Title: Gee Baby, Ain't I Good To You

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG/La Femme Nikita

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer, Operations (Paul Wolfe)/Greg Hillinger

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: You really like to see me miserable, don't you? Okay, fine, be that way. They belong to Belisarius Productions and Fireworks. But they don't deserve them, and I don't have to like it! And both CIA agents, David B. Cooper and Syd are mine.

Status: new/complete

Date: 3/02 (Hey, it's March already!!)

Series/Sequel: This is part 5 in the Mind Fuck series, and follows Soothe Me, Baby, Soothe Me.

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns
http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel

Archive: OK, I surrender. Yes to all the list archives. (I'm so easy!)

Summary: Webb learns that someone from an anti-terrorist organization in Europe is trying to access his records.

Warnings: m/m, m/f implied, language (Oh, grow up! You know how Clark Palmer is!)

Notes: The kindness that Clark did for Exx was written about in Just Between Friends, which is on my site. This is for Gail, who so graciously beta's.

Gee Baby, Ain't I Good to You
by Tinnean

"Clay!"

I was just about to lock up my office for the weekend and meet my team at the small funeral home in Alexandria. "D.B.! Don't you ever go home?"

My friend gave me an exasperated look. "I *almost* made it out, but this popped up. I've got my computer programmed to flag any inquiries that come up on you. Since Shaw committed suicide, there haven't been many, just the usual stuff from State."

"So, what's come up?"

"Do you know of an anti-terrorist organization in Europe that would be interested in you, Clay?"

"Excuse me?"

"Some hacker, and believe me, he's got to be one of the best, tried accessing your personal files. When he realized he'd triggered a firewall, he backed out fast. He left enough false leads to fool even an experienced programmer."

"But he didn't fool you, D.B.?"

I was startled by his worried look. "It was touch and go, Clay. I thought for sure I was going to lose him, but I was able to track his echo."

"Back to Europe?"

My friend nodded. "Somewhere in Paris. Does that ring a bell with you?"

I shook my head, and he sighed.

"Well, that echo touched off something else that had been flagged a couple, three years ago. Look at this!"

He shoved a print out into my hands, and I perused it quickly, then went back to read it more slowly. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

Cooper nodded. "Someone from that same organization tried to hack into the CIA's mainframe."

"Not your genius?"

"No, this one was sloppy, careless. Too cocky by half!"

"And you've got a name? D.B., tell me you know who it is?"

"It's Section One, Clay, run by a real martinet, Paul Wolfe. And that's not the half of it! One of their top operatives, a Michael Samuelle, knows Clark Palmer."

"What the *fuck* is Palmer doing involved with an anti-terrorist organization?"

"Clay." When Cooper had that note in his voice, the hairs on the back of my neck started warning me of trouble. "Palmer was out of the country for a few days a week or so ago."

I said the seven words that aren't permitted on television or radio, then glanced at my watch. "Shit. I need to contact this Paul Wolfe and find out why the hell he wants information on me, and if Palmer is involved. But I have to be in Alexandria within the hour."

D.B. gave me a wry smile. "I'll handle this for you, Clay. Hell, I was only going to get some take out and rent a movie."

####

We were in the far corner of the Observation deck. The windows had been blanked, and Hillinger was kneeling at my feet, industriously sucking on my cock. That boy had a talented mouth.

"Operations."

I glared over my shoulder, blocking the sight of the young man who knelt before me. "You have a reason for disturbing me on the Deck, Birkoff?"

"Sorry, sir." He didn't look sorry, the little prick. If he weren't the best head of comm Section had ever had, I would have slapped him into abeyance with pleasure! Only then I would have had to deal with a disgruntled Davenport, and that was more than I cared to have on my plate just then. "It's important."

It was important that I come, too. Hillinger was tickling that sensitive spot just behind my balls, and if Birkoff didn't leave soon, he was going to get an eyeful!

