
kisses at the previously ignored nipple, working it until it stood 
as puckered and red as the first, then created a meandering 
path of open-mouthed nips, interspersed with soothing licks, 
down the heaving chest, nibbling at the fine, curling hair as he 
went.  He followed the dark line of hair bisecting Jack's pale skin 
down to his umbilicus, stopping to dip into the crevice with his 
tongue playfully, producing a muffled cry from the man trapped 
beneath him, then continued lower.  When he reached the 
denim waistband, he paused and looked up.  Jack looked back 
down at him, unconciously biting his lower lip, eyes smoldering. 
Mike held his gaze, grinning, as he slowly undid Jack's fly, one 
excruciating button at a time.  His grin only grew as he watched 
Jack's lashes flicker helplessly as the heavy, overheated weight 
of his erection was released from its denim trap.  Mike delved 
one hand carefully into the open fly, shelling out the swollen, 
tender scrotum, and chuckling at the shuddering, but obediently 
silent sigh that wracked Jack's body as he did.

"Looks like I finally found a way to get the last word with you, 
Jack.  Kincaid's been trying to find a way for weeks--should I let 
her in on my newfound secret?"  He laughed outright at the 
outraged glare he received, and Jack opened his mouth for a 
retort.

But, whatever chastisement McCoy had in mind was quickly lost 
into a hoarse cry as Mike swallowed his length in one swift 
move.  Mike let himself drown in the sharp taste that was the 
perfect combination of tangy sweetness and bitterness for Jack 
McCoy, letting his teeth drag lightly against the fine, overheated 
skin.  Jack was surprisingly thick, but somewhat short, and Mike 
found that he could accomodate all of the fully engorged organ, 
letting the head occaisionally brush against the back of his 
throat.  He quickly discovered that if he did this while 
swallowing, the contraction of his throat caused Jack to flail and 
squirm most satisfyingly.

Mike pulled away quickly, letting the cool air hit the wet, 
blood-hot cock in a rush, smiling at Jack's gasping cry.  Then, 
before the other man could even begin to recover from that 
latest trick, he struck again.  He circled the base with his tongue, 
then moved down further into the dark, moist curls till he found 
Jack's balls.  He outlined the shape of the spheres within their 
sac with his teeth and lips, tormenting the delicate, sensitive 
skin.  Jack's hips had begun to buck helplessly, trying to match 
Mike's rhythm, which he deliberately kept altering.  Soon, 
though, he had to hold Jack's hips down to keep him under 
control.  When Jack's hoarse groans became steady and 
desperate, he pulled away.

Black, black eyes stared up at him with tortured intensity from 
beneath thick, sweat-darkened hair. The slender, elegant hands 
were curled into tight fists around their silken bonds, and the 
equally slender, elegant chest heaved jaggedly.  Head thrown 
back in abandon, body twisting sinuously, Jack McCoy had 
never looked more beautiful, as far as Mike was concerned.  He 
sat back on Jack's thighs, straddling him, lost momentarily in the 
view...

Until the hips beneath him bucked violently again.  Demanding 
that he continue where he left off.  Mike smiled, enjoying the 
desperate hunger he read in Jack's every move and breath, then 
decided that they'd both suffered enough.  Quickly, he stripped 
off his sweater and undershirt in one yank, tossing the bundle 
onto a nearby chair.   Then, he slid off Jack's body, resulting in a 
groaned protest, and proceeded to skim out of his jeans slowly, 
very aware of the molten-black eyes watching his every move 
from the bed.  He stepped out of his jeans, folded them, then did 
the same with his boxers.

"For godsakes, Mike!  Stop fucking around!"

Mike froze at the hissed demand, turning to look at Jack's 
supine, intensely aroused body cooly.  "You want me to stop, 
Jack?  Is that what you said?"

Dark eyes glared fiercely at him, but his point was made. Jack 
gave a sharp negative shake of his head silently.  Mike smiled, 
then resumed folding his boxers, ignoring the frustrated moan 
that produced.  Finally, when he was done, he sat back next to 
Jack's hips, and began to slowly peel down the now-sticky 
jeans, leaving a trail of kisses as he went.  He let his mouth 
explore Jack's legs as thoroughly as he'd charted the rest of his 
body, nibbling and kissing his way along the lean, muscled 
thighs and across the bulking, hard calves, smiling as muscles 
and tendons twitched beneath his lips.  Eventually, the jeans 
dropped to the floor with a soft slap, and Jack....Jack was 
gloriously bare at last.

