A/N: I should probably alert you all that this contains adult themes. Nothing very explicit, still T rated, but I felt morally obligated to warn you.


A soft knock on the door interrupted Domovoi's nightly meditation. He sighed through his nose. There was nothing more annoying than being jarred out of a sense of total peace, especially when it was probably for something stupid.

His employer had retired to her room early, pleading a headache, and, knowing that a round-the-clock security team was patrolling the grounds, he had followed suit. The Bristows had a chef to take care of their cooking, so it was unlikely he was needed in the kitchen. The knock wasn't urgent enough for there to be some kind of emergency.

Curious, he got up and opened the door, and there, standing casually in the doorway and looking greatly revitalized, was his practice principal, Mrs. Miranda Bristow.

Tall and dark haired, Mrs. Bristow had the looks of a movie star and the body of an athlete. But she didn't act, nor did she play a sport.

In fact, as far as Domovoi could tell from the month he'd worked for the woman, her two main purposes in life were: first, to spend her days blowing a small fortune on designer clothes, spa visits, and trips around Europe with fellow trophy wives, and second, on the rare occasion her jetsetter husband was home, to play the role of designated arm candy at various social functions.

Domovoi was dressed rather sloppily in pajama pants and a tank top, but he stood tall and did his best to seem professional. The four men who made up the estate's twenty-four hour security already sneered at him for his youth; the last thing he wanted was to give them proof that he wasn't taking his job seriously.

"Yes, Mrs. Bristow?"

"Hello, Butler." A peculiar smile spread over her face as she surveyed him in his rumpled sleepwear.

Domovoi waited expectantly, but she didn't say anything more, apparently not in any rush to get to the point of her visit.

She just stood there in her obscenely short scarlet bathrobe, arms crossed, revealing far more tanned skin than was necessary to distract her teenage bodyguard, though you would never know it to look at him.

"May I help you with something, ma'am?" he said finally. Mrs. Bristow gazed at him coolly, tongue pressed to the back of her teeth. Her unblinking stare was beginning to make him uneasy.

"Yes, Butler, I think you can," she said. "May I come in?" Her tone made it clear that it wasn't really a question.

It was an odd request, but Domovoi could think of no way to politely refuse, so he stood back to admit her. She brushed lightly against him on her way through the door.

Hands on hips, she looked around the fastidiously organized bedroom as if she'd never seen this part of her own house before. And perhaps she hadn't. There was hardly any reason for the wife of a millionaire to go traipsing about the staff's quarters.

Which begged the question: what in the world was she doing here now? She had never paid him any attention before, except to tell him to "be a sweetheart and fetch me a double latte decaf with soy milk, no foam, would you?" This was most unusual.

Mrs. Bristow sauntered over and took a seat on the bed, curling her legs under her, causing the robe to ride up another couple inches. She patted the spot next to her with a smile.

"Sit. I want to talk to you."

A strict upbringing had taught Domovoi that the words "I want to talk to you" were very rarely a good thing, but he obeyed and sat rigidly on the opposite end of the bed from her, warning bells going off in his head as he did so.

"Yes ma'am. About what, may I ask?"

"Oh, life in general." Her smile took on a tinge of melancholy, and Domovoi relaxed a bit. He was good at listening to his principals talk about whatever was bothering them. All he had to do was look sympathetic and throw in an "mhm" every few sentences.

"Of course, ma'am."

"Oh, don't be so formal, Butler. You can call me Miranda."

Domovoi hesitated. A bodyguard was not supposed to call a principal by his or her first name. Ever. It was improper, and blurred the distinction between employee and friend. As Madame Ko reminded him repeatedly, it did not do to let your emotions get in the way of your duty.

But… It also did not do to ignore the wishes of said principal, unless those wishes posed a threat to his or her safety.

Hmm, he thought. Standard social etiquette, or bodyguarding technicalities. Which was more important?

And then, This is stupid. She's an airhead. I'm not going to get attached to her no matter what I call her.

"Very well, ma- …Miranda," Domovoi corrected himself. It was silly, he knew, but he felt like that tiny little breach of etiquette had been a huge step over the line of propriety.

Miranda smiled. "Better," she said. And nothing else.

"So… Miranda," Domovoi prodded, wincing a little bit on the inside. "What exactly did you want to talk to me about?"

The woman heaved a sigh, leaning back to prop herself up on her elbows. The way the bathrobe gapped in the front as she did this was not at all lost on Domovoi.

"Oh, nothing in particular, really. Can't I just have a friendly conversation with you? Surely that's not against bodyguard regulations?" she said with teasing sarcasm.

Domovoi was completely serious. "That depends on what our conversation is about, ma'am."

"Miranda," she said insistently. "Can't you drop the whole 'professional bodyguard' thing for like five minutes?"

"No, ma'am, I can't," he said, his tone a bit chilly. He didn't like the way she acted like his assignment was some sort of joke to be tossed aside.