Birkoff made no effort to leave. I swore under my breath and pulled out of my boy toy's mouth, giving the base of my cock a firm squeeze. "Don't move!" I whispered the order to the young comm operative. His eyes gleamed with deviltry, and he licked his lips. "I'm going to punish you when I get finished with this, young man!"

"I look forward to it, sir!" he whispered.

I did up my trousers and turned to walk stiffly to where the head of comm was waiting. "Well? Well? What the fuck is it, Birkoff?"

"A little testy, are we, sir?"

I followed him down the stairs and on to comm. "You have a birthday in a month or so, isn't that right, Seymour?"

"Yes." He was sounding confused. Excellent.

"I assume then that you'd like to live to see it?"

He knew I could have him canceled. What was more, he knew Davenport would be buried in the same grave with him. He surrendered. "Sorry, Operations."

It was good to be the head of Section. "All right. Now tell me what was so fucking important you had to interrupt me when I was ... um..."

"Brainstorming, Paul?" Madeline. Head of psych. My one-time lover. She spent most of her down time now surfing the net for hard-core gay sites. Why hadn't I canceled her when I had the opportunity?

She handed me a slip of paper with a message scrawled across it. I squinted at it, managing to decipher her atrocious handwriting. I had to wonder what that said about *her* psych profile.

"Who the fuck is this Clayton Webb? And why does he think someone here in Section is putting together a profile on him?"

####

We were on the off ramp for the Alexandria exit when my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my inner jacket pocket. "Webb."

"I am Paul Wolfe, Operations of Section One, Mr. Webb. I understand there has been a slight misunderstanding with one of my people."

"Has there?" I asked the smooth voice. "Perhaps your man would care to explain why he was trying to access the personal records of the Deputy Director of Counter Intelligence of the CIA, Mr. Wolfe?

"The operative who ordered this is out in the field just now, but I assure you, Deputy Director, that this invasion of your privacy was totally unsanctioned!"

Did I detect a little unease on the other end of the line? But I wouldn't taunt him with his lack of control over his people. That wouldn't be to my advantage, at least not at this point. "I'd like to speak with him."

"As I said, he's out of the country..."

"When will he return?"

Wolfe didn't want to tell me. I could almost feel his forcing his will against mine, trying to get me to back down. "Michael Samuelle is on an extremely delicate mission..."

"Mr. Wolfe, do you, or do you not, know when this operative will be back in Section One?"

I heard his teeth grinding together. "Sometime late tomorrow."

"Very well. I'll catch the first flight out of Dulles. Do you have a number where I can reach you once I'm in Paris?"

"I'll...I'll have someone meet you at Air France baggage claim at CDG. You're a very difficult man, Mr. Webb."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Mr. Wolfe. I look forward to meeting you. Good-bye."

He growled something, but I was already disconnecting the call. My driver pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. The agent was already there with her partner. Technically, I could have remained back at headquarters. Syd was good, cool in the face of danger, competent, and with the ability to blend in with any background.

But because Palmer was there, I had to be there.

****

It hadn't taken much doing to learn where Michael Shaw, the young DSD agent who had been feeding us information about Clark Palmer, was being laid out. The obituary notice was in every metropolitan DC newspaper, as well as the Shaws' local one.

As a deputy director, I had the latitude to allocate resources for an investigation such as this. While the CIA did not approve of a mole being 'offed', they looked even less kindly on having one of their agents under scrutiny.

Shaw was only a kid, twenty-six, and word was he'd committed suicide. From what my friend, D.B. Cooper, could dig up on him, that didn't seem very likely. According to D.B., the little asshole had too high an opinion of himself.

I stood at the far end of the parking lot, finishing a roll of Lifesavers. Had Clark Palmer had a hand in this? I didn't like to think so, just as I didn't like to think of him working with a foreign antiterrorist organization. In spite of the fact that he was keeping a personal file on me, and that he was DSD to the core, I was growing to like the son of a bitch!

I'd given him a blowjob in the men's room at Raphael's, the restaurant where I had taken him to dinner for his birthday. It was simply to keep him off balance, but I found myself reliving that moment when he wound his fingers in my hair and held my head still while he fucked my mouth and came.

