A/N: I kinda needed to get this out of my system before I can continue with "Leather, Not Lace"…

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I hate this.

Well, not exactly hate, for no one in their right mind would hate the things he's doing to me. I just hate the fact that it's HIM who's doing them to me.

Not true, either. He's the only man I'd rather have touching me the way he's touching me… telling me the things he's telling me… making me feel what he's making me feel…

Dear God, he's killing me.

Should have known since the first time we kissed. After the initial shock had worn out, all there was left were his lips and his tongue and his teeth and the way he saw fit to nibble on my lower lip until I moaned and begged for more.

And more he gave me.

He gave me his mouth traveling down my neck and his hands moving over my back and lower, until he'd reach my ass and squeezed it and brought me closer; close enough for me to feel his hard cock pressing on my belly and filling me with white hot desire for something I had not known I desired until that very moment and something I can't seem to live without since that day.

I can't live without him.

God help me, I'm addicted to Don Flack and everything about him. Those blue eyes than can turn so cold when he's angry and can shine so clearly when he's happy. I can read what mood he's in just by the way the blue in his eyes change, but I've yet to find words to describe the way they sparkle when he's sexually aroused… or sexually sated. And I've been seeing those two shades far too much as of lately but I'm not going to complain cause I'd die if I never saw them again.

And that is so wrong.

We work together. We're friends. We put our lives in each other hands on a regular basis… and here I am, waiting to see that sharp cobalt blue that precedes hunting Flack… merciless Flack, stalking me, seeking me out, driving me crazy with little touches here and there, who looks at my mouth and licks his own lips, who smirks when he notices my discomfort and gets a devilish gleam in his eyes when I simply have to leave the room or 

make a fool of myself in front of everyone else. He loves knowing the power he has over me, and I hate his bastard guts for it.

And I love him for everything else.

I love Don Flack, have probably loved him since I set eyes on him, but won't dare to confess it to anyone, let alone him, not even under torture. Or under the pressure of his fingers skimming my skin, which is the finest torture of all. He seeks and discovers nerve endings I didn't know I had, and he prides himself in doing a thorough work of it. My muscles bunch and spasm under his touch; blood flowing, pooling, rapidly beating and engorging as his fingers carelessly move over my nipples and my last coherent thought goes out the window.

Same happens when his hands slide down my body while he's standing behind me, his mouth nipping at my neck, his hardness pressing into my lower back… he's stroking and I'm dying… dying! His fingers seek a way in and my legs part on their own volition and I surrender to his will as if my own got sucked out by his mouth latched on my shoulders.

One finger, one lonely scout, out to see if he's welcome inside of me. Two fingers, close playmates, encouraging, seeking me out of my reservations, coaxing me out of my shell. Three fingers and I'm gone, so lost I have no control of my movements or my thoughts, have no idea what will come out if I open my mouth, but more often than not, it's something along the lines of "Christ, will you please fuck me already?!" and I can feel his smile tattooing itself on my shoulder blade.

And he does what I've asked him… no… what I've begged him to do.

And he moves in and out of me, at a pace all of his own, but one that drives me crazy, for he knows how to move to hit every spot that brings me closer and closer to the edge, and I wonder if he was born knowing how to make love like this, and I silently thank all of those lovers before me who'd taught him a trick or two, and I send a special thanks to whoever taught him how to…


My orgasm hits, and his right after and we crumble, holding each other tight, not wanting to let go, no air left for words, no energy left to kiss or caress or even move away from each other, so we lay tangled until I can bear the silence no more, until a buildup of a different kind takes place in my chest and I'm sure I'll explode if I don't let the feeling out…

"I love you Don"

He chuckles and holds me closer to his chest, a chaste, soft kiss on the top of me head.

"Love you too, Danny"

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A/N: Now that the muse is happy, we can go back to our regular programming…