Suddenly the room was filled with tension. His mouth dry, Davenport could hardly speak. "I've never…thought of you like this."

Nikita made absolutely no move to cover her nakedness. Sprawled across Michael's body like an oft-used and beloved blanket, Nikita purred seductively, "Oh, come on, Dav…*never*?"

Davenport shifted uneasily, all too aware of the erection that was straining to get out of his pants. "Well, I—"

His temper inexplicably frayed, Michael snapped, "This isn't a *threesome*, dammit. In case you didn't notice, I don't *share*."

His gaze riveted to Nikita's possessive grip on Michael's half-hard cock, Davenport stammered, "I—um, yeah."

"Excuse me?" Michael said in glacial tones.

Like a poster boy for the military, Davenport's spine stiffened as he abruptly came to attention. "Perimeters are clear, sir," he intoned, staring straight ahead.

Seeing one's superior in such an overtly compromising position shouldn't matter, Davenport told himself. But all the fervent prayers in the world couldn't wipe out the image of Michael, totally hard, hips undulating under the expert caresses of Nikita's sensual mouth. He had often wondered if they indulged the obvious appetite they had for each other, but he, like many others, assumed that caution kept them from acting on it. Now he knew.

"May I be excused now, sir?" All at once, Davenport had the most urgent need to jerk off and he didn't care where, either, as long as the place was not here.

"Considering you invited yourself in the first place, asking my permission to *leave* seems wholly unnecessary at this point," Michael responded coldly.

"Yes, sir." Davenport didn't dare look at Michael now. The younger man couldn't possibly know that speaking to him in that coolly imperious tone actually had the opposite of its intended effect. One more command from Michael and Davenport feared he would embarrass himself.

"I-I want to…*please* you, sir," Davenport said, struggling for an appropriately obsequieous note.

Oblivious to Davenport's discomfort, Michael said, "*Nothing* would *please* me more than you leaving."

"Oh." Davenport involuntarily took a half-step back. "I mean, of course."

Nikita, who had been strangely silent during the entire exchange, smiled. She had a feeling that *Davenport* had more hidden depths than *Michael*.

After Davenport made his somewhat awkward departure, Nikita prepared to pick up where she and Michael left off. Unfortunately, she didn't realize that Michael's temper remained uncertain.

"Perform for me."

"What?"

Nikita raised herself up on her hands and knees, intending to get up. But Michael, copying her earlier move, not so gently pushed her back on the bed.

"I'm in charge now," he announced.

A suspicious gleam appeared in Nikita's eyes, leading Michael to conclude that the master had just been manipulated by his best student.

"Lie back."

"I am," Nikita chuckled throatily, wondering if she had finally succeeded in disconcerting the man who'd trained her.

"Spread your legs," Michael whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Hmm," Nikita pretended to pout, her lips poised in a semblance of a kiss. "Would a lady do that?"

"I don't know," Michael replied, his eyes rapt on the treasure that lay exposed between her legs. "I don't think I've ever been with one."

"Hey!" Nikita growled, sitting up with a suddenness that momentarily surprised Michael.

In one smooth motion, Michael straddled her, preventing her from getting up. "I'd rather be with *you*."

Partly mollified, Nikita sank back onto the bed and regarded Michael with a more sympathetic eye. "Would you like me to take those clothes off for you?"

Michael nodded silently.

Removing his clothes turned out to be a sensual torture that Michael wondered if he could endure. Her fingers plucked lightly at his buttons and zippers, caressing him whenever they got the chance. When he was naked, he stood up and took a couple of steps back from the bed.

"Mmm…don't you trust yourself with me, *Martin*?"

"It's *you* I don't trust, *Delia*," Michael said, finding that staying in character was getting progressively harder.

"Whatever can I do to make it up to you?" Nikita said flirtatiously.

"Touch yourself," he commanded softly.

At once, her long, elegantly-shaped fingers parted the glistening folds that captured Michael's attention. She rubbed the nub she found there, rolling her hips in response. A low groan came from deep in her throat as she slid her index finger deep inside the place where Michael longed to be. When she withdrew her finger, ever so slowly, it was wet. But she moistened it further by sucking it into her mouth. Her tongue crept out to lick her lips and Michael couldn't bear to watch any more.