Damn. I had to think of something else; I was growing hard.

"You all set, Syd?"

The brunette looked up from the butterfly-shaped pin she was fastening to the scarf she wore around her throat. It was really a tiny microphone whose receiver was snug in my left ear.

"I'm good to go, Clay." She smoothed the sedate black skirt suit she wore, and crossed to the funeral home. "Are you receiving me?" a tiny voice in my ear asked.

"Yes," I said softly into my tie tac.

"Okay, it's show time!" She disappeared into the building that was too pretty and too quaint for its morbid purpose.

I took out a new roll of Lifesavers and used my thumbnail to free the first circle of the mint candy.

Syd's mic picked up scraps of conversations as she progressed toward the coffin. "So young..." "So sad..." "...such a promising career..."

And then she got the conversation I wanted. I had known Trevor Wallace would be there. And where the head of the DSD was, there was Clark Palmer, his fair-haired boy. Wallace's voice was distinct, deep and hollow, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. "Very sad, Palmer."

"Yes, sir. They're listing it as suicide?"

"Yes. The family was informed it was actually autoerotic asphyxiation, but..."

"I understand, sir. It's easier for them to have people think their son's job just became too stressful for him to handle, and he hanged himself."

Syd wasn't able to stay close without drawing attention to herself, but I thought we had enough information.

"Okay, Syd. Leave whenever you're able."

"Yes." The word was a drawn out sigh, as if commiserating with someone else who was paying his final respects. She murmured some words of condolence to the parents, and then walked out into the afternoon sunshine, passed me without a glance and got into a car with the other agent who was her back-up.

I took out another Lifesaver, and waited.

****

Clark Palmer walked out into the parking lot beside an older man, and they stood there conversing for a short time. The grey-haired head of the DSD polished his glasses and spoke quietly, then rested his hand on his best agent's shoulder for a moment. He reentered the building for the final service and the closing of the casket.

Palmer just stood there, apparently lost in thought. I wondered what put that wistful look on his face. It was replaced by a wicked smile, and he headed for his car. When he stopped abruptly I knew he had spotted me. He changed his direction, strolling toward where I stood at the far end of the parking lot.

"Nice to see you again, Clark." This was actually the first time we had met since his birthday. Our jobs had kept us busy, and then he had been out of town for a few days.

"Webb." A faint flush colored his cheeks, and he licked his lips. I was glad my trousers were cut loose, or he'd have known how much I wanted to rub my erection against that hard thigh of his. His eyes dragged over my body, and when they returned to mine, he cleared his throat. "Did you know Shaw?"

"Shaw?" I wasn't about to let Palmer know I was familiar with the young DSD agent's name.

He pointed toward the funeral home, to the limousines that were waiting to take the mourners to the cemetery.

"Ah. No, I didn't have the pleasure. Accept my condolences, please. It's difficult when someone so young passes on." Platitudes. Inanities.

"If you didn't know the dearly departed, what are you doing here, Webb?"

"*Clay*," I said caressingly, knowing it would irritate him beyond belief. "There's no need for formality between us, Clark. Not after our ... dinner on your birthday." I lowered my voice, and glanced at him through my lashes. "And that little episode in the men's room afterward."

"How did you find out about my birthday, Cl..." He stopped himself. "...Webb?" He looked disgruntled by that near slip. How long would it take for him to call me by name?

"Clark, Clark, Clark!" I reproved him as if he were a naughty boy. "You have to let me keep *some* little secrets. After all, I don't ask *you* how you found out that my mother's butler is really her bodyguard."

I knew that would throw him. Let him think I was coming after him because of his masquerade as Matt Robinson, an old friend with whom I'd gone to Exeter. It was a shot in the dark, of course, but according to Markov, Palmer had worn a smirk when Mother asked him to let her 'butler' examine his camera before he took pictures of the photos she produced. As good an agent as Clark was, I imagined he'd been unable to prevent a little gloating on his part.

