"We who are about to die salute you." Luke took a leisurely puff
on his last cigar, obviously savoring the taste of fine Cuban tobacco.
Felicia watched as he rolled the smoke over his tongue with infinite
care, then expelled it on the heels of a regretful sigh. "Sure am gonna
miss these," he mused.

"Would you stop talking like that?" Felicia said, pacing the length of
their prison. "We're going to get out of here, you know. I wish you'd
stop acting as if we're as good as dead already." She stopped pacing
and scratched irritably at the numerous mosquito bites on her legs, noting
with dismay that her almost-brand-new skirt was nearly completely shredded
now, hanging in unattractive jagged blue edges, brilliant shards of fabric
against her skin. So much for designer label quality, she thought sourly.

"What do you expect me to do, darlin'?" he asked, gesturing to their
confines with his aloft cigar.

They were luxurious confines, granted -- the plush, ornate surroundings
of Faison's library were appropriately baroque and ghoulish all at once.
Luke had already opined that Faison and Stefan Cassadine must have had the
same decorator. The gargoyle-esque candlesticks that adorned one of
the cherry wood bookshelves leered at her grotesquely, and she suppressed
an urge to stick out her tongue at the creepy sentinels.

"There's no way out," Luke continued, oblivious to her juvenile battle
with the furnishings. "We've been trying for hours, remember? I don't
know what else we can do besides sit and wait for Monsieur Faison to
come see us again, so he can gloat some more over his dubious victory."
Another puff of smoke. "When he gets here, then we'll ambush him and
his goons. And if we can't do that -" He shrugged. "Well, it sure was
nice knowing you, sweetheart." A glance at her all-too-exposed legs.
"Real nice."

She huffed in frustration and sat down beside him on the deep purple velvet
couch, annoyed at the way her ragged appearance was so at odds with the
formality of the room. "How did we end up here, Luke?" she asked with
a scowl, crossing her legs and resting her chin in her palm. "It wasn't
supposed to happen this way. We're too good for this kind of screw up."

"All plans are subject to unforeseen variables," Luke said philosophically.
"Maybe we should have let Bubba tag along after all."

She stiffened beside him. "You know I don't want to talk about that." Her
current estrangement with Mac had been the source of much friction between
her and Luke during the course of their adventure -- almost as much as the
pervasive sexual tension that crackled between them every step along the
way. Luke knew it as well as she; there was no need to stir up trouble
at this late date.

"I'm sorry," he said, genuine contrition in his voice. "My bad." He reached
out and gingerly touched one of the angry mosquito bites that marred her
shin. "You really got eaten alive out there," he observed.

Fire trailed after his touch, but Felicia didn't let her reaction show. "Guess
I won't have to put up with the itching too much longer, seeing as how we're
going to die and all," she said, her tone deliberately light.

He cocked an eyebrow at her and stubbed out his cigar on the arm of the
couch. "Now who's being defeatist?"

She glared at him, then upped the intensity of the glare when he started
carelessly tracing the bite with a feathery touch that sent alternating shivers
and hot flashes down her spine. "What are you doing?"

"I can't help myself darlin', you know the effect your legs have on me."
His tone was joking, but she could sense the undercurrent of pent-up desire
beneath his words. She had been feeling it all too much herself the past
few weeks.

Almost without thinking -- almost -- she shifted so that her leg moved against
his hand, encouraging the friction. "I seem to remember that, yes."

His hand traveled up a little higher, dangerously close to her thigh. The
tiny circles he traced on her skin with his fingertips left goose pimples in
their wake. "Good," he murmured. He looked up at her, and their eyes met.

Blue on blue, with red heat flaring between them.

Looking back on it later, Felicia would not be able to remember exactly
how or when Luke kissed her, nor how long it took before she lost her
struggle with her conscience and surrendered to his touch. It was a blur
of hot lips and moist tongues, of his breath against her cheek, his hands in
her hair, the taste of cigar smoke thick and bitter in his mouth. The way
her skirt was suddenly bunched up around her waist, the way his fingers
found their way beneath her shirt to cup her breast, the way his hardness
pressed against her belly insistently. This is what Felicia would remember
about how it started, later, when she allowed herself to remember at all.

We were about to die, she would tell herself. It was about need, and
sensation, and wanting. It was about a desire to take hold of life, to grasp
it in our hands, to feel it explode between us and clutch it with all that we
had left. That's all it was. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But that would come later.

They hastily helped each other out of their torn and dirty clothing, until
they were skin to skin, rough against smooth, slightly tanned against ivory,
slick with sweat in the heavy heat of the South American summer.

"This is crazy," Felicia whispered at one point, as he suckled ardently
at her breasts. Her hands rested on top of his head, unconsciously
smoothing his soft, thin hair. "Faison could be here any minute --"

"It makes no difference," he said, interrupting what he was doing.
Despite the heat outside the air was cool on her abandoned nipple,
and she cursed herself for making him stop. "We're damned if we
do, damned if we don't, so we might as well go out in a blaze of glory.
Don't even think about it, darlin'." He smiled at her, then bent his head
back to her breast and snaked his hand between her legs.

"God," she gasped, arching up beneath him. "If you don't hurry up
I'm going to kill you before Faison ever gets a chance..."

He let out a soft, low chuckle and flicked his tongue over her nipple
in response. And then finally, finally he was inside of her, thrusting
triumphantly, and she dug her nails into his back and let her head
fall back in pleasure against the arm of the couch, her eyes shut tight,
aware of nothing but the pure sensation of him filling her again and
again.

Luke, on the other hand -- and to no one's surprise -- was a talker.

"Oh yes baby baby yes you feel so good so damn good god you're killing
me darlin' oh yes just like that no a little deeper yeah that's it oh that's
perfect so so sweet make me feel so good god..."

They came quietly by necessity, letting out breathy cries and strangled
groans, surrendering to oblivion with gasps and spasms and hot, thick
wetness. Luke collapsed on top of her and buried his face in the crook
of her neck, tenderly kissing the soft skin there with a sweetness that
took her breath away.

They lay tangled in each other afterward, no longer speaking, each lost
in their own thoughts as they contemplated what to do next. Felicia
shifted on the couch so that her body was lined up against his, and his
fingers traveled lazily up and down her thigh, over her hip, in a gesture
that was obviously meant not to arouse, but to soothe, to assure her
that everything would be all right in the end.

When they were finally starting to come back to themselves -- to become
aware once more of the danger of their surroundings and what they had
done -- the door opened.

end.