MIKE

I winced. This was not something I really wanted to share, but I had made a promise, and considering where I was--in bed naked with Catherine, oh yeah—I figured it was about the best setting I was going to get. I cleared my throat.

"Back in school the guys on the team called me zwanzig—twenty in German. Had to do with the dimensions you may have noticed back in the kitchen."

Catherine buried her face against my chest and I felt her giggles muffled against my skin there. I grumbled. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, get it out of your system."

"Twenty? Okay, I'll admit it's intimidating, but I'm not sure I get how it adds up to twenty—" she chortled, and I was about to gripe when her hand slid down my stomach and sort of took the matter in hand.

Ooooh.

"Dimensions," I repeated and managed to at least sound calm. "Eight inches in length times two and a half inches in diameter. Most of the time they just called me Zig, which wasn't too bad."

"I see. So you've always been . . . gifted."

"Oy, gifted. Genetics gifted me with a schwanstucker like this along with a compelling reason NOT to breed. The universe is full of those little ironies sometimes," I sighed. Under the sheet, Catherine's fingers were getting a swift and serious reaction all right. I cleared my throat and she giggled.

"Distracting you, am I?"

"You could say that."

"I could do a lot more than say it—" she informed me, sleekly straddling my hips, settling astride my nicknames' sake and the move was enough to make me grunt happily; perfect weight, pressing nicely.

"You think you're going to be in charge this time, hmm?" I asked rhetorically. She slithered down to kiss me, and that felt great too. Seriously, this kissing was just incredible. Catherine might be making the big moves, but I had a few of my own.

"Aren't I?" she laughed when we broke apart. I shook my head, and gently lifted her hips. Petite—that's really the word for Catherine. She's compact and all woman, definitely, but petite.

"Not this time, babe—" and I pushed into her very, very slowly.

At the risk of sounding like an egotist, I knew what I was doing. One of the very few good pieces of advice I'd ever gotten about sex was that if you were a guy on the bottom, you could give a lot more pleasure by going slowly. I knew Catherine was probably sore, and I did want it to be good, so I crossed my wrists behind the smooth small of her back and just held her there, nicely impaled.

She was shivering, hands braced on my chest, looking down and me with her mouth puckered in the most beautiful little 'O' of surprise. "OhhhGod---"

"Shhhhh—" I told her, and very, very gently flexed my hips. I'd never have this kind of control if we hadn't taken the edge off, but we had and I was glad I could do this for her. Not that I had a LOT of control mind you—Catherine's slick body was squeezing, making me just on the edge of crazy. I cupped her butt and pulled back, just the smallest bit, then thrust up again, ever so gently.

Slow and sweet, like the way honey pours out of a jar, that's how we made love. Catherine wanted to go faster, but after a few minutes, she relaxed into the subtle rhythm, moving in a lazy counterpart to my small thrusts and all of a sudden, the two of us shifted into hot perfection. She kissed me, rounding her back and licking my neck, biting at my nipples while I cupped her breasts and tasted every part of her I could get my mouth on, and the whole time we rode out the sweet strokes, both of us building up big time.

Pretty soon I knew we were right on the critical edge. I kissed her once more, then took her hand and guided it down between us, sighing. "Do it, Cath, come onnnn sweetheart—"

She sighed, then arched up and slid her fingers down, stroking against herself while I watched, and God it was stunningly gorgeous. The sight of Catherine Willows riding my cock and wantonly rubbing herself to orgasm pushed me right over the edge; I thrust hard gushing, grabbing her luscious ass as I drained myself deep within her juicy tightness. Somewhere in the middle of all that I felt her body squeezing back, and heard her gasping my name---

She collapsed on me and I held her, needing her so much.

We slept, not even letting go of each other, and for the first time, I didn't remember my dreams.

I woke up about three hours later and staggered off to the bathroom, half-asleep. I managed to clean myself up a bit in the dark and came back, then looked at Catherine in my bed.

