End to Begin

by sistersin7

A type of "what happened next", in 6 parts (but 7 chapters). Starts in the not-too-distant-future and is canon compliant. This is a B&W, so there be angst. But there also be good times (and some fluff, too). Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the ride. (Huge thanks to Roadie and Rachel452 for all the feedback and support, and Redlance for the good intentions).

1. Chapter 1: 160 (Prologue)

Chapter One: 160 (Prologue)

We've been in the UK for over a week now, and she is intent on seeing it through my impossible eyes, with my impossible perspective. We started in London, in the lesser known parts I occupied in my life before the bronze.

It's rather fascinating how dialogic a city is to its inhabitants. How it, a vast, inanimate cluster of architecture and infrastructure responds to the will of the people that pump through its streets like blood cells in veins. How it bends to their will without moving. How it changes without changing. London felt different to me this time.

I struggle to remember being here last time – shortly after the bronze. My mind is a blur with the events of the first few months, and even first few years. I remember what I had done, I can recall it in intricate, vivid detail. But the emotion behind my actions, the logic – they melt into a chaotic mess of colour and sound, overwhelming, all consuming, and I could not make sense of it.

Until I let her in.

I let her in and she took away the doubt, the darkness and the terrifying totality of being consumed whole by a whirlpool of grief and anger. She didn't take them away, as such. She took some of their weight from my consciousness onto hers. Now, on occasions I cannot see where I am or what surrounds me, I know I am not alone. I know she is with me.

And lighter I feel when I am with her. I have felt it more over these past few days, as she walks with me through my history. Being with her in England, in London, is as though I recently won the war I was waging against my other self. I walk and talk her through the battlefields with the pleasure, duty and honour of rewriting my own history as victor. It's a hard task, recounting my life of over a century ago, but not because of how much London or England had changed. Not even because I had changed.

It's a hard task because she distracts me so.

I found, during our long walks across the city that I was less interested in regaling stories of old and more interested in watching her. The details I noticed are ones I had noticed before, painted to memory over the 12 years we have been at each other's side. Yet recently, they strike me anew: her cocky grin when she jokes and the flare of her nostrils when she's embarrassed; her preference to place her hand on her hip when she waits and how her right shoulder drops as she re-aligns her centre of gravity; the natural quirk in her eyebrow; how she scans a room and a situation, making sense and quick judgements that can save a life, or just time. These show in abundance in a city: too many people, too many moving parts, too many interactions and mis-interactions.

We left London two days ago, steadily moving outwards, away from city. As we move away from crowded masses into rolling, green hills, her demeanour changes, her movements change.

Yesterday we investigated Woking. How dull and dreary a subject Woking is when she walks beside me in all her glory. Head held high, hair pinned back by the frame of her sunglasses. Her hands are loose at her sides so her strides are more fluid, more cat-like. I told her that and she chortled. Snorted, even. Utterly unladylike.

It made my heart sing and I beamed at her, shy and quiet. Utterly unlike me.

She noticed. She always notices.

Today we are heading west. She has been driving for over an hour, happily humming to music and exclaiming the beauty of the landscapes we are driving through. The Wiltshire countryside and its demure wilderness have changed little over the past century, but - much like yesterday and the day before that (and the ones that preceded those) - I only have eyes for her.

In an ironic turn of the tables, it is I who does the staring these days, especially during this trip. I find myself watching her be and memories of her greet me as my mind meanders. While she is busy moving us across England, I can't tear away from her.

When she bobs her head to the rhythm of the music her curls obey with a slight delay. Every few shakes of a head one specific, defiant strand falls loose and slides across her forehead. She then quirks her brow – raising it clearly above the thick rim of her glasses, as if it could persuade the errant curl to move back. And when that fails, she rakes it back with the fingers of her right hand, firm and unforgiving, she lifts the wayward curl and tucks it back with a shove, perhaps this time it will keep in its place for longer.

She wears glasses more often now, possibly because I had commented on how much I like her librarian look. To all and sundry, however, she insists she is following Doctors Orders: after her incident, she has been spending considerably less time in the field and much more time in offices, in front of screens and with the movers and shakers of our secretive, wondrous world.

Irrespective of why she wears them, I like her glasses and like her in them. As if able to tap into my thoughts, she adjusts her them, glances quickly in my direction and smiles.

"Are you enjoying any of this?" she questions, deliberately leaving the subject of her question ambiguous.

"More than you realise, darling," I answer softly and adjust the angle at which I sit to have a better view of her.

She gives me another quick glance and laughs out loud, a booming exclamation of joy.

"God, Helena, you are starting to sound your age," she says as the right corner of her mouth is turned up to a lascivious grin and she shakes her head.

"How do you mean?" I retort, slightly offended. "How exactly, pray tell, does a one hundred and sixty year old sound?"

Her grin widens and flashes white teeth, her bottom lip stretches over them, her dimples deepen, "dirty, old –" she starts.

"Man?" I finish her quip for her.

"Well... No," she smiles wider, if that's even possible, "thank god for that".

"Thank god indeed," I answer and inhale deeply. I lean forward, placing the pad of my forefinger at the top of her shoulder, tracing it down her bicep - ever so lightly - and back up the side of her arm. She responds by flexing said muscle and her grip on wheel tightens. I drag my finger down the back of her arm, fingernail scratching the fabric of her jacket, falling just short of the outskirts of her breast.

I lean back and my hand falls in my lap. Her cheeks, round and high on her cheekbones, redden slightly, and I conjure a memory.

She is hovering above me, hanging mid-air; chest, neck and cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red. Her green eyes burn brightly in a tame smile that is a striking contrast to the warm tones of her skin. She is straining slightly, prompted up by her arms. My fingers creeps up them, towards her shoulders as she eases herself gently onto me and kisses me deeply with her eyes never leaving mine. She fills me with warmth and joy, desire and desperation all at once, and I am overwhelmed by all of them at once as her tongue sweeps across my lips. I gasp, then moan then close my eyes.

This memory of a kiss is but from last night. Yet, I have dozens of other memories, similar to this one, memories shared over the past decade. Memories I so easily re-live.

The passing of time marred little of her appearance - a few more laugh lines strewn across her face, a handful more dimples than she had sported when we first met. Her hair, unruly as ever, longer than ever.

She takes a deep breath and looks at me from above the rim of those glasses of hers. "You shouldn't be doing that when I'm driving," she mock scalds me. "It's hard enough to keep to the left side of the road without your…" she pauses for a deep breath, "wandering hand eliciting memories of nights past".

I lower my eyes for the first time in hours to look at my hands. "I cannot recall ever being requested to keep my hands to myself so poetically," I stretch my palms onto my thighs. "Don't you know how hard it is to keep my hands idle when I'm so close to you? When we are alone?"

"In the interest of safety, Helena, please," she says, still smiling. "You know I'd have let your hands work their magic if we had time."

My core trembles at her suggestion; I catch my bottom lip between my teeth.

She takes a deep breath, pushing away stray lustful tendrils. "But we are on a schedule today," she says and straightens in her seat.

If she were any bit less serious I would have forced her to stop the car and taken her. But I know her tone all too well, I know her use of words: she means business. We must reach our destination and only there and then she will allow herself to be had.

Oh, and have her I shall.

But for now, in the interest of safety, I tuck my hands under me, practicing a mute piano piece for the eight fingers between my thighs and seat.

"So where is it we are heading, then?" I say after clearing my throat.

Her smile turns Cheshire Cat like. She acknowledges the question, but chooses not to answer.

"By the names of towns, I reckon we are heading towards Bath," I say, "but I do not know this road."

"Well deduced," she rewards me. "Bath it is," and she flicks the music up and starts singing to it, as best she can. Slightly out of pitch, but earnest and full of gusto - like everything else about her.

She flexes her hand on the steering wheel again. I follow the contours of her muscles with my eyes. I know these muscles well. I see and feel them so often. I see them tense when she places her chin or forehead in her palm, when she wields a weapon. I see them stretch as she reaches out for me and feel them tighten around me as we embrace; I feel them flex and sweep across my abdomen as she works her way up or down my body.

I can feel my heartbeat quicken and my breath shorten at the thought of her touching me.

My gaze travels down to her thighs, a paradise known only to me. A treasure trove of pleasure to her - and me, by proxy - as I tease her with fingers, teeth, tongue and lips. I can hardly wait until we reach our destination, to hunt for treasure.

"Helena," she drawls my name teasingly, knowing where my mind is, how quickly it wanders. "Do you want to drive, maybe?" she asks, "it may take your mind off of..." Her sentence tapers off before she finishes it.

"Off of you?" I state matter-of-factly, my eyes fixed firmly on the regal column of her neck. "Off of taking you?" I husk. "Off of touching you, peeling your resolve an inch at the time, using nothing but my fingertips and tongue?"

