"Lady Cantaglia?" The question, unlike the knock, shook her out of her contemplations. Captain Reza stood in her office doorway, smiling politely.
"Quitting time already, Reza?" she smiled back. Her desk was a mess of negotiation update files, research report holo-chips and other hard-copy paperwork for official sign off. She sighed, closing the two projection windows on the desk screen and straightened the papers she didn't lock in the drawer. More for separation than safety. Nicola cracked her neck and rose.

"You asked me to advise you when work on your rooms was completed." Reza was being rather formal, she thought. She'd known the Captain of the Capitol Guard for years now, and she debated teasing him about it. Then she noticed the slight reddening still flushing the backs of his earlobes as she followed him out of the office down the long hall that connected the offices with the residential quarter of the building. He'd never been in her private quarters, she realized, and the always proper, pious Reza was probably embarrassed. So she kept her tongue while they walked.

The Capitol had been a palace for the first light sheik to successfully market sunlight off-world, many generations past. Her official quarters, premium and punishment for the office she held, were a modestly opulent set of guest suites, in the wing with the Prime Minister and other High Council officials. Set aside for evenings of congressional or planetary emergencies when returning home was not a realistic option, Nicola had none-the-less made hers her primary... well... only residence, since she had no family in the area or realistic interest in wasting government money on a secondary home-away-from-home. 28 was still young, especially for an ex-military officer, to have set up home away from work – not that she would likely have had a home still standing, as most of New Mecca had been leveled in the NecroWar. New Mecca? Hell, the planet had all but been leveled.

Her rooms served her purpose, and now, it appeared, the guest room- or consort's chambers, as it was historically dubbed in past - male - administrations, would have a new occupant. Captain Reza was supervising redecoration more than security measures today, removal of priceless, albeit decidedly feminine antique furnishings from the guest room... though there was the refitting of locks on the door between the rooms to consider. They'd asked if she'd wanted military grade security, and she'd laughed at them. "Whatever is on the outer doors is fine," she'd said. No point putting a steal door between in-suite connectors when any determined idiot could kick down the main apartment door or break a balcony window. And Riddick was not an idiot. She was astute enough to not insult him with the implication.

She gazed at the antique furnishings lining the carpeted hall on carts. A decidedly romantic lot – an Edwardian cabinet, two neo-Victorian chests of drawers, some delicate ornate accent chairs, matching pink lace table lamps, a vanity set trimmed in gold leaf with cherubs round the mirror frame... Good gods, when had she last even looked in that room? Granted, it was all in the state's collection, but ugg... who had last decided these satiny sweet things looked good in an adult bedroom? She was no decorator, but...whatever.

The official decorating service contracted to the capital had been mildly confused by her instructions to prepare the room. Asking for guidelines, she'd said "male" and was greeted with a chattering monologue of the styles and collections available in storage. Something she didn't have time or interest to spare for. "Just make sure it's sturdy, utilitarian, and most of all, unbreakable." The stunned silence on the com had irritated her. Didn't these people decorate for the military quarters as well? "Pretend a very drunk Henry the VIII is staying there." she'd muttered and hung up. She didn't think Riddick would either be drunk or destructive in the room, but knowing his incarceration history, she doubted things like fringed deco lamps, dressing screens or Queen Anne vanities would be more than annoying decadent class reminders of his surroundings.

She stepped into the room and gawked. The idiots had taken her literally, she thought. An enormous dark wood, four poster bed demanded attention from all angles. They'd repainted the walls a dark gold, and put down a deep green carpet to set off the wood. Two matching dressers graced the far walls, and large, overstuffed armchairs flanked a small writing desk against the nearer. A mostly black oriental rug ran across the floor, and the lighting was subdued inset wall sconces. She had, after all, asked for dial-down settings, something she'd requested as an update for her room as well. She was working with what she knew of her guest, since she wasn't about to wow him in the bedroom, she could at least be a gracious and considerate hostess.

Captain Reza stood behind her silently. Waiting for her to take in the room. She stuck her head in the small bathroom, noting only that they'd painted white and removed the rose-pattern wallpaper. One of those things her guest would never realize she'd saved him from. She shook her head and smiled at Reza. "Looks fine."

"Lady Cantaglia I do wish you'd reconsider on the security precautions," he blustered suddenly as she tested the door between the rooms. She flicked the lock thoughtfully a few times before answering.

