Authors Note: I've removed some of the more graphic vocabulary and phrasing in order to meet the rating guidelines. The unadulterated version is over at my other account on the other site.

Chapter Two

Linka returns home the next day, sporting reddened, kiss-swollen lips and a deep sense of anticipation. She spends her days distracted, contemplating what just happened, and what the hell she's planning on doing about it moving forward.

She over-analyses their conversations, and critiques her responses, and worries a little too; that perhaps she's given in too late, and they're on the road to nowhere.

All they did was kiss and cuddle — an altogether innocent, first base evening. His mouth moved to her neck at times, sucking lightly at her pulse and nuzzling into her skin, but he strayed no further.

And by God, the feeling was sublime.

Perhaps nothing good can come of this. Opportunities were abundant before, when they had the means and the motive.

There's an irony to all this; choosing to get their act together, when they're separated by oceans and continents and work constraints…

And time.

She can't stop thinking about him, even a week later, can't get him out of her head.

His muscular body pressed between her legs. The tendons in his neck standing out as towered over her, holding her down. The bed-mussed, copper hair and those startling blue eyes that have always seen right through her, deep into her soul.

There's a warmth brewing, a small flame that's been ignited inside her. It flickers benignly, just enough to know it's there but not enough to overwhelm her.

Overwhelmed is a state of mind she tends to avoid, yet Linka is starting to consider the benefits.


"What were these…. people… thinking," she pants, sponging the wall on either side of the kitchen cabinets for the third time, because the wallpaper won't budge. She teeters precariously on top of the bench top, hunched at an awkward angle to avoid her head thumping the ceiling.

"Tupaya dura."

Gripping the top of the fridge with one hand, she smothers the stubborn paisley with the other. The hot water keeps drizzling down her arm and into her armpits each time she replenishes the sponge and reaches high, soaking through her sweatshirt in heavy rivulets.

Linka is saturated, and filthy and sweaty, and Wheeler's not even here right now, having had to dash out and meet a contractor. It's two PM, and she hasn't seen him yet. He left the key for her though, and she's already had to stop what she's doing twice to climb down and let contractors in through the front door.

Gritting her teeth, Linka gets on with it, hoping enough of the solution has soaked through by now. Otherwise, the whole lot can go onto Wheeler's sledgehammer pile.

The third time's a charm.

She hacks away and the wallpaper finally begins to lift in spots. A strip comes away beautifully above the dull edge of the scraper, and it's pathetic how satisfying she finds the moment.


"Your fingers are still wrinkled," Wheeler observes, taking her hand and prodding her water-logged skin. "Gonna have to start callin' ya pruney."

"Oh, thank you," she scoffs, jabbing his chest with her fork. "While I was soaked from head to toe in twenty-degree weather, you were skipping merrily around town —"

"I was hardly skipping," he retorts. "More like stomping… and hang on? I missed a wet tee-shirt competition?"

She giggles, touching her chest self-consciously. "Yes."

"Damn," he mutters. "Wasted a whole darn day today. Stupid assholes need to learn to measure properly."

"How many weeks will it take to fix?"

"Can't fix it," he sighs, stirring his coffee. He runs a hand through his hair, lamenting the loss of what should have been his new kitchen cabinetry. "They're gonna have to start again."

Linka gives him a sympathetic smile as she sips her tea.

She thought today might be awkward.

There's been no mention or acknowledgement of what went down on her last visit. It's been all business.

They're back to being them, which is nice and fine…

For now.

He's taken her for an early dinner to a little café down the street, one that serves mouth-wateringly good, toasted bagels. Hers was loaded with cream cheese and salmon, which she demolished in four bites.

The staff seem to know Wheeler's name.

They're the only two customers left. It's near closing time, and the older woman dithers around them with a mop, complaining about supply issues and the recent raise in rent by the landlord.

She asks Wheeler how the house is going, and Linka is bemused by Wheeler's fifteen-minute animated ramble that follows.

When it's time to leave, the woman loads Wheeler up with a free box of leftovers before sending them on their way

It's blowing a gale as they step out onto the sidewalk, and he wraps his scarf around her neck, his fingers grazing her cheek.

"I'm guessing you come here often?" she asks, and his guilty smile tells Linka all she needs to know.


"Tell me what you want."

Wheeler lies on his side on the bed next to her, shirtless and propped up on one elbow. His index finger traces the ridge of her ear and along her bottom lip, before pressing gently into the dip at the base of her throat.

