Written by Maggie the Cat

We were in a big room. Okay, not much special about that--but the walls were made of jade, and they were all carved, all over the surface of them. I don't remember what the carvings were of, though.

I looked it up and jade represents prosperity and/or protection from adverse influence. Hmmm. Adverse influence? It's not likely that I'll be troubled with prosperity anytime soon.

Anyway, back to my dream. We were in the jade room, and there was a small table against one wall covered in candles, the big pillary kind that you see in, say, documentaries about monastaries and the like. All dripping and tallowy and with a really soft, warm light.

Oh, and Mike Kellerman was there with me.

We were dressed a little strangely. I was wearing a black shirt with leather pants (!?) and Mike was wearing...well, a t-shirt and jeans, but they were dirty. Smeared with some kind of oil or grease or soot or something. He looked good, anyway. Probably better than I looked in leather!

I don't remember what led up to it. Some conversation, I think; but the details are gone. Mostly because it paled next to the content of the dream. God, I can't believe I'm having erotic dreams about my co-workers, much less /Kellerman/...but, here goes, as accurately as I can remember:

Mike moved to kiss me, cradling my face in his hands, pressing me casually against the wall with his hip and pinning me there with his warm, hard body. His tongue drove into my opened mouth, stabbing in and out, holding me against the carved wall.

Moaning, I ran my hands along the taut muscles of his back, biting at his tongue, his lips, savouring the taste--salt, smoke--giving in to his insistent kisses. He drew a yelp from me when his teeth latched onto my lower lip, biting with incredibly sharp teeth to draw blood, and passed his tongue along my mouth, tasting the hot salt and iron of it with obvious pleasure.

I pulled away, running the tip of my tongue across my bottom lip, frowning slightly at Mike's macho smirk. Sighing, unable to resist, I pulled languorously at the buttons of my shirt with one hand, watching the laughter in his eyes turn to pure lust with no small satisfaction. Tipped my head back and drank in the sight of his finely formed body, bathed in candlelight, from eyes half-closed with desire, my mouth open and wanton.

Mike moved his head to kiss my collarbone, sliding the shirt from my shoulders, and the jade carvings bit into the flesh of my back as he closed his hot mouth on one of my nipples. Jolts of pleasure--and I bit back a damp groan, feeling his blunt-fingered, boxer's hands sliding along the small of my back.

He helped me pull off his jersey and I kissed his chest, feeling the movement of muscle underneath his insanely smooth, pale skin. The complex breezy, alcohol smell of him. The growls skirling up from his belly. The absolute animal beauty of him.

I planted a kiss on his petulant chin, running my cold fingers along his shoulder with infinite gentleness, my senses overloaded with the way his blue eyes darkened, stormy with desire. The way that sulky mouth reddened, the almost cruel set of it. A crease of concentration marking his forehead, Mike slid his hands through my hair, letting the strands slip from his grasp with an expression of hungry wonder.

Then he leaned in, lapping at the beat of blood in my throat with his tongue, his fingers tracing the contours left on my back by the wall, following the sinuous lines like a map as he slid to his knees. Standing still, I held his tousled golden head gently, admiring the smooth, supple curve of his waist where it dipped underneath the thick denim. I still felt strange about my own leather pants, but as Mike's mouth traced the low-slung front of them, my opinon of them got a lot better.

His bordering-on-clumsy hands tugged at the fastenings and I leaned back obligingly, still pressing my fingers lightly through his hair. Jesus, it made me hot seeing him like that--kneeling in front of me. Glancing up with those incredible, scorching eyes before lowering his head again.

And I threw my head back in sheer pleasure as his mouth surrounded me, a strangled gasp tearing from my throat. Mike's hands dug into the backs of my thighs as he redoubled his efforts, the bastard. His little game to see how much noise he could wring from me, so calm and collected in relation to him. His way of making me totally lose myself in it.

All I could feel was his sneery lips around me, his tongue and the searing heat of it, the motions of his throat. Sucking me in with that single-mindedness that's a key characteristic of Michael Kellerman. Capturing me with each new flick of the tongue.

Breath coming sharply through clenched teeth, I tilted my head forward, watching Mike through dazed eyes and the fall of hair around my face. He caught my stare and scraped his teeth lightly along me, just for the gasp and grimace that came with it.

My hands smoothed the fine clinging hair from his forehead, stretching his softly glowing skin, pressing a little too hard, tilting his intensely arresting eyes. I couldn't control myself, couldn't stop the moans and the shivers; couldn't look away. Mike sensed my incipient climax and curled his hands up to hook his fingertips in the waistband of my unfastened pants, drawing a scratchy moan from me as he sucked even harder.

And then--sensation exploding, spots bursting behind my eyelids, pulsing ecstasy sending shockwaves through my body. My voice cracked on the cry that ripped from my throat, echoing my lust back at me, and I slumped against the wall, watching Mike with bleary eyes as he stood, grinning.

God. Oh, God. I want him so bad, I can feel it in every vein and muscle and drop of blood in me....

But that was where it ended. Leaving me to wake up sweating, trembling, needy.

And alone.


It's a hotel room, a real swanky one. The kind of place I always thought Julianna and I would go one day, after a date--a real, proper date, wine, dinner, the works--and make love all night long on the huge king-size bed.

Now we're here and for some reason I can't get to her. She's surrounded by a...a forcefield, I guess, transparent and not exactly hard, more like really heavy rubber. I can manage to push into it enough to nearly be able to touch her, but there's that one last inch I can't span.