He knelt on the bed between her legs. Inserting his own finger, he plumbed her inner depths. When he heard her gasp of excitement, Michael began to work another finger inside. By the time he had three fingers inside her, Nikita was writhing on the bed, trying to fuck herself on his hand.

Michael coated himself liberally with her juices and entered her. Oh, God, he had missed this. This feeling of connection with her. It was totally unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He had never been hot enough to lose control. Ever.

But he did.

Again and again, he thrust into her, harder, deeper, faster. This was not lovemaking the way he knew it. So little finesse. But he wanted her so badly, his entire body ached with it.

When she came, her muscles clamped down hard, spasming around his cock. He tried desperately to hold onto the feeling for as long as he could, but her body called to his, beckoning him over the edge.

He came with a groan that seemed to be pulled from the depths of his soul and buried his face between her breasts as he collapsed on top of her. Then, as if he suddenly regained awareness of where he was, Michael started, his lower body jerking as he reluctantly pulled out.

Her skin felt so soft where he was still slightly hard. Her skin. Her *bare* skin. He looked down between their bodies and saw the evidence of what they'd done.

Michael rolled over onto his back with a moan.

Instinctively reading his distress, Nikita frowned and asked, "What is it?"

"You didn't read everything you were supposed to, did you?" he returned, referring to the panel she had cursorily surveyed when she arrived late for the mission.

"Well…no," Nikita admitted. "Is that a problem?"

"It could be," he confessed, throwing his arm over his face to hide his eyes. Their instructions were to have what *appeared* to be unprotected sex, but Nikita's packet contained various pills that would keep her from getting pregnant.

The only problem was, the pills were in *Conroy's* packet, and Michael had been so distracted by Nikita, he literally forgot to switch them.

He had never made a mistake like this before.

And yet…the thought of actually making Nikita pregnant filled Michael with an unbridled desire that he feared he couldn't control. He'd been wrong before.

*He* was the one he could no longer trust.

In all the years he had spent inside Section One, Michael had never aborted a mission in progress. Many times he had come close. Many times he had been ordered to. But he had never willingly made that decision.

This was different. Michael didn't see how he could continue the charade of pretending to be Martin Van Zandt to Nikita's Delia. He had voluntarily compromised the mission by sleeping with her. Not once, but twice. Furthermore, there was a good chance that he had already made her pregnant.

Even now, that thought didn't fill him with the customary dismay that he might have expected. Just the opposite.

In the parlance of the outside world, this was seriously fucked up.

But it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Nikita was smiling in her sleep. Michael knew that because he couldn't take his eyes off her. He should have been resting. He should have been planning. But no…he was mooning over Nikita like a lovesick schoolboy.

He finally succumbed to sleep around dawn. *After* slipping his arms around Nikita and burying his face in her long pale hair.

He had it bad. And that wasn't good.

He came awake with his usual clarity, suddenly, sharply. He could feel her blue eyes on him. Michael could swear that his skin felt warm wherever her gaze fell. "Good morning," he said on an exhalation of breath.

Her eyes seemed to sparkle. "Morning."

"You look like you slept well," Michael said, wincing inwardly at his choice of words. They had done many, many things during the course of the night, but sleeping wasn't at the top of the list.

"Oh, yes," she responded dreamily.

"Well…" he struggled valiantly for more words which seemed determined to elude him. "Time to get up."

"Do we have to?"

Michael sighed. "What would you like to do today, *Delia*?" he asked, emphasizing the name of her cover.

"Stay in bed?" she asked hopefully.

"I think we pretty much exhausted that last night," Michael said, suddenly realizing that was a lie. It would take several lifetimes to truly know the woman in his bed and even then…he didn't think he could claim complete knowledge.

"Don't you want to practice some more?" she asked with a giggle that made her seem much younger than the careworn Nikita he saw everyday.

"Maybe later," he answered, thinking he had to get a grip on what he was feeling. Now.

"Oh," she pouted. A moment later, she chirped brightly, "I love you, Martin."

"Mm," Michael muttered. He didn't think he could let those words cross his lips ever again. They struck too close to home.

"Do you love me?"

"Of course," Michael responded tersely. This was making him tense.