Mike kissed his way back up Jack's legs, letting his hands and 
lips work together to cover every inch of skin.  As he moved up 
Jack's inner thighs, Jack parted his legs in invitation, hitching up 
his knees.  Despite his best efforts at restraint, Mike felt his 
vision temporarily fog in desire at the sight.  This was rapidly 
becoming his favorite sight in the world--Jack McCoy, splayed 
out and ready for the taking, unconsciously gorgeous in 
sumptuous abandon.  He moved from the soft inner thighs back 
up to the now-throbbing cock, giving it one last affectionate lick 
that made its owner buck wildly.

"Where's your lube and condoms, Jack?"  Mike burrowed his 
face in the dark musky warmth just beneath the swollen sac, 
causing Jack to arch spasmically off the bed.

"Th..the...top...dr..dr..drawer.  N...no condoms.  I want to f..feel 
you..."

Mike hesitated as he retrieved the small tube from the drawer in 
the bedside table, one condom package already in hand. True, 
they had already had unprotected sex before--more out of blind 
lust than implicit trust, though.  "Jack..."

Jack gave a gasping laugh.  "I'm clean, and I checked your 
records as soon as I found out who you were."

Mike stared at him, caught between outrage and amusement. 
"Abusing your position again, Counselor?  Does the police 
commisioner know that you're rifling through police personnel 
files?" He squeezed Jack's balls gently even as he slipped a 
lubricant-slicked finger below to massage the tight muscle. 
Unable to answer, Jack screamed and heaved and convulsed 
around his touch.  Making his decision as soon as he heard that 
primal cry, Mike tossed away the condom and proceeded to coat 
himself liberally with one hand as gentle fingers readied Jack 
with the other.

It would have to be fast--he'd pushed them both too far for it to 
last long, Mike realized with regret.  Oh, well...later.  For now, he 
pulled Jack's legs up over his shoulders, shuddering as he felt 
the bright heat of Jack's body against him, then pushed himself 
home smoothly.  Jack's gasping cry surrounded him along with 
the velvet heat of his body, till Mike could feel his presence 
enveloping him completely.

They felt into a quick, harsh rhythm almost immediately, both 
already feeling themselves hurtling towards the precipice.  Mike 
moved above Jack, luxuriating in the succulent body beneath 
him, feeling every spasm and shudder as they rocked together. 
He leaned forward sharply as he felt the end approach, 
burrowing deeply into Jack's bottomless heat, reaching the 
silken tie that still held Jack captive.  With one yank, he set him 
free.  Immediately, strong arms embraced him, pulled him 
deeper and deeper down.  Long fingers clawed at his sholders, 
back, and buttocks, leaving lines of fire in their wake.  Mike 
reached down between their heaving bodies to grip Jack's 
weeping cock, pulling it in rhythm with their movements.  Jack 
gasped violently, one hand tangling itself in Mike's hair and 
pulling him down for a last breath-stealing kiss.

Jack broke first, screaming hoarsely into the shared cavern of 
their mouths even as he erupted onto their bellies.  Impssibly 
hot, tight muscle convulsed around Mike, sending him careening 
off into a maelstorm of ectasy.  He bucked, heaved, and 
shuddered violently, letting out a tormented, broken cry as he 
burst deep within Jack's embracing body. 

Mike had just enough strength left to break his fall slightly onto 
Jack's chest, still landing with enough force to knock a soft 
"umph" out of the smaller man. He slid carefully out of and off 
Jack's body.  Their limbs remained twined together, though, and 
Jack pulled him back for another deep kiss before they had 
completely regained their breaths.  Not frenzied this time. 
Calming, reassuring, with a soft undercurrent of passion still 
remaining.  Mike noted with exhausted dismay that they were 
both trembling.

"God, Jack...we're gonna kill ourselves if we keep this up."

Jack chuckled, then ran his fingers slowly through Mike's hair, 
brushing sweat-slicked tangles off his forehead.  "Ah, but what a 
way to go."  Mike sighed in weary happiness as Jack pressed a 
kiss to his forehead, still brushing his hair back soothingly.  He 
was drifting off to sleep when Jack's warm, husky voice brushed 
against him again.  "I've heard about people like you, but I'd 
never met one before..."

