Sex is just sex.

Or so she told herself, pinned tightly against the wall of a small airplane bathroom, staring breathless into the cold and empty eyes of a man she both feared and hated. Something wasn't right about this—something was wrong with this picture, with this scene, but she couldn't focus on that. Her attention was riveted on the fact that Jackson Rippner was lowering his head, that his face was drawing perilously close to her own … and then his lips were on hers and he was kissing her. It wasn't a kind kiss, close to punishing in its fierceness, and in some small part of her mind she was aware that this was how she'd always suspected he'd kiss …

With a subtle movement he coerced her mouth to open under his, and his tongue persisted in a curiously pleasant invasion that caused her blood to race and something in the lower, more private regions of her body to tighten with anticipation. She caught herself a moment later, suddenly ashamed for feeling pleasure, and still the suspicion persisted that something simply was not right. She was given no time to dwell on it—Jackson's lips were working there way downwards, trailing softly over the slender column of her neck and then over the flesh exposed by the neck of her top. He paused suddenly, and she knew what he'd seen; she found then her voice that had deserted her and said in a rough whisper, "Stop."

His eyes flicked to hers, and she could read clearly in their blue depths his amusement. He replied in a voice barely above a whisper, "But you don't want me to."

She should have insisted. Why wasn't she fighting? But then he tugged the collar of her shirt down further and she felt his tongue, moist and warm, running along the ridge of the scar she bore as testament to what she had survived. Shock made her knees weak; one of his arms encircled her waist and he shifted her so that he was able to wedge a knee between her thighs, keeping her aloft. He drew back and regarded her unblinking for a moment, but then he reached out and caught the bottom of her shirt. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively, both wanting and dreading what he meant to do. She shook her head—this wasn't right

"Lees," he said, and while she hated the way he shortened her name she heard and recognized the promise in that one word, and it was enough. She uncrossed her arms and held them up, and he slipped the shirt over her head. A moment later his hands were again on her body, his mouth on her flesh, and she drifted in a sort of limbo between the pleasure and the insistence in her mind that something was wrong. She sucked in a breath as he deftly removed her bra and sucked in another as his lips, ever vigilant in their exploration, closed over one exposed nipple. He worked the sensitive flesh gently with teeth, tugging slightly before laving a path with his tongue to the other. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that this was the way it was supposed to be—

She opened her eyes again, and found that she was naked, and he was naked too. And she had no time to dwell on how between one heartbeat and another they'd lost their clothing, because she felt him at the entrance to her body, the long rigid length of him probing at her flesh, causing her heart to pound and sending a wave of utter longing through her. He bent his head and nipped at her neck, and then he was sheathing himself inside her, the movement languorously slow and purposeful, as though he meant to make a statement. She was wet around him, easing his process and adding even more sensation to something that made her want to scream aloud in pleasure. Her hands closed around his upper arms, tensing as he held himself deep within her, as he pulled her closer with his hands on her hips until she could feel him at her very core. His withdrawal was slow, teasingly so, and when she made an impatient sound he chided her softly, saying her name so that she focused her gaze on him. His eyes were unreadable—she doubted they could ever be any other way, but they held her own nonetheless. And when he was certain he had her attention he pushed himself back inside of her, not hard, but forceful. It wasn't painful—it was bliss.

His thrusting was measured, steady, setting a pace that had her biting her lip. He knew when she reached the breaking point; as she shuddered and clenched around him he drove himself as deep as he could and stayed there as the climax washed over her. He followed her heartbeats later, bowing his head so that his breathing fast and loud in her ear as he came hard within her. Left trembling by the pinnacle of their joining she was instantly assailed by the implications of what had just happened—she'd fucked the man who had tried to kill her …

"Sex is just sex, Lees," he whispered in her ear-

And with a gasp, she sat bolt upright in bed. It took her several moments to sort through the confusion, through the apprehension to comprehend what was going on. With a shaky sigh she raised a hand to her forehead, pushing back strands of hair that were damp with sweat. Her subconscious had known what wasn't right, but that hadn't stopped the progression at all. Another sigh, steadier this time, escaped her, and she collapsed back against her pillows and threw one arm over her eyes. It hadn't been real, she told herself, and wondered why a part of her wished it had been. Didn't really matter, though-

Sex is just sex, and a dream is just a dream.


Author's Note: I blame Chocobo Goddess for the creation of this fic. She's created a monster in me.