His finger tracks lower, skimming down her sternum and halting at the top button of her pyjamas. He tugs gently, before lowering his head and burying his face in her neck with a heavy sigh.

His mouth soon joins those questing fingers, and she utters a soft moan as he sucks his way lightly behind her ear and along the line of her neck, and then further down, hovering above her bulky pyjama clad chest.

With trembling hands, she moves to open the top button, wanting to encourage more contact, but like before, he stops her.

"No," he says firmly, pulling them away and threading his fingers through hers.

He leans in and kisses her languidly, and she gives a gasp of frustration against his mouth. Releasing her hands, he lowers his face to her throat again as his hand slips beneath the soft fleecy material, smoothing over her stomach and abdomen.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want…" she sighs, her back bowing to meet his touch. "I want you to… oh." Her breath hitches as his hand settles close to the underside of her breast, his fingers brushing against her flesh.

Her nipple is already hard, straining against the flannelette, and for the first time in her life, she's done with being coy.

She wants more.

Her hands are moving again, fumbling for her pyjama top buttons in an effort to free herself.

"No." He sits up suddenly, grabbing her hands, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Can't help yourself, can ya?"

She stares back at him bewilderedly, caught in this Mexican standoff of epic proportions.

"Wheeler…" she utters, glancing around nervously.

He prods the top button with his index finger, before his intense gaze meets hers. "Tell me what you want."

She blinks up at him, feeling that flame inside burning just a little bit brighter.

"I want you to take my top off," she whispers, her cheeks reddened from both the shame and desire.

And she knows.

Even as he leans in and unbuttons her top with a deliberate slowness, and peels the fabric aside, exposing her breasts to the cold night air, she knows.

After all the years of back pedalling and avoidance, of keeping him at arm's length and hiding her feelings, she knows that there's some payback involved… and she probably deserves it.

She closes her eyes, letting out a soft moan as he leans forward and fills his hands with her breasts, massaging her gently. His hands cup and stroke her flesh, tugging gently at her nipples and making her hum with pleasure.

He sinks down beside her, gathering her to him, his mouth finding hers in the dark.

She knows Wheeler is not going to make this easy.

He's going to demand honesty.

He's going to make her beg and plead for it.


The kitchen's done by the late afternoon. The minor holes and dips have been plastered and sanded, and it's ready for painting.

She steps back and admires her handwork. Her neck and shoulder muscles are screaming, and she stretches them as best she can, rubbing the afflicted area before cleaning up for the evening.

Gathering clean clothes and a towel, Linka wanders the house, talking to the carpenters for a while before venturing upstairs again. The bedrooms are much the same as last time, except for a thick layer of insulation in the wall separating them. She can no longer see through to the other side.

She eyes the bathroom and heads inside, locking the door behind her, shivering slightly.

The bathroom is old and decrepit. Wall to wall apricot tiles and a salmon pink bath complete the awesomeness, but thankfully, the hot water is working. She undresses and takes a hot, steaming shower, ridding herself of the day's soap and grime.


They're entangled in bed, naked from the waist up, her bare breasts pressed against his chest and their denim-clad legs entwined around one another.

She's acutely aware of how strong Wheeler is, and the physicality of the things he does to her. He lifts her and manoeuvres her around like a rag doll, as if she weighs nothing at all.

Even now, as his arm slips beneath her back and lifts her chest toward his mouth, the force takes her breath away.

He hovers over her, licking lightly along her ribcage and along her stomach, and up the centre of her chest. Her nipples are hard and aching. She moans in anticipation, but he moves back up to her mouth, kissing her fervently.

"Tell me what you want."

Linka's fingers knot tightly into his hair, guiding him to her breast, showing him what she wants, and he ducks away from her grasp.

He swats her persistent hands aside and sinks lower, and she groans as he mouths her belly and waist, his tongue trailing upward and sending a bolt of pure pleasure down between her legs.

"Oh god," she sighs, arching toward his mouth as he licks lightly along the bottom of her breast. "Please."

"Tell me what you want."

"Please…" she breathes, grasping his face again and pulling him down. She thrusts her chest toward him, and this time he pulls back completely, snatching her left wrist almost painfully.

"No."

Linka recoils, startled, her hand wilting within his firm grasp.

