CHAPTER 8
Michael saw her coming on to him with a feeling akin to shock. He saw his colleague, his best friend, his partner in crime for the last five years closing the minimal distance between them and brushing his lips with hers. It was a kiss, light and soft. Too short for him to taste.
It was the strangest situation he had ever been in. Tomorrow morning when her drunkenness wore off, they would probably laugh this off. Or maybe not.
She retreated and stared at him, her breath fanning his face, her forefinger tracing the borders of his mouth.
''Don't treat me like that again. Deal?''
''Deal.''
Even when she was drunk, Nikita was one of a kind, and he had to admire that in her.
She kissed him again, but this time her tongue darted out to follow the fine patterns her finger had previously traced.
Michael found himself unwillingly entranced by her actions, amazed at the feel of the wetness she left on his lips.
He allowed her to kiss him deeply and at her leisure, his lips posing no resistance to her audacious and sinuous exploration of his mouth.
He recognized that Nikita's emotional condition was volatile at best, since she was now kissing him as if there were no tomorrow, after having screamed at him just seconds ago. He knew that if he rejected her attentions and she woke up tomorrow and remembered all the details of this crazy night, she would probably feel humiliated and embarrassed enough to distance herself from him and their friendship. Whereas, if he let her do as she wished, she would probably stop on her own and they could easily put this behind them.
Michael started to kiss Nikita back.
In his mind he did not have much cognition of how it happened, but soon it didn't matter anymore, because Nikita tasted so good, better than he ever could have imagined.
Every slow sweep of her tongue along his summoned a growing, exquisitely carnal response from him, as though they were accustomed to melting in each other.
Every movement of her mouth toward his was balanced by a movement of his mouth toward hers.
He burned for her and of her.
A fog of dark appetite wrapped itself upon his brain, preventing him from registering anything beyond her fumbling movements against his body.
Michael felt the spasms in her fingers as they entwined with the longish, auburn locks of his hair, and his fingers bared the back of her neck of her wild golden mane in answer.
He felt his fingers caressing the nape of her neck, massaging the small spot of bare skin, and trembling from the intensity of that oh so simple physical contact.
He felt, rather than heard, Nikita moaning in the depths of her throat as she continued to kiss him.
He understood that he had to stop, but he couldn't, and the disobedience of his body before this newborn need to touch her scared him as very few things could.
Michael thanked God when the woman in his arms imposed an abrupt but reluctant end to their kiss.
She leaned back and looked at him for a long moment, giving him all the time to dread what she would possibly tell him, and her aquamarine gaze searched his smoke and emerald eyes so intently that he was temped to look away .
Her eyes were glazed over, but Michael couldn't say if it was from passion or from the alcohol.
Strangely, Nikita did nothing but abandon herself to him, laying her head in the crook of his neck as she breathed shakily.
''Michael, Mi-chael,'' she murmured lowly as his heart constricted painfully.
He kept her body tightly anchored to his own, afraid of something he couldn't define nor entirely perceive.
She closed her eyes and he felt her gradually relaxing into him until she went completely still in his embrace.
''Kita?'' he called to her, receiving no kind of answer.
Moving her over, Michael saw that she was soundly asleep. Her quick fall into slumber reminded him that what she had done was only the result of too many drinks in a cheap bar.
Unforgivably stupid of him to forget it.
With a few practical, prudent movements, he swept Nikita up in his arms and proceeded to bring her upstairs to her second-level sleeping alcove.
He took deep breaths, to steady his newfound control of his physical reactions, before going up the stairs and was careful about keeping their body contact as minimal as possible considering the circumstances.
He composed her on the bed, still scared of touching her any more than was necessary, as if the most casual brush of his hand against her skin could awaken feelings he refused to accept. All the same, he gave in to the temptation to smooth errant locks of hair away from her face.
Michael sat for awhile on the bed with her, contemplating every nuance of her face, the rise and fall of her chest with every amazingly regular breath she took in deep sleep.
If he had been familiar with the concept of "love", he would probably have understood that he loved Nikita and that he had loved her for a long time, but unfortunately for both of them, Michael had never known what love was.