"Reza... realistically... I don't need or want a guard outside my door during this... exchange. We both know who and what Mr. Riddick is." Reza, flushed and angry, started to interject, but she held up her hand. "No. Whatever he intends, we both know that I'd be dead three times over before I could even scream. And for all that he is a killer, Mr. Reza, he's a clean efficient one." She smiled grimly. "He's not a predator who tortures or plays with his food." She turned to gaze into her own bedroom. "No, I don't know his motivations, but I don't think I'll insult or provoke him before I find out what his little game is about." She shut the door and locked it behind her.


And what was his game? She wondered quietly as she stared at the wall. She picked up the half-full wine glass next to her, swirling it, contemplating. While the daily report briefing was still open on the holo-screen on the desk before her, she really wasn't looking at it. Logged reports of the latest battery of blood and genome tests, boring stuff she only understood if she had a medical dictionary open on an adjoining screen. Yes, important work. Yes, what they wanted, but all it told her was that he was cooperating. The only spot worth noting this whole week was his refusal to give sperm samples, and a tersely worded memo indicating "Subject laughed. Said 'Maybe next week.'"

The com flashed quietly in the top left corner, reminding her of her 22:00 appointment. She sighed and rubber her eyes, then downed the last of the wine. Probably not advisable to be drinking after the doctor's prescription relaxant and synthetic aphrodisiac. Both were mild, but both were definitely recommended to get her through this very odd happenstance. Other than feeling overtired and mildly buzzy, she didn't feel anything yet.

She stood from the desk, clicking off the com screens and wandered to the mirror. The same hated cosmetologist she'd sic'ed on the poor military recruits a week ago had argued her into cosmetics and hair styling for bed, and attempted to dress her in some outrageously frilly shear night dress meant to be... god help her... flirty. She'd negotiated down to a simple black nightgown from her own collection, not something she usually wore, a forgotten present from a past admirer. Still, karma was a bitch. Who the hell 'dressed up' to go to sleep?

She brushed shoulder length brown hair away from her face. Brown, not chestnut, not auburn, not mahogany. Just brown. Like her eyes. For bed she normally wore her hair tied up. It was getting too long again. She sighed. The stupid stylist had refused to cut it back as she requested, saying most men thought longer hair was feminine. Nicola muttered that she just ended up chewing on it, which, after weeks of tense marathon negotiation sessions, was usually her personal cue to step back and pay attention to things like personal grooming. But she accepted it. No use arguing with a woman who had both the General's and Prime Minister's authority behind her 'recommendations.'

So carefully choreographed, she mused. So much riding on one man's humor. Sitting through embarrassingly candid emergency sessions with doctors, advisors and senior staff. Her colleagues, her mentors. Subjected to bald-face questions about inclinations and habits that she'd never considered in her private thoughts. She felt like a humiliated teenager having a sex lecture with well-meaning, but puritanical parents. Though most of them could have accessed her personal record – nothing was really secret when holding high public office – they somehow thought it more respectful to ask her outright. And though Kofie played the well-meaning father, deflecting questions too crass or insulting for documentation minutes, really her only ally had been Houston, who took point by being outright bitchy and hostel at insensitive lines of conversation. The medical tests prove he's clean, she's clean, let the damn thing play out you voyeuristic bastards, she'd yelled last night. Nicola is perfectly capable of reporting intel the morning after. She's not some virgin lamb you're leaving out as bait.

Virgin lamb she wasn't. But she hadn't had time or inclination for a lover since assuming her post two and a half years ago. Post-war reconstruction wasn't exactly romantic, when a third the planetary population had lost their lives in the first two days of the NecroWar, and another third went down in the following weeks to normally treatable injury and disease or starvation in the sudden dark-age conditions of the decimated planet. People were just now finally coming out of mourning, not the time to be seeking companionship of that ilk.

Nicola retied the velvet blue robe she wore. It was cool in the room, automatic thermostat controls set to drop in the evening, how she preferred it when she slept. And despite what vid com food commercials implied, as a woman she did not spend evenings lounging in sleepwear gossiping with female friends. The robe was another 'what if' concession to public life. 'What if' there's an air raid and she's dragged out of the bed or the bathroom by the guards? 'The cosmetologist hated it, but she wasn't here to make her take it off. And who knew if her guest would even get so far as to remove it himself? There was nothing romantic about tonight's contraction anyway. She debated pouring another glass of wine, decided against it. She didn't shy from confrontation. Once more unto the breach, dear friends she thought fiercely as she reached for the lock.

The soft click was anticlimactic, and she heard no noise from the other side of the door. She hadn't, in fact, heard anything all evening, and only the brief service-memo update that informed her hours ago on comm that he'd been escorted to the capitol gave her indication he'd arrived. She shrugged it off, and walked across the room to the master light panel, shutting off the side sitting room and kitchen lights, dimming the bedroom panels.