Swinging a leg over, Wheeler sits astride her hips. He leans over the edge of the mattress, shoving the mess aside and fumbling around on the floor until he finds whatever he's looking for.

Her left arm is wrenched out to the side, and she feels a thin plastic ridge sliding against her skin. There's a soft zipping sound, and the plastic is pulled tight against her wrist.

She can't help but lift her head, craning to get a look as he repeats the process with her right hand, straightening her arm out to the edge of the mattress and looping the plastic around her other wrist. He pulls the plastic tight, tethering her in place.

Realisation dawns.

They're cable ties.

Startled, she pulls at the restraints and finds herself incapacitated, her wrists locked securely to the bed.

Groping her breasts roughly, he rolls her nipples between each thumb and forefinger until she's squirming, her back arching off the bed. She tugs again at the restraints, whimpering like a dog in heat.

He crawls forward, until his face is barely an inch from hers.

"Okay?"

She squeaks in response.

"Tell me to stop and I'll let you go."

She says nothing, just swallows nervously, her heart thumping a mile a minute, because holy hell... she doubts Gi's sexual escapades are remotely close to this.

"Tell me what you want."

She stares back at him with wide, pleading eyes, her chest rising and falling.

Don't make me say it.

"All right," he sighs, rising to his feet and heading toward the stairs, and she raises her head incredulously.

"What are you —"

"Stay right there."

Is he kidding?

"Where else am I going to go?" she calls out after him. Goosebumps have broken out on her skin, and not from the cold.

The heater glows close by, and she feels the pleasant warmth along her left side.

"Der'mo," she mutters under her breath, glancing around as she hears his bare feet treading the floorboards above her head.

Her fingers flex uselessly from their tied position, and she prods her way along the side of the mattress, the only limited patch of area she has access to. Biting her lip, she discovers a strip of taut, stiffened fabric and hooks two fingers underneath it, tugging gently.

Carry handles.

He's got her tied to the mattress handles.

The minutes tick by.

MTV is on the television again, broadcasting more grunge-laden music, and she's not paying the slightest bit of attention to it. She's alert and on edge, waiting for his return.

Butterflies swirl in her stomach; having never been this exposed and vulnerable to a man before.

The timber stairs creek, and she hears his footsteps getting closer. Turning her head, Linka spots a glass clutched in his hand and a shirt tossed over his shoulder.

His jeans remain slung low on his hips, and Linka's mouth goes dry at the full sight of his toned arms and muscular torso, and the defined vee-shaped muscles of his groin. There's a smattering of hair above the waistband, giving a glimpse of what lies beneath.

He sinks cross-legged to the floor beside the mattress, his lustful gaze roaming up and down her half-naked, bound body.

Placing the glass between his legs, he leans over, tracing a fingertip down the side of her breast. "You gonna tell me what you want?"

"Poshel na khuy," she utters nervously.

"Fuck you right back, toots," he retorts. He leans in and props his chin on her shoulder, circling her nipple playfully. "You gonna meet me halfway?"

He's met with nothing but her labored, uneven breathing, and he shrugs, as if unsurprised by her vehement refusal to submit.

"All right." He straightens, grabbing the long-sleeved shirt and dangling it over her face. "You wriggle outta this and I start again," he warns. "You got it?"

For the first time, she nods obediently.

Oh, the irony.

The world fades to muted black as he drapes the fabric over the top half of her face. He secures the sleeves behind her head and knots them tightly, until there's just darkness, and the knowledge that she has no control over what's about to happen.

But she doesn't say stop.

Linka senses him kneeling between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs, and he lifts her body forward, her arms stretching taut with the movement.

She waits expectantly. There's no way to anticipate his next move. Her lips part, her breathing shallow and ragged.

Clenching her tethered hands, Linka cranes her neck, trying to catch a glimpse through the edge of the blindfold, but it's too tight.

Something cold splashes down on her nipple, and she yelps in surprise.

Another splash follows, the liquid dribbling wetly down the swell of her breast, and she squirms in pleasure as his tongue laps the residue from her flesh.

Another drop, and then something glacial makes contact; her nipple already rock hard and numb beneath it.

Ice.

There were ice cubes in the glass.

Her hands clench into tight fists as he circles her nipple with the melting ice, licking and sucking at the rivulets but his mouth never strays close enough to where she desperately needs a reprieve.

"Oh god," she whines, her back arching as he switches to the other breast, the ice rattling in the glass as he takes another piece, repeating the same pattern with the same, deliberate infuriating slowness.

