I stumble, catch myself against the railings of his building.

His apartment is no closer than mine, but I have to see him; have to have him ease this ache. Oh, yes, I ache through to my very soul. And with the ache comes pleasure, elation. It's too much for me to deal with alone. My skin tingles; part bruise, part sunburn, all pleasure. It wasn't a hard fight. But the kid was young, full of the vitality of life. I need to release it, to complete the process of integration. That's why I'm here, at midnight, ready to face a man who could kill or cure in a single touch.

Why Methos? Why not take the safe option? Safe isn't enough at a time like this. I need Methos. His unpredictability scares me. But that strength, that power hidden behind the mask is what I crave

I ring the bell. Damn you Methos; be there, I need you.

I can feel him now, the heavy drone of his presence, as drowsy as bees in summer, weighted an enveloping chorus. I want to run. This is a mistake; it's always a mistake. I'll just ask for help to get home, that's all, no more. His power fills me, the Quickening responding to his presence. I'm rooted to the spot, panting in fear or anticipation, I can no longer tell.

"Amanda?" The door opens a crack, he's smiling in recognition, and I hear the clatter of the sword as it's put away. Oh, he looks good. Tight jeans, a black t-shirt, a thin black band on one wrist. Bare feet.

He's all sympathy. Wiping the blood away from my face, fingering the tears in my clothes. But the Quickening sparks between us at each touch. Blue flames dance round his fingers. I've got to go. This is too much. I back away, only to have him turn, to throw me against the wall, my hands pressed above my head. Terrified, I fight, but he's quicker, stronger, and every touch makes me want to surrender to the pleasure.

Suddenly he has a knife, pressed to my throat, drawing blood. I meet his eyes; they're dark, glittering with the passion of demons. He always has a knife, ready for this; as much a part of him as his sharp wit. I stumble over my words.

"I don't want this." We both know it's a lie but we play along. It's part of the ritual, the way it has to be done if he's to give me what I need.

The glitter in his eyes holds no amusement. The knife presses harder, I can small the blood now, even over my own sweat of fear.

"You expect me to believe that. " he almost purrs. His lips are so close to my ear I can feel the hardness of teeth behind them. "You come here, dressed like a slut, smelling as if you've fucked an entire army and you expect me to think all you want is tea and sympathy."

His hand works its way under my short skirt. He feels the wetness there; the sticky wet on the inside of my thighs, the absence of underwear. In spite of my fear I rub against his hand, seeking release. He pulls his hand away and licks experimentally at his middle finger.

"Now, you can't tell me that's spilt milk." His smile is feral. He presses closer; I can feel his hardness growing against my stomach. "Did you fuck him before you killed him?"

I'm confused for a moment. He's asking about the kill. I mumble "No, it was before, someone else…he ran away after the other guy gave the challenge."

"There's nothing sexier than a woman who's just been taken, already wet and ready." The knife's gone now; his hands are still holding me against the wall. He forces two fingers into me this time, his thumb, caressing my clit. I press harder, so close, so close. And he feels it, feels my body tense and stops. Holding me still but hardly touching, no movement, no stimulation, no release.

I fight him again.

"Bastard" I swear, hating him, loving him for not finishing it too soon.

Before I can spit at him he's kissing me, his tongue in my mouth, tasting, thrusting. He forces his knee between my thighs. I'm almost climbing up him now, desperate for pressure, contact. Hi lips move to my neck, licking away the blood. He releases my hands, cupping my ass, lifting. I wrap my legs around him, reach down to open his fly. But he drives himself closer to me, trapping my hand before it reaches it's target.

He starts to move, slowly at first, then with increasing tempo. The buttons on his jeans stimulating me almost beyond what's bearable. The denim's rough against my body, soaking wet, staining him with my essence. Suddenly release hits me, like drowning in slow motion; waves of pleasure rack my body. The world fades, becomes distant then slams back into bright focus. He holds me till the shaking stops then lets me slide down to kneel at his feet.

I'm still scared, scared of what he's capable of. I can't meet his eyes; instead I focus on his now soaked crotch. Even under the heavy material you can se how big he is, straining the fly, I shuffle forward, my hands and lips ready to please him. He slaps me away and rubs the wet stain himself. He's close; you can see it in the light touches. His long fingers move to the buttons, unwrapping himself like a birthday present. I move forward again to take him in my mouth. Another slap. I learn my lesson and stay still, watching the easy rhythm of his hand on his cock. He pulls his foreskin back, rubbing his palm over the weeping tip. Then he strokes again, faster this time, jacking off at a speed that soon matches my heartbeat. Without conscious thought I've pulled up my skirt, my fingers thrust in time with him. Please don't let him stop me. He moans soft at first then louder. I can see the tightness in his muscles, then he's coming - long explosive pulses across my face, staking a claim, marking me as his.

He drops to his knees in front of me. Stops the frantic movement of my hands. He's licking my face now, like a cat, small controlled movements. Tasting himself. He starts to speak, low at first, breathy words between each hot wipe of his tongue.

"Does MacLeod do this? Does he wank off over your body? Does he make you pee in his lap, over his cock?" He stops his bizarre suggestions for a moment, licking hard at my neck. And then from nowhere he has the knife agin. Holding the neck of my blouse, cutting, ripping away my last protection.

"Would he do this? Would it turn him on to see you with me?"

I struggle, just enough that each knife stroke leaves red, wet stripes on my skin. This is what he wants; I can see just how much it excites him. His cock has barely softened since he came. It presses hard against his stomach now ready to take me.

"I'd like to watch you with another man. With MacLeod." He hacks at my skirt, the shot silk parting in one rippling tear.

"I want to take you with him. Take you up the arse while he does you in front." He uses his fingers to demonstrate. My pleasure comes from the pain. Fire spreads through my veins. I'd do anything he wants just to get release from this.

His breathy voice continues in my ear. "Could you take us both at once? I bet you could."

The Quickening flashes over my healing skin like the beginnings of an orgasm over my whole body. How does he do this to me? I'm so turned on I can hardly speak. He's still clothed, master over his naked compliant servant. If I could speak clearly I'd beg him to take me. I lay back, spread my legs, open myself to him. He kneels above me, cock hard and red jutting out of his jeans, sweat plastering his t-shirt to his ribs. He pulls the shirt over his head, muscles ripple under his flushed skin, his chest heaves with one panting breath after another.

For six hundred years I've worshipped at the fire that is Methos like some secret Zoroastrian. Scared he'll burn my soul away but craving his heat. We both hide this from the world. I'm ashamed and Methos? It's power to him, he could tell MacLeod any time he chose. He needs that power over me, we both know he does. I thought I could resist him. I thought Duncan and his safe love was enough. But being with Duncan is like living on Holy Ground. It's secure, comfortable, but nothing like the danger of the Game; nothing like the explosive excitement Methos can give me. Duncan I love, Methos I need.

He takes me hard, impaling me on the polished wooden floor. The world goes red, his heavy breathing my only anchor to reality. Then the darkness overwhelms me.

I wake, confused. Spend a few minutes, quite still, answering all those important questions. Who am I? Where am I?