Would I be able to use that egocentricity against him? I'd have to consider that when I returned from Paris.

I drew closer to him, raising my hand toward his cheek, and let my fingers caress the stubble that was becoming evident. He'd need to shave soon.

His expression was stunned, and he took an involuntary step away from me, his gaze raking the area to see if anyone had observed us.

"Look, Webb, I have to get back to the Capital. Traffic is going to be a bitch, especially with all that construction going on around the Beltway. It's been ... interesting talking to you, but like every CIA agent I've ever met, you're full of shit. I'll see you around. Maybe."

"Oh, count on it, Clark." When I got back from Europe, we'd have a nice long chat about what, exactly, he had been doing over there.

He turned and strode across the pavement to his car. I was smiling when he glanced back to find me still watching him.

It was easy to read the word on his lips as he swore silently. My smile broadened. I imagined he'd spend the entire ride back to the Capital trying to deduce what the fuck had just happened.

*

My flight arrived at Charles De Gaulle Airport at 11:00 the following morning. We ran into a little head wind that delayed us. I pulled my carry-on from the overhead rack and walked out of the 747 and through the gate. I hadn't checked any luggage, but Paul Wolfe had told me my driver would meet me near baggage claim. I was curious as to how whoever it was would identify himself. He was hardly likely to be standing there with one of those little placards in his hand.

I don't know what drew my attention to the two men in the first place. One was taller, bulkier, his scalp smooth-shaven. He was dressed casually, but somehow I thought he would be more comfortable in fatigues and a flack vest, carrying an Uzi. The man next to him was younger, shorter, his clothes shapeless, tinted lenses shielding his eyes.

It seemed I was wrong. I gave a slight grin as I spotted the sign with my name in his hand.

They appeared to be arguing about something, and as I drew closer, I was able to overhear part of their conversation. "I *owed* him, Dav!" the younger one was saying.

"Not your life, babe! If it comes out you did this for Michael..." They both looked unhappy.

"Excuse me, gentlemen. I'm Webb."

The pair straightened. "I'm Davenport. This is Birkoff. Operations sent us to meet you."

"Operations?"

"Paul Wolfe."

"Ah. Well, shall we get started?" I was led to a Citroen. Its side and rear windows were so heavily tinted it would be impossible to see out of them. I settled myself in the back seat and noticed the partition in place between me and the occupants of the front seat.

"Sorry, sir," Davenport said just before he closed the door. "This is for your protection."

"I understand," I told him. "If I knew where your organization was located, you'd have to kill me."

The two men glanced at each other, and I laughed softly. The door slammed shut, and I wasn't surprised to see there was no handle on the inside.

In spite of the blacked out condition of the little car, Davenport drove a tedious and winding course, and it took close to two hours before we finally pulled into an underground parking garage. The back door was opened, and I was ushered through a van access into a corridor brightly lit with fluorescent lighting.

They took me to a large, circular area that held a bank of elevators. We entered one that stood open, as if waiting for us, and I was not permitted to see which button was pressed. There was also no display of the floors that we passed, although I could tell we were going up.

Abruptly it jolted to a stop, and Davenport reached for a weapon. I gathered that no one was supposed to summon this particular car.

The doors slid open. A petite blonde woman stood there, wearing a black skirt and jacket that did nothing for her. Flanking her was a man of average height, also dressed in black.

Davenport made an abortive move to prevent them from entering the elevator, then stepped back. I noticed that Birkoff stood behind him, not afraid, but... Cautious.

Interesting.

"Exx," Davenport said, tension evident in his voice. "No one is supposed to speak with Mr. Webb."

"And of course, no one will. I shall simply converse with my associate." She smiled, and Davenport actually went pale. Birkoff gave a barely audible moan.

Even more interesting.