"You wantin' something right now?" he asks smugly, and she feels his breath, blissfully warm and close to her sensitive nub.

"Oh god, just do it," she pants.

"Do what?" he asks, and this time he sucks a hardened nipple into his mouth, tugging gently with his teeth.

She shrieks, bucking and thrashing, but he's already moved on, and the ice has returned, running back and forth, and round and round in maddening, perfectly concentric circles.

Linka pants heavily, straining against the bindings, and she's reached her limit. "I want your mouth on me —"

"You're gonna need to be more specific."

"Ohhhhhh," she gasps as his tongue flicks her puckered flesh again, and she can barely stand it. "Wheeler —"

"Tell me what you want."

"I want…" she moans between great, gulping breaths. "I want your mouth on me."

"On what?"

"I want you…" she pants, not even recognising the tone of her own voice, "I want you to… to suck on my —"

"I'll give you that," he says, and she throws her head back, groaning with relief as the heat of his mouth envelops her.


"How was your uncle's dinner?"

"What dinner?" Linka replies absently. She scratches her nose, fixated on her computer screen, inputting the latest core samples into the system.

Gi frowns. She hoists herself up onto the common room table, shoving Linka's paperwork aside. "Dinner with your uncle? His sixtieth, I think you —"

"Oh. Oh, good," she says a little too quickly, recovering herself. "There was cake. My uncle has met a new woman. He seems very happy with her."

"Hit the usual museums?"

It's on the tip of her tongue.

I spent the weekend with Wheeler.

"I returned to the Holocaust Museum," she lies, avoiding Gi's gaze. "There was a new exhibit."

"Good?"

"Yes," she says, knowing she was barely in Washington for three hours.

Much of the remaining forty-five hours were spent getting tied, teased and tormented in a dark leaky basement.

"We should do the Smithsonian visit next time, Lin."

"Which one?"

"Um… all of the 'em, I think," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and peering at the computer screen. "You missed a row."

"Oh —"

"I forgot to tell you. Lee's got a new roommate. He's from Paris —"

"Don't you dare," Linka warns, sagging in her chair and staring at the computer screen. "I do not need you to —"

"He's cute!"

"I don't care —"

"He's a pharmacology major. I've already shown him your picture. He's really keen to meet —"

"Gi, you need to stop showing my picture to random men —

"Just live a little," she pleads. "You've seemed really down since Wheeler left. I think it would do you a world of good to get out and about —"

"I do —" she argues.

"With people," Gi counters. She sighs, jumping off the table and wrapping her arms around Linka's shoulders, giving her a cuddle. "What have you got to lose?"

"My dignity?" she mutters.

"Double date. I'll set it up. Do it for me."

Linka tries to object, but the case is closed and Gi has already moved on to another topic. They converse for a little while longer, and eventually Gi's name is bellowed from somewhere outside.

"What have I done now," she mutters.

Gi wanders away, grumbling under her breath, leaving Linka alone with her samples again.

Linka's fingers type fluidly, her eyes sweeping back and forth between the notebook and the monitor, her fingers a blur of flesh-coloured tones.

The last row is entered, and she sinks back in her chair, saving her work and closing the laptop lid.

Glancing down, Linka runs the pad of her thumb over the underside of her left wrist. The delicate skin has rubbed raw due to the cable ties. The abrasions still sting, but they're also a badge of honor; a reminder of how much pleasure she derived from the experience.

It's a reminder of how much she wants to do it again.

Linka props her chin in her hand, eyeing her phone, feeling more restless than she's used to.

It's been a week and a half since she's seen him. She wonders what he's doing.

Grabbing her phone, she thumbs a quick message and presses send, before she loses her nerve.


The main bedroom upstairs remains too unsafe. The timber has come up and the new floorboards are in the process of being laid.

So Linka starts on the spare bedroom, where she stands less chance of stepping in the wrong place and falling feet-first through the kitchen ceiling.

The wallpaper here is just as stubborn as the rest of the house, and the sound of the hammering in the next room is becoming unbearable. She darts downstairs and gathers her headphones and music player, and for the next two hours, Madonna and Cindi Lauper tunes help to drown out the incessant banging and coarse voices next door.

Two walls down, she's scraping away diligently at the third when she feels another presence in the room. Turning her head, she spots Wheeler framed in the doorway, having taken a break from gutting out the kitchen.