Miranda was unfazed. "Well can you try?" she pouted. "I just want to get to know you a little better. We spend an awful lot of time together, after all."

Domovoi thought about this. He was pretty sure she'd spent most of the past month either treating him like a particularly boring piece of furniture or else sending him on menial errands that could just as easily have been delegated to someone who wasn't responsible for her life.

"Mrs. Bristow-"

"You mean Miranda," she said sweetly.

He sighed. "Look, if you want to chat with someone, perhaps you ought to try Mr. Aldrich," he said. Maybe the elderly chef, having known Miranda for years longer than he had, would be better equipped to deal with her strange mood.

"You really are dense, aren't you?" she mused.

"I must be," he said tersely, "because I haven't a clue what you're trying to get at, here, ma'am."

She raised one amused, perfectly arched eyebrow. "You don't know what I'm trying to get at, hm?" she said, inching closer to him. "Must you make this so complicated?"

"Erm…"

A determined sort of gleam had entered Miranda's eyes. She lightly stroked his bicep, raising goosebumps all down his arm. "I'll give you a hint."

Before Domovoi could fully register what she was doing, she'd backed him against the headboard, hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

For a moment he was stunned. He simply sat there, frozen and unresponsive, as her lips searched his for an opening. Her hand traveled up his arm, to his shoulder, and came back down to rest on his chest, while the other stroked the closely cropped hair at the base of his neck.

Domovoi's eyes fluttered shut and, without thinking, he began kissing her back. The hands moved down to his waist and crept under his shirt, and Miranda made a noise of delight at finding the muscles underneath.

"Oh God…" she murmured, impressed, running her hands up his torso.

Lord, that feels good.

"Oh God is right," he breathed. She giggled.

She'd just gotten her tongue past his lips when his eyes flew open.

"Oh God," he repeated, and pushed Miranda off of him. He leaped off the bed and retreated to the other side of the room. "What am I doing?" he gasped, horrified.

"You were making out with me, before you ran away." Her tone was playful, but her annoyance was obvious.

Miranda rose from the bed with the grace of a panther and traipsed over to him, lazily backing him into a corner. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked.

Their activity on the bed had loosened the top of her bathrobe to the point where he could tell there was nothing underneath, but Domovoi, though shaken, forced himself to look her in the eye.

"M- Mrs. Bristow… I- I can't even begin-…"

"No?" She grinned. "Then don't," she said, sidling closer and playing with the bottom of his shirt.

He took a deep breath and tried again. "Miranda. Whatever this is… it can't happen. This is so inappropriate I can't begin to describe..." She didn't seem to be listening. He seized her wrists and pulled them away from his shirt.

"Mrs. Bristow."

That terribly seductive eyebrow was quirked again. "You know, I kind of like it this way, too," she said, looking pointedly at the way he gripped her wrists. He dropped them like he'd been electrified.

"If someone walked in right now, what do you think this would this look like?" he hissed, gesturing between them.

Miranda clicked her tongue. "Probably like I'd just snogged you senseless," she said, waggling her eyebrows. Domovoi grimaced and she rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. You're right." She headed for the door.

For a second Domovoi let himself hope she was just going to walk out and leave him be. His stomach knotted when she locked them in instead. "There. Now no one will walk in."

She looked him up and down, like he was a birthday present to be unwrapped, and then she was touching him again.

And the problem with that is…? asked a devilish part of Domovoi's brain.

His nose was full of the smell of her skin, like warm vanilla mixed with brown sugar, tinged with the smoke of her last cigarette.

Shut up. There are too many problems with this to name.

"Miranda, you don't understand." His voice was hoarse with lust and nerves. "This is such a huge violation of protocol, and not only that but you're married, and I'd get in so much trouble if anyone found out that this happened… You've got to go," he pleaded. Visions of floggings at the hands of Madame Ko and his father flew through his head.

"Don't worry about it, love. No one will find out," she purred. "I'm very good at keeping secrets." She slid her arms around his neck, and Domovoi could no longer help but sneak embarrassed glances down at her barely-concealed chest. But Miranda was shameless as she slipped his tank top over his head and gave him a very slow and admiring once-over.

He was suddenly very glad he was wearing his loosest pajama pants, because things below had grown uncomfortable enough as it was.

He grasped Miranda's shoulders as her hands wandered his body, trying to find the strength to push her away when all he wanted was to pull her closer and do to her what she was doing to him.

She pressed herself against him, curious fingers drifting lower. "My, my, what have we here?" she said in mock surprise, feeling his now rather obvious erection through the fabric. "Does this mean you've rethought the wisdom in asking me to leave?" Domovoi was surprised to feel himself blush; he wouldn't have thought his body had enough blood to spare to color his face.

He didn't think he'd ever felt as conflicted as he did just then, looking at her pitifully. She was so bloody gorgeous…

She was his principal! He wasn't supposed to be calling her by her first name, much less be looking at her half-naked, letting her venture below his waistband, touching parts of him no girlfriend had ever made it to before.