Her breath resembles a whimper.

"Why would I ever want to stop thinking of you under my hand and me under yours," my voice lowers in timbre as I let it speak freely what has been occupying my mind for hours, for days; "your flesh touching my lips, my hair fisted in your palm, your back under my nails, my thigh between..."

She shifts in her seat as she clears her throat and cuts me off. She swiftly manoeuvres the car into a layby on our right, pulls the handbrake and turns to me. Her gaze is heated, out of anger or lust – or both, and she leans towards me, her eyes flickering between mine, my lips, pulse point, and earlobe.

"My beautiful, sweet tongued lover," she starts and reaches for my hands. "You know the effect you have on me." She looks into my eyes as she pulls my hands from under me, wraps them with her own.

"I do." I say with a deep breath, "Even at my ripe old age".

"Why then," she asks slowly, choosing her words as carefully as she is crafting her movements, "are you hell bent on making this drive longer than it needs to be?" she arranges my hands so she can encircle both my wrists with her right hand. She leans in closer, her grip on my wrists tightens and her left hand travels up my arm to caress the hair at the nape of my neck. She nuzzles my ear and whispers "You know that there is nothing I want more right this minute than have you inside me," she grants me a ghosting, tender kiss, "and me inside you?"

Her lips tickle mine and I claim them for a kiss, her words ringing in my head like a thousand church bells.

"Darling," I gasp breathlessly. "I want you".

She kisses me again and eases the grip of my wrists; her left hand slides down to cup my cheek. As she pulls away, she drops her gaze and closes her eyes with a deep breath. She releases it seconds later as a heavy sigh. She is collecting herself.

"All in good time," she says and smiles. Her eyes open again, bright and green, knowingly studying me from behind her glasses. My heart melts again. "We're not far away, I promise," She leans back into her chair, disengages the handbrake and gets us going again.

I stare at her lips, refusing to let go of their softness. They stretch and flex, scrunch and pout as she mumbles lyrics or occasionally mutters curses at other drivers, the weather or animals that behave unpredictably on roads barely fit for a horse and carriage, let alone a large utility vehicle.

I don't know what it is about today, but I just cannot focus on anything but her. I have been finding it difficult to let go of her throughout the whole of this trip, but today has been harder than any other day. I cannot fathom why.

I turn my head to the left on purpose, forcefully looking away from her, gazing out onto the damp grassy hills that lap against our side. The narrow road winds through wet fields, along low stone walls, mires, muddy tracks and paddocks. It is very wet out there. I realise how much I missed England. It is so fair even when it is wet. Especially so.

I can't hold a coherent string of thought for too long, and sure enough, my mind wanders again, this time to a more distant memory, 8 or 9 years old.

It is late. We are in her bed. We usually end up in her bed on work nights. It is almost a ritual. We work hard at maintaining our excitement with each other, even though it has only been just under two years since my return.

I kiss her hungrily, but never her lips. My mouth caresses her cheek and journeys down, along the ridge of her jaw until my lips meet her pulse point, radiating warmth and need. I place the tip of my tongue to it and she gasps my name.

I close my lips around a patch of skin there, like a vampire. Instead of piercing perfect white skin and staining it with a passionate, bloody mark, I flutter my lips to her neck, slowly traversing upwards, towards her ear. I pause below it, at the base of her skull and nip eagerly, teeth and lips, towards the nape of her neck. I trail back, open mouthed, patient and languid, and then clasp the lobe of her ear in my teeth and pull. I gently trace my tongue along its edge before clenching my teeth more tightly. She moans, desperate under my touch. She can't even finish my name, she is so out of breath. I don't expect her to be any less desperate, because I've been subjecting her to this torture for the better part of an hour.

"I know, my love" my lips whisper to her skin, "I know"

"Please kiss me, plea-" she begs, on the verge of tears. I hoist myself up and look down onto her, her green irises cradled in unshed tears, the golden ring in their middle just visible. Her eyes speak volumes of trust and honesty and devotion.

I love you so much, I think, but don't say it. Not yet. My prayer of gratitude to you has more to it than a vow of love. I love you so much for giving yourself to me, for letting me have you, for trusting me in a way I thought no longer possible.

I love you.

Instead of speaking, I take a breath, wet my lips slowly then place them unto hers, gently, chastely. I wish and hope that this kiss speaks of trust and honesty and devotion as her eyes just did.

She breaks the tentative innocence of the kiss first, pulling my bottom lip into her mouth as a low, thrumming growl rises from the back of her throat. I reciprocate by biting gently into her lips and sending my hand lower, past her navel, past her hip bone, over her thigh and between it and its twin.

I push gently down her length, parting her with my fingers, feeling just how keen she is.

"Are you wet?" I ask, knowing she is. Feeling it at the tips of my fingers.

She moans throatily, her hips bucking. If I didn't know any better I'd say she was strangling a laugh.

I graze her with my fingers again and shudder at her want, her responsiveness. I start to move slowly, not too slowly, thought. I have tortured her long enough – she most certainly earned her release.

"I know—", she gasps, "what you are—", whimpers then moans, "are doing," exhales a choked gasp.

This is new, the back of my mind registers. Is this an invitation to engage in dirty talk? "I am touching you," my voice vibrates from my throat like a bow against the string of a cello. "I am crawling inside you, taking you". I wonder if I should go further, but I am conflicted: my soft, literary, poetic soul asks me to concentrate so that I may come up with more enticing talk than this, but my id screams to simply take Myka.

"Oh, Helena," she moans again, and most definitely chokes in a laugh, "don't stop."

I decide to give in to my primal urges, and I claim her mouth with mine and press into her.

Any vocalisations of thoughts, no matter how fleeting or guttural, from her or me, are muffled by deep, sinful kisses, relentless and literally-breath-taking.

Her body shatters and shakes as she comes, but no sound leaves her because she is out of breath. She is magnificent as she comes apart and I am in awe and gratitude for being part of this, of her.

She inhales sharply and holds her breath for a few seconds, regaining control of her breath after the final few minutes of our lovemaking. The very ability to breathe in deeply, I am guessing, must feel like a novelty. She then exhales slowly and lets her breathing settle.

I pepper her chest with kisses, my head resting against her shoulder. I love you, I think again, but still don't say it.

We've exchange I love you's in the past, and she knows that I do, but right now, this sentiment leaves me feeling too exposed, too vulnerable.

Her hand comes to my forehead and sweeps stray strands of hair from it. I feel her take a breath.

I must ask, "Did you just laugh?"

She answers with a delicate chuckle. "Don't play innocent," she says, "I know what you're doing," still playing with my hair.

I lift my head up and place my hand under my chin. I am truly bemused now. "And what is it that I am doing, exactly?"

"You are conducting an experiment in neuro linguistics," she answers calmly. "I am your test subject."

My heart stills for a second. A multitude of thoughts stop dead in their tracks. Goodness, I did not expect this. How did she know?

She smiles at me. Her eyes sparkling.

"Myka, I—" I start.

"I'll allow it," she cuts me, "but you have to promise you'll never use it against me."

I promise, I think to myself but don't speak it. How did you know? How long have you known? Why are you letting me? How can you be so trusting? All pass through my mind, unspoken.

"Promise me, Helena," she looks into my eyes, "no matter what happens between us, you'll never use it against me."

Her words, tone and eyes are so honest. Their combination causes a catastrophic failure to the part in me that separates the stream of my consciousness from my mouth, "God, I love you for knowing," I utter, then blush profusely, "and I promise I will never use it against you."

She cradles my cheek in the palm of her hand and rises to kiss me.

We turn onto a main road, a green sign marks that we are closing in on Bath. Daylight wanes behind clouded skies, and the grey skies that frame glistening hilltops slowly adopt pink hues of an early autumn evening.

Although I am fascinated by the landscape around me, I still cannot help but think of my darling Myka, my anchor and earth that ground me, the air and water that fill me, the fire that keeps me warm. So elemental, my Myka, and I stifle a giggle at my grandiose, classic-romantic train of thought.

"Softie", I mumble to myself, under a smile.

"Hmmm?" she turns her head to face me.

"My train of thought. If anyone were to know it, they'll think I'm a softie."

"Of all the adjectives I could choose to describe you, Helena, 'softie' is on my top ten," she smirks.

"If only you knew, darling," I say, hushed.

"Any reason I shouldn't?" she asks, but her attention is elsewhere. She's turning off the main road and back onto a lane, narrower than before.

"Later," I say. "I must allow you to focus on driving."

Her smile widens. "That's funny, Helena."

"What is?" I ask as she turns the car onto a gravel road cutting through a wide stately garden.