We all faced the front of the elevator, and the woman called Exx began speaking. Her accent was vaguely exotic. "Clark Palmer is someone who once did me a kindness. I... care about him." The man beside her stiffened, and she looked up at him. A silent message passed between the two of them, and the man relaxed. "If anything ... untoward were to happen to him, I would, perforce, be obliged to hunt down and kill whoever was responsible. Comprends, Wye?" But she had turned her head and was looking directly at me.

I stared into her blue eyes and said nothing, then glanced at her companion.

The one she called Wye was watching me also, his gaze flat and cold. Whatever the woman wanted done, the man would back her to the death, and I understood the tension and the caution exhibited by the other two occupants of the elevator.

Exx pressed a button, and the elevator came to a halt. The doors opened, and they exited without speaking another word.

Beside me came the soft exhalation of relief. Birkoff whispered, "I think I need to change my shorts!"

Davenport laughed, but replied, "I hear *that*, babe!"

****

I was shown into a small conference room. There was a largish table with six chairs scattered around it. Two of the chairs were already occupied.

"Deputy Director? I'm Operations." The man who was extending his hand was about six feet tall, cold blue eyes and prematurely white hair. "I trust your trip was uneventful."

"Operations." I shook his hand and shrugged. "The usual. I'm sure you aren't interested in the boredom of a seven hour flight that takes fifteen hours. And an additional car ride whose sole purpose was to confuse me. Was that really necessary?"

"You must allow us our security measures."

"Whatever. I have a good deal of work waiting for me back in Washington, so perhaps we can get down to the matter at hand?"

Wolfe's lips tightened, but he nodded. "This is Michael Samuelle, who made the unsanctioned request. I will leave you to get this sorted out between you."

The door closed, and Samuelle laughed softly. "What he means is that he will leave us so he can spend some time with..." He bit off the rest of his words, and rose to approach me. "So you are Clayton Webb."

The eyes regarding me were a changeable grey-green. A very attractive man with a curiously blank expression that gave away nothing. He was probably my own age or close to it if I ventured a guess.

I nodded. "I'd like to know why you were trying to break into my personal records."

"It was not intended that you learn of this."

"Why is it that every agency in the world thinks the CIA is staffed by incompetent idiots?" I asked in annoyance. I was losing patience. I faced a return trip to DC, and I never slept well on transatlantic flights. By the time I got back to Alexandria, I'd have been more than forty-eight hours without sleep. And that was if this nonsense with Section was cleared up to my satisfaction. "Will you tell me what your intention was, or would you prefer that I request a full scale investigation into Section One, and its parent organization, Oversight?"

His expression became even more blank, but his eyes... They were indeed the windows to his soul. Something was disturbing him. He gestured me toward a seat. "May I offer you a coffee, M. Webb? Section is not noted for great-tasting coffee, but it is hot and extremely strong. And I promise that nothing extra has been added."

"Christ!" I muttered as I sat down. "You're starting to sound just like Palmer!"

The operative grew very still. "Clark Palmer."

"You know him too? Jesus, what's with him? Does he have connections with every rogue agency in the fucking world?"

"Clark Palmer is a friend of mine, M. Webb. He has never worked for Section, although if he ever chose to...change affiliations, shall we say? We would be more than happy to accept him. Section does not have the same foolish regulations about age that the DSD does."

"What?" Suddenly I was being bombarded with information that I had been certain I would have to obtain with pliers and a sledgehammer, if sheer charm couldn't do it.

He handed me the steaming cup of coffee, and I took an incautious sip. I grimaced, and his lips twisted in a grin.

"Do not tell me you are unaware that the Defense Security Division has set mandatory retirement from the field at age thirty-five?"

"Palmer's past that age." Was that the reason he had his actual date of birth buried so deeply it was only by accident that I had discovered it?

"Only by a year," Samuelle informed me. Did he not know Clark's real age, or was he trying to protect his friend?

I kept my mouth shut. If it was the former, then I wasn't about to reveal Palmer's secret. If it was the latter, then *I* wanted to know why. I decided to revert back to the reason I had flown three thousand miles to talk to him. "Why were you looking into my file?"

