Just so you know, I'm what people refer to as a 'good
girl.' I'm respectful of my elders, go
to church regularly, and try not to swear (any more than is necessary. Workers'
comp people don't figure into this though) and I work hard. I care about my patients, I listen carefully
to the doctors and nod at the appropriate times, and mostly I just try not to
make waves. So, when a tsunami turns up in
my arms, I just have to believe there's a kind and merciful God in the heavens
looking down at us.
It all started just last week. I was at Bob Emmons' retirement party. I don't usually go to parties of any kind,
work related or not. Usually, it's
because of my schedule. Being the head nurse
of UNCLE's medical department, I can sort of pick and chose my own hours, but I
try to be mindful of others. When a
night duty nurse wants some time off, I will work as hard as I can to make it
happen. It's not like I have any kind of
social life a sudden swap of schedules would interrupt.
Anyways, I'm sitting, abandoned by my girlfriends, listening
to the music and sipping some champagne.
I don't know if it's good champagne or not, haven't had much experience,
but it tastes okay and it gives me a feeling of being a little naughty. I repress a giggle and watch people dance.
"Why, Nurse Nellie, what are you doing sitting all
alone?" I smile at the sound of My Brunet's
voice, Napoleon Solo. He has a
reputation as big as all outdoors and a heart to go along with it. He's smart, he's kind and he's the biggest
flirt this side of the Mississippi. "You
should be out dancing, letting someone sweep you off your feet."
"To be honest, just being off my feet is a bigger
thrill." Even sensible shoes get
annoying after eight hours of running back and forth. A nurse never sits for very long. "Why aren't you dancing, though?"
"Just taking a breather and getting a little adult
refreshment." He's holding a glass of something
amber, whiskey or scotch probably. "Do
you know Bob well?"
"I do; his wife was my third grade teacher, believe it or
not. If someone had told me then I'd be
at his retirement party, I'd have laughed."
We exchange a few more words and then he's off. My Brunet never sits still for long and
certainly never when there's a bevy of beautiful women for him to take his
choice of. I watch him go with a bit of
a sad heart. I'd love to take him home
to meet Mama, but Daddy would have a fit.
My Brunet is too much of a playboy for him.
One of my favorite songs starts Strangers in the Night. It's
so sweet, but also a little sad and that's when I see him, My Pretty. Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, practically every girl's
walking version of a wet dream. I said
I'm good, I didn't say I was dead. He's
leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking like he'd rather be
counting the rings of a very old tree than be here. Like Napoleon, though, he's respectful of his
other co-employees and usually makes an effort for at least a brief appearance
at retirement parties.
I don't know if it's the champagne or the song, but suddenly
I'm on my feet and walking over to him.
Most women sort of put him on edge, but you can tell by the way he looks
at me that he's comfortable in my presence.
Let's face it, how many other women have inserted a catheter or swabbed
out a bedpan for him? He has no secrets
from me and he's comfortable with that.
"Nurse, how are you?" His hands come out of his pockets,
more on reflex than anything else. It's
not like I'm going to jump him - oh, a moment for a naughty thought, and I'm back
- or anything. He smiles and I feel my
courage waning just a bit.
"I know it's a little forward of me, but I was wondering if
you'd dance with me. I really love this
If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. Instead he smiles and offers me a hand. He really does have lovely hands. They're calloused and rough, but gentle at
the same time.
The next thing you know, I'm in his arms and, well, I won't
say it was like dancing on clouds, but now I know what it feels like to have
the world go away for a little bit. He
knows how to hold me just right, not too close, not too far. People don't think he can dance, but I can
attest that he's quite capable of guiding a lady on the dance floor.
Too soon the song is over and we're walking back to my
table. For some reason, I suddenly get a
chill and then his coat's around my shoulders, smelling wonderfully of him and
I realize his arm's around my waist, not possessively, but comfortably so.
All around us, couples are starting to pair up and drift
off. I see Napoleon walking out with
Sherrie from Human Resources and I smile.
Lucky girl's going to be on the receiving end of a little Brunet magic
"Do you need a lift home?" My Pretty asks, still smiling.
"I come by bus." I'm
gathering up my stuff and enjoying the feeling of his jacket around my
"Let me take you home then.
It's the least I can do after all the times you've taken care of me."
I'm flattered by the attention, but out of the corner of my
eye, I can see the others. For Napoleon to take a girl home, it means one
thing, but for Illya, there's really no saying.
We leave by the Del Floria's exit, a novelty in itself for me. I'm used to using the other employee exit.
He hails a taxi and we wait in an awkward silence and then I
realize that I'm probably one of the few people alive who knows My Pretty as
well as I do. I know every inch of his
very acceptable body; I've seen him shaking and trembling in pain, sobbing when
it got to be more than he could bear.
I've watched him, gray faced and tight lipped, as his partner was
wheeled into or out of surgery. I've
seen his eyes filled with fear as he watched his unconscious partner and seen
them fill with joy at Napoleon's rasping of his name. I've listened to him read or just talk to
Napoleon for hours on end, waiting and watching over his partner with a bulldog
determination. Of course, the same is
true with Napoleon. I can honestly say
that there aren't two partners as close as this pair. That makes this all that much sweeter. Tonight, he just watching out for me.
