Title: Resolve Impaired
Author: Tamara
Email: tamara@bitchenvy.com
Rating: R- because even tame smut gets an R
Summary: You can't help how you feel. Takes place after Kindred.
Disclaimer: I don't own the CIA agent or the Russian spy. JJ Abrams does, though. Go blame him.
Author's notes: I don't like the title. I'm too lazy to change it. So it stays. Oh, and unbeta'd. The risk is all yours.

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It was fast approaching two in the morning when he walked through the front door of his apartment, the flight from France delayed more than once because of rain, his flight into LA delayed for the exact same reason. The mission had been a success, if you could call losing two good agents a success. But Cameron had fulfilled her objective and he had managed to keep her safe. And, for him, that was all that mattered.

He tossed his bags on the floor, closing the door silently behind him. He was dripping wet, the rain outside coming down in sheets, but he felt none of it, exhaustion making him oblivious to discomfort. He tossed his keys on the table, threw his jacket on the back of the chair, and found himself checking the apartment for her presence. There was a pot of tea on the stove, a lone set of dishes in the sink. And though he tried to stop himself, tried to tell himself he didn't care, he wondered if she missed him, if she reached out for him in the middle of the night.

"You're back," she said softly, as she entered the room.

Her sudden appearance took him by surprise and he faltered a moment for words. She was dressed in a white slip of silk and lace that ended at mid-thigh and left almost nothing to the imagination. "Yeah," was the response he settled on, when he finally found the courage to speak. "I would have been here sooner, but-"

"The flights were delayed," she finished for him, giving him a small smile. "I know."

He didn't ask how she knew, somehow she managed to know everything, even the things she wasn't supposed to know, and he felt himself returning her smile with one of his own.

"You got the disk?" she asked, stepping further into the room, stopping only a few inches from him.

He nodded, chuckling slightly at her knowledge. "I didn't get it, but Cameron did," he clarified. "How'd you know?"

She smiled again, this one full of mystery. "I have my ways."

He knew she did, knew exactly how she knew what she knew, but he didn't comment, wanting, for once, for things to be normal between them, or at least as normal as they could be.

"Donovan missed you," she said after a moment, when the silence became too much. "He sat by the door waiting for you everyday."

It was the mention of the dog that did it, that, the look in her eyes, vulnerability mixed with steel, and the touch of her fingers on his skin, that pushed him past the invisible line that always, always stood between them and into the forbidden.

In the nine months that she had been a permanent fixture in his life, in the seven and a half months that they had been lovers, he had never once kissed her in any place but the bedroom.

Never. Not until that moment.

His lips met hers with a force that had them stumbling backwards until her back hit the wall a few feet away. Her lips were soft and moist and opened eagerly beneath his, inviting him to take the kiss deeper. She tasted of wine and fruit, and something so distinctly Irina that he could only describe it as earthy, powerful, and delicious. While his tongue explored the depths of her mouth, his hands skimmed over her shoulders, bare except for a string holding the nightgown up on her body. It was gone in a moment and the gown pooled at her waist, leaving her upper half naked to his gaze. He didn't stop to think as his lips left hers and traveled the long journey down her neck, over her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts. He didn't think as he took her nipple between his lips, sucking gently, making her moan.

He didn't know much about Irina Derevko, didn't claim to know how she ticked, the way she worked, or even how she felt, but, after seven and a half months, he knew every little way to make her moan, knew just where and how to touch her to make her gasp in pleasure. He knew exactly how to make Irina scream.

As his mouth worked at her breasts, paying equal attention to each, his fingers delved beneath the silk and lace, between her equally silken thighs to plunge into the honeyed depths of her. She was warm and wet and as his thumb brushed her clit, she gasped. The gasp became a moan as he thrust one finger into her, and another moan escaped when one finger became two. And suddenly, it was all just too much to handle, the need becoming unbearable. It had been five days since he'd last been with her and he just couldn't wait any longer.

Somewhere between that moment and the next, his clothes disappeared and he braced her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist. He entered her slowly, reveling in the feel of her warmth surrounding him, closing his eyes to savor the sensation of being inside her. Of being one with her.

He paused, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with the feel of her, and he opened his eyes and looked into hers. "I missed you," he said softly, reluctantly admitting the truth he suspected she already knew.

She closed her eyes and sighed, the movement bringing them closer. "And I missed you," she replied, sounding just as reluctant to admit it as he had been. She opened her eyes and held his gaze in hers. "We have to talk, you know."

He nodded, but now was not the time. Not when he wanted to finish what they started, not when he wanted her, when he needed her more than he needed air to breath. Not now when facing his feelings about Irina was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Instead, he pulled out of her slowly and delved back in, watching the pleasure on her as he moved inside her. "Not now," he said as he buried his face in her neck, intent on nothing but giving her pleasure, of finding release in her arms. "Not now."

She nodded and gasped, "Not now."

And after that nothing else was important, nothing else mattered. Nothing, except the feel of her in his arms, the inarticulate cries she made as he thrust inside her, the warmth of her breath on his neck, the slick wetness of her surrounding him. And minutes later she screamed his name as she came apart in his arms.

It wasn't until, hours later, when he was lying beside her in bed, her head resting on his chest, that he wondered when it was all going to fall apart. Wondered what the hell he was going to do now that he was half in love with Irina Derevko.