"That you let me to focus on driving when the driving is done." she says and pulls the car to a halt. She leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek. "I do need to concentrate, though. That parking lot," she gestures to a dimly lit car park up the path, "is a far too small for this SUV, so I need all the focus and skill I can muster to not crash anything."

I lean back, into the car door, and raise both my hands up in submission. "Quiet as a church mouse".

She straightens her back as she puts the car in reverse. She turns in her seat, initially to the wrong side, and curses under her breath. She then turns back to the wheel, bracer her right arm across it and faces left, extending her form and turning it almost 180 degrees, so that her left shoulder is pushing against the headrest.

The contour of her body is stunning. Lithe and flexible as it ever were. I trace a long line from her forehead to her feet with my relentless stare: it starts at the top of her stern profile and high forehead that curves to a furrowed brow (in concentration). It continues across her cheekbone and drops over her clenched jaw, down her neck, as is slopes downwards and splits to shape a shoulder on one branch and pours into the expanse of her chest – rising and falling quickly as she scouts for a spot to park.

The line disappears into her v-neck, but I cannot stop there, because I can see beyond what she wears, I know her body by heart: past her chest, the line continues between her breasts to a sternum that would be slightly prominent as she is now holding her breath. It would slide down to her abdomen and down still over her thighs, quads tightly contracted to support her weight in this impossibly tense position.

My eyes stop at her quads as she eases one and flexes the other, ever so slightly, to bring the car to roll slowly backwards. As she controls the car, her muscles stretch the synthetic cloth of her trousers and it shimmers in the car park's light.

My gaze wanders to her midriff, how her jacket hugs her waistline, so smooth it is aerodynamic.

I ponder the choice of element and change my mind – hydrodynamic. While I cannot attest to the properties of Myka's waist under a flow of air, I can most certainly attest to its properties under a stream of water.

She is standing tall over me, leaning: one arm steadies her against the shower wall and the other wedged to its corner, bent at the elbow, fingers seeking purchase on the sleek tiles. If she doesn't hold on, she knows her knees may succumb and she's too close to the preeminent precipice give in to gravity rather than my tongue's ministrations. Water cascades from the showerhead above her and runs down her hair and shoulders, rivulets becoming steamy streams that circle her breast and traverse down her side, hanging onto her waist as they rush further down along the side of her long leg, then calf, to pool at her feet and my knees. The warmth of the water and its gentle caress only adding to the abundance of sensation she must be feeling. All it takes is for me to move my lips just so...

The car comes to halt with a rocky jolt.

"Hydrodynamic," the word falls off my lips as my head thuds lightly against the car window.

"Sorry?" She says and pulls the handbreak.

"Your body," I say, feeling weariness travellers feel at journey's end. "It is hydrodynamic".

"Helena," she sighs and falls back into her seat, shaking her head lightly.

I smile contentedly and close my eyes. I hear the click of the seatbelt and the rustle of fabric. The next thing I feel are her lips against mine, gentle, nibbling. Then increasingly demanding, teeth tugging at lips, tongue grazing, begging to enter.

"Darling," I sigh into her mouth.

"I want you," she finishes my thought for me.

I break the short and tense silence by opening the car door. We climb down onto the gravel-lined lot not far from the entrance to a building – an Arts and Crafts period priory which I'm sure I have seen before. It appears to be a hotel now.

Myka admires the building in the fading daylight: her eyes twinkle with curiosity and her face is awash with awe. After so many years of witnessing wonder she still has curiosity and awe in spades. Yet another admirable aspect of her.

My gaze, as usual, wanders from her eyes to her lips and the knots within me tighten. I fear the want for her is fast becoming a need. Task focused, I open the back door of the car to fetch our suitcase.

"I'll go check us in," Myka says and makes her way to a door marked "Reception".

I follow her, watch her figure moving in sure steps, and sure enough, it is not her figure I eye, but her backside. I sigh heavily in anticipation of what's to come. I contemplate and strategise how I want her. How I want her to want me. How I want to have her and how I want to be had.

By the time I reach reception we're already checked in, and she's holding a key – a proper, metal key. I am slightly surprised at the presence of such old technology.

"Old fashioned, indeed," I say with a smile.

She smiles back, nudges her head towards the main hallway and walks down it. I follow her, silent, neither of us is saying a word. I am guessing she is as eager as I am to get to our room, where the tensions of the day can be undone over and over again.

The walk to the room is longer than I expect, and involves leaving the main priory building. We exit from the east wing and onto a paved garden. At its bottom are tall hedges and a gate, through which she leads me. Behind it – a small, secluded chalet.

The proper, metal key clanks heavily in the lock, and Myka holds the door for me to walk through.

There is a small foyer and two doors leading on to other rooms. The whole place is dimly lit with mood lighting. It is modern kitsch, almost as kitsch as my elemental train of thought earlier. As I walk in I feel Myka close behind me. The proper, metal key clanks again as she locks the door behind us.

I turn into the bedroom, adamant to have her on or in the bed within the next two minutes. I place the suitcase on its stand and start removing decorative pillows from the bed.

"Helena," she calls me from the foyer. "Come here, please."

Although she uses the word "please", hers is a command rather than a request.

"What's the matter, darling?" I call back, kicking my boots off and turning the covers down.

"Come here." She repeats. "Please."

I make my way to the bedroom door to look for her. "Are you alright?"

She leans against the chalet's door, her head tilted back, exposing her neck, her eyes are closed. Her glasses are holding her hair back at the top of her head. Her arms are limp by her sides, palms facing the surface of the door. Is she offering herself to me? I stalk towards her, taking long, careful strides. I notice her jacket is carelessly dropped at her feet.

"That," she opens her eyes, "depends entirely on your definition of 'alright'." She lifts her head from the door and looks into my eyes, her head tilted slightly downward, now that I am a foot or two away from her and barefoot.

I can't help but be a little worried. I hold my hand out to her forehead, touching her lightly with the backs of my fingers. She leans into the touch, closing her eyes again. Before I know it, her left hand is holding my hand at her forehead, dragging it down her cheek to her lips where she kisses my fingers.

Her eyes open, looking deeply into mine as she peels my hand from her lips and plasters it, fingers stretched, onto the surface of the door behind her, above her left shoulder. Without a flicker of an eyelid, with breaths steady and silent, the lifts my left hand with her right to place it in similar fashion above her right shoulder and she lets go. Her hands are back at her sides and mine flank her head.

I am stretched over her, as if I were holding her in place, our bodies are very close but not touching. I am searching her eyes for permission to do something, but she grants me none.

"You see," she nudges her foot between mine, "you won." Her eyes simmering, holding a secret. "You stripped me bare of my resolve, Helena Wells," she gently urges my feet apart with hers, and my stance is even more menacing over her, albeit I am stretched slightly beyond comfortable. "I am naked and divested of willpower," she unclasps my trousers and pulls down the zip. "and all I want," I feel my trousers being pulled open and her hand reaches in, traversing all fabric barriers, "is to have you – "

I feel one fingertip grazing me intimately, sinfully light, painfully unsatisfying.

" – come apart by a single touch."

I gasp as she runs her finger along me a second time, firmer, but not enough, nowhere near enough for what I thought I wanted; but by her third touch – with the same, single finger – I shudder and arch my back with a moan. My head falls forward and rests in the hollow of her neck, my body continues to tremble, her finger against me.

She kisses my temple, soft nuzzles, caressing, over and over, and I cannot control the intensity of the aftershocks of such a simple, small touch. I whimper and whisper her name again and again, and she answers, whispering mine. She fills my soul and my head to their brims and it takes my breath away.

She does distract me so.

/ /

It takes her a little while to settle. I wait for her shaking to cease, for her breathing to even out, and for her to stops whispering my name. Only then I gently pull my hand up and out from her underwear and flatten it on her lower abdomen.

She is majestic in her semi dishevelled condition, extended over me. Hands framing my head, body stretched over mine, legs a perfect distance apart. I can feel her breasts lapping mine as they rise and fall with each breath, steady and soothing.

I have been wanting to feel her all day. Battling those wants wore me out and made it hard to keep focus. Her stares weren't helpful. Her advances made it worse, but her words – I thought her words would be the end of me. And here we are now, her at her state – dazed and mussed; and me in mine – weak and wavering, a slave to my desire for her.

If only she knew just how much I desire her.

"Helena?" I seek her eyes.

"Yes, darling," she struggles to lift her head.

"I need to go away for a moment," I say. "Can you promise me not to move 'til I'm back?"

She looks a bit confused.

I bring my lips close to hers and whisper against them, "Can you hold yourself, just like this, for a few minutes?"

She sighs, brushes of her lips against mine and traps my top lip in hers briefly. And I thought I couldn't possibly want her more. "Will you promise me something in return?" she asks, voice broken.

"Anything, Helena."