Samuelle sat on the corner of the table and coolly sipped his coffee. "Truthfully? I wanted to see what it was about you that has one of the most single-minded men I know obsessed enough that he cries out your name when he comes."

"How would you know that? And what did you find?" I held my breath and shifted slightly to ease the sudden tightness of my trousers. The idea that Palmer moaned for me was more arousing than I would have imagined.

He shrugged, his gesture as Gallic as the Marseillaise and bouillabaisse. "I think, M. Webb, that were I you, I would take this man to my bed, and try to get him out of my system. I do not think you will succeed, but, qui sait? Who knows?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"My good friend, Clark Palmer, is not the only one with an obsession, I think."

There was a tap on the door, but before either of us could say anything, it swung open. An older man with a bandana fastened over his greying hair propped himself against the frame. His eyes darted from the operative to me. "You about ready to check out the new weaponry system, Michael?"

"Certainly, Walter. I will be right there." Samuelle turned back to me. "I apologize for causing you to come here on what was basically a wild goose chase. I wanted to make sure my good friend was not hurt."

"Palmer's been injured plenty of times." I deliberately chose to misunderstand him. "It goes with the territory."

"Physically, perhaps, but cet homme guards his emotions well. You threatened Section with the might of the CIA, M. Webb. Very well. But if I hear that Clark has come to any harm due to his infatuation with you... Well, I understand that you have already met the head of interrogation. Whatever is left after Exx is done with you, *I* shall get." He paused at the door, then muttered, "*Merde*!" and crossed back to where I sat.

His hands closed around my upper arms; he hauled me up out of my seat and ground his mouth against mine. The force split my lower lip, and he licked at the drop of blood that beaded there.

Strong fingers traced the shape of my cock through my trousers, then unzipped the fly and reached in. His thumb pressed against the slit and was rewarded with a drop of precome.

I groaned, and his tongue surged into my mouth, bringing with it the copper taste of my blood. I wound my fingers into the cool silkiness of his hair, but whether to pull him closer or drag his mouth off mine, I'd never know.

"*Michael*! Goddamn it, we don't have time for this! Get your French ass in gear or I'll pound it!"

Samuelle released me, a small puff of laughter bathing my mouth. "I come, Walter."

"No, you don't, Samuelle," I vowed in a hard voice. "Not with me. Not with Palmer!"

His smile was rueful. It made him appear much younger. He was a handsome man, experience etched on his face, but he would have been a beautiful boy. "It is too bad our friend Clark wants you. He has made it quite clear that my life would be forfeit if I were to take you to bed, so much as I would like to, I cannot. Adieu, Clayton Webb."

I was left alone in that conference room, and sank down onto my chair. In spite of my words, I would have liked nothing better than to fuck the Frenchman.

Clark Palmer obviously had a long term friendship with Michael Samuelle, had clearly had sex with the man, yet the DSD agent had threatened to kill the Section cold op if he tried to go to bed with me.

My lips throbbed from the pressure of the operative's mouth, and my cock throbbed from unsatisfied lust. But most of all my head throbbed. Samuelle was right: I was as obsessed with Clark Palmer as he was with me.

****

By the time I got home from that informative visit to Section, I was so drained I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I thought I'd have the energy to at least fix myself a late night snack, but even that was suddenly beyond my resources. I dragged myself up the stairs to my bedroom and stripped off my clothes, leaving them lying across a chair as I headed for the bath.

Fortunately I managed to shower without falling asleep and drowning myself. If I hadn't been so exhausted, I would have wondered at the extent of my lassitude, but as it was, I simply chalked it up to jet lag, pulled on my pajamas to ward off the March chill, and crawled into bed. It never occurred to me to question the rapidity with which I fell asleep.

Ever since I'd taken Clark Palmer to dinner on his birthday, I'd awakened from torrid dreams each morning with the sheets tangled around my legs and my pajama bottoms sticky with drying semen.