The words more than the teasing tone made Mike open his eyes 
again to stare at Jack quizzically.  The older man was smiling at 
him with soft amusement.  "Huh?  Whaddaya mean, people like 
me?" 

"Your eyes.  I've heard about people whose eyes change with 
their moods. I thought it was just a myth--till I met you."

That made absolutely no sense.  Mike's eyes were just plain old 
muddy-brown, as far as he could remember.  He wanted to ask 
Jack what the hell he was talking about; he had a sneaking 
suspicion that he was being subtly made fun of...but, those long, 
skilled fingers were still running through his hair, and he could 
already feel consciousness leaving him. It would have to wait till 
later.

"You're crazy, Jack."

He smiled when he heard that lovely whisky chuckle again, and 
fell asleep to the sound of it.

*  *  *

Loud, heavy banging.  Again.  Again.

<<Open the damned door!!>>

No.  Can't.  Sit very, very still.  Don't make a sound.  It will be 
alright.  Just stay very still.

<<If you don't open this door, I'm going to break the damned 
thing down.  And, **THEN** you'll really be sorry!!  **DO YOU 
HEAR ME!!**>>

Shh.  No, oh please, no, God.  Dear God, I promise not to do 
anything bad ever, ever again.  Just please keep this door 
closed.  Please, please, please, please, please...

Banging, banging.  And, then a crash.  The door's hinges 
scream, and bend....

He started out of sleep with a gasp...a silent gasp, for he knew 
instinctively to be silent.  Be very, very still and very, very quiet. 
He blinked, but remained frozen as he waited for his brain to 
wake enough to tell him what was wrong, and where he was.

Darkness.  Strange shapes of unfamiliar furniture.  Warmth 
under his cheek.  A soft, rhythmic thudding.  A naked chest. 
Male.  The steady, slow heartbeat signifying sleep.  Jack.  Jack's 
bedroom.

As the conclusions came to him in sequential bursts, Mike 
relaxed, his rigid, adrenalin-rushed body slowly disarming its 
`fight or flee' reflexes.  He slowly rolled off of Jack's warm, prone 
body, regretting the loss of contact immediately.  Gently, he 
eased himself out of the other man's embrace, then out of the 
tangled sheets.  Moving in the dim silver light of a waning moon, 
he found his folded boxers and slipped them on.  Then, he 
padded silently out of the room, closing the door carefully behind 
him. 

Once out in the hall, he allowed himself a weary sigh.  Shit.  He 
hadn't had a nightmare since he started sleeping with Jack, and 
he'd hoped he'd finally hit upon a solution to his insomnia and 
disrupted nights.  But, apparently not.  The raw terror that had 
been fading steadily since he realized where he was was being 
replaced by the familiar restless unease which he knew from 
experience would probably dog him the rest of the night, flipping 
from fear to rage and back at the slightest provocation.  The 
safest thing to do now was to find a quiet, solitary place to wait 
for morning...which was probably still long hours away.

Filled with an aching weariness, Mike slid down the wall to curl 
into a heap at the top of the narrow staircase.   He rested his 
head on his knees and tried not to think.  But, as usual, his brain 
betrayed him, and unwanted images and thoughts pushed 
against him. Dark memories, some recent, some ancient, 
descended upon him, and all he could do was hunch his 
shoulders and bear it.  And, wait for the sun.

A tiny sound triggered his still hyper-alert senses, and he spun 
quickly to his right.  Golden eyes gazed at him from the lower 
steps.

Damn.  He'd forgotten about the stupid cat.

It took a tentative step towards him, and he focused his glare at 
it.  Already, he could feel the directionless anger welling up in 
him--he wasn't in the mood for whatever crap the thing was 
trying to pull.  `One more step, kitty, and we'll see if cats really 
do have nine lives.'

The animal seemed to sense his growing rage, and hesitated, 
one small paw held mid-air.  They stared at each other for a long 
moment, each gauging the other, each trying to read the other's 
unfamiliar silent cues.  Then, just as Mike was getting ready to 
break the stalemate by unceremoniously shoving the cat away, 
a sudden flicker of shadow against the wall made it start and 
leap.  With a strange, strangled mew, it jumped threateningly at 
the dancing shadows on the wall, stalking them.  Mike watched, 
captivated despite himself at the graceful mix of lethal predatory 
instinct and playfulness as it tracked a flickering shadow on the 
staircase, and pounced.