"Don't be long."

I smirk. She doesn't know it, but she may actually want me to stay away. "Not unless you want me to," I pull away from her lips and slide down, my back straight against the door, until I am pooled on the floor, Helena spread over me like a sail.

I get to my knees and bring my hands to the waistline of her jeans. For a quick second I'm contemplating my options - what to do next, but my brain can't compute anything right now, it wants. I want.

I tuck both my thumbs on opposite sides of her waist bands – both jeans and underwear and yank them down in a single swoop until they stop halfway down her calves.

I hear her gasp, and before she has a chance to draw her next breath, my lips are at the apex of her thighs, tongue skimming over her folds, already slick and warm from a few moments ago; or possibly from the hours of mutual admiration and sexual preamble in the car.

The sound she makes next is both desperate and delectable. I feel her shift overhead – one of her arms gave way, but she pushes herself back, straightening her arm, staying true to my request to stay as she was.

I bring my hand up to support her, gliding over the front of her thigh, up her hip to rest where her stomach meets her waist. She quivers at the touch, a jumbled verse of nonsensical syllables falling from her lips as I press my tongue firmly to her core. I love how touching her makes her so... wanting.

I love how it makes me wanting, too. The more I feel of her the hungrier I get, and this hunger is deeper than just making her come. I know it (and I) won't be sated so quickly and hope – no – pray that she doesn't ask me to stop. And it's as if she is reading my mind:

"Don't stop, Myka, don't stop, don't –" she chants, her breath hitches as I change my movements, laying long, open mouthed kisses on her.

Before long her pelvis starts bucking against me and she pants and whimpers, high pitched and fastpaced. I maintain my pressure and speed and let her set her own pace. I know that whatever she chooses to do would only close the first movement in my sonata. And everybody knows that after an Allegro first movement, comes an Andante. I have every intention to take her slowly next.

She comes with a harsh grind against my mouth, choking a scream. I slow right down, but don't move from her. I turn the sheet music over in my head and guide my free hand up her taut frame, under her shirt to skirt my fingertips around her breast, over her bra. As I set my touch around her breast, I set a new pace with my tongue.

"God," she gasps, "Myka."

The second movement is slower, with a discernible rhythm. Long swipes of my tongue followed by my bottom lip, while my hand, strokes languidly at her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple.

I look up at her, she is stunning. Statuesque - even in her current state. Tiny beads of sweat appear on her chest, juxtaposing her freckles. Her stomach slopes towards me, tremors rippling across it as her muscles contract and release in time with my tongue and thumb. There is nothing else in my world, in the world right now, other than her and me in this cabin.

She lets her head drop between her shoulders, chin falling to her chest and a high pitched moan is shaken from her parted lips. She squeezes her eyes gently in time with my movements and adjusts her breathing to meet the same pace.

She draws her bottom lip into her mouth to wet it and her eyes flutter open for a split second. Her eyes, lidded, catch mine. She bites down on her lip and closes her eyes again. I work my tongue lower to get her to open her eyes again, and she rewards me by tearing them open, looking down at me and gasping – in time – wanton.

She mouths something to me in between breathless gasps - I'll be damned if I know what it is. I have a pretty good idea, but it is too soon for me to acquiesce. I squeeze my left hand at her waist and release my right from her breast, moving it down her side, to rest parallel to my other hand.

I use this newly arranged leverage to control her pace: I don't want her to speed up too quickly. I don't want her to speed up at all. I need her against me, I need to be against her for a little while longer. There is nothing left in me to control this need for her. It is pure and unadulterated and can only be purged with this touch.

I add a bit more pressure to every move, pulling her towards me ever so slightly.

"Fuh—" she mumbles above me, "darling," she breathes out, "so long."

It has been so long, the longest day, in fact. A long day of fleeting caresses and stolen looks, like when we first met. Only now she and I know the how amazing the reward is on the other side teasing. That's possibly why today was so torturous.

I hum my agreement against her, deep and throaty, my lips vibrating against her. She cries out, arches and throws her head back, grinding herself into me more fervently.

She stifles a moan and pushes her whole body forward. She is asking me again for what she asked before. I smile because my pretty good idea was pretty good. But I don't relent. Instead, I grant her longer, firmer caresses, reaching her clit with every stroke.

I can't lie, I've been thinking of having her exactly like this since I pulled the car over to tell her off. I've been having her exactly like this in my mind for hours. So having her like this now, thrusting against me, unashamedly demanding, is bliss. I could continue having her like this for hours, but she'll probably protest.

And she does, with a sob.

Just one more minute, Helena. Let me have you like this for one more minute.

"Myka, please," she breathes.

I slow my tongue and bring it to a pause at the very top of her sex, lingering my lip on her. I drag my right hand down to where my tongue has been and slowly – very slowly – ease my index finger in.

She groans and take me in entirely, then freezes. I gently push upwards, then release, and repeat. It's only a matter of seconds before she'll ask for –

"More," she breathes, her lips sustain the 'M' sound, her head drops forward again and she looks at me.

Her deep, dark look heats me beyond boiling point. Every time... every time she does something like that – a look, a smile – she pushes me just a little bit further into this primal state of need. I'm transfixed by her eyes and her taste. I want to do something else, something she didn't ask for, play with her like she plays with me, but I can't. It's almost like I'm exactly where she is now, I'm feeling what she is feeling. And it feels just like heaven.

So... Gladly, Helena, let me add another. As I glide in, I bring my tongue and lips back into play, running sure and smooth strokes from where my fingers are to her clit. I move my fingers inside her, gently pushing upwards and releasing – a slow-but-steady pace, Andante.

I can feel her shuddering above me and it makes me shudder too. She can only muster a sustained 'M' sound, and with my next move inside her I slip a third finger, keeping the steadfast, constant contact.

She is a holy sight to me: her sleek, black hair ripples like satin curtains around her face, her mouth open, white teeth trapping her bottom lip and releasing it with a gasp, in time, with my movements. She is tensing above me, her muscles winding tighter and tighter. She is so beautiful, so strong. If she could only see herself the way I see her.

"I can't—" she gasps.

You should, Helena. You are sublime.

"I cah— " she struggles to speak as she contracts around me "— much longer," my left hand slides from her waist to the curve of her ass, down the back of her thigh and her calf. I push her jeans down, releasing her right ankle and run my fingers back up along the softest skin, and down and up again, until she pulls her right leg up, and I guide it over my shoulder.

She is open to me, trusting and willing. I press deeper into her and she pushes down into me. She is wanting and keen. All for me. I can feel my core throbbing, demanding to climax, knowing she will be climaxing so, so soon. Oh, Helena, the things you do to me.

Her release is a coda. It is familiar but new, a drawn out culmination of this effort. I keep her at pace as she rolls over the edge again and again and again, moans turning to cries and to sobs, the whole of her shakes into me, skin, muscle, bone, mind, soul. She is so intense in the throes of this orgasm, she drives me over the edge as well, without even touching me. Just like heaven.

With a final shudder she pulls herself off me, slides her leg from shoulder. I look up at her as she slowly lowers herself, her hands shimmying down the door, stiff from exertion. It looks like it's hard work for her, but she staggers down to her knees in front of me.

As she settles down, I'm thinking about the third movement. A Presto? A Minuet? I wonder if she knows just how much I desire her, how desperate I am in my desire. How even now, I'm still hungry for her.

"My glorious, talented Myka," she kisses me and leans her body against mine, hands at my chest at first, and then pressed to my breast. She deepens the kiss, drawing back the breath I stole from her, and stops me thinking about anything but where she's touching me. Her touch grows harsher – I can feel every one of her fingers through my clothes. She pulls back, licking her lips, palming me, squeezing. "I must rob you of your resolve more often."

I arch into her touch and close my eyes, biting my lip.

"Look at me," she orders and I snap my eyes open. Her eyes roam across my brow, then down my cheek and along my neck and up again. I can feel her look as it moves. "You are so raw in your unfixity. Desire and despair mixing so deliciously," she says as her eyes dart back to mine. Of course she knows. "So raw, it affects me. Infects me," She holds her teeth against her lower lip to emphasise the Fs. It's hypnotic.

Her squeeze turns to a pinch, and I cry her name out in pain.

She grins salaciously, lets go of me and slides her hands down my sides and around my back. She is fully pressed against me, leaning into me and my head is swimming with her scent and warmth. My breath quickens as she lines her cheek against mine, her lips next to my ear and her fingers toying with the hem of my shirt at my back. "Are you ready, darling?" she murmurs. "Hands up," and I comply.

With a brisk motion she tears my shirt over my head and removes my bra. She is immediately everywhere, instantaneously: on my lips and neck and collarbone; shoulder, arm, breast; chest, earlobe, temple. I can't even understand what she's doing and where but it leaves me breathless. Literally. "I'm ready, Helena," I profess, "I'm yours."