"Nicola" the word was low, sudden, and far too close to her ear. She stiffened, letting her arm fall to her side. Soft, but deliberate, inhalation behind her. She shut her eyes, refusing to jump like a scared rabbit. Hair over her left ear lifting off her neck. He was scenting her. She'd watched him do it to two of the women at the meeting the first night. Feral. Unnerving.

He exhaled slowly along her neck, watching her skin prickle. He made a noise of satisfaction and let her hair slip back. Nicola blinked, suddenly rankling. "Mr. Riddick, I'm used to slightly more formal introductions. Or more to the point, don't you knock?" He snickered.

"You unlocked the door, and are over here setting the mood. And you're not exactly dressed for state, Lady Cantaglia." She felt the back of his hand slide down her right shoulder, feeling the velvet down to her hip. She jumped that time, as his hand snaked round the front, settling on the tie. He pushed his body against her briefly, his left hand lifting her hair again as his face swept over her neck again. It was thrilling, and terrifying, and she felt nervous sweat bead in her half-clenched fists. ...and along her hairline... "You smell off tonight." He muttered, dropping her hair and sliding his hand down to meet the other. He rocked her there a second. "You took something,didn't you?"

She huffed and half turned her head, shocked and mildly indignant. "Does it matter?" She tried to step away, but he held her.

"You think I plan to take you up against the wall like some slam whore, lady? Give me a bit more credit." He slid his hands inside her robe, his head dipping to her neck again, lips brushing skin this time. "Nice" he muttered, fingers brushing silk. The robe slid off her shoulders and she let it fall, his body heat more than compensating for lost fabric. She shut her eyes though, still trying not to flinch at the much-too-practiced way his hands took inventory of her body. Small whispers in her muscles were urging her to relax, softly brushing neuro-receptors at the base of her brain. She willed some of the tension out of her body. "Besides," he muttered. "We have that enormous bed of yours to explore."

Suddenly she was alone again, a rush of cold air on exposed skin. Nicola turned, confused. And there he was, already snapping down the covers. And it was true, he didn't look nearly so large and menacing, though he wasn't dwarfed nearly so much as she was in the giant Indian-colonial four-post bed.

She had been intimidated by the bed when she'd moved in. It was all gorgeous spiral dark wood carvings, British colonial antique, regal and sturdy and stern. But she felt like a child in the center of it, not a feeling she was used to, even now. It fit a man of Riddick's size though, didn't look so ostentatiously oversized.

She stepped forward slowly, cautious. There was, after all, a Tauran tiger in her bed. The silver tapetum lucidum shine of his eyes was enough to warn her of that. She'd had cats growing up, and the low-light yellow gleam of feline attention normally amused her. Funny what you remember from childhood, and when. Everyone heard stories about his eyeshine. But being stared down by it was a whole other thing. Silver. Ghostly. Inhuman.

He wasn't wearing his goggles, she noticed suddenly, but he was at least wearing something. She blushed now, realizing she was rather openly cataloging the lines of his legs stretched out beneath the black loose shorts. She stopped with her shins pressed against the bedspread, strangely unsure how to proceed. He patted the spot next to him, unperturbed.

"I thought the bed in my room was big." he swept his arm around indicating the canopy and then laid back, arms behind his head. "But you could get a fucking family of four on this thing and still have leg room." She laughed, sitting down on the foot of the bed.

"I didn't pick it out," she muttered. "It sort of came with the rooms." Her fingers worried the bedspread. She let her hair fall over her face, hiding the embarrassed frown. Premium and punishment of office, she echoed her private refrain.

"Don't say this often, so don't expect to hear it again," he said suddenly, "but thanks. For the room." She looked up, surprised. He looked bemused. "The bed, the lights – I saw that shit in the hallway on the way here, thought I was in for... I don't know what." He rolled sideways, arm around her waist. But his grip was gentle as he pulled her down beside him. She let her head hit the pillow as he released her. She was still facing away from him, but she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Subject core body temperature appears to radiate between 101.6 resting and 102.4. High for human mean, but well in correlation with observed (high) metabolic rate. The thought flitted past recalled, along with a slightly more personal duh, testosterone makes males radiate more heat.

His hands returned to her shoulders, thumbs along her spine. She was thrown slightly by the utilitarian touch, the gentle circular motion of his palms as he warmed her muscles and began to rub her back. She shut her eyes and relaxed into it. Unexpected, welcome, she hadn't seen a masseuse in ages.

"Ask" he muttered, interrupting her thoughts.

