THE DANCE

Disclaimer: Paramounts, all Paramounts. And they are welcome to keep Fairhaven, I certainly don't want it.

Rated NC-17

Thanks to Mary S. for her suggestions.

He watched her with hooded eyes from behind the bar; his Katie O'Clare, out there a-hipping and a-hopping with the best of them. Swirling around in the step dance. To be sure, she didn't know the steps, but she was making a fine fist of it all the same.

Sullivan's was busy that night, and Michael remained behind the bar, pouring pints of porter and watching the dancers with one eye. Katie's friends, the strangers who mysteriously came into the village from time to time were there, although none of them were dancing like Katie was.

She was linking with Seamus now. He knew the steps all right, but was worse the wear for the porter and was stumbling around and all over her. He was blathering onto her about something or the other, the old fool. She laughed up at him, her red hair, russet red, fox red, shiny as an Irish penny when it caught the dim lights in the bar. It had been caught up on her head when she started to dance, but the exertion and the drink had it tumbling in loose tendrils down the side of her face. Michael longed to pull the pins out and set the mass a-tumbling over her shoulders. Ah, she was a fine cut of a woman, Katie O'Clare. He had hopes of her, once she got the silly notion out of her head that she was needed more, wherever it was that she disappeared to, than she was needed here in Fairhaven. A woman's place was by the side of her man. He thought Katie would be a fine woman to have at his side, running the pub. Katie seemed to disagree however; she was a forward little strumpet in a lot of ways.

One of her friends came to the bar, the dark-haired man with the strange tattoo. Michael thought he looked a bit Spanish. Exotic like, with that coloring and those blue lines on his face. Black Irish. Maggie O'Halloran had had her eye on him for a while, but he didn't seem interested and she had settled for young Harry. Michael had never before seen anyone who looked quite like Harry.

"What will it be?" He asked Katie's friend with the blue lines. "The porter's pouring well tonight."

"No. Thank you." The man did not smile. "I'll have a glass of beer." He half turned and leant against the bar so that he could see the dancers.

The musicians had started a set of reels and Seamus was showing Katie the steps. Laughing, she moved to the side of the room and fanned herself. He watched her excuse herself from Seamus and sit down with some of her friends. The young blond man and a dark woman with some sort of deformity on her head, poor lass.

Michael looked at the dark man leaning up on his bar. His eyes were fixed on Katie and Michael felt a spurt of jealousy. If the bar weren't so busy, he would go over and claim his woman.

Seamus came up to the bar and the dark man moved over to make room for him. "Michael," Seamus said by way of greeting.

"'Tis yourself, Seamus," he agreed pleasantly, by way of reply.

Seamus ordered a pint of porter and leaned in for conversation. "Michael, me man. That skinny malinks of yours has the legs danced off a me. She's a looker, that Katie. Regal like. But a bit uppity for a woman. Always trying to tell me what I should do."

"She means well, Seamus." Michael's reply was low.

Seamus looked about him, to either side. The only other patron at the bar was the dark man. He leaned in closer to Michael. "And has she put out for you yet?"

Michael saw that the black Irish was narrowing his eyes, as if he didn't like what he was hearing. His head swiveled around and he looked directly at the pair of them. Although the bar was full, he fancied that Seamus's brogue echoed off the wall like an empty barrel.

"She's a decent woman. I respect her. She's not a flighty young 'un."

"Since when has that stopped you trying though?" Seamus winked.

The impromptu music session in the corner mercifully chose that moment to restart and launched into a set of jigs and polkas. Michael saw his Katie, looking flushed and disheveled approaching the bar. Absently he noticed that her strange friends had all left, except for the dark man, who still leant on the bar. His face would curdle milk.

Katie propped her foot on the rail and smiled at Michael. "Come and dance," she said to Michael. "I've worn out young Seamus here."

"I can't, Katie-love," he replied. "As long as they're still drinking then I'm still serving."

"Dance with your friend here," suggested Seamus, waving a pint dangerously in the air.

She turned to the dark man. "Dance with me, Chakotay?"

"Kathryn, you know I've got two left feet." The dark man, Chakotay, seemed reluctant.

Michael exhaled gustily. He didn't want his woman dancing with this dangerous looking man. Chakotay's head snapped around at the sound and he eyed the barman steadily. Turning he held out his hand to Katie. "You'll have to show me the steps."

"Ah, she doesn't know them herself," said Seamus, good-naturedly, "but I won't dance with you, sir."

"I'll show you what I know." She took the dark man's hand and led him into the melee on the boards in the middle of the pub.

Sullivans had no dance floor, more the tables and chairs were pushed back and to one side. The musicians sat in a booth in the corner, a fine bunch. Fiddles, whistle, bodran and banjo. Uilliean pipes and sometimes a singer, if young Maggie O'Halloran could be persuaded to let go of Harry long enough to take a turn.

Michael watched them out of the corner of his eye as he polished the glasses. The big man was galumphing about good naturedly, tripping over his own feet as he tried to match the steps. They were laughing. Michael's gaze lingered on her small hand, encased in that big paw. He watched as his arm came around her waist and he spun her, at total odds with the other dancers. The dark eyes were locked on her face and there was an unsettling expression in them. Michael knew he was looking at a man who thought he held the moon and the stars in his arms.

The bar be damned. He left it and started across the floor. He needed his Katie; this upstart shouldn't be looking at her like that. As he approached, he saw them turn too fast. She tripped over his foot and stumbled. The dark man tried to catch her, but they were both falling, falling in slow motion to the rise and fall of the fiddles and the shrill of the tin whistle. Time was suspended as he watched his Katie crash to the floor in the arms of the stranger. The man was sprawled over her; she must be winded with that big lug on top of her. He wanted to go and help her, but his feet were rooted to the floor.

The only thing she could see were Chakotay's expressive features. They had fallen, clumsy and ungainly, the pair of them caught together