"Come," she speaks and stands up, steps out of her jeans and walks through the bedroom door, leaving me on my knees, gasping for her.

The cognitive, rational part of my brain is painfully slow to process and react. I'm actually convinced I'm following her, my eyes are following her, but it turns out my body isn't: she turns around looking for me, noticing I'm still on the floor. She leans against the door frame, naked from her waist down, grinning down at me.

"Who's the old man now?" she jabs with a quirked upper lip.

I come up to my feet, my legs are cramping, and I wince as I take a step forward, pins and needles rushing through my legs and feet. I limp lightly as I reach the door biting on my lips. "Not a word," I say through gritted teeth, with both my pride and muscles injured.

She grabs hold of my hand, lacing her fingers with mine and pulls me towards her. She reaches with her other hand for my glasses, still resting at the top of my head, pulling them out of my hair and running her fingers through it, releasing it.

"In all my life," her face wears a serious expression, the weight of her extraordinary existence suddenly making its presence abundantly felt, "ever did I think I could deserve an old man like you." She smiles to herself, coyly. "Poetic and prosaic, lustful and romantic," she loops a curl around her finger, "immensely intellectual and profoundly emotional, talented in so many ways…"

"Flattery may win you some graces, fair lady," I say with a raised eyebrow, and bring my hands to the lapels of her shirt, tracing circles above her breast with my fingertips.

"…with an amazing ass and the best boobs," she puts on her best attempt at an American accent and emphasises the end of her comment with nods.

My lips curl upwards, my cheeks pulling them further up still, and I let out a hearty laugh. "Really?" I laugh again.

"What?" she looks a little bit offended.

"Nothing," I turn to walk into the bedroom, "You're cute".

She yanks at our interlaced fingers, pulling me towards her. She lets go of my hand, and brings her fingers to my front again, drawing feather-light touches, circles and dots spiralling and circling the swell of my breast, towards and away and across and over my nipples. "I happen to quite like your breasts, you know" she ducks her head and takes one of my nipples into her mouth.

Her lips whisk away any trace of pain from my body. "I quite like that you quite like them," I retort and she sucks, hard. I hiss at the pain and she releases me.

"I'll show you 'cute', old man," she growls playfully and walks past me, into the room and climbs onto the bed, I follow her with a gaze I can, at best, categorise as lustful.

I'm a little bit shocked at how absent my resolve is. I'm not usually like this. Today, though, more than any other day, she has this power over me, this pull that I can't really explain. Every part of me wants her. My heart and gut and brain and sex and I am powerless against it. Every second with her adds fuel to the fire, desperation to desire, weakens my ability to want anything other than her.

God, Helena. The things you do to me.

I follow her onto the bed. She has made herself alluringly comfortable, laying on her side, head prompted on her arm. The curve of her body, from shoulder to waist to hip to thigh, calf and foot, is calling for me to touch, to feel, to taste. I crawl up the bed and above her, lean in to kiss her. She turns to lay on her back, and I drape myself along her, my head prompted up by my arm. From here I can appreciate how her eyelids and cheeks respond to my touch.

Despite my best attempts, she doesn't allow the kiss to overheat. Her hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, my neck, but not lower. The only times they travel lower is to keep my wandering hands in check: not below her shirt, not under it. Strictly first base, if it weren't for the fact she's already half naked. And so am I.

I smile at the teenage feeling of this. I'm on the living room couch, making out with the girl next door fearing one of her parents will walk in. I smile because we are so not teenagers, and between us there is a complete naked female body that we both know beyond well. There is no base for the level of knowledge we have of each other.

My hands travel southwards of their own accord, landing on her naked hip – again.

She brings the kiss to a leisurely end and meets my eyes.

"Honestly, darling," she says with a sly smile, "I think not." She grabs my hand and flips us over, so I'm on my back and she's on top of me, straddling my hips and her hands are pinning my wrists to the mattress above my head. "You've had your way with me, surely it's my turn to take pleasure in pleasuring you."

She lowers her head, but not to kiss me. She nips at my pulse point, chasing teeth with tongue and teeth again, nibbling down and around my neck, to the hollow above my clavicle and up towards my ear.

I gasp and shudder and wince, fighting her hold at my hips and wrists. I know it's pointless to fight her, she won't let me touch her now, but I can't help it. Judging by her gentle firmness against my skin, it will be a while before she releases me. So I reside to enjoy the ride. Perhaps I don't so much reside to anything, but submit. Entirely. Completely.

She gradually expands the length of the trips her lips are taking. First, my chest is added, then my shoulders, arms and hands. She is an expert at building me up, and even though I absolutely don't need any build-up, I'm happy to be coaxed into another kind of anticipation.

She just reaches my left breast when the room is shaken by an almighty, loud ring.

It makes both of us jump, but she continues as if nothing happened. It's the old fashioned phone on the nightstand. I'm impressed. I've not seen a working rotary phone in years. It rings again.

"Don't answer it," she instructs and presses her tongue to the underside of my breast, and I gasp.

I don't want to stop but I know I need to answer it, because there could only be one reason for it to ring. "I'm sorry, Helena," I look up at her, innocently, honestly, begging for forgiveness.

She pulls up, hovers above me, still holding my wrists. "It isn't work, is it?"

I shake my head. "It's a surprise," I say quietly with the smallest smile.

"Do we need to get dressed for this surprise?" she asks.

I nod.

"Will it require me to be sociable?"

I nod again.

"Ugh," she grunts, letting go of my wrists and straightening above me. "This isn't over, you hear?" she wags her finger at me. She's adorable when she's frustrated.

I reach for the phone and pick it up. She is still straddling me, grinding her teeth impatiently. The concierge tells me that the party arrived earlier than expected and, at their request, dinner was brought forward. I am told we are to arrive at the drawing room in one hour. British hospitality is so formal.

I place the handset in its cradle and roll back to appreciate her above me. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, as they are when she is irritated. Her lips – rosy and raw with kisses – pressed shut. Her breathing is silent and her eyes are burning into mine. She is annoyed. Her hands are clawing impatiently at my pants. I reach for them and bring them up, brushing her knuckles against my lips, pressing light kisses.

"They weren't supposed to be here for two more hours," I say, trying to appease her.

She exhales in disappointment and defeat and rolls off of me. She lays down on the bed, facing me. As much as I love our guests, I can't help but share a bit of Helena's disdain right now.

"What is it, then?" she asks, irritation fading from her voice.

I reach for her cheek, caressing it lightly with the tips of my fingers. "Dinner in an hour."

"With whom will I be required to be sociable?"

"Do you want me to spoil the surprise?" I check with her.

She rolls her eyes and is quiet for a moment. I can tell she is contemplating her options, creating a strategy, forming a new plan. "Will there be time for me to execute any of my ploys when it is finished?"

My smile widens at the thought of her ploys, "Of course. I insist that you do."

"We'll see about who wins the prerogative to be asserting insistence later," she says and holds my palm to her cheek, then brings it to her lips to kiss it.

There are times when I'm simply in awe of her. The journey she has gone through, and the journey we have been on together. I must be smiling in a different way now because her face softens, bravado and innuendo dissolved.

"Come to me," she says and holds her arms outstretched. "We have a bit of time and I've yet to hold you properly today."

I curl up to her, my head at her chest, arms around her waist, foot tucked between hers. She nuzzles my hair and takes deep breaths. Her heartrate slows right down and mine responds in kind.

I'm relieved that this is her reaction; I knew she wouldn't like the idea of a birthday party, let alone a surprise one. We don't usually celebrate Helena's birthday. She hasn't exactly had a usual recurrence of birthdays. Over time, the team and I have allowed her to instigate celebrations of anniversaries in her life.

But the team insisted on sharing it with her this time. It's a big round number – Claudia couldn't resist. Ten years ago things were a bit tense with her return and our relationship, so her sesquicentennial was a muted affair. But because Claudia still projects her interpretation of family involvement onto all of us (and I love her for it; both of us do) this was declared 'an event'. They are our family, and regardless of how secluded Helena and I may want to be right now, making time for them is a good thing.

It was a good thing to give her heads up, also.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I look up at her and smile, "You're welcome".

"How long have we got?" she asks, sounding a bit sleepy.

"I'm not sure," I'm searching for anything in the room that could tell time and come up empty. "Probably about 45 minutes."

Her fingers are idly tangling in my hair and she sighs heavily.

"Come on," I bring myself up, "let's get you cleaned up," I get off the bed and walk towards the door to the foyer.

"I'm afraid there may not be enough time for that," she jumps off of the bed, following me, "because you have filled me with such dirty thoughts today, darling," she walks up behind me and wraps her hands around my waist, leaning her chin over my shoulder, scanning the foyer and the evidence in it, remnants of my shattered composure.