She smiles at me, with that sad, knowing smile that I dread seeing. The smile that means, "Mike, you're depressed and you're drunk as a sailor. I think you better go home."

Of course, what I know now is that it also means, "I think I better sleep with Bayliss."

Julianna turns from me and walks to the huge window of our hotel room, way up on the umpteenth floor.

Still smiling, she steps lightly out through the pane and falls.

I shout in horror and run over to the window, but the angle's all wrong and it's super dark and I can't see her falling and falling stories to her death no matter how much I try and scrabble at the glass....

"Don't worry about her."

I turn around, pulling my gun with one smooth movement. That's me, Kellerman the Kid, right? Fastest gunslinger in Bawlmer.

Fuck. It's sonnuva bitch Bayliss, sitting in one of the plush wing chairs, giving me that genteel superior smile, taking off his glasses to drop them on the arm of the chair.

"She'll be fine," he continues, his voice even and soothing. "You know Julianna--she always lands on her feet."

"Don't say her name, you jerk," I mutter, holstering my gun. I don't want to hear it from him, because it reminds me that Julianna's heard him say it too. Heard him calling her name while she rode him to kingdom come.

Bayliss notes my glare and offers a wry quirk of the mouth. I suddenly want to bruise that condescending mouth, redden it, see his mouth open and gasping....

God. What am I thinking? I want Julianna back. I want her to stay with me and help me through all this shit with the Mahoney shooting. I want /her/, dammit.

But Tim Bayliss is here instead. And she /fucked/ him.

It happens more quickly than I can understand. Heart and pounding blood drive my muscle and bone before thought reaches my brain. Reaching out, rage shooting through me, I grab the edgy corner of Tim's elbow, dragging him out of that chair and shoving him to his knees. I wrench open my pants, holding firmly onto the back of his head with one hand.

"Do it," I tell him.

He raises his eyes, dark with wanting, and slowly leans in, not a word of protest, kissing the inside of my thigh, my hip, my belly. Everywhere /except/ there. If he wants to frustrate me, he's doing a damn good job. But then, Tim was /always/ good at that.

My hand clenches in his silky hair and guides his head to my aching cock; faced with no other option, he opens his mouth and swallows me whole. I give a yowl of raw pleasure and rock my hips in time with the movement of his head, plunging myself in and out of his mouth with pure abandon. Let's hear you try and say her name now, Tim....

I look down and find he's got his eyes trained on my face, watching me with fascination and desire, his mouth eagerly working back and forth. Jesus--he's enjoying this.

A burning cold knot of lust and loathing torrents through me. I know what Bayliss is doing. He's corrupting me, luring me into these...disgusting thoughts and actions. He's making me dirty in Julianna's eyes. He wants her all to himself, wants to make sure I'll never get her back.

"Get up." My voice is gravelly, harsh with emotion.

Wordlessly, he stands, wiping his mouth, lowering his eyelashes with a lazy sweep and fixing me with that mocking, smart-ass look.

I ball up my fist and swing.

The punch lands flush on the corner of Bayliss' mouth and spins him around, knocking him to the floor. I'm not surprised--I spend half my free time working out, after all. I've got way more strength in one hit than he does in his entire lanky body. Coughing, he grabs a hold on the glass-topped table that his head barely missed, pulling his tall body off the carpet.

Half-supported by the table, he touches thin, trembly fingers to his lips and I see the wine-colored smear of blood on his fingertips. And then I make my decision.

Leaning down, I haul Tim onto his knees, hardly giving him time to sway unsteadily before planting one hand in the middle of his back and shoving him down. His hands rise instinctively, swiftly, to brace against the glass.

The sound of cloth tearing and then the sound of his scream.

Savouring it, I lean forward, pressing my weight against his back. Wrap one arm around him, trapping him; my other hand slides up the tenseness of his back to clench in his hair, yanking his head back so I can see the side outline of his face, drawn with agony. Mouth wide open and damaged. Eyes tightly shut. Dark streak of blood tracing its way down the strained contours of his throat.

Oh God, yes.

My hips drive deeper and harder against him, moving to the cruel rhythm of my own lust and despair. I love her. I love her. I love her.

My voice grates the mantra as I fuck him, more brutally with each lunge. The pleasure of seeing his shaking hands slip on the glass tabletop, slick with sweat. The sweetness of his shuddering body accepting my assault, supplying a poultice for the poison inside me. The moans and gasps stained with the blood that drips watery from his chin as he submits to my rage.

And finally--the blinding satisfaction of spilling the venom from my body, deep inside of him, burning him instead of me. Tim arches back against me, a wail tearing from him as the assault comes to its searing climax. It feels so fucking good to hear my own pain in someone else's voice....

I catch my breath, get a hold on the swirling mess that's whirling through my head. Tim whimpers as my hands relax their hold on him, my fingers leaving sore soft spots on the flesh covering his ribs.

"Is that what you wanted?" I demand, pulling out of him, watching him slide to the floor and curl up in a bruised ball of misery. I'm in control now. I want him to answer, to cry, to plead, to beg. I want him to stop making me confused.

Tim raises his rumpled head from his arms and looks at me through betrayed eyes, the half-protection of lowered, exhausted lashes.

"Yes," he whispers. "Oh, God, /yes/, Mike...."

He covers his face with his long-fingered hands and smears the sweat and blood and tears over his mouth.

Bursting in my groin. Sudden arousal. I reach for him and he seeks my fingers with a wracking sob--

--And then I jolt awake with an incredible hard-on.


I need a fucking drink.