Nikita snuggled under Michael's chin with a contented sound. "I love being your wife. I'm so glad you married me."

Finally. At last. Michael could hear those words as surely as if she'd spoken them out loud. But that didn't make any sense. Martin and Delia weren't newlyweds. They were—

Oh, my God. Suddenly it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Michael wished in vain that it would take him with it. The blow to the head that Nikita took…the subsequent concussion…her peculiar behavior when she woke up…it all made sense to him now. She was suffering a delayed reaction to her injury with some very unexpected side effects.

Her hand crept under the blankets and fondled his morning erection. Jesus, how could he hope to resist her now?

Nikita thought she really was married to Michael.

Michael groaned as she began to suck one of his nipples. He had to tell her the truth.

But not now.

Maybe later.

"Why am I not getting any video, Birkoff?" Operations sounded calm, even reasonable. That was impossible, of course. Operations was never reasonable. The man would shoot anyone who dared to describe him that way.

That was why Birkoff kept his thoughts to himself most of the time. Staying silent was always a risk. But opening his mouth could be fatal. He didn't like any of his choices this morning.

When Operations swung his icy blue gaze in his direction, however, Birkoff was forced to answer. "Umm…I'm working on it, sir." Standard techno-response. Operations was sufficiently ignorant of *how* the technology of Section worked that Birkoff *might* get away with that.

Unless Madeline was nearby.

A few moments later, Operations grew tired of waiting and left Comm. "I'll look at it later," he threw back over his shoulder, giving Birkoff some much-needed time to regroup.

He had to get in touch with Michael. Privately. Something strange was going on and he didn't like it.

"What?" Birkoff exclaimed. He'd secured an untraceable line, but he wasn't a bit happy with what Michael was telling him.

Reluctant to confess his growing obsession with Nikita, Michael nonetheless found himself needing the young Comm op's help. "Nikita is having a delayed reaction to the concussion she suffered earlier."

"Is that what you call it? It looked to me like she wanted to fuck you six ways to Sunday," Birkoff hissed, not totally surprised to find that he was jealous.

It was so rare for Birkoff to make a personal comment during a mission that Michael was tempted to respond truthfully. "She's just…trying to be convincing…as Delia."

"Well, shit, it's a good thing Section doesn't give out Oscars because she's still got a few *kinks* to work out of her *performance*."

"I—" It was hard for Michael to ask for help, but he didn't know whether Nikita's "condition" would get worse and if it was noticed by Operations or Madeline, he would have bigger things to worry about than his ego.

"I need you to disconnect the video feed."

"Already done," Birkoff snapped. "What do you think, I'm crazy? The old man wants to see footage later. He's going to be on my ass till I give him *something*. Do you have *anything* that's actually related to the fucking mission?"

That stopped Michael cold. "No," he admitted. Suddenly he wanted to confide in the younger man. "She thinks we're—"

"She thinks you're what? Michael?"

"She thinks we're really Martin and Delia Van Zant."

"Jesus. No wonder she's all over you. Nik, I mean, *Delia*, wants to get pregnant in the worst way."

"That's part of the problem, Birkoff. She might be."

"*Pregnant*? Holy shit!" Birkoff muttered to himself. "Man, this just couldn't get worse, could it?"

"Actually…it could."

"What? What else could there be, Michael?"

Michael dragged air into his lungs with an effort. "She thinks we're married."

"Yeah, I know. You said that before."

"No, I…wasn't telling you the whole truth, Birkoff. She thinks *we're* married."

"As in Michael and Nikita married?"

"Yes."

"Wow. How are you going to talk her out of that one?"

"That's just it. I'm not sure I want to."

"Michael, did *you* hit your head? Do you know what you're saying?"

"Yes, I do. For the first time in years, I really do."

"Jeez. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. But if you can keep this off Operations' radar for a while longer, I'd appreciate it."

"Sure, but—what's in it for me?"

"I can give you something you've wanted for a long time."

"Like what?" Birkoff asked, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice.

"Davenport."

"No fucking way. He's straight."

Michael remembered hot black eyes roaming over his entire body and smiled. "Let's just say he's had his eyes opened to the possibilities."