A blush is creeping up my chest and neck.

"Come now, talented Myka," she snakes around me, arms still at my waist. "You mustn't be shy of such spectacular abilities," her bawdy smile returns as she plants a kiss between my breasts. She walks into the bathroom, peels her shirt and bra off and starts fiddling with the taps.

"I'm not shy of my abilities," I quote her with a hint of protest as I follow her into the bathroom. She's pulling her hair up, messily, to keep it from getting wet. "I'm a bit self-conscious about this…" I try to pick my words so that the best describe how I felt. How I feel. "…about being so… void of determination to… hold back." I go back to the foyer and start collecting our clothes, shaking wrinkles out, folding them up.

"Firstly," she calls from the inside the shower, "I am truly ecstatic that you are not shy about this truly uncanny ability of yours to unravel me in such wondrous ways." I laugh, acknowledging her compliment, odd as it is. "Secondly, I choose to look at it another way," I stand in the bathroom's doorway, folded clothes in my hands, watch her washing soap off herself, lather flowing down the contours of her shapely body, clinging to earlobes, elbows and nipples before being carried away. "Rather than being void of determination to postpone gratification, I'd say you were rather full of determination to receive it," she clocks my lustful leer, "and better yet," she beacons me, inviting me to join her, "bestow it upon me."

I place the folded pile of clothes next to the sink and get into the shower with her.

"So I fail to see how that's necessarily a bad thing," she says as she turns to face me, handing me the hotel's body wash bottle.

"Thanks, Helena," I take the small bottle from her, "I feel much better now," I say sarcastically.

She beams at me, pushes herself up to her toes and kisses my nose. "All yours, darling".

I chuckle and watch her dry herself. She then throws the towel over her shoulder, grabs the pile of clothes and walks out. I step into the hot water, let it soothe me, only to be hit by a reminder of our recent activities as water on my face releases hints of her smell and taste. And just like that, I'm completely turned on again.

"Quickly, darling, focus," I hear her say from the bedroom.

I turn off the water and step out. Wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to into the bedroom to find she scattered all of our clothes on the bed. She is either looking for something, or is having a momentary lapse of fashion reason. She's standing at the foot of the bed, hands crossed over her chest, hair still in an untidy bun. She has a bra on, and a towel around her waist serves as a wrap-around skirt. I'm sure the Parthenon had an icon that looks a lot like her right now. Her eyes are straining as she scans the contents of our suitcase splayed across the bed. She is reconstructing something in her mind, building a four-dimensional image of the objects laid before her.

"Were you talking to me or yourself?" I break her concentration.

"Both, actually."

"Are you looking for something?"

"My locket. The wretched thing seems to go walkabouts whenever time is short."

"I got it," I walk over to her, "finish getting dressed." I run my hand across her shoulders, releasing droplets of water caught her hair.

I rummage deep inside an inside pocket in the suitcase and pull out a small wooden box. I place it on the bedside table and turn to getting myself dressed. I am a true believer in the power of a good LBD so I put on one of my favourites. It is elegant, not overstated, not overly revealing. It's one of Helena's favourites too; possibly because of how it looks on me, but more because of how it's done up, or rather – undone.

To an unsuspecting onlooker, it's a simple black dress. Thick shoulder straps, high neckline, going just under my clavicle. It has simple, long, fitted lines and its bottom hem stops just above my knees. At the back, behind my left shoulder, there is a metal clasp that keeps that shoulder strap together. Undoing it breaks the strap above the shoulder blade. The entire length of left hem, from under the arm the bottom, is actually a hidden zip. Undoing the zipper when the clasp is undone opens the dress up to a single sheet of fabric.

It takes me less than a minute to put it on. Helena will take much longer to take it off.

I look at Helena as she finishes dressing up. She's in her usual Victorian/BizCas chic: thick weaved slacks, low cut, with a sizable leather belt running through its loopholes. Tucked in them is a light coloured silk blouse with a high collar that opens generously to reveal her freckle-dashed chest.

She is busy adjusting a double breasted waistcoat – a handmade work of tailoring art that traces the shape of her upper body without appearing (or feeling) like a suit of armour. Her finishing touch is a pocket watch she attaches to the waistcoat with a thick palladium chain. For all her feminism and femininity she dolls up in a way that is entirely her own.

She's about to turn around but I brace her shoulder with my hand. "Let me," I pull the collar out from under the neckline of waistcoat and straighten it. I reach for the wooden box at the bedside table and take out her locket. With a delicate sweep I bring the necklace around her neck, lower it slowly onto her chest and fasten it. She touches the tips of her fingers to its edges. I touch mine to the chain and the prominent vertebrae at the base of her neck.

She turns her head and her eyes meet mine. Her right hand is still at her locket, her left traces my brow. Her smile is warm and satisfied. "You fill my heart with joy, Myka Bering."

"And you fill mine with comfort," I answer. And delight. And ecstasy. And desire. And the inability to control myself.

My list is cut short by Helena's chuckle. "Softies…" she mumbles

I quirk an eyebrow at her.

"In the car park. Remember?"

We head over to the bathroom to touch up make up and fix hair and she tells me about her "elemental" moment, the soft train of thought.

"Wow," I exclaim, "twice in one day."

She dries lip gloss off, biting her lips to a tissue. "Maybe I should do a bit more field work, or go back to research. All this consulting is making me…" she scrunches up her face.

"Or maybe I'm just a bad influence," I say playfully.

"Oh, you most definitely are. The worst." She mocks me, running her fingers through her hair, then shaking her head so the black waterfall cascades naturally. She leans in and whispers in my ear, "Your breasts being an exception. Not an ounce of worse about them. They truly are a wonder."

She waits for me by the cabin's door in a cocky stance: slight lean backwards, feet apart, hands hanging by her thumbs which are tucked in her pockets. Her eyes are a dark shade of brown, sparkling with a smile that rests easily across her face – her vulnerability showing under a mischievous grin. She takes my breath away. She offers me her right arm as I walk up towards her.

"Shall we?" she asks.

"How long are we going to hang on to the 'old man' thing?" I ask as I snake my left hand around the small of her back and tuck my right into her gentlemanly offer.

"As long as we see fit to pass it between us," she opens the door and leads me out.

We stroll silently past the gate and up the path to the main house, she leans her head on my shoulder. I nuzzle her hair, kiss her the top of her head. It's a comfortable silence, but she lives inside her mind so well – a habit she perfected over one hundred years – and her mind wanders so quickly. I feel the urge to pull her back. "How are you doing?"

"Remarkably well for a hundred and sixty," she answers and we fall silent again. Before we walk into the priory, she turns to face me. "Remarkably well". She presses a chaste kiss to my lips and walks us in.

The gang is already assembled in the drawing room. Claudia spots us before we walk in and rushes over to squeeze us in a hug. Pete is hot on her heels, piles himself onto us.

"Happy birthday, H.," Claudia chirps from under Pete.

"Happy birthday, old chum," he says with his best attempt of a British accent. I smirk. There is something about these two and bad accents.

Tracey and her husband, Kevin, come up to greet us afterwards, giving us each a hug. Their kids are in the far corner of the room, playing with Joshua's son.

"You both look stunning," Tracey says. "Really, it's like there's a glow…"

"Thanks, Trace," I smile.

Helena is the one to smirk this time. "Must be the countryside air."

Joshua approaches us next, Steve and his partner (also Kevin, an engineer, Helena's kindred spirit) walk up behind him. There are more hugs and they whisk Helena away, already in deep conversation about the merits of green living and post-industrial philosophy.

Claudia grabs my elbow and pulls me aside. "I'm so so sorry about the earliness. The plane landed ahead of time, there was absolutely no traffic to speak of. I'm sure Artie used an artefact to shorten what should have been a pretty arduous journey." She says with an apologetic smile.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I wrap my hand around her shoulder, "It's so great to see everyone. Thank you for taking the time and arranging all this for her."

She swipes her hand as a "nonsense!" gesture, with an aloof expression. "Is she okay with it?"

"Yeah," I nod, hesitantly at first, then I get more committed to my answer. I watch her being handed a gin and tonic by Steve's Kevin, who sits next to her, Steve and Tracey's-Kevin on the couch opposite them. Pete is on the armchair between the two sofas. They are now talking about how to make combustion technology obsolete. Her body language radiates how at ease she is, how comfortable. I'm thinking about 'old man' again and it makes me chuckle, because she is clearly sitting with the old boys. "She's okay. How about you guys?"