Wrong… wrong… wrong…

Much, much less be touching her back, pushing the silky bathrobe off her shoulders, tracing the outline of pale curves that were never exposed to the sun. Tangling his fingers in that long, glossy dark hair, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her neck…

If anyone ever found out…

Savoring each little sigh that escaped her. This was heavenly. But Miranda was far from an angel. She nudged him back over to the bed.

"If you lie down, I can take care of that… rather large problem of yours," she told him, brushing her mouth against his ear, making him shiver.

She walked him backwards until he bumped into the bed, his legs buckling, and pushed him onto his back before straddling him. If there was any lingering resistance in Domovoi's mind, this was the moment that drove it out.

Miranda smiled a very predatory smile as she looked down at him. Domovoi swallowed. He was used to doing the hunting, not the other way around.

"Don't worry, love," she said, nibbling at his collarbone. "You're going to enjoy this."

xXx

"Enjoy" was not a strong enough word to describe how Domovoi felt about sex with Miranda. Once she'd started really working her magic, stopping had quickly ceased to be an option. Never before in his life had he felt he needed something quite so desperately as he'd needed her ten minutes ago.

Domovoi lay on his back, hands folded on his stomach, staring at the ceiling in lazy contemplation. He should have been worried. Ashamed, maybe. But all he felt was utter contentment. The terror would set in later, he knew.

Miranda was lying separate from him on her own side of the bed, looking moody, and Domovoi couldn't fathom why. Did she feel guilty about cheating on her husband, he wondered? Maybe she was worried the rest of the household would find out somehow? Or maybe – he felt a pang of self-consciousness – maybe she was disappointed with his performance?

His brow furrowed. If that was the case, it was hardly fair. She was much older than him; she couldn't have expected him to match her level of experience. And anyway, it wasn't as if he'd asked her to do this. He was the one who'd thought it a bad idea from the get-go.

Eventually Miranda rolled over and touched his forearm. "Butler?"

"Mm?"

"Have you ever had sex before?" she asked.

He cringed. He'd guessed right. Damn. "No-o," he said, stretching the word. "I'm sorry. Was it that bad?"

She smiled with more sincerity than he'd seen from her all night.

"No, it wasn't bad. You were just…"

"Awkward? Clumsy? Inept?" he suggested.

"I was going to say 'sweet,'" she said, looking at him with something akin to tenderness. "Sweeter than I expected." She hesitated. "Er, how old are you?"

Domovoi chewed the inside of his lip. "Um. Seventeen?" he said, like it was a question.

It was Miranda's turn to cringe. "Seventeen?"

"…In three weeks."

She exhaled slowly. "You're sixteen."

"Well, not for long…" he muttered. She was quiet for a while.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot older? I swear, I thought you were twenty, maybe nineteen at the youngest…" Miranda said, more to herself than to Domovoi.

"Erm. I know this is a fine time to mention it, but, please, tell me you're on birth control or something?"

"What? Of course." She snorted. "I'm not completely irresponsible. No. No illegitimate children today, don't worry."

"Oh. Good."

There was an awkward silence. Miranda sat up and sighed. "Well, sweetheart, this was fun." She reached over and kissed him on the cheek before going to pick her skimpy robe up from the floor. Annoyed, Domovoi boosted himself up on his elbows, feeling like a child tucked into bed.

Miranda retied her sash, ran her fingers through her hair, and checked that everything was again neatly concealed, then glanced at the bodyguard-in-training scowling on the bed. She smiled, walked over, leaned across the mattress and kissed him on the mouth, wiping his mind blank.

"A lot of fun," she whispered.

"Mhm," he said, eyes closed.

"I'll see you tomorrow night."

When he opened his eyes again, Miranda was gone.

Moving as if hypnotized, Domovoi went straight from the bed to the shower, but the hot water did little to clear his head. He snatched up his pajama pants, donned them, and didn't bother putting on anything else before crawling into bed, suddenly exhausted.

Sure enough, just as he'd predicted, a little ball of terror began to grow, gnawing at his stomach. He could hardly believe what he'd just done. How had this even happened? Why had this even happened? Why had she decided to sleep with him?

He rolled onto his side and hugged his pillow to his chest. It smelled like her.

See you tomorrow night…

And what the hell is that supposed to mean?

A/N: I debated between making this part of "Mile" and publishing this as its own story, because this is actually going to be a 3-shot. But alas, I couldn't bear to separate it from the rest of my Butler-growing-up stories. It was a learning experience for him, bless his heart.

I have a basic outline for the next two segments, so hopefully I can get them out here in a reasonable amount of time. Of course, I'm going to be awfully busy with school now the new semester's started, so I might need a big digital kick in the pants from my faithful readers in the form of reviews. *hint* *hint* =]