DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I have any official association with Warehouse 13. Seriously if I did, they wouldn’t be able to show the thing on SyFy.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to Heartsways for the beta. Any errors are mine alone.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Racethewind10[at]gmail.com

By Racethewind10


There were days when Helena Wells truly believed that if she were blessed enough to live another hundred years, she would never be done discovering the exquisite depths of Myka Bering's soul. It seemed far too often that even Helena's not insignificant vocabulary failed her utterly in her quest to define the other woman. Words – those symbols in which their lives were indelibly crafted by a hand far beyond human ken –seemed poor materials with which to capture the image of the heart and mind, spirit and body of the woman who had effortlessly, completely arrested Helena's attention, her imagination, and her desire.

After all 'kind' did little to encompass the awareness of other's emotions and needs that came so effortlessly to the younger woman.

'Warm' was hardly an adequate descriptor for one who was generous, caring and fiercely loyal; willing to literally step in front of danger to protect those she loved.

'Intelligent' only hinted at her love of learning and imagination that easily kept pace with Helena's own, challenging the author's intellect in a way she had no longer thought possible.

'Beautiful' was perhaps the most futile of all the labels one could apply to Myka. After all, what syllables could possibly convey the way forest green eyes looked when they danced with amusement, or full lips quirked in a gentle smile. What mere words indeed could represent the athletic confidence with which the younger woman held herself or delineate the elegant lines of her body?

Actually, Helena mused, perhaps beautiful was not the description that fell shortest. Perhaps it was 'passionate.' For who would believe that underneath the rigid self control and strict discipline of emotions and physical body that Myka exacted upon herself lay such unbounded and unashamed desire?

Oh yes, Helena thought as her eyes beheld Myka's kneeling form, clothed only in the fall of her rich brown hair and a slim leather collar, 'passionate' could only hint at what lay beneath that carefully proper, professional, gentle exterior.

Helena fisted her hand in Myka's hair and watched as the kneeling woman arched into her grasp, the candlelight in the room dancing across the faint outline of her ribs and painting her breasts in gold. The author's heart was racing in her chest and her legs nearly shook as she knelt down – still fully clothed – to capture full lips with her own. And under her mouth Myka yielded. Those remarkable green eyes remained closed but were Helena to see them, she knew with surety there would be neither fear nor hesitation in them, only trust and a desire that made the body under Helena's hands tremble.

A desire to surrender and be freed.

It was a desire Helena understood so very well: The need to trust another with everything, to let down the inner walls and defenses that people like them so easily constructed around hearts more vulnerable than many would guess. It was a desire to relinquish – if only for a time – the duties and responsibilities placed upon normally straight shoulders by family, careers, noble causes…life. It was a desire to subsume the fear and doubt and regrets of the past that battered at them daily beneath the pulsing beat of two hearts and the gasp of breath through passion-bruised lips. It was a need to let the sharp, white hot pleasure of leather and nails and teeth against willing skin and the ecstasy of passion slicked flesh claim them from the darkness that dogged their daily steps.

Kneeling on the bed, her hands bound with a silk tie behind her back, every line and curve of Myka's body quivered with that desire; that need that Helena wanted so much to fulfill.

There were so many things the author had been unable to accomplish in her life, so many failures great and small. But this, she could grant. She could strip away that hard won control and leave vulnerability like a gift, taking the other woman's burdens onto her own shoulders for a time.

As she slipped the tie from Myka's hands and guided the younger woman to lie on the bed, refastening her arms to the headboard, Helena felt an aching tenderness swelling her heart to match her desire; a tenderness that remained even as she explored Myka's body like a canvas, marking it with lips and tongue and razor sharpened steel. It was that same swell of emotion that crowded Helena's throat and brought tears to hear eyes at the beauty of tiny wells of crimson on creamy flesh and the naked evidence of her captive's desire as she begged breathlessly for release. But it was an emotion far greater than tenderness that filled Helena as with mouth and hands, she granted that plea – physical and emotional – to the woman beneath her.

It was only later, as Helena held Myka close and the tears of the younger woman's release stained the crisp fabric of her shirt that the author realized words may have been futile, but they were also unnecessary. She had no impetus to describe or depict or catalogue the woman who still trembled in her arms while Helena pressed soft kisses to tousled hair.

She had no reason because Myka had given that gift of knowledge to Helena and no one else. And there was no need to explain to her own heart what Helena already knew with all her soul.

The End

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