"Oh, you know… we're keeping the fort secure. We levelled up with the kitchen door thing," she uses air quotes very emphatically around the words 'kitchen door'. That's Claud's code word for the gateway, "which is a headache of interplanetary proportions. We have ministers and officers and NATO coming out of every possible orifice, and so many documents in so many languages I can't even begin to count – we're sure missing you, you know, but the agents in training are doing well picking up the slack, sorry they couldn't come, by the way, someone had to keep the ship running, plus I thought we should really keep it small, seeing as it is H, and she's not big on the hootenanny concept," she eases off for a breath.

My grin widens as she speaks. I've missed her so much. "Good thinking," I squeeze her shoulder and she squeezes mine. Since we started working on the gateway project, Claudia and I have been spending a lot of time together. She's not a little sister anymore, or supervisory agent, or tech support. She's one of my closest confidants.

Artie and Vanessa are pretending to not be absorbed in each other on the other side of the room, as usual, and wait for excitement to die down before they approach the group with more birthday wishes. Artie hands Helena a small wooden crate. They beacon Claudia and me over.

"How Artie-facty," Claudia beams, and the conversation – which by now turned to renewable energy and the public hoax that's become – comes to a natural stop.

Helena unfastens two catches at the top of one of the panels on the case, then slides the panel up and over. She brushes wisps of straw aside to reveal a dusty bottle of Bordeaux, 1866 vintage, and two bottles of single malt whiskey. The first, is an eighteen-year cask aged (one for every year we've known her); the other, thirty-year aged (to roughly make up the total number of years she has been out of bronze).

I watch her closely as does the maths. Her jaw drops, it takes her a split second to remember herself and she smiles widely. "This is…" she doesn't finish the sentence. I can't help but smile at her excitement. IT amazes me that at a hundred and sixty she can still look like a four-year-old in a candy shop.

"Loss of words!" Pete exclaims, and hi-fives Claudia. "Told ya!"

"The wine is more for effect than for drinking," Claudia explains rather excitedly.

"Thank you," she says, eyes daring between Claudia, Pete and Artie.

"I would, in fact, recommend you didn't open the bottle or have the wine, as it is highly likely to be laced with lead and swarming with free radicals, given the amount of time it spent in a deep underground cavern of a Chateaux in France," Artie fills in.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she says, eyes sparking, "Thank you," she is sharing her gratitude with everyone around her. "Traditionally, this would be a perfect digestif," she holds up one of the whiskey bottles. "But given the rarity of the occasion, shall we throw tradition to the wind and have a sip now?"

As the evening rolls on, the topics of conversation flow from art to technology, ethics to gardening. I would usually be a keen contributor, but I'm enjoying watching them. I'm enjoying watching her.

After dinner we are retired to the library (Brits and their ceremonies…) which feels like a proper gentlemen's club: soft lighting, mahogany-panelled walls, embedded bookshelves, portraits of the royal family. There is an assortment of high-back chairs and two-seaters in a semi-circle around an oversized hearth, a fire crackling inside it. I walk back into the room admiring the lot of them, heatedly putting the world to rights.

I'm standing by the door, my back to a bookshelf, watching them, watching Helena with them; clearly in her element, clearly belonging. This feels so different to when she first joined the team, or when she joined the team the second time. This feels easy, and I feel content.

"She trusts you implicitly," a familiar, low timbre startles me.

I turn around, and sure enough, it's Mrs. Frederic. I nod to her and blush a bit.

"You trust her equally."

I nod emphatically. "It scares me sometimes, the trust," I add after some thought.

"Why is that, Agent Bering?" It's funny she still calls me that, like neither of us has aged. Well, one of us hasn't.

I look her squarely in the eye. "It's has a lot of power."

"More power than any artefact," she smiles knowingly and takes two steps forward, so we are well within each other's peripheral vision. We are facing the room but turned towards each other. "How is she doing, then?"

"Remarkably well, by her own assessment."

"And by yours?"

"She's very well."

"Her engagement in deep thought?"

"Not as frequent," I take a breath to continue the sentence, but I'm not sure I should.

"What is it?" she quizzes me.

"She doesn't turn inward as frequently, and when she does…" I purse my lips, "it's a different kind of fascination."

Mrs. Frederic raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Inwardness," I can feel my cheeks burning, thank whatever powers that be that the room is dark. "Intimacy". I'm not in the habit of even remotely hinting towards having a sex life to my boss.

"I see," she says, "and her work?"

"The consultancy seems to be working well. It keeps her busy. She has to deal with something new or different almost every day. We share that, work through stuff together."

"Does she not find it dull?" I shouldn't be astounded by Mrs. Frederic's insight into Helena's psyche, but I am.

"Not so much dull as, maybe, mundane."

"Has she expressed wishes to return to The Warehouse?"

"I'm not sure she meant it, but she made a couple of off-handed remarks."

"Did you discuss our offer to you?"

"We did. The jury is still out on that one."

"At whose behest?"

"Both of ours. It's a big change for us. It's a big change for them, too," I gesture to the group in the middle of the room.

"Do you have concerns about her coping?"

I shake my head. "I don't think she will ever be able to keep herself from thinking in the way she does," she's been thinking inwards for more than a hundred years, she's been practicing it much longer than not. That's one habit that will be hard to kick. "But the safer she feels, the smaller the gap between what she thinks and what is, the better it works. And, I mean, it's working pretty well so far. It's been working well for a long while now."

Mrs. Frederic is silent for a moment. "It takes dedication, Agent Bering," she looks at me, "a true labour of love."

Don't I know it. And this is Mrs. Frederic acknowledging that labour. So I smile and nod at her, in thanks.

"Please pass on my best wishes," She says and vanishes.

Mrs. Frederic visits once a year these days. Up until a couple of years ago it was twice a year, and more frequently before that. Always short and to the point. Always knows if something s up. I've learned a long time ago to not try and hide things from her.

I think about what she said about trust. I think about the trust I have in Helena, the trust she has in me. The trust Mrs. Frederic has in me, the trust all of them have in me. I don't think about this trust often because it becomes something disproportionately larger than it actually is. All it is, really, is sharing a life with Helena Wells, and everything that comes with it. True, there are details in our tapestry that are not found in most relationships. But we make it work.

"Myka?" she calls from her seat, I walk towards her chair and around it, placing myself gently on the armrest. She runs her knuckles along the outside of my thigh, a small caress, hidden from view. "Where have you been?"

"Irene sends you her best wishes for a wonderful birthday," I say to her, quietly.

She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Stop it," I nudge her shoulder, "She comes every year."

Helena slides her hand around the small of my back and leaves it there, while articulately sucker-punching a challenge to Tracey-Kevin's solution to the quandary of privacy in a world of globalised identification systems. It feels a little like hard work to not let this turn me on.

The conversation rolls on for another 20 minutes when the parents in the group excuse themselves to go put children to bed. It takes us all another 20 minutes to bid our goodnights.

"Hey, you okay?" Pete nudges me with his shoulder. "You were spookily quiet tonight."

"I'm fine," I look at him. "It's been such a long drive today, I think it took it out of me."

He angles a look at me. "Since when does driving tire you out?"

"Since it's on the wrong side of the road and since my car is far too big for the roads I drove on." And since I had to fight off wanting Helena so badly. I sigh heavily and shrug. "Not quite the spry fox anymore, am I?"

"Were you ever?" he asks.

I punch his arm. He smiles. We hug. All is right with the world.

"Breakfast?" Claudia asks as she gives Helena a goodnight hug.

"Not too early, darling," Helena responds.

"Say no more," Claudia wiggles her eyebrows at us.

Soon enough it's only the two of us in the library. We're sitting on adjacent chairs, facing the fire. "Well?" I ask. "How was it?"

"Not as distracting as you might have liked it to be," her smile fans the fire I tried so hard to keep at bay. "Did you think I failed to notice the dress you are wearing?"

"Give me some credit, Helena, I know you far too well to try and sneak anything past you," the fact that this is her answer makes what little collectedness I had managed to build up throughout the evening slip away. I extend my hand over the armrest, reaching out to her.

She finds the palm of my hand with her fingertips and draws circular designs on it. "May we go back to our room so that I may unwrap you?" She whispers.

Oh, Helena. How quickly you replace collectedness with desire.

I close my palm, trapping her fingers inside it and get up. I walk towards her and she stands up, her right hand lands on my left shoulder and slips behind it, tracing her fingers around the metal clasp at the back. "Let's".

"I've thanked Claudia exhaustively," she says as we walk towards the east wing. "She has certainly outdone herself, bringing everyone here, arranging all this."

"Is this a really long winded way of saying you enjoyed your birthday party?" I squeeze her hand lightly.

"It has been a wonderful day, darling," she opens the door to the garden path and allows me to walk out first, "and it is not over yet," she says as I walk past her. She hurries to catch up with me and intertwines her fingers with mine. "The best of it is still to come," she bites her lip, her grin turns suggestive.