She was sprawled on her stomach, sheet bunched up over her shoulders, burrowed down into the pillow, but the sight that made me grin from ear to ear was her round naked little ass, uncovered and sleek in the semi-darkness. A perfect butt, and I've never considered myself an ass man, but visions like this could bring me into the congregation. I leaned down, bracing my weight on my knuckles on the mattress and kissed one smooth cheek.

"Hey!" came the sleepy protest. I kissed the other cheek, just to be fair.

"You've got a great tuchus."

"Ass-kisser," she laughed back and rolled over. I cocked my head.

"Yours; definitely. Move over."

Catherine did, and I took her spot, all warm and perfect while she got up to use the bathroom. I heard her moving around afterwards, and just as suddenly, a pang hit me in the chest, so I called out to her. "You're coming back to bed, right?"

"You . . . want me to?"

For some reason the way she asked it—with that little tremble of genuine uncertainty in her voice—made me squeeze my eyes shut, and I had to get my voice under control. It took a second and I know I sounded gruff, but damn it--

"Damn right I do. Come on back here before you freeze."

Then came her laugh, all soft and pleased, and I knew that whatever else happened, Catherine would be here. "Okay, just let me let Ted out—he's dancing here."

"Fine. Just--don't take took long okay?"

"'kay."

I heard her moving through the apartment, talking to Ted, then making her way back a few minutes later, and when she slipped back into bed she was very cool. Immediately she draped herself all over my chest and I flinched a little.

"Sorry," she murmured, not meaning it at all as she burrowed closer. I grunted.

"You are SO lucky I'm a nice guy, willing to share my valuable body heat."

"Got enough of it to spare, Zig."

"Hey!"

"Fair play, buster. You call me CC, I'm going to call you Zig."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you've got a cruel streak?" I murmured back, "Exploiting a personal confidence like that."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're too damned cute for your own good? Also, you're really comfortable to sleep on."

"Just call me Mattress Mike," I grinned in the dark. She smiled against my chest; I could feel it, and gradually we drifted off to sleep again.

CATHERINE

Mornings are ugly. They're the hardest part of sex, because they're the make or break point for a relationship, you know? In the dark, in the heat of the night everything's wonderful and fun, but morning is when you have to take stock on what's happened and see if things are going to be a one-time thing, or if they might be something more.

I wasn't sure how I felt.

Mike had been—was, wonderful. And I wasn't just thinking that because of the laundry and dishes as well as the mind-blowing sex either. But was I ready to think about anything more than right now? I had Lindsay to consider, and Mom wasn't getting any younger, and I still had seven years on the mortgage to go . . . aaaaand I had no idea how Mike felt about me.

Not really.

I had to be a big girl and bear in mind that although Mike was a great guy and hell in bed, he had plenty of his own baggage to deal with, and God knew how long he was going to be in Vegas anyway. From the way Ditmeyer had been talking, the Justice Department would probably send Mike off to some Podunk town thousands of miles away just to keep him out of the mainstream for a while.

Damn it. Wouldn't it be just my luck to FINALLY find a nearly perfect guy just to have him shipped away?

I'd just have to cope. In the meantime, I'd keep it light—no point in weighing Mike down with any excess baggage.

So I got up and made coffee and stuck some waffles in the oven on a cookie sheet since the kitchen didn't have a toaster. Idly I moved to pick up a few shirt buttons from the kitchen floor, grinning at the memory of how they'd gotten there when SOME one bumped into me from behind when I was bent over.

"Hey!" I protested. Mike's hands had slipped under the shirt and were curling around my bare hips. He made a happy humming sound.

"I think this is what the Discovery Channel calls 'presenting behavior'," came his rumble. "I approve."

"I'm NOT presenting, I'm cleaning. I also thought you didn't watch television." My argument wasn't very strong, since Mike's fingers had moved to push up my shirt and slowly begin toying along my exposed back. I glared up at him over my shoulder. He grinned down at me.

"Sorry, but snarling only makes you that much hotter," Mike announced gently, rubbing himself against me. "And seriously, Catherine-- I'm in love with your ass."

