Michael closed the bedroom door behind him and watched his wife through heavy-lidded eyes. "You never answered me."

Nikita looked at him in genuine surprise. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were serious."

Michael made a sound that in any other man would have been a snort of derision. "When am I *not* serious?"

Nikita cocked her head and pretended to think about the question. "Ummm…never?"

"So…I repeat…answer me."

Nikita's mouth curved into a slow, sensual smile. "I don't remember the question."

"Do you…want me…to teach you…the dance I showed Adam?"

Nikita began unbuttoning her blouse with one hand. "You mean the tango?"

Michael nodded.

"Doesn't that take *two*?"

Michael pulled Nikita against him so swiftly, she never had time to do anything but react. She raised her hand to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist and turned her hand palm up. Without taking his eyes off her face, he licked the center of her palm. His tongue felt wet and warm and suddenly that was how *she* felt, desire pooling between her thighs with startling intensity.

She pushed her finger into his mouth and he obliged by sucking on it. She groaned as she reluctantly pulled her finger out, his teeth lightly grazing her skin. Michael's voice deepened as he commanded, "Get on the bed."

"I thought we were going to dance," she commented flirtatiously.

"Get on the bed," he repeated.

"And if I don't?" she asked, her chin jutting out pugnaciously.

"You know what happens to bad girls, Kita."

Her tongue crept out to moisten her lips. "They go to hell?"

"They get spanked."

"You wouldn't dare." She sounded vaguely breathless, even to her own ears, but she wouldn't admit her excitement.

"Try me."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her hair and clothes slightly disheveled. It didn't matter. Nikita was still the only woman he would ever want.

He gazed at her longingly, but for the longest time, he didn't move. It was as if he were savoring her. When he did move, to her surprise, Michael knelt before her.

He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, one by one. "You know I would never hurt you, don't you, doucette?"

"Yes," she whispered, abruptly overcome by a wave of emotion so strong, it brought tears to her light blue eyes.

He sighed, as if struggling with something he couldn't quite express, and lay his head down on her knee. As he rubbed his cheek against her leg, she instinctively tangled her fingers in his thick brown hair. This provoked still another sigh.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Is there something you need that you're afraid to ask for?" she asked patiently.

She felt him tense against her thigh. The seconds passed, and then…

"Yes," he whispered.

"You can tell me."

He couldn't look at her. Or wouldn't. It amounted to the same thing. "I want you to—" But he couldn't finish.

"What, Michael? What do you want me to do?"

His response was inaudible.

"Again, Michael."

She still couldn't hear him.

"Michael!"

He looked up at her with his heart in his eyes and begged, an action so foreign to him, he nearly didn't get the words out.

"Spank me," came the hoarse exhortation.

Whatever he expected to see, revulsion, fear, pity, he didn't see in Nikita's eyes. There was only love and acceptance as she reached out to him with both arms. "Come here."

He slowly rose, reluctantly settling on her lap, His head bent, he didn't seem capable of holding her gaze any longer. Nikita held him and whispered to him, her hands never leaving his beloved head, her hands ceaselessly stroking his hair.

"I love you," she told him.

"There is *nothing* I wouldn't do for you," she added firmly.

"Even…that?"

"Even that," she agreed.

He left her embrace and stood up. Without speaking, he disrobed. When he was done, he seemed to be waiting for something. Nikita reached out and palmed both of his nipples. "Lie down, love."

Michael lay down on his stomach, burying his face in his folded arms. Her hands crept over his back, her touch loving and familiar and grounding.

Then she began. Her first blow was so light, it didn't provoke a response. But her second was harder and turned his skin bright pink. Gradually warming to her task, she pulled off the rest of her clothing and straddled his back. Using nothing more than her hands, she rained blow after blow on his buttocks until reddened handprints stained his flesh.

Michael moaned softly as her arms encircled his waist. Her hands searched until they found what she was looking for. His manhood was fully aroused and weeping.

She lay atop him, pressing her breasts into his back even as she pumped furiously. He gasped as he approached climax. "Please…I want to be…inside you."

She turned him over onto his back, noting his wince when his raw skin contacted the bedspread. Silently she guided him inside her. In this position, she was in control over their lovemaking. Surprisingly, she found that she liked Michael's submission. It was so rare for him to give in, even to her, even in this, but there could be no mistaking the pleasure he took in remaining passive this time.

They rocked together, Michael's hands on her hips, sweeping both of them into that erratic rhythm that meant satisfaction awaited. She leaned over him, her long pale hair brushing his face, and whispered, "Come for me, Michael."

His oversensitized body responded instantly to her softspoken command. He came hard, flooding her passage with his essence. She came seconds later, collapsing atop his chest with a weary smile.

The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was, "I love you, doucette."

End