As we approach the cabin, the day catches up with me suddenly – the long drive, my sexual outburst, the evening's celebration. I feel a longing for her. I want to hold her for a few moments, just hold. To acknowledge her, celebrate her.

We walk into the cabin and she leads me straight to the bed. The pace of her breath and shape of her eyes tell me she's excited. I stop at the side the bed and pull her towards me, wrapping my arms around her, resting my head against hers.

She responds instantly, enveloping me in an embrace. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Happy birthday," I say.

"Thank you," she repeats.

Her arm moves up from the small of my back to cradle my head at her shoulder. She nudges it lightly and I look at her, deep into her shimmering, black eyes.

"Thank you," she says a third time and coaxes me into a kiss.

It starts lovingly, open and filled with emotion; long and pressing and harmonious. My hands are at her waist, hers are in my hair and on my shoulder. As the kiss slows, it turns lazy, drawn out and both our breathing turns laboured.

It doesn't take much for her to ignite me.

"May I?" she whispers and I nod my consent. I am doing the best that I can to not touch her; to give her the time to have her way with me. I'm not sure I am doing a good job.

The hand at my shoulder slips to my chest and gifts me a gentle caress. She moans into the kiss as she touches me and I smile. She wants this. Wants me. Possibly as much as I want her.

Her fingers skirt around my side, under my arm to the hidden zip. She drags it down slowly, and stops when it reaches my midriff.

She breaks the kiss and leans her forehead against mine. "I have been waiting all day for you," she whispers and draws a sharp breath. Her eyes flutter and with what feels like near reverence, she peels the dress away from my side – without actually touching me.

I can feel a cool wisp of air on the skin she's just exposed – just as the side of my breast, followed by her fingertips, followed by her fingers and palm. Her thumb reaches under the fabric of the dress to sweep the top of my breast, and I didn't realise I was holding my breath until her thumb grazes my nipple and I release it.

She answers with a gasp of her own. Her left hand leaves my hair and flows down my back to the curve of my hip. I feel her grip tighten and she insistently urges me backwards and onto the bed.

I settle down and she leads me up it, leveraging me to my back at the same time. Her left hand is at my hip, her right on my breast, she pushes me until my back rests against the pillows and my head against the headboard.

She leans in again, but this time it's hungry and hard and no less desperate than I was. Than I am. I can't wait to feel her. All of her, all over. I reach down between us to undo the buttons of her waistcoat. I manage to undo them, but I don't know how to take it off her because she refuses to take her hands off me.

She deals a bite into the kiss just before pulling away reluctantly, growling in disappointment. She leans back to sit on her heels, dragging her hands down my body as she straightens. She shakes off the waistcoat and unfastens her blouse in a haste, leaving it hanging, a crack in the light curtain revealing a hint of skin underneath.

She is wearing an adamant expression and I wish I knew what her intentions were. I don't intend to wait and find out – so I sit up and push my hands under the silk, across her ribs and upwards to meet the front clasps of her bra.

Helena arches her back, pushes herself into my palms, impatiently. I take this as permission, it's my turn now, and I caress her, sliding my nails down her chest. I unclasp her bra and pry her breasts out, wrapping my palms around them. I attach my lips to the base of her neck, ardently nipping her skin, her freckles. She gasps and I gasp as the touch turns feverish.

My hands drift lower to her belt buckle. I suck on a spot above her breast in the hope of distracting her while I work her out of her slacks. It works for a while: I manage to undo the belt and buttons. But as I start pushing them down, her hands are on my wrists – again – holding them tightly. "Helena," I mutter, dazed, her grip shakes me from the trans I'm in.

She holds me still and gazes into my eyes with heated seriousness. I'm out of breath, twitching in her hold, needing her, but she is isn't moving. She not touching me and she's not letting me touch her. Her eyes fixed into mine, adamant.

"I would like to unwrap my gift –" she prizes my hands from her and pulls them up and over my head. The nimble fingers of her left hand tighten between and around both my wrists and she yanks up. The sharp movement elicits a choked moan from me, "– so that I may have it," she enunciates. Her right hand is creeping up my exposed side up to my shoulder and behind it, to the clasp. She squeezes the catches and it unlatches with a soft click. "Will you let me have you?" she tugs on the lower fastening and it falls, exposing half of my back.

She releases a shuddering breath and crawls off of me to reach the newly exposed patch of skin – form under my left shoulder blade to the small of my back. She starts where the clasp was, and drags her lips and tongue across to my spine and down it, then outwards to my waist, under my arm and up again.

She peels the shoulder strap off, diligently, fastidiously, as she eases me down to my back, my wrists still firmly in her hold. She acknowledges every inch of skin with a kiss or a nip, slowly traversing my shoulder, to my collarbone and chest, leaving my flesh heated and sensitive, until my left breast is exposed, yearning for her to lavish her attention to it.

"Myka," her breath is heavy, her gaze focused on me. "Will you let me have you?"

"I'm yours," I whisper and she leans down to take my nipple into her mouth, her hand skirting my ribs. As her lips tighten and release, the only thing my brain processes are the sensations she's imprinting in me.

She shuffles out of her slacks, and arranges herself between my legs without her mouth leaving me. Her left hand lets go of my wrists and slides down my right side, the side that's still fully covered, to reach where the skirt of my dress meets my thigh. She tucks her fingers under and I can feel them pressing tightly against the inside of my thigh, twitching. She restless in her anticipation, and so am I.

Her right hand finds the hidden zip again and pulls it all the way down, until it's entirely undone, and then she stills to catch her breath. She sighs as she stops altogether and sits up. She is motionless, sitting above me with eyes closed. She takes in a deep breath and opens her eyes as she reaches for where the hem of the dress is broken by the open zip, just above my left knee. She licks her lips slowly and drags her bottom lip into her mouth.

With heart-breaking tenderness, she pulls the dress off me, as if turning the page of a priceless manuscript, and I'm revealed to her. For a while she just looks at me, all of me, all over me, and I can feel my skin tingling as she looks.

She leans in slowly, brings her hand to my cheek and kisses me, adoringly, deeply and lowers herself onto me. My muscles contract to the feeling of her over me. She finally grants me the touch I longed for all day. She pushes her pelvis into mine with a growl and I whimper.

All I can do is whimper.

She eases the pressure from my core and I immediately buck towards her, needing more. She presses her palm to my hip, steadying me, then slides it between my legs, floating over the front of my underwear, offering me a shadow of a promise.

"Helena," I call her name. It feels like it's the only word I know, the only word that matters. "Don't tease."

She presses her fingers more firmly down then all the way back up. She traces the outline of my underwear and tucks her hand under, pressing a finger to my sex, pushing deeper, but not inside. She moves slowly, basking in the softness and heat. Her face is calm and peaceful, eyes shut and slow breaths escape her slightly parted lips, curved into the slightest smile. She's taking great pleasure in touching me, and the thought of her pleasure in mine excites me even more.

I'm not sure I have it in me to prolong the excitement. I need her. And I need her to say it. I'm waiting for her to say it. She know that I am, but I want her to say it.

Say it, Helena. Say it.

Her eyes open and she looks into mine. For a second that lasts a small eternity, we are completely still. And then she speaks, low and sure:

"Are you wet?"

/ /

With those words, she falls open beneath me, and I fall into her. I fall into her effortlessly, she is so wet there is barely any friction. She pulls me deeper and I am compelled to oblige – it is my honour, my duty and my never-ending pleasure to give in to her, submit to her.

Word of worship and devotion fall from my lips as they brush the skin below her ear. She emits sounds that are an Amen to my sermon, as I graze the rim of her ear with my teeth. Her head falls back into the pillows below her. She is biting her lip, choking the moans that escape her.

I am desperate for her. I need her to fall with me into this blissful abyss so I slowly slip my hand out and move it to the apex of her sex, drawing slow circles around her clit. She groans, harshly. I caress her stretched neck with my fingertips, "come to me," I say, and tighten the circles I draw on her.

She furrows her brow and releases a hard breath. She turns her head towards me, straining, her whole body is rigid. I underestimated her need, how desperate she is for my touch. She seeks me so tantalisingly, and I am so eager to please her, to give her more. I wonder which of us submits, which of us succumbs to whose will; perhaps neither of us; perhaps both of us.

I let go of thought and reason, and allow indulgence and pleasure take hold. I go back inside her. More, harder, faster. More insistent, more assertive, more confident.

Come, Myka.

She keens and reaches for my lips with hers. She claims me with a fierce urgency, her moans and whimpers vibrate against my lips, her centre pulsates and hums against my hand.

I break the kiss to breathe. She is taking all that I am. I am giving her all that I am.

I am yours, Myka.

Come.