I couldn't help myself and laughed, especially because his sincere expression was shifting into something a lot more directly compelling. Mike's beard stubble and tousled hair made him look dangerously sexy, particularly since he wasn't wearing a shirt, either. I rubbed back against him.

"You're horny."

"Pretty much a no-brainer there, in more ways than one," he admitted wryly, leaning over my back and breathing into my ear. "Not helped much by the vision of a beautiful woman bent over showing off her delectable anatomy. Call me old-fashioned, but a spectacular sight like that does tend to make me think about sex."

We ended up burning the waffles.

Later, after another shower, when I finally got dressed, I came back out to find Mike sprawled on the sofa, feeding the lesser charred bits to Ted, who seemed to like carbon in his diet. Mike grinned at me.

"You look so different in clothes—I'm not sure I like the unnecessary layers."

I leaned over the back of the sofa and swatted his arm, trying to grin but it was hard. I had to leave and I didn't want to, not at all. My inner self wanted nothing more than to hang out the rest of the day with him, finish painting the walls and make dinner, curl up and read together—all that . . . couples stuff.

But if I did that, I'd be getting attached, and I'd already promised myself I wasn't going to let that happen if I could help it. So I took a deep breath got ready to tell a little fib. "Listen, I hate to paint and run, but I've got some errands to do, so I'm going to take off and get those finished. Think you can handle a roller brush by yourself?"

Mike shot me a quick glance, frowning a little and nodded. "Sure. Most of what's left is trim along the windows anyway. Are you planning on coming back?"

Damn him for being so . . . direct. It's always harder to lie to someone who looks at you trustingly. I ran a hand through my hair.

"Sure I'm coming back—I just don't know when, yet." I told him, trying to smile, and feeling it was looking pretty bad. He didn't say anything and I could feel it then; that first little hint of hurt. I spoke up again. "For one thing, Ted's going to need a vet check."

"True—" Mike murmured, reaching out to pet the dog. "And tags."

He rose up and cocked his head at me; I had the weirdest feeling that under it all Mike had some idea of why I was putting some space between us, and that should have made me feel better, but it didn't. We walked out the door together and he saw me to my car without saying much. I hugged him and he hugged back, and THAT was good, but we didn't kiss.

As I drove off, I noticed Wally's car was just pulling in, and I squirmed a little at the thought. Would he know I'd spent the night?

Probably.

Who was I kidding? Of course he'd know, and given THAT assumption, I was probably going to get a not-so-subtle lecture about discretion.

I scowled at myself in the rearview mirror and wondered if it was too early to go home and have a drink.

MIKE

And so, Catherine left. I watched her go and decided it was for the best, really. We'd stepped over a line by sleeping together—she knew it and I knew it. It was probably better to just stop here and appreciate the time we'd had together. Not dwell on the long term, just stay at the level we'd been at before.

I hate it when my head says one thing and my guts say another.

But honestly, what exactly the hell did I have to offer her anyway? What the hell was I going to do from here on out? Sooner or later Ditmeyer might clue me in on what the Justice Department had in mind for my future, but until then, I was stuck in limbo for the duration.

And Catherine—she had a lot more to lose than I did. I was already dead and gone from the record, now a new man: no debts, no history, no ties. Catherine had a daughter, a career, and a life waiting for her. Maybe even another man somewhere, which wasn't a happy thought, but entirely possible. A woman like that would have them three deep in any bar.

I would have been more depressed, but the afterglow of three rounds of spectacular sex made it hard to get the pity party started. Right now, I was a little sore, and fairly relaxed, so I finished up the trim on the windows, talking steadily to Ted, who brought me the occasional lizard to hold up his end of the conversation. The amazing thing is that he never killed them; they were always a little spit covered and dizzy, but alive and whole.

Maybe he had retriever in him too.

Anyway, I finished painting about mid-afternoon and went to take a short nap, which was hell when the sheets and pillows smelt of sex and Catherine. I ended up moving out to the sofa and displacing Ted, who insisted on sleeping on my legs. We balanced that way for a while and I fell into a sort of a half-doze.