He's shirtless again, his body glistening with sweat and covered in dust and dirt. A hand towel lies over his shoulder.

He watches her intently, and Linka holds his gaze; the moment sparking between them. The flame has well and truly been ignited. It burns brightly, and she feels it in the pit of her stomach, the pull of attraction, along with a sense of intense longing.

She wonders what might be in store for her tonight.

Finally, he lets out a heavy breath and wanders off, shaking his head at whatever scenarios are running through his mind.

Linka stands frozen, the scraper still clutched tightly in her hand, feeling flushed and hot and shaky all over.

The possibilities leave her breathless with anticipation.


His kisses are searing, and she loses a sliver of restraint with every passing moment. Everything falls away — rational thought and worries, carefully laid defences and decision making.

They pale in insignificance.

It's just the two of them, and Linka closes her eyes, breathing a contented sigh into his neck, succumbing to the feel of him.

She's cradled tightly in his arms, his hands groping and stroking her body. His skin is hot against hers, her nipples hard points, dragging back and forth against his bare chest.

"You know how bad I want you?" he growls in her ear, and she can feel him through her pyjama bottoms, pressing firm between her legs.

Trapped beneath him, her legs coil around his waist, and she throws her head back as his hand closes around her throat. He holds her down as he mouths her breasts, leaving patches of saliva cooling on her flushed skin.

"Oh," she croaks, her fingers clenched into his hair as his hips rock rhythmically into hers.

The constant, rubbing pressure is making her wet down there. There's a dull throb as well; one that's creating a level of need that will no doubt require a resolution.

It feels incredible.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you," she gasps, grinding against him, needing friction to quell the sensation building inside.

Unimpressed with her response, he secures Linka's hands above her head, and her heart quickens with aroused anticipation.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to tie me up again," she utters.

"You liked that?"

"Yes," she admits, her cheeks flushing, and her teeth pressing upon her bottom lip as she waits expectantly.

She stares up at him, breathless, and her heart thuds loudly as he slowly gathers her wrists together.

This time, he's better equipped.

"You've been shopping," she whispers, eyeing the cuffs.

"Fuckin' boy scout," he mumbles into her hair as he leans over her, yanking her limbs into position. "Always come prepared."

The bindings are wider, but softer and more flexible this time. Two sets, she discovers as he jostles her about, buckling each wrist into a separate set of cuffs, before tethering her to the sides of the mattress, leaving her arms outstretched, just like last time.

He mouths her belly and breast, and kisses the tip of her nose gently, his mouth grazing her ear.

"Tell me what you want."

"Why do you make me say it," she asks faintly.

"I'm just the passenger," he replies, running his hands down her sides and making her squirm. "You're the one drivin'."

"Why?"

"I like hearin' you beg," he admits, his index finger curling beneath the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and stroking along her hip. "Turns me on.

His palm smooths over her stomach, before ducking beneath the elastic again, tracing patterns along her lower abdomen, and her nerve endings scream in pleasure. Her legs shift restlessly as she raises her hips toward his questing fingers, but he withdraws his hand.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want them off…"

"What?"

"The rest of my pyjamas," she whispers.

"You want 'em off?"

She nods quickly.

Kneeling, he grabs the waistband and tugs the fleecy fabric down her legs, leaving her clad only in a pair of hip-hugging, white lace panties.

Crawling forward, he settles himself on top of her, and they pick up where they left off, his mouth latched to hers as they rock and writhe up against one other, small gasps and moans issuing between them.

His hand pushes down between their bodies, his fingers briefly stroking the outline of her sex, and she lets out a low moan.

"You're wet," he observes, withdrawing his hand and ducking his head to suck a pink nipple into his mouth.

"Oh god," she pleads, thrusting her hips at him. "Wheeler, please —"

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to touch me," she gasps. "Down there."

"Down there?"

"Yes," she gasps, pulling uselessly at the restraints as his fingers tease against her again, all too briefly.

"Like that?"

"Oh my god, I'm going to murder you when this is over —"

"That's not nice."

"Take them off —"

"Take what off?" he asks innocently, tracing along the inner seam of her panties, his finger darting beneath the lace and stroking through her folds.

She bucks against his retreating hand, wanting more and receiving less, and he's enjoying her reaction, the smug bastard.

"I want you to take them off."

"Take what off?"