At the oddest times, while I was at work, while shopping for groceries, even horseback riding on a Sunday with my mother, I'd remember being on my knees before Palmer, or a fragment of one of the hot dreams would ambush me, and I'd be fully, completely aroused.

I was actually becoming used to going through my day half hard. When I got home from work I would jerk off. After dinner I would jerk off. At bedtime I would jerk off. And still, some time during the night, I would come.

The dream I had the night I returned from Europe was even better than the ones I'd been having. In those, Clark would be sucking me off, or masturbating me, or...or fucking me.

This time, skillful hands wielded a stiletto blade that sliced through the material of my pajama bottoms, exposing my cock, then cutting the buttons off my pajama top with just a whisper of sound. The soft cotton was parted and the flat of the knife scraped over my torso, across my nipples, and then was tossed aside. I groaned and stretched my arms over my head, and he hummed approval. That action pushed my chest up as if I was offering myself to my dream lover. I undulated my hips upward, wanting to fill that mouth of his with my cock, that mouth that Shaw had insinuated was so very talented.

Clark's lips were nuzzling my nipples though, and I liked that. I liked it too much. They were so sensitive that I usually had to wear an undershirt when I made love, or else I'd climax too fast.

"Clark! Baby, no!" I moaned, biting my lips, and starting the cut to bleeding again. "I'm going to come!"

But my dream lover just laughed triumphantly. He wasn't paying any attention to my whimpered protests. He licked and suckled and bit down with just enough pressure to let me know he could hurt me if he chose, but that he didn't choose. My nipples were pebble hard, and I shivered, knowing I was going to come at any moment.

"Not yet, baby," Clark whispered darkly in my ear, and he squeezed the base of my cock until the need to come abated. His fingers trailed up my body, stroked over my arms. Warm lips nibbled my earlobe, distracting me from what his hands were doing.

There was a sharp sting in the side of my neck. As I fought my way to consciousness I realized my arms really were positioned above my head, and I heard the rattle of metal handcuffs against my spindle headboard.

Abruptly I was wide awake. This wasn't a dream. The bedside lamp was on, and I could see that lying on top of my partially clothed body was Clark Palmer.

"Cut your lip, baby?" Much as Michael had done, Clark licked the drop off. His voice dropped, became low and hot. "Let me kiss and make it better."

"Goddammit, Palmer, are you out of your fucking mind?" I demanded hoarsely as I tried to twist my head away from his mouth. Between the vee of my thighs I could feel the hard bulge of his dick nudging against me. I tugged on the cuffs, but these weren't plastic kiddy toys, and they weren't adult toys. No plush velvet padded them; they were tight enough to threaten to pinch if I struggled against them.

"It's my turn now, baby." He licked the spot on my neck that was still sore.

"What did you do to me?"

"A little antidote to the gas canister I set off just after you locked your front door. You never listened to Rabb when he told you how bad I was. Poor Clay." Warm breath in my ear, and then the damp tip of his tongue flicked into it. I struggled to keep from moaning. Lips roved across my cheek. He closed his teeth gently over my chin and gave it a shake. "Oh, you should have shaved, baby. Want me to set your alarm a little early? You'll definitely have to shave come morning!"

"Don't do this, Palmer!" I hated the raw begging I heard in my voice, not because I didn't want him touching me, stroking me, driving me wild with passion, but because I did.

"Clay, I'm the best! You can't tell me you don't like what I'm doing to you! Oh, maybe intellectually you can convince yourself you don't want it, but your body is begging for it!" He angled his hips off me so he could get his hand on my cock.

If I had the breath, I would have cursed my unruly flesh, but my breath was coming in harsh pants, and I was so hard I was shaking with the need to come.

Palmer began working his way down my body, pausing to tug on my nipples. "Want me to fuck you, baby?" I jerked at his words, and fought against the cuffs, unable to stifle a cry. "Stop that, Clay. You're just going to hurt yourself." He was up by my head again, one hand keeping my hands immobile, and he took my chin in his fingers, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Listen to me! I won't fuck you. I promise." He tapped the side of my face. "I *promise*!"

