DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are used without permission. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have to say, I simply couldn't resist. For those purists of both or either fandom, forgive the less than subtle bow to all that is fine and clichéd in fanfic. It was entirely too much fun to play with, I fear. This is for grumpybear1031 on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth. I do so hope you enjoy this, my dear. I tried to combine two of your favorite things. Happy (slightly early) Birthday!! Unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes mine.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Fewthistle[at]aol.com
She moved with the cruel grace of a leopardess; a thing of exquisite beauty, each lithe movement another note in a rising crescendo that swept away all in her path, the swelling cadence of Beethoven's 3rd Symphony brought to life. Her leather was as dark as the blood of her enemies, the fiery sticks in her hands meting out pain and death with every fluid twist of her body. She was, in short, quite magnificent.
Or at least Helena thought she was.
"Darling, you know, I think you'd look quite fetching in red leather," Helena purred close to Myka's ear, her breath whispering along Myka's skin.
Her words were met with a short bark of laughter. "Um, yeah. That's not going to happen."
"But why? I think that outfit would look marvelous on you," Helena questioned, the faux innocence of her expression no match for Myka's sharp stare.
"To begin with? It's a cat suit. Not exactly what one sees successful Secret Service agents sporting these days," Myka explained, trying hard not to be charmed by the rather lecherous look in Helena's dark eyes and the flexing of Helena's hand on her leg. "Second, it's red leather. A red leather cat suit. I can't even begin to list all the ways that that is just wrong."
Helena sighed, full lips forming a moue of disappointment, as she stared up at Myka from beneath thick lashes, the index finger of her right hand drawing intricate patterns along Myka's thigh. "It was just a thought, darling. I would like to see you in that outfit. Of course, I'd also like to see you out of that outfit, but there's nothing new there."
"Yeah, well," Myka began, her train of thought slightly derailed at Helena's incredibly sexy pout and the heat of Helena's hand through her jeans. "Anyway, I think you're more the red leather type than I am."
Helena tilted her head to the side, eyes fixed on the figures of two women on the television screen; one with curling dark hair and the goodness to save the world; the other holding a darkness inside her, constantly struggling to find her own salvation.
"Hmm. Yes, I do believe I am more of the red leather type, as you put it," Helena murmured. "The---what is it that Claudia calls it?----the bad girl who finds redemption in the love of a kind, beautiful woman. I imagine you'd look quite delectable in a flowing white gown, as well."
"You do know that actually Kahlan and Richard are supposed to be together, not Kahlan and Cara, right?" Myka attempted to explain, only to be brought short by a snort of disbelief from her companion.
"If that's the case, the people who produced this program clearly neglected to inform either of the actresses, who obviously can't stop gazing at one another. Richard is a very pretty boy, but hardly worthy of Kahlan. Now, Cara on the other hand, Cara is most definitely her equal. Besides, I spent the first five or six of these things you made me watch convinced that Richard was her brother," Helena complained, moving suddenly from her position on the couch to straddle Myka's lap, hands tangling in long curls.
"Made you watch? There is no made you do anything," Myka countered a little breathlessly, trying not to give in to Helena's well-orchestrated movements. "I'm sorry, but aren't you the same woman who cut short cataloging and dragged me out of the warehouse because, and I quote, 'it's time for my show'---by the way, clearly, you've been spending way too much time with Claudia. The day you say the word, 'dude', I'm leaving you."
"Fine. Fine, I like the program. I enjoy watching two gorgeous, fearless women try to save the world, even if they are burdened with pretty boy and that cantankerous old man. Heavens, that does sound familiar, doesn't it?" Helena countered, moving one hand to the buttons of Myka's shirt, the deft motion of thumb and forefinger efficiently opening one, then another, then another.
The grin on her face when she looked up was almost feral. Myka felt her breath catch in her throat. She replied, eyes fixed on Helena's mouth. "Funny. I'd tell Pete that you think he's the pretty boy, but I know he'd like it."
Myka closed the tiny gap between them, lips capturing Helena's in a slow, languorous kiss. Helena tasted of apples and cloves and cinnamon from Leena's cobbler, and something darker and richer that was simply her, like baking chocolate melting on her tongue. Helena shifted forward, her knees wrapping around Myka's side and back, rounded swell of her breasts pressed warmly against Myka's own.
Helena murmured rather incoherently, straight white teeth catching Myka's bee-stung bottom lip. She let go to nip her way down the elegant length of Myka's throat, leaning back a little so that she could bend forward and take Myka's nipple in her mouth through the thin cotton of Myka's shirt.
Before all conscious thought fled and her body took over, Myka reached down and pulled Helena face up to her own, knowing that, in just a moment, when Helena's questing fingers undid the zipper of her jeans and slid inside, she would be incapable of anything more than a soft moan and a whispered plea to hurry.
She kissed Helena again, meeting the slick warmth of her mouth, the desperate hunger of the kiss tempered by a gentleness that slid like honey through her veins. Helena's fingers had found her zipper. The quiet rasp of the metal was echoed by the quick, stuttered intake of breath as Helena slipped her hand into the warm, liquid silk that was waiting for her. Myka's head fell back against the cushions of the couch, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her body.
"So, can I convince you to be my Mother Confessor, my darling?" Helena asked, voice sinfully low, eyes coal black in the half light of the television screen, the muscles in her arm flexing rhythmically as she suddenly slid two fingers inside Myka.
Myka struggled to hang on to her last coherent thought, as her hips began to move to meet Helena's questing fingers. "I thought I already was," she managed to breathe, bringing her head forward to meet Helena's eyes.
Helena stopped moving, her face lit by a smile of such adoration and wonder that Myka felt tears gather in her eyes. "So you are, my love," Helena agreed with a touch of awe. The kiss that she brushed across Myka's lips held as much reverence as desire.
"Of course, that means that I get to see you in that red leather cat suit," Myka said cheekily, her hips once more finding that rhythm as she met Helena's laughing eyes.
"And so you shall, darling. So you shall." Helena promised.
She moved with the sleek grace of a leopardess; a thing of exquisite beauty, each lithe movement another note in a rising crescendo that swept Myka away, the swelling cadence of Beethoven's 3rd Symphony brought to life.
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