"What?"

"Ask. I know you have questions." His voice was flat, giving no key to his mood as he worked the muscles below her shoulder blades. She reflexively raised her arms to give him better access where it hurt. Her mind snapped back to attention, looking for the most diplomatic path. Polite preambles, meant to flatter and assure, whipped briefly through her politically trained mind. She abandoned them immediately. He'd spoken directly, she'd do the same.

"I received a note. You refused to cooperate with certain tests." A snort behind her.

"What? Whack-off in a cup before I had the real thing? No dice. Next."

"What exactly are your expectations for this evening?"

"What are yours?"

"I don't know. " she paused, "Our rather hasty verbal contract was rather vaguely open to interpretation and your expectations..."

"No lawyer talk. We'll see what happens. Fair to say we won't be discussing etchings. Next."

Frustration made her pause. What else could she ask but the obvious?

"Why me?" she blurted. "Realize it or not, I helped pick those women presented for you, given anecdotal evidence to your personality, they seemed an ideal match" He snorted again. "They were fit, resourceful, beautiful..." his hands stopped.

"Lady, in my line, 'beautiful' has come to be a dirty word." His knuckles moved down her spine and started kneading again. "Women spend their time and effort as an obvious snare to get what they want from others, tend to rely on it, tend to want to wield it like a knife to kill common sense. So much work 'stead of getting dirty themselves. Venus fly trap, watched it happen a lot. Not immune, but I tend to let my instincts call the shots rather than my eyes these days."

"Still doesn't explain your rejection. There were others in the room, solid women, substance beyond pretty."

"Your girl, Houston?" He was astute. "Give me credit, sister, I saw the ring. I have some sense of honor, believe it or not." One hand was working her lower back the other back along her neck, fingers in her hair. It felt lovely. But he still hadn't answered.

"Beyond her." Oh those fingers on her neck, pressing her head forward. His breath hot on her hair suddenly, deep baritone in her ear.

"They weren't real." She felt the words reverb in her rib cage, it was a hot thrill. His left hand slid over her hip, pulling her against him. "Can't explain it beyond that. The eyes, the smell." His teeth were in the hollow where her neck met shoulder and she gasped. Just his upper teeth, not a real bite, but so strange and intimate, her insides liquefied. "Your smell," he growled, teeth raking along the back of her neck. She whimpered."even with that shit in your system now... "Hands moving, lips against her skin. "...color me fucking surprised when I find out you're a politician."

Nicola sputtered, snorted. That broke the spell. Her arms went out as she tried to roll away, but his grip on her waist was suddenly strong. She kicked his leg with the back of her heel. Ineffectual.

"What the fuck you think I was, some sort of maid?" She elbowed him in the ribcage, kicking back at his shins again. "Some sort of messenger girl? Retainer? Secretary?!" She could feel his soundless laughter against her back, amused by her indignation or pathetic fury she didn't care. She dug her nails into his restraining arm and went still.

"Done hissing, kitten?" She didn't respond. "Nails were a nice touch." His breath was in her hair again, the restraining arm relaxed. "Didn't know what you were, maybe low level military," she snorted. "Maybe advisor to that air witch." Nicola stilled again. "Doesn't matter. I saw you watching me,"

"We were all watching you, Mr. Riddick."

"Drop that 'mister' shit"

"Fine, stop calling me 'lady.'" He snickered.

"All right, Nicola" he drew the sound of her name out, pitching it low. Dammit, he knew how to use that voice.

"Something... don't know what," she felt him shake his head. " something more than disinterest, but detached, like you were watching a play, but you know the blood is real. But you're not impressed. Not quite jaded..." His other arm slipped under her, and he was hugging her tightly.

"And then that smell..." Something far away in his voice, diminished. A ripple and he shook it off. "Doesn't matter. I threw down the offer. You accepted." His hand slid over her hip, gathering her nightgown in his fingers, tugging it over her waist. His hand slipped underneath as he moved attention to her breasts, calloused palms rough against soft skin. Nicola gasped at his crude grip after so much sensuality, but she pressed her chest into it anyway. She was still angry at his words, imprecise and unapologetic, and yet he seemed done. He made a noise in his throat, obviously pleased. His hips moved forward against her body and that hand moved to grip her buttock."You have an ass too. I like that."