Unfortunately, shadows are by their nature insubstantial.  The 
animal went right through the flickering patch of light and 
thudded into the wall.  Overbalancing, the rotund body tipped 
over the side of the next step down, landing with an outraged 
muffled hiss, its tail still visible over the step's ledge.

Mike chuckled.

Golden eyes resurfaced a moment later, looking completely 
indifferent, as if falling on its ass was all part of its original plan. 
Then, the eyes focused slightly to Mike's left.  He looked down, 
and saw another shadow flicker across the floor there.  A quick 
glance upwards explained its origin--a skylight in the ceiling, and 
an overhanging branch silhouetted by moonlight.  Suddenly, a 
warm, soft mass thumped against his leg.  He looked down to 
see the cat again.  Its last pounce had sent it skidding across 
the parquet floor, and it had come to a stop belly-up against his 
thigh.  Round caramel-coloured eyes stared up at him from 
between upturned paws, and a tiny pink tongue lined with tiny 
dagger teeth appeared as it mewed again.

"Shh..."  Mike hushed quietly, then reached out tentatively to 
brush the soft downy fur on the animal's belly.  Far from 
protesting, the golden eyes closed in relaxed satisfaction, and a 
thunderously loud purring filled the narrow hall. Mike snickered. 
So much for shutting it up.

A distant thud caused Mike to flinch. The cat, however, only 
opened one round eye temporarily, then let it fall shut again. 
Footsteps followed, then the bedroom door creaked open.

"Mike?  You OK?"

Mike sighed.  "Yeah.  Sorry I woke you.  I was trying to be quiet, 
but this thing's noisier than a Mac truck."

Jack rubbed his face and hair sleepily, standing most of his 
thatch on end, then knelt down behind Mike, curling his arms 
around Mike's torso.  Normally, the touch would have irritated 
him so soon after a nightmare, when he was still prickly and 
edgy.  But, the cat's antics had lightened his mood considerably, 
and Jack's warmth was too tempting to resist.  He let Jack pull 
him into his embrace, resting the back of his head on Jack's 
shoulder as warm hands travelled along his chest--not arousing, 
just relaxing.

"I'm used to Chloe's nighttime antics.  You should hear her when 
she starts hallucinating mice at 2:00am."  Those soothing fingers 
returned, running rhythmically through Mike's hair again.  He 
welcomed their return with a contented sigh, closing his eyes in 
unconscious mimicry of the cat next to him.  "So, what woke 
you?"

"I felt you leave--I'm a light sleeper by nature.  I figured your 
were just going to the washroom.  But, when you didn't come 
back, I came to see if maybe you got lost in the vast halls of 
Chateau McCoy."  Mike chuckled, then sighed appreciatively as 
soft kisses were pressed into his temple.  "Can you tell me, 
Mike?"

"Hmm?"  Mike was losing himself in the movement of Jack's 
fingers through his hair.

"Can you tell me what it was about?  The nightmare?"

Mike tensed instinctively at the word...at the very thought of 
discussing the images he was still trying to shake.  "No."

"Fair enough.  Can you tell me what brought it on?"

"How the hell should I know?" Mike snapped, annoyed and 
wanting Jack to leave well enough alone and just keep doing 
what he was doing with his lips and fingers.

"Well," Jack continued patiently, uncharacteristically ignoring his 
sharp tone.  "You've been sleeping just fine in my arms for the 
past week.  But, tonight, something woke you.  Probably the 
same thing that was bothering you when I called earlier tonight. 
I could hear it in your voice."

Mike was both uncomfortable and comforted by Jack's eerie 
perceptiveness.  He didn't like anyone being able to read him 
like that--especially not someone he was having sex with.  On 
the other hand, Jack's embrace was warm and reassuring...and 
he was so damned tired.  Maybe...maybe...

"We opened a new case a few days ago.  It should land on your 
desk soon enough.  Madsen...Laura Madsen."

"I read about it in the papers.  Publishing mogul, right?"

"That's her. Just vanished off a bridge."

"Any suspects yet?"

"Yeah.   Ten to one that we've already got the guy.  Her 
scumbag husband."

"Hmm....scumbag, according to whom?"