"I know what the problem is. I have to go on-site," Birkoff explained as he closed his laptop.

Operations studied the young head of Comm, but he couldn't detect a single false note that indicated Birkoff wasn't telling the truth. "Can't Michael fix it?"

Birkoff narrowed his eyes and gave the older man a look of such disdain that Operations knew he couldn't be faking it. "Michael knows enough about computers to file a report. That hardly qualifies him to troubleshoot expensive, even irreplaceable video components."

Mentioning money was always a sure way to get Operations to agree with him. Operations hated to justify *anything* unusual to Oversight.

"Well…be quick about it. We are on a timetable, you know."

"Sometimes these things take time," Birkoff warned.

"And sometimes your entire life flashes before you, too," Operations replied, intimating that Birkoff was in serious danger of overstepping his bounds.

"Birkoff—" Operations called as the Comm op started to walk away.

Birkoff sighed inwardly and did an about-face. "Yes, sir?"

"Why don't you take Atkinson with you? In case you need a little muscle?"

//Ha, a little muscle. He wants to send one of his spies along. Just in case.//

"Thanks, but…I think I'll just use Davenport. He's already on-site."

//*Use* Davenport? Jeez, did I really say that? It's a wonder my tongue isn't hanging out of my mouth. I'm not drooling, am I?//

"You do that," Operations said in that slow, considering tone of his. "And Birkoff? I expect a full report as soon as you're done."

Birkoff nodded, noting the predatory way Operations' pale blue eyes glittered. He had a feeling he'd better have the time of his life…before it was too late.

"Michael asked me to help you," Davenport said as he entered the house. "Something about the surveillance?"

"Yeah. I've temporarily cut off the video feed. So we won't be, um, disturbed."

"Great. Now what do you want me to do?"

Birkoff's breath caught in his throat. He thought Davenport had one of the finest bodies he'd ever seen. He was tall like Michael, but that was where the resemblance ended. Davenport was more muscular, his chest broader, his buttocks harder. Oh, God, here he was checking out Davenport's ass and Davenport didn't have a clue how Birkoff felt about him.

"Pretty much anything you want," Birkoff breathed.

It wasn't until he saw the startled expression on Davenport's face that Birkoff realized what he'd said. "I mean…if you could hold this plate open, I'll check the wiring inside."

Davenport stared off into space as the minutes passed. He dutifully held what Birkoff asked him to hold and generally stood around while Birkoff did the actual work.

Birkoff began to sweat. He cursed his natural shyness and prayed for the courage to speak up. Or make a move. His finger slipped off the wire and he accidentally dropped the tool in his hand. "Fuck."

To his surprise, Davenport chuckled. "Jesus, Birkoff, I had no idea you knew that word."

"Oh, yeah? You probably think I'm still a virgin, too," Birkoff growled.

"Aren't you?" Suddenly Davenport's dark eyes flickered over Birkoff's face with more than casual interest.

"Not really," Birkoff said, feeling his mouth go dry.

Again and again Davenport's gaze fell upon Birkoff's mouth. It was a mouth that belied the face that Birkoff showed to the world. It was a full cut, sensual mouth that promised things that Davenport didn't know he desired until that moment.

"What are you doing to me?" Davenport whispered.

"Me? I'm not doing a goddamn thing," Birkoff whispered back.

"Then stop doing what you're *not* doing for a second. I can't think straight."

Birkoff smiled. "I don't think I want you to."

Davenport followed his gut. It was always right. He didn't always listen to it. But it was always right.

He kissed Birkoff. Without warning. Without fanfare. Without even knowing why he did it. Davenport's tongue slid smoothly between Birkoff's lips, tasting him, savoring him. Birkoff opened his mouth further, accepting what he was given for the gift that it was.

Birkoff's heart beat faster. He wrapped his arms around Davenport's neck and pulled his head still closer. What Michael said was true. He had wanted this for a long time. Longer than even Michael knew.

He wanted him so badly. His knee slipped between Davenport's well-muscled thighs. "Jesus." He didn't know who was more shocked, him or Davenport, at the hardness that waited there, throbbing impatiently.

"You want me?" Birkoff asked hopefully.

"Yeah. You want to make something out of it?"

"Oh, yes…"