She snorted, but let him play. Fingers moving forward, light again, sliding between her thighs. Teasingly slow. She didn't protest, concentrating more on his breathing against her back. Her brain was relaxing again, the drugs making warm stew of her thoughts. What was she thinking? Didn't matter, the warm sensation between her legs was growing, she lifted her hip a little, allowing him free reign. That soft rumble against her back again, pleased predator. She didn't care. Her fingers brushed his arm, pressing down, inviting more pressure. Let it build... felt his lips on her back again, distracting, but delightful sensation counterpointing the insistent need some quiet part of her brain still fought down. Such easy surrender didn't jibe with her cautious nature, letting this man draw her out of inhibitions range so easily, but her body didn't care. His fingers drove her quickly to the brink and she moaned. Hips moved convulsively and she bucked. He bit her again on the back of the neck."There's a girl" he breathed through his teeth.

His thumb pressed against her hip, rolling her limp body beneath him. He watched her, coming back from where he'd sent her, gently shoving his knee between her legs. She shuddered again, sweat cold on exposed skin. Blinking, half embarrassed, she met those luminous moon-like eyes. She only whimpered slightly when he pulled the bunched nightdress over her head, still foggy and lost in his gaze.

"I'm a patient man" he rumbled, hands lazy on her skin again. She assented more in noise than words, her arms reaching for his shoulders. She craved his body heat right now, her own retracted treacherously to her core. He held her gaze a moment, flicked eyes down and waited. Confused, slow, she followed his glance.

"Oh shit." she jolted. "I didn't even think."

"No security memo on that one, huh? Thought you were a bit too eager." He pressed naked hips against her stomach, watching her readjust to reality. No need to boast about the organ that lay between them.

Men often said, even honestly "I'm kinda big" and in the scientific land of medians, it might even be true. Nicola wasn't inexperienced or naïve, but length and girth had always had a way of evening each other out in her experience. With Riddick it wasn't even metaphoric ball-waiving. There was probably a good 10 inches between them, and fat as a baby's arm. It was intimidating in a way words could never be.

She reached fingers down between them, stroking softly. He was still watching her, though his lips parted to exhale sharply. So this seduction, pulling her out of her clothes, working her over gently, hadn't been some triumphant game of domination, at least, not as she viewed it. She withdrew her hand, wrapping arms around him and pulling his full weigh down on her. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he waited for her to accept. There wasn't any other way, really. She let the silence between them speak.

His hands moved again, but she already had obligingly opened her legs wide. Those eyes on her again, fingers gentle, as he probed, thumb lazily teasing her clit. She dug nails into his back impatiently, wanting him inside. He moved with a practiced slowness, waiting for her to tense, whimper, ask him to wait. She lifted her hips gently, shutting her eyes, thrilling to the deep invasion. She felt the press deep inside, a pain of tightness, but in that dark, good way. She urged him further, eyelids fluttering, some endorphin rush rising at the back of her brain. He stopped and she noised some protest.

He chuckled, breath in her ear. His teeth gripped her earlobe for a second. "Greedy girl. Hate to tell you, that's all there is." He held her there a second more, impaled, then slowly withdrew, which agonized her more. She flexed internal muscles, actually surprising him into pausing as she fluttered once around him. The caught breath in her ear was followed by an appreciative nip to her neck again.

"Nice."

He moved again, settling into a gentle rhythm. She tried to match his movements, fingers digging into his shoulder, whining softly and wriggling for him to go faster. She wanted this, she wanted him, the endorphins swimming madly in the blood behind her eyes, between her legs, and she felt a deep animal need to feel this unflappable, dispassionate mystery convulse and cry unguarded. The heat from her body, from this wish, she would not let him ignore. This moment was hers as much as his, but her own needs were nakedly apparent. She flushed, and in anger, impotence, she raked nails down his back, shredding skin. His head came up and his eyes flashed- staring down with something- awake, angry. She showed teeth in an bitter grin and his head tipped sideway as his thrusting became more brutal, insistent.

She tried to keep his stare, but too quickly her eyes began to roll back and she thrashed under him, a guttural noise escaping her lips. Not fair. Not fair. She arched against him, nails digging deep again. She tipped past caring then, her blood singing loudly in her ears. Beautiful blackness... and then a far away noise, and all she could hear was her own heart and harsh breathing.

Chemically soft sleep pulled gently at her senses, trying to drag her down to darkness, she was slow to reopen her eyes. She could feel his body on hers and she flexed fingers, shoulders and toes. All she could feel really, or cared to feel, in the warm slushy hum of her body. Then a soft, incredulous noise at her ear. The warm sheath over her moved, gone, replaced by blankets. "Riddick?" she mouthed softly, trying to move, but too languidly slow. His lips a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Thanks" he muttered, and was gone.

A cold crept over her and she shoved her face to the pillow, willing no one to hear her strangled kitten cry.