"According to pretty much everybody who knew him--including 
me when I heard the 911 call his wife made while he was 
banging down the door to beat her up again."

The fingers kept brushing through his hair, caressing his scalp 
thoroughly.  He could feel himself melting against Jack's chest. 
"The guy broke down a door to get to her?" 

"Nah.  Their kid opened the door to let him in.  Can you believe 
it?"  The old anger surfaced again momentarily.

"Shit.  Still, what's a kid to do?"

Mike frowned, feeling himself tense again.  "Shut up and hide. 
Crawl out a window.  Maybe just freeze in place and start 
praying.  Definitely *DON'T* open the damned door."

A soft sigh brushed his cheek, then the whiskey voice continued. 
"It's hard to know what you'd do in that position as a kid."

"*I* know."  Mike growled.

A pause.  The fingers kept stroking, though.  "Your dad?"

"My mother."

Another pause, then the fingers tugged gently, tilting his head 
back.  Soft lips pressed against his.  He let himself go, let Jack 
deepen the kiss, lying pliantly against him. When Jack finally 
pulled away, he remained where he was, face upturned and look 
up into Jack's face. The other man was looking off into the 
distance somewhere, the moonlight lighting his sharp, raptor 
profile in soft silver tones.

"With me, it was my father."

Mike started slightly, uncertain what he was hearing, and unsure 
that he really wanted to hear more.   But, Jack's fingers kept 
running unhurriedly through his hair even as his other hand 
brushed his shoulder and chest in tandem.  The tiny flicker of 
panic faded and died under his touch.

"In his case, though, he never laid a hand on me. Nah, his 
methods were a little more subtle.  Hell, I didn't even know that 
what he did to me constituted abuse until I was in my thirties.  All 
I knew was that I spent the first two decades of my life hearing 
daily what a complete waste of skin I was."  He chuckled, but it 
wasn't the warm, whiskey sound that Mike was familiar with. 
This was a harsher rasp.  "Hell, he even accused my poor 
mother regularly of having slept around.  No way that his son 
could be such a puny, useless runt.  His *real* son would be a 
big, strong bully just like him. He used to drag me out of my 
room--where I spent most of my time hiding--whenever his 
friends came over, and they'd all laugh drunkenly as they tried to 
guess who my real father must be.  The local wino.  The 
neighbourhood priest.  Maybe even one of the black labourers, 
which would explain why my hair was black while his was blond. 
I actually believed it, and kept hoping that someday my real 
dad--some big, hulking black guy--would come and beat the 
crap out of him and take me away."

Mike listened, fascinated despite himself.  Never in his life would 
he have guessed of such a childhood for Jack McCoy, one of 
the proudest, most aggressive men he'd ever run into.  Or 
maybe, this was the reason why...

"And, then, one night, when I was about twelve, I was watching 
him count out the bribes he'd taken during that day, and trying to 
figure out how much more he could expect from each contributor 
by the end of the week.   And, I suddenly realized that I'd 
already figured out all the sums in my head in minutes, while he 
was still working away, grumbling to himself, adding up 
incorrectly.  And, *then* I realized that one of his payoffs had 
ripped him off, and he hadn't even noticed it."

Mike had turned slightly in Jack's embrace during his recounting, 
to better watch his face.  Right now, he was wearing a tight, 
bitter smile that Mike remembered easily from their infamous 
second meeting at Hogan Place.  "Did you say anything?"

Jack shook his head--a sharp, curt movement.  "Nope.  Not just 
then.  I waited, and watched, keeping track of who tricked him 
and how often.  I quickly realized that many of his so-called 
friends were actually scamming him and laughing about it 
behind his back.  Most people considered him little more than a 
patsy.  I waited till I finished high school and got a full 
scholarship to the University of Illinois.  I packed, went down to 
the kitchen, and handed him a list of who had scammed him, 
how they did it, and how often.  Then, I told him that although he 
might be bigger, I was smarter--and therefore the better of the 
two--and that, one day, I'd be one of those guys in suits that he 
tipped his hat to as he passed on the street.  Then, I left."

Mike curled a hand around the smaller one still travelling idly 
across his chest, and was pleased when fingers intertwined 
acceptingly with his. "Did you ever see him again?"

"I went back there just after my last promotion about seven 
years ago.  My mother was in the hospital, dying with what 
turned out to be cervical cancer.  He didn't recognize me at first 
when I walked in.  Thought I was a doctor."  Jack's smile was 
more of a grimace.  "Took off his hat."