A woman of great beauty and sleek grace, Victoria Blake had engaged in a relationship with the surrealist director Jacques Samuelle to cultivate hopes of her ascent as an actress. She often blamed her early pregnancy for the premature end of her career as a model. The role of mother and wife didn't suit her, and the birth of her second son only increased her unwillingness to interpret it. Her abandonment of her family condemned Michael to take care of a workaholic, occasionally alcoholic, father and of his problematic younger brother Mark.
As children of a broken family, Michael and Mark grew up without particularly relying on one another. Instead, they coped with the emotional void that surrounded them on their own and constantly challenged each other.
In their maturity, they were able to consciously seek a more stable relationship, but their father stayed a familiar stranger even after he gave up the bottle.
Michael had never fallen in love. He liked women --- the way they looked, acted, and felt underneath him --- and the women obviously liked him a lot. Rarely was he required to commit to a long courtship of any of his lovers; and although, he by nature was a monogamous man, none of his affairs lasted more than a month.
Like most young men forced into prudence during their childhood and early youth, he had the tendency to strip his adulthood of any kind of responsibility that wasn't work-related.
Women offered themselves to him like towns already conquered and he welcomed them like a general in the time of war.
What Michael thought as he watched over Nikita as she slept was that he couldn't and shouldn't desire her. Because if he did, he would lose something that he was strongly interested in keeping.
Michael rarely made love to a woman on the first or second date. He enjoyed the foreplay and the challenge of the conquest as much he enjoyed the act itself; but after he intimately caressed and possessed a woman, he could acutely feel the loss of the sense of mystery that had attracted him at the very beginning of his pursuit and started to look at her under a different light. None of them had kept his interest long enough to spur him into a serious romance and he couldn't avoid considering them as nothing more than pleasurable interludes. He liked the way Nikita talked to him freely and how freely he could talk to her, the way she surprised him, and the way she fit in his life. Michael still didn't understand what had just taken place downstairs, but he had a compelling desire to forget it before he could fully realize how much he feared the enormity of the passion Nikita stirred up inside him.
Looking at his watch, Michael noticed that it was late and that he was too tired to return to his place. He was sure that Nikita wouldn't mind if he slept on her couch.
Michael saw her coming on to him with a feeling akin to shock. He saw his colleague, his best friend, his partner in crime for the last five years closing the minimal distance between them and brushing his lips with hers. It was a kiss, light and soft. Too short for him to taste.
It was the strangest situation he had ever been in. Tomorrow morning when her drunkenness wore off, they would probably laugh this off. Or maybe not.
She retreated and stared at him, her breath fanning his face, her forefinger tracing the borders of his mouth.
''Don't treat me like that again. Deal?''
''Deal.''
Even when she was drunk, Nikita was one of a kind, and he had to admire that in her.
She kissed him again, but this time her tongue darted out to follow the fine patterns her finger had previously traced.
Michael found himself unwillingly entranced by her actions, amazed at the feel of the wetness she left on his lips.
He allowed her to kiss him deeply and at her leisure, his lips posing no resistance to her audacious and sinuous exploration of his mouth.
He recognized that Nikita's emotional condition was volatile at best, since she was now kissing him as if there were no tomorrow, after having screamed at him just seconds ago. He knew that if he rejected her attentions and she woke up tomorrow and remembered all the details of this crazy night, she would probably feel humiliated and embarrassed enough to distance herself from him and their friendship. Whereas, if he let her do as she wished, she would probably stop on her own and they could easily put this behind them.
Michael started to kiss Nikita back.
In his mind he did not have much cognition of how it happened, but soon it didn't matter anymore, because Nikita tasted so good, better than he ever could have imagined.
Every slow sweep of her tongue along his summoned a growing, exquisitely carnal response from him, as though they were accustomed to melting in each other.
Every movement of her mouth toward his was balanced by a movement of his mouth toward hers.
He burned for her and of her.
A fog of dark appetite wrapped itself upon his brain, preventing him from registering anything beyond her fumbling movements against his body.
Michael felt the spasms in her fingers as they entwined with the longish, auburn locks of his hair, and his fingers bared the back of her neck of her wild golden mane in answer.
He felt his fingers caressing the nape of her neck, massaging the small spot of bare skin, and trembling from the intensity of that oh so simple physical contact.