"What are your promises worth, Palmer?" I snarled. I needed to get to him, ruffle him, change the balance of power. I couldn't do that physically, but... "They're not worth any more than your friend, Michael's!"

Palmer got very still. "What are you talking about, Webb?"

"Samuelle told me he promised you he wouldn't fuck me."

"Are you saying he lied?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying, so if you plan on fucking me, you'd better use plenty of lube, because he left me really sore!" Had I succeeded in convincing Palmer that he couldn't trust his friend? I needed to get this back to where he was the one off balance and confused.

"Michael fucked you? He really fucked you?" Palmer started to laugh, a sound that began low in his chest and then burst forth. "Clay, I...I *like* you!"

Huh? I must have missed something. There must have been something in Clark's relationship with the Section operative... What had I missed? My thoughts splintered in confusion. "Then you won't fuck me?" I licked my lips, wincing a little at the split that bisected my lower lip.

He was still chuckling. "I had no intention of fucking you tonight, Clay."

I was glad he wasn't going to do anything to me. I *was* glad!

Palmer started sliding down my body, and his clothes abraded my nipples, making me forget everything except the fact that I still needed to come. As soon as Palmer left, I'd take my cock in my hand and start stroking it, just the way he was doing right now. Just as soon as he left...

"Jesus Christ, Clark! What the fuck are you doing?"

"Can't you tell, Clay? I must not be doing it right, then." And then my cock was in that hot, educated mouth of his. My hips surged up, driving me deeper into his throat, and the vibration of his laughter pushed me closer to the edge.

Palmer's tongue fluttered and dipped, teased and toyed and generally did things I didn't even know were possible. His hands on my hips held me still, controlling the level of pleasure while his head bobbed up and down on my shaft. He shifted position slightly, and while one hand resumed tormenting my nipples, the other insinuated itself between my ass cheeks, finding my puckered opening and pressing against it with the ghost of a touch.

"Please! Please!"

He pulled off me. My breath sobbed in desperation, and my hips jerked futilely.

"Say my name."

"Wha...what?"

"You want to come. Say my name, baby, and I'll give you an orgasm you'll never forget!"

I didn't have to obey him. I was an intelligent human being, in complete control of myself at all times.

But my body felt like a live wire, exposed and ready to erupt in an explosion of rockets and Roman candles. "Clark!" I groaned in surrender.

The next thing I knew, he was swallowing me down, his teeth scraping along my length, and I came violently.

I lay there bonelessly, gasping like a runaway steam engine, arms manacled to the headboard, legs spread wantonly, a DSD agent between them. He leaned up and grinned at me, his tongue gathering drops of come from his lips. "You taste good, Clay. I knew you would." He rolled off me and reached for something on the nightstand. It was a syringe. Before I could even think to panic, he was explaining, "I'm going to uncuff you, baby, but since I don't think I'm your most favorite person right now, I'll have to send you beddy-bye, first. This will wear off in about half an hour, and you'll fall into a natural sleep. Why don't you sleep in tomorrow? I'll even call in for you, if you'd like."

"Bastard. You know I'm going to kill you, don't you?" I tried to growl at him, but there was no heat in my voice; I was feeling too sated. He'd fulfilled one of my darkest fantasies. And if he wasn't going to leave me to be found by some innocent bystander, cuffed to my bed, my pajamas in ruins, I could forgive him a lot.

Palmer laughed. "You can try, Clay." He brushed that lock of hair that was forever falling into my eyes off my forehead. "Know what you need, Webb?"

I opened an eye and regarded him wearily. "I feel sure you're going to tell me, Palmer."

He pressed the syringe against my neck. Damn, that spot was going to be sore in the morning. "You need to be kissed. Long, and often, and by someone who knows how."

I opened my mouth to tell him that he didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, to tell him to fuck off. Instead, I heard myself saying, "You have someone in mind, Clark?"

"Me?" He was laughing as I lost the battle to remain conscious.

~End~