Mike turned further in Jack's clasp, till he could wrap his own 
arms around Jack and look directly into that shadowed face. 
What he saw in the normally laughing eyes was darkly familiar, 
and he could only think of one way to deal with it.  Carefully, he 
leaned forward and pressed his lips to Jack--gently at first, then 
parting his lips and inviting the other man in.  Jack didn't 
hesitate, delving deep into his mouth, their tongues dancing 
together lazily.  The fingers that had never ceased their travels 
through Mike's hair moved to cup his head, pressing him closer 
for a moment, letting him drown in Jack's wet heat, then let him 
pull away slowly.

"Come to bed, Detective.  Sleep if you can.  If not, then just lie 
next to me. Talk to me, or don't--whatever you want.  Just know 
that *I* know.  That I can understand if you want me to.  OK?"

Mike smiled, relieved to see the warmth return to the canted 
eyes.  He nodded, and was rewarded with a familiar playful grin.

"Thank God.  My back's killing me."

*  *  *

When Mike next awoke, it was to golden sunlight streaming 
through the window, and directly into his face.   He blinked and 
turned over with a groan, unwilling to face reality just yet.  He 
burrowed into the unfamiliar bedsheets, letting the combined 
scent of linen and Jack sift over him. Something warm and 
vibrating was pressed against his naked back.

"Mmm...Jack..."  He pressed back into the warm body...the 
warm, small, furry body.  Since when was Jack furry? 

He sat up with a start, and looked down--into round, golden eyes 
looking back up at him with mild annoyance at his sudden 
movement.  "Oh, gross!  What the hell are *you* doing here?!" 
The bedroom door suddenly swung open, and Jack came in, 
wearing an open bathrobe and clinging, knit boxers and bearing 
a tray laden with food. Mike's mouth watered, and he wasn't 
sure at which of the two stimuli.

"Finally, it awakens!"

Mike grinned, his outrage at the cat's indiscretion forgotten in its 
owner's welcome presence.  "Morning."

"Afternoon, actually."  Jack chuckled at his surprised expression, 
depositing the tray between them on the bed.  The scent of 
scrambled eggs, toasted buns, and coffee filled the small 
bedroom.  "Hope you didn't have any plans for this morning, 
Detective."

Mike licked his lips unconsciously as he took in the view of Jack, 
bathrobe open, pouring coffee.  "Nope."  He received the offered 
cup.  "Thanks."  He took an appreciative gulp.  It seemed that 
Jack's culinary skills extended to coffee.  He smiled and leaned 
back against the bed's headboard, letting the rich, strong taste 
settle through him, waking him slowly.

"How about for the rest of the week-end?"

Mike looked up, but Jack's eyes were lowered, studiously 
watching as he stirred his coffee.  Something about the whole 
scene--the two of them sitting on Jack's unmade bed, having 
breakfast in their underwear--made Mike want to make an 
excuse and run back to the isolated safety of his apartment.  He 
was always careful to maintain the appropriate distance 
between himself and those he slept with.  But...but, he and Jack 
had agreed to be friends, not just lovers.  He remembered 
Jack's heartfelt confession last night, and the way that he'd 
stayed awake, talking to Mike about work, sports, the weather, 
anything until Mike fell asleep again.  His actions were similar to 
those of Elizabeth or Lennie, Mike's two closest friends.  And, 
Mike had lost count of the times that he'd stayed up with either 
of them, recounting old demons or just waiting for the light to 
come back.  This could be the same, right?

He looked back at Jack, and caught elfin eyes, 
uncharacteristically sombre, watching him expectantly, waiting 
for his answer.  He smiled.  "I leave my family obligations for 
Sunday afternoons, but as for the rest of the week-end..." He 
finished his coffee in one long drag, then lay back down 
amongst the dissarayed pillows and sheets.  "I'm free so far." 

The dark, dark eyes lit up with familiar fires, and Jack grinned in 
return.  "So far, huh?"  He quickly moved the breakfast tray to 
the floor, then reached under the bed.  When Mike saw what 
was in his hand, a sharp thrill chased the last remnants of sleep 
from him.

Jack gripped the silken tie, then quickly straddled his hips.  "But, 
not for long."

The End  (...heehee..)
January 1998