We start to talk about nonsense things and the trip to my
apartment, usually long and boring, sweeps by and we're standing on the stair,
"Would you like to come in for a drink or some coffee?" I can't believe I'm even asking this, but I
don't want this evening to end, not yet.
To my utter amazement, he says yes and follows me in. And there's no sense of relief equal to
knowing my place is picked up, tidy and ready for guests. I wasn't expecting any, but my mother taught
me that you could never tell. I must remember
to thank her.
So, we're sitting on the couch, sipping coffee, eating some
cookies and still just talking when I realize that the distance between us has
been gradually closing. He's very close
and talking softly, almost seductively, if I could actually make out any of his
words. I'm transfixed by his lips and
when he presses them to mine, I want to scream up my own personal message to
Still the kiss is gentle, cautious, as if he's gauging my
response, waiting for me to decide the next move. I can't help it; I've looked and looked for
too long. I suck his bottom lip into my
mouth and feel a sense of relief coursing through me as he responds by kissing
me even more intensely, intimately. I
know that Napoleon has a reputation for being a kisser, but Holy Mary, Mother
of God, this man knows how to kiss. I
swear he's going to blow belly button lint out of my navel if he keeps going.
It shouldn't be any surprise that this man, who's got the
reputation for being able to pick any lock and defuse any bomb, is able to
unhook my bra one handed in three seconds flat, but I'm suddenly aware that his
hand is stroking my spine and my bra is dangling loosely to either side.
His mouth is roaming as well as his hands and I'm just
trying to soak up every movement, every feeling as my nerve synapses fire red
"If you want me to stop, tell me now," he whispered. Stop?
Is he out of his every-loving mind?
It's nice to have a choice, but let's be real. There's nothing stopping me now; even if my
mother suddenly appeared, shaking her finger at me and lecturing me about nice
girls, it wouldn't matter. I wanted
this. I wanted him.
I don't have an awful lot of experience with men in bed, but
I do know how to undress them. However,
unconscious bodies have one thing in common: a total lack of response. Not something I'm dealing with here. The body in my arms in very much responsive
and getting more so as I unbutton his shirt and drag my nails lightly across
his stomach. That resulted in a very positive response from the patient, I
decided as his mouth drops to my breasts.
Oh, my, the man has a talented tongue and I feel my nipples growing hard
even before he licks them. I'm well on
my way to total sensory overload by now and we are still very nearly dressed. We can't have that.
Somehow, and I'm still wondering about this, we end up on
the bed, naked as the day we were born and undulating...oh, yes, I like that
word, undulating in each other's arms.
His mouth is traveling lower and lower and I'm seeing stars even before
he reaches my clitoris. He sucks it in
and tongues it and I see fireworks, hear angels sing, the whole nine
yards. I don't even remember grabbing
his head or crying out, but I must have because a minute later I become aware
of the silky softness of his hair and see him smiling up at me.
"Wow," is all I can think of to say as he slides up me, his
erection digging into my side. I'd
forgotten about that. Now, I'm guessing
this isn't really telling tales out of school now, but the man flaccid is
bigger than some guys are fully erect. And I start to get a little
worried. I mean, it's not like I
haven't, but I haven't recently.
Nothing to worry about, he slips in like he was meant to be
there and I realize he got a condom on.
I don't even want to try to think of when that happened. I'm just glad someone listened to all my
lectures. Of course, he's not the one
I'm constantly giving penicillin injections to either. And all the time, he's murmuring things,
words I don't understand, but instinctively know they're both Russian and
He just lies quietly for a moment, I think waiting for me to
let him know I'm ready and still willing.
I give a little push and he pushes back in the most delightful way
possible. I let him set the pace. I'm
still seeing stars from my first climax and in no real rush for a repeat just
yet. I mean, yes I am anxious for
another one, but not in as much of a hurry.
Besides, his hands and mouth are doing such lovely things to
other parts of me; it's hard to stay focused on just one part of my body. He has me singing like a violin. I'm writhing and panting and he's driving
into me until I'm sure his penis is going to come out my mouth.
This climax is even more explosive than the first, but he doesn't
pause. He's at the point when he's only
concerned about one thing and abruptly he stiffens in my arms and groans. His head is back and there's a look of pain
and pleasure and then I can feel him throbbing and there are those little stars
again. I never knew astronomy could be
And the man has stamina, that I will grant you. Three climaxes later and he's just starting
to slow down. Frankly, I think it's more
a case of him running out of condoms than being completely out of action, but
it's okay. I was ready for a break
anyhow. I know God made women so that we
could have multiple orgasms, but I was feeling a bit wrung out after my last
Lying in his arms and feeling his breath against my cheek is
paradise in itself. I know in my heart
that when I wake up, he'll be gone and the next time I see him in the corridors
or, God forbid, being wheeled through Medical on a gurney, this night will have
never happened. For us, it'll be
business as usual.
Still, it was wonderful and I am happy knowing that this
will remain between us. He'll never even
mention tonight to his partner. Even
though we never actually discussed it, I know this stops here and now. And that's fine for me. Sometimes, God gives you a lifetime to
discover his deepest and sweetest secrets; other times, he just hints at them,
giving you a little taste once in awhile, letting you know that there are still
plenty of treasures waiting. I just have
to be patient and trust his judgment, knowing that, if you're very lucky, into
your life, a little Russian must fall...