I’m genuinely curious to see which one in going to come out on top. I’m constantly writing in all of them. I think they’re all going to be in the 3,000-4,000 word range. Honestly, what's kind of kind of delaying them is the smut in them. I don't know why I keep trying to force a square peg into a round hole. Writing sex scenes is nowhere near a strength of mine. I do have four other LFN stories I'm working on that don't feature any smut, but they've stalled out a bit. In their case, it's mainly due to my other Achilles heel, plot. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I am made of longing
It’s hard to measure the amount of satisfaction Michael feels to see his things intermingled with Nikita’s.
His electric razor rests alongside her hair brush on the bathroom counter. One of his dark sweaters and one of her tank tops are draped on an armchair.
It’s a heady feeling. He could get drunk on her proximity.
It wasn’t a spontaneous request. The trauma of the last few months, in almost losing her, has given him great urgency to live in the moment.
He marvels at the freedom he now has to touch her, whether it’s a squeeze of the shoulder or fingering the ends of her shorter hair.
They would have more privacy during these two weeks and it would give him the opportunity to savor the sight of Nikita in his bed every night when they’re not required to be in close quarters standby.
In the agony of parting
At her front door he knocked and silently willed it to open. When it did, he was greeted by Nikita, a plaintive smile crossed her features.
“I came to say goodbye,” he told the air around her. Relief and selfishness warred for dominance in his chest.
Once in her arms, Michael breathed her in for what was likely the last time. The lingering scent of her perfume. The sweetness of her skin. He was losing her all over again.
Their kiss was sweet and tender. Sadness colored the caress. Nikita’s fingers clutched his shoulders before slipping his overcoat off.
She’s playful and sexy. She’s beguiling and sweet. Nikita is a contradiction wrapped in one tempting package.
With loose limbed sensuality, Nikita makes her way to him and stops next to him. Her wine glass gets deposited on a side table and her right hand lands on his shoulder. She lightly traces her fingers across his upper chest near his collarbone. It is reminiscent of her lover’s caress on their first night together. The moonlight had made her skin, in all its captivating nudity, iridescent. Her confession about the disappointment of freedom was marked with sadness. She had walked into the comfort his arms provided and curled into him. Michael’s no stranger to feeling protective over Nikita, but that night, with her warm body against his, the need to protect her almost overwhelmed him.
Today, much like that night, with that simple gesture, Nikita is claiming ownership over his body.
It’s hers for the taking.
Michael wouldn’t dare resist her.
Meet Me, RM. 305F
“Two hours,” he whispered into her lips. “We won’t be disturbed.”
“They’re all ours,” she confirmed.
And then she kissed him, because she could. Because this was a stolen moment that Section One had deemed forbidden. Because as frustrating as Michael could be, she wouldn’t trade a single moment she could share with him.
Nikita luxuriated in the taste of him; in the slide of his lips over hers; in the give and take battle with his tongue.
It was a languid reconnection. They rarely got to indulge in the act of kissing. They were thieves, lurking in the shadows Michael created. They stole precious minutes with each other where they could only physically affirm their devotion to each other.
Two hours was a lifetime.
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