"My underwear. All of it."

She groans as he strips her panties away roughly. Tossing them aside, his eyes roam her body greedily, his hand pressing between her legs, stroking and caressing her swollen flesh.

Linka throws her head back, her eyes fluttering closed as she rocks against his hand, her breath coming out in ragged gasps.

"You wanna come, baby?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you… to make me… come," she pants.

Hoisting himself off the mattress, he kneels at the base, guiding her knees apart and smoothing his hands up and down her thighs.

Her breath catches in her throat as the top of his head disappears from her view.

Lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, he shoves the other aside, and she's shocked to feel the press of his mouth and tongue down there.

Linka cries out, her back arching in pleasure.

She's never had a man do this to her before.

She's heard about it, read about it with a detached curiosity, and watched the odd movie where the act is simulated between the characters.

This is the first time a man has gone down on her, and the sensation is out of this world. She's sobbing, her body undulating against his mouth, her heel propped flat against his shoulder blade.

She's breathing hard now, thrashing and straining against the bindings. The deep coil of pressure builds steadily.

She comes hard, shouting her release into the night air, bathed in sweat and trembling despite the cold temperatures. Her body goes limp, and her leg slips from his shoulder as he looms over her.

"Don't move," he growls, lifting both her knees and tucking them against her chest, leaving her exposed to his lust-filled gaze.

Pressing his weight into her legs, he rests his cheek against the arch of her foot, and she hears a zipper unfurling, followed by the sound of steady pumping.

Even in her exhausted state, she's aware of what he's doing.

Wheeler strokes himself faster, his breathing becoming increasingly shallow and uneven. His free hand grips her thigh, his fingers digging painfully into her skin as his body tenses, seeking his own release.

Swaying slightly, his forehead presses into her heel as he catches his breath. He sighs, still pumping himself slowly, staring down at the utter mess he's created.

"Fuck," he utters, before parting her legs and collapsing on top of her.

She exhales slowly, feeling his seed dripping down onto the mattress, and the heavy weight of his body on hers.

She zones out for a while, her mind utterly devoid of all thought. The heater glows warmly, bathing their bodies in a rose-gold hue.

She thinks he's asleep, and normally that would be fine, if not for the persistent itch beneath her breast – one that she has no chance of reaching.

"Wheeler?" she eventually whispers, and he grunts in response, his breath warm and steady against her neck.

She squeezes his waist with her thighs. "I need you to untie me."

"Hmm?"

She tugs at the restraints. "I need you to untie me."

"Shit," he mutters, raising his head blearily. His eyes are half closed and his hair askew as he reaches across to unbuckle her, his fingers fumbling somewhat as he pulls at the straps. "Sorry, babe."

He releases her. She rolls onto her side, wincing in pain as she tucks her arms toward her chest; her shoulders bearing the brunt of the prolonged treatment.

There's movement behind her.

Heavy denim is tossed aside. She feels him curl his naked body around hers; one arm slipping around her waist, and the other tugging the duvet up and around their shoulders.

Linka feels his face nuzzle against the nape of her neck.

Her eyes lull closed, and his hand settles against her bare breast, squeezing gently.

The TV is still on in the background. The odd creak and groan can be heard from the floorboards above their heads.

"It's not usually like this."

"Hmm?"

"Us gettin' together," he says, and there's a bewildered note to his voice, as if he's struggling to reconcile the obscene nature of what he's just done to her.

What he's been doing to her.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm still tryin' to figure out how the hell we got here," he says quietly, his hand stroking up and down her side. "I haven't… I don't get this carried away with other women."

"Why me?" she asks sleepily.

He lies quietly, running his touch up and down the flat pane of her belly, considering his response.

"You just do somethin' to me," he says finally. "I can't explain it, or control it… but I feel like I'm already crossin' some major boundaries here and I don't wanna scare you or jeopardise the friendship —"

"I like what we are doing, Wheeler," she utters. "I don't want to stop."

"I'm worried I'm gonna go too far. The last thing I want is to —"

"What do you want?" she asks, rolling over to face him, throwing Wheeler's distinct line of questioning back in his direction. "Tell me what you want."

He sighs, pulling her into his arms, his lips grazing her ear.

"What do I want?" Gathering her braid in his hand, he pulls hard, wrenching Linka's head back and forcing her to meet his intense gaze. "I want you... and at the same time, I wanna fuckin' ruin you."