I was getting depressed. If Catherine came back—and it was starting to look more and more like 'if' and not 'when'—then it was probably going to be out of pity or guilt rather than anything else. She and I both knew she was my one connection to the outside world right now.

There was a knock at the door, and I nearly kicked Ted in my rush to answer the door. Ditmeyer stood there looking up at me, a foil covered plate in his hand. He held it out.

"Bacon and peanut butter chip dip."

"Oh."

My lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to bother him; he marched past me and looked around the living room, nodding a little bit. "Not bad on the paint job."

"Thanks. I had help."

"Good." Turning to me, he motioned to the kitchen. "Let's talk, Mikey—"

The last person who'd called me Mikey had been Frank, so it didn't help my mood any. I followed Ditmeyer in and settled into a chair across from him while he uncovered the dip and rummaged around for the bag of potato chips. Ditmeyer dug in and ate one before speaking.

"Got a possible spot for you. Hawthorn. It's about two and a half hours north of here, and they need a CSI. Not a big place—they've got a population of about a little over three thousand or so, but they could use a CSI up that way to cover them and all the outlying places within a hundred miles."

I stared at the dip, then looked at Ditmeyer. "The boonies, Nevada style."

He shrugged, carefully. "If you like. Right now the only other two possible openings are a suburb south of Detroit, and a backlab assignment in Langley. If you go to Detroit you'll have to leave tonight, and if you want Langley, you'll have to take recertification in all labs."

I thought about it. Detroit was last on my list—I wasn't quite ready to haul up that quickly yet. Langley had more appeal, since it would probably be a first step towards the shift to profiling. Hawthorne though—that was still in state, and not that far a drive from Vegas . . . I'd probably be able to keep Ted, too. "Do I have to choose right now?"

"Only if you want Detroit," Ditmeyer sighed. "Which I'm hoping you don't, if you don't mind advice."

"Any reason why?"

"Bad blood going on there right now. An IA cleared out a big scandal and the department's cleaning house. That means even though we've set up a new identity for you, there's a chance the news is going to keep an eye on the department up there and I'm not crazy about the idea of you being on tape somewhere."

I nodded; that made sense. "I wasn't that thrilled about Detroit anyway."

"Good," Ditmeyer mumbled through another chip. I finally broke down and had one, just to keep him company.

Weird. The dip was actually good—who would have guessed?

Ditmeyer waved a chip at me. "Take Hawthorne, Mike. You can keep the dog and you'll be boss of your own lab up there. Two techs under you; one day, one night. While you're there you can work on a thesis to fast track you through a Psych degree."

I grunted, took another chip. Ditmeyer continued. "I'm telling you, it's probably the best you're going to get if you and Willows are meant to be."

"Ditmeyer---" I put as much menace as I could into my voice and it must have been a good bit since he flinched a little. But he kept talking anyway.

"Oh knock it off, Mike. The woman's got a thing for you, and if I'm not mistaken the damned feeling is mutual. I dunno if either one of you is going to 'fess up to it, but it's there and you're gonna have to deal. Me, I'm a romantic at heart. I figure if you take Hawthorn then you and Willows have a shot at maybe making things work out. If not . . . then Hawthorn's far enough away to start over."

I stared at him. "I take it this isn't new to you."

"Nope. Not the relocation, and not the emotional dilemma," Ditmeyer admitted lightly. He slipped a chip under the table, adding, "Minute I saw Willows I knew she had it for you—My Dusie had the same look the second time I saw her, when she was of legal age and everything."

I stared at him; Ditmeyer grinned, that mustache waggling a bit as he shook his head. "Loooong story, but suffice it to say I'm the consort of Princess Deux ex Machina Fu-Cortez of the sovereign nation of San Sebastian and leave it at that, okay? Two kids, three grandkids so I'm big on the happily ever after thing."

"That sounds," I told him slowly, "Like a three beer story."

Ditmeyer's grin got broader. "Come on over then, and bring the dip."