He felt, rather than heard, Nikita moaning in the depths of her throat as she continued to kiss him.
He understood that he had to stop, but he couldn't, and the disobedience of his body before this newborn need to touch her scared him as very few things could.
Michael thanked God when the woman in his arms imposed an abrupt but reluctant end to their kiss.
She leaned back and looked at him for a long moment, giving him all the time to dread what she would possibly tell him, and her aquamarine gaze searched his smoke and emerald eyes so intently that he was temped to look away .
Her eyes were glazed over, but Michael couldn't say if it was from passion or from the alcohol.
Strangely, Nikita did nothing but abandon herself to him, laying her head in the crook of his neck as she breathed shakily.
''Michael, Mi-chael,'' she murmured lowly as his heart constricted painfully.
He kept her body tightly anchored to his own, afraid of something he couldn't define nor entirely perceive.
She closed her eyes and he felt her gradually relaxing into him until she went completely still in his embrace.
''Kita?'' he called to her, receiving no kind of answer.
Moving her over, Michael saw that she was soundly asleep. Her quick fall into slumber reminded him that what she had done was only the result of too many drinks in a cheap bar.
Unforgivably stupid of him to forget it.
With a few practical, prudent movements, he swept Nikita up in his arms and proceeded to bring her upstairs to her second-level sleeping alcove.
He took deep breaths, to steady his newfound control of his physical reactions, before going up the stairs and was careful about keeping their body contact as minimal as possible considering the circumstances.
He composed her on the bed, still scared of touching her any more than was necessary, as if the most casual brush of his hand against her skin could awaken feelings he refused to accept. All the same, he gave in to the temptation to smooth errant locks of hair away from her face.
Michael sat for awhile on the bed with her, contemplating every nuance of her face, the rise and fall of her chest with every amazingly regular breath she took in deep sleep.
If he had been familiar with the concept of "love", he would probably have understood that he loved Nikita and that he had loved her for a long time, but unfortunately for both of them, Michael had never known what love was.
A woman of great beauty and sleek grace, Victoria Blake had engaged in a relationship with the surrealist director Jacques Samuelle to cultivate hopes of her ascent as an actress. She often blamed her early pregnancy for the premature end of her career as a model. The role of mother and wife didn't suit her, and the birth of her second son only increased her unwillingness to interpret it. Her abandonment of her family condemned Michael to take care of a workaholic, occasionally alcoholic, father and of his problematic younger brother Mark.
As children of a broken family, Michael and Mark grew up without particularly relying on one another. Instead, they coped with the emotional void that surrounded them on their own and constantly challenged each other.
In their maturity, they were able to consciously seek a more stable relationship, but their father stayed a familiar stranger even after he gave up the bottle.
Michael had never fallen in love. He liked women --- the way they looked, acted, and felt underneath him --- and the women obviously liked him a lot. Rarely was he required to commit to a long courtship of any of his lovers; and although, he by nature was a monogamous man, none of his affairs lasted more than a month.
Like most young men forced into prudence during their childhood and early youth, he had the tendency to strip his adulthood of any kind of responsibility that wasn't work-related.
Women offered themselves to him like towns already conquered and he welcomed them like a general in the time of war.
What Michael thought as he watched over Nikita as she slept was that he couldn't and shouldn't desire her. Because if he did, he would lose something that he was strongly interested in keeping.
Michael rarely made love to a woman on the first or second date. He enjoyed the foreplay and the challenge of the conquest as much he enjoyed the act itself; but after he intimately caressed and possessed a woman, he could acutely feel the loss of the sense of mystery that had attracted him at the very beginning of his pursuit and started to look at her under a different light. None of them had kept his interest long enough to spur him into a serious romance and he couldn't avoid considering them as nothing more than pleasurable interludes. He liked the way Nikita talked to him freely and how freely he could talk to her, the way she surprised him, and the way she fit in his life. Michael still didn't understand what had just taken place downstairs, but he had a compelling desire to forget it before he could fully realize how much he feared the enormity of the passion Nikita stirred up inside him.
Looking at his watch, Michael noticed that it was late and that he was too tired to return to his place. He was sure that Nikita wouldn't mind if he slept on her couch.