Author's note: I wrote this a long time ago, actually, I think in February, but kept forgetting to upload. Anyway, this is pre-movie, sort of AU-ish, although I could actually conceive it happening, considering how little was shown of Oliver in the movie. So anyway, here the ficlet, slight sexuality, just to warn you. Oh, and please, please review.

Disclaimer: I don't own. They belong to Paramount Pictures and Michael Crichton. Please don't sue me. I'm just a struggling writer polishing her writing skills with fan fiction and makes to claim on the stuff she writes about. Savvy?



He knew she was a spy. She knew he had figured out who she was. They both knew the other was aware. They just did not know why she kept coming back, or why he kept receiving her. They could not figure out why they wanted each other so badly.

All they knew was that it felt so good, the joining of their bodies, the release that they could only get from the other. That the smell of their sweat and arousal mixed together was intoxicating. That the sound of his grunts as he thrust into her made her feel powerful. That the sound of her whimpers as she held him to her gave him satisfaction.

It had nothing to do with love.

As she came to him now, it was not out of love. As she let him approach her, slowly circling her, staring at her hungrily, it was not because she loved him, he did not look at her with love.

Call it lust, desire, a need, an addiction to something deadlier than poison. Call it a form of slow suicide.

But never love. It was not love. There was no room for love, nor was there a want or a need for it.

As he finally came to her, pushing the flimsy peasant dress off her shoulders, his fingers hot and rough, yet gentle when they touched her, it was not because of love. As he leaned over, kissing her softly, slowly, lips and tongue exploring hers, it was not love that made him tender.

When she reached up, pulling him closer by his neck, her touch demanding and firm, it was not from love. As she returned his probing with her own, her fingers playing with her thick hair as they kissed, it was not love that made her want him.

It was not love that made them hastily take off his clothes, ridding him off his garments. It was not love that made them tremble as they stood there in his chambers, naked and bare, panting with want and need and lust. It was not love as they pressed themselves against each other, groping, clawing, biting, nipping, licking, kissing.

As they moved to his bed, frantic, desperate, needing to find their release again, needing their hunger fed, desire sated, fire drenched. As they kissed, as she pulled him to her roughly, as he stroked her gently. As she pressed herself to his hardness, as he stroked her wetness.

As she begged him to take her already, as he prolonged the wait. As he struggled for control of himself, as she tried to take it from him. As she finally took it, as he finally gave up. As he thrust into her, as she took him in.

It had nothing to do with love. It was not because of love.

When he kept grinding into her, when she kept pushing down to take him in, when he kept stroking her sides, when she kept biting his neck, when he kept kissing her breasts, when she kept raking her nails over his chest.

When he kissed her tenderly, when she made it fierce, when he let her, when she made him. When his fingers found her wet heat and pushed her over the edge as he struggled to keep his own release at bay, when she screamed his name as she came and trembled in his arms.

When she laid there, limp and panting and moaning as he thrust into her once, twice, three mores times and then came, when he groaned out her own name and shook around her. When she cradled his head on her chest and let him lie on top of her for a few moments, when they let each other recover before moving to dress.

When he watched her slide back into her dress, when she turned and came over for one last kiss, it was not because of love. When she slowly left him, reluctance leaving her once she turned from him, there was no love involved.

But when she left and he came to the door, still naked, still bare to the world, when he came and leaned against his door, there was love. When he beat his fist against the wood, when he blinked back tears, and when he cried out wordlessly in despair, there was love.

He knew what she was, she knew he had figured out her secret. They both knew the other was well aware.

But there was something Oliver knew that Claire didn't. He knew that to her, there was no love, this was not because of love. He knew that for him, this was all because of love, this was his only way of having her.