NOTE: This chapter is ADULT! Explicit sex and some violence within.

Chapter 3

The rapping on Helen Magnus' door was faint but audible over the clicking of her nails across the computer keyboard.

"Come," she called, not missing a key, her attention focused on documenting the progress Tesla was making on the Praxian technology and reporting it back to the Sanctuary heads of households. Every discovery, every revelation might help with the damage that had been done.

"I thought you might like something to eat."

Magnus looked up, no longer surprised at hearing the deep, familiar voice. In the past the most likely visitors to her office at this hour would have been Biggie or Will. Instead, John Druitt stood before her, tray in hand, a cup of fresh berries, a crock of French Onion soup, and a bottle of merlot beckoning. In the corner was a small, white vase filled with white and yellow flowers. Pansies, Magnus thought, the flowers of remembrance. A hint of a smile crossed her face.

Druitt set the tray down on an open spot on the desk and followed Helen's gaze to the vase. "The flowers were my idea," he explained. "Bad one?" he asked sheepishly.

She stared at the delicate petals a moment longer, and then drew her eyes back up to John and smiled. "Of course not. They're lovely. Thank you."

John nodded and sat down. This was becoming a ritual between them, she noted, him bringing her dinner when she missed it then staying for a glass of wine or brandy and some late night conversation. Occasionally Tesla or Will joined them. At first it had felt awkward. Being so physically close to John after she had worked decades to distance herself from him was disconcerting, for many reasons. The most unexpected of which was that she found his company immensely enjoyable and missed him on those occasions when he didn't come.

A month ago, Magnus had finally accepted that he was cured. Tesla had been right. He'd rid John of his demon. She was working up the courage to rid herself of her own by telling Druitt the truth, that it had been her research that had saved him and that she had withheld the cure from him out of a petty need for vengeance. But it was hard to do, admitting she'd been hurt so badly, had once been so vulnerable that a century later she still felt the need to lash out. She'd tell him, though, eventually. Her sense of justice demanded it. She just hadn't found the right moment.

"You know, it's amazing you've lived this long, Helen. For a doctor, your eating habits are appalling," John teased, opening the wine and watching her work. On cue, she shook her head, stopped typing, and turned to her supper. As she ate and drank, John briefed her on his work with Kate Freelander, which was going quite well. For the time being, Magnus had assigned him to be Kate's partner, assisting with affairs in Hollow Earth and other missions. For the long term? She had other ideas. He had nowhere to go really, but staying here wasn't an option. He was just too…close, nearby at every turn. She still did a double take when she saw him in the hallway. Mostly because it seemed so out of place, but partly because his presence pulled at her, and that, more than anything, frightened Magnus. She was wrong to have withheld the cure from him, but she had been correct about one thing: They weren't meant to be together, not as lovers anyway, and having him so near was beginning to weigh on her, a slippery slope that she knew in her gut would only end badly.

"John," she started, waiting for him to finish and pushing back her tray. "We need to talk about what happens next."

"Well, I thought perhaps we could relax, finish the rest of this wine, converse for awhile, and then retire for the evening. Did you have something else in mind?"

Magnus smiled. "Your future. We need to talk about what happens next for you."

"Ah," Druitt said, nodding. "I was wondering when we would get to that."

"I have some thoughts I'd like to share, if you'd like to hear them?"

"Of course, but let's move to the couch, shall we? I have a feeling I may need to be comfortable for this."

Magnus nodded in agreement. If Tesla or Will joined them, they always went to the sitting area. Otherwise, she ate her dinner at her desk while he sat safely on the opposite side. It was amusing, and rather obvious, she thought, her need to keep him physically at bay.

She rounded the corner and sat down on the velvet sofa. He poured another glass of wine into her stem-less cup. He'd taken to wearing jeans, black boots, and dress shirts that were tucked in and belted, accentuating every muscle of his lean torso. His hair was growing in as well, a ruffled, dark brown. And he smelled of sandalwood and musk. She wished he'd go back to wearing his dark, brooding colors. It was easier to see him as Jack rather than John then. But Jack was gone, she reminded herself. All that was left was John, and what to do with him now was the question at hand.

"I've been thinking," she started. She saw him smile into his glass at that. "You do wonderful work with the Sanctuary. I'd like you to continue."

His eyes lit up.

"But not here," she added hurriedly. "There are a dozen Sanctuary houses you could be based out of. We have special needs right now in Eastern Europe particularly and…"

Druitt laughed.

"What?"

"Eastern Europe? If you had a Sanctuary in Antarctica, I assume you would have chosen that. Helen, if you want me to leave, just say so."

She blushed.

"I don't want you to leave, John. It's not that…"

"Well you certainly don't want me to stay," he laughed again.

"No, you misunderstand…." She found herself fumbling for words. Truth was, he understood perfectly.

She sighed. "John, we aren't good together. As I said before, we've tried to make it work…It doesn't."

"I thought we were talking about my work at the Sanctuary, not our past relationship," he said evenly.

Magnus shook her head. "There's no way we can separate the two. You know that."

"Perhaps. However, I was hoping we were becoming…friends ," he offered quietly.

She nodded. "We are. I think we are. Our evening conversations have been wonderful, honestly they have. I feel as though this past month we've…" She hesitated. What did she feel?

"Rediscovered one another?"

She swallowed. "Something like that, yes."

Druitt leaned forward, his glass between both hands. "Then why send me away?"

Why indeed? Because she was growing used to his company? Because she was starting to miss him when he was gone? Because he made her smile like when they were young, before their world changed? Because she saw Ashley in his eyes?

"Because…." She looked down into her almost empty wine glass, searching for an answer in the small bit of liquid that remained but seeing only her reflection. She felt him scoot toward her, his thigh touching hers. He stretched out a hand and laid it atop of hers. She turned to look at him.

"The last thing I want to do is to cause you more pain, Helen. I know how much I've hurt you. I'm not stupid or blind."

Her heart sped up.

"But I'd be lying to you if I didn't admit how painful it is for me to be…whole again and have you so close yet wanting me so far away."

She started to speak, to explain herself, but he stopped her, lifting a hand tentatively to her hair and then stroking it lightly. "I love you, Helen. You know that. Whether you want to believe it's the young girl I once knew that I'm in love with rather than the woman you've become, I can't stop you. All I know is that my feelings for you remain…unabated. But if you want me to go, if that's what makes you happy, I'll go."

He continued to stroke her hair lightly, his blue eyes boring down on hers. Helen's breath caught, and her heart quickened. She had no idea what she wanted. No, that wasn't true, she did know. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to go. But mostly she wanted to rid herself of the constant conflict he caused her.

Druitt reached over and took Magnus' wine glass, set it down on the table in front of them, then lifted his hand to her face and lightly traced a finger down her cheek.

"Would you at least permit me a kiss goodbye?"

"John…" she warned him.

He was hovering perilously close to her, his breath brushing against her lips. The smell of wine and his cologne was making her dizzy. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the flames licking the wooden logs in the fireplace, hear them crackling. Behind her the mantle clock ticked.

She'd wanted to say "no," but all that came out again was his name.

He leaned into her and brushed her lips. She started to pull back, but he squeezed her hand, asking her to stay. She gave in to his silent request, as curious as he to taste her lover once more. He slid his hands to her waist and held her there lightly, encouraging her not to flee but neither holding her prisoner. After a moment he opened his mouth tentatively, wordlessly urging her forward. She opened hers in return, feeling control slipping away, her emotions overriding her better judgment. A moment later his tongue reached for hers, tracing the roof of her mouth, and she was lost. She lifted her hands to his neck, folding herself within him, acknowledging what she knew was wrong yet inevitable. She returned his kiss, her mouth opening wide for him, their tongues tangling in a dance more than a century old between them.

His grip on her waist tightened, and he eased her back onto the sofa, laying her down gently, her long legs stretched out before him. He continued to kiss her and her him, mouths moving from lips, to necks, to face, and back again. Her hands threaded his hair, sliding up his back then down to his hips, tracing familiar lines. She was disappearing in his caresses, her body coming alive under his, her mind shutting off everything but sensation. If she didn't stop now, she never would.

Just as she thought it, John's hand slid under her dress, skimming lightly over her stocking-covered leg and inching up her outer thigh, sliding behind her to grab a hold of her bottom and squeeze. She let out a muffled cry, and he moaned at the sound of it, moving his lips to her neck working his way down to the top of her dress, nuzzling his face in her cleavage.

His mouth bit at her breasts through her clothing while his hand squeezed and stroked her leg. Helen's hands held his head to her chest, massaging his hair and scalp. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown back in growing pleasure. Suddenly he jerked his hand out from under her clothes, lifted himself up, and reached behind Helen to draw her zipper down. When he'd finished, he sat up and looked at her, their eyes meeting.

"John…"

It was the only word she could seem to say, all other words failing her. But when she spoke it again this time, the realization struck her that it was John. Not Jack. Not the killer he'd become, but the lover she'd once known. The man she'd loved, promised to marry, and raise a family with was straddling her, waiting for permission to love her, giving her the choice to start or to stop.

They hovered there, between past and future, for only a moment.

"Yes," Helen finally said, and John bowed his head, slipping the dark navy dress off her shoulders and exposing a purple lace bra that barely contained her ample breasts. He pulled the strap off one shoulder then the other, undid the clasp in front, and then sucked in a breath at the sight of her. The hungry look in his eyes made Helen's heart pound in her chest and her muscles clench below.

He dove at her with the ferocity of an animal, starving and untamed. With his mouth he worked her nipples, sucking and biting her, leaving marks up and down her pale skin that made her cry out in pleasure. His other hand snaked up her dress and ripped at her stockings, making a gap large enough for him to slide his hand through and onto her warm, wet center. She gasped as he thrust two fingers inside her, sliding in and out, his thumb working her tender nub, her breaths coming in quick, short pants. She yanked his head up from her breast and thrust her tongue into his mouth, mimicking his movements below. He was working her into a frenzy, sliding his fingers in and out of her, rubbing her until she thought she'd explode from his touch, her climax building.

Abruptly he pulled his hand out of her and tore his lips away from hers, leaving her mouth bruised and swollen. His eyes went dark, the bulge in his jeans straining against the denim. She reached out to slide her hands over his erection, but he pulled away, startling her.

"What do you want, Helen?" he asked, towering over her, his knees straddling her hips.

She reached again for him, and he moved back, smiling.

"Tell me what you want, love."

Her chest was heaving. She could feel the slick wetness moistening her thighs.

"Tell me, Helen. Say it."

She swallowed hard, reaching her hands to his belt, looping her fingers inside the top of his pants and pulling him forward.

"You. Inside of me."

He grinned. "Are you sure?

"Yes."

"Really? Then beg me," he demanded.

"What?" she asked confused.

He smiled, tracing his wet hand over her fingers, prying her neatly manicured nails gently off of his buckle, and then brushing his fingers lazily over her lips, letting her taste her own arousal.

"No games, Helen. Just the truth. Do you want me?"

She looked at him, her heart pounding, her body burning.

"Yes." There was no way, with her breasts spilling out of her bra, her body wet from arousal, her dress hiked over her hips, that she could deny it.

"Then beg me. Beg me to make love to you." He leaned forward, took one breast between his teeth and lightly bit down; causing her to start in pain. Then he licked her nipple, soothing her hard, swollen nub. She closed her eyes and reached for his belt again, undoing it blindly, her fingers trembling in the rush to feel him. He kissed her breasts, her neck, her cheek, then worked his way up to her ear, playing with the silver earring with his lips, darting his tongue in and out of her ear, nipping her earlobe.

"Beg me to love you Helen. Beg me to fuck you," he whispered.

She undid his belt, pulled down his zipper, and reached inside to find him, his erection hard and throbbing in her hands. She slid her fingers up and down his long shaft, feeling him for the first time in over a century, the moisture from his tip lubricating her hand.

"Beg me, love" he whispered again, leaning on one arm, taking the other and sliding it up and to her center again, moving his fingers in and out of her.

"Love me, John," she breathed, her hips beginning to stir in time to his fingers, her own hand mimicking the rhythm on his cock, they're bodies locked in mutual masturbation.

"What did you say, Helen? What?" he teased.

She turned to him and bit his jaw, tasting a drop of blood on her tongue and hearing him gasp. Her hand tightened around his erection, her center dripped with wetness.

"Fuck me, John. Please…."

She felt him smile his approval. He pulled up, tore open her stockings completely, and thrust himself inside of her, his hips driving into hers. She sucked in a sudden, shuddering breath. With one hand he held onto the side of the couch for balance, the other he dropped to her chest, kneading her breasts roughly as he rode her. Helen gasped for air, shifting her hips to grant him better access when John reached down and lifted her left leg over his shoulder, sliding her fully under him. The change in angle made him fill her completely, and she cried out in pleasure and pain. He drove harder in response, faster, pounding against her pubic bone, bruising her womb. He tore his hand away from her breasts and rubbed her already swollen center, making her ride higher and higher, the tension mounting, her legs trembling, her body shaking in need.

"Are you coming?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, never easing his harsh rhythm.

"Yes," she answered breathlessly.

"Am I making you come?" he demanded to know.

"Yes. God yes!" she cried out.

But before she could finish her climax, he slammed inside of her. Helen could feel his cock expand within her womb, her muscles automatically contracting around him, kneading his erection as he spilled his seed into her. He cried out in a guttural howl, his face creased in pure, sensual pleasure.

When he finished, he collapsed on top of her, his cock slowly growing smaller within her, his cheek brushing against her breast, his chest rising up and down.

"How does it feel, Helen?" he said hoarsely, still gasping for air. "To be so thoroughly fucked?"

Something in his voice, his tone startled her. She pulled herself up to look at him.

"John?"

He turned his head and gazed up at her.

"Yes, John. Not Jack. You needn't worry, darling. Although of course it's no thanks to you," he answered sharply.

"I don't…" Helen started, fear beginning to rise inside her.

"You could have saved me, but you didn't, Helen," he said his voice growing louder. He sat up, his warmth suddenly leaving her cold. "You could have extricated the demon from my soul, but you wanted to watch me suffer instead! Your heart bleeds for them all, all of them, EXCEPT-FOR-ME!" he shouted, pounding his fist against his chest. "So how does it feel, sweet, beloved, love, to be FUCKED over in return? How does it feel, my darling little whore?"

Helen blinked in shock, her mouth fell open. John's hands flew to her neck, his fingers grasping her throat. Her own hands flew up to his wrists to pull them off, but he was too strong.

"I could kill you right now, you know. Snap your neck in two. It doesn't take a demon to make a man want to do that, just betrayal. The loss of something he holds dear…." He was crying, tears streaming down his face.

"You don't understand," she choked out, her mind reeling. His tears fell onto her cheeks in small, delicate splashes. She could taste the salt on her tongue. "I wanted to tell you!"

He laughed, shaking his head, his hands still ringing her neck tightly. "Do you want to know what's ironic, Helen? Hmm? You were right. You were right all along!" He leaned down and whispered into her ear. "We weren't meant to be together, so LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shouted, then disappeared, making her jump in fright.

Helen lay on the couch trembling, her dress pooled around her waist, warm liquid sliding down her thighs, the smell of John's cologne clinging to her skin, and the tightness of his fingers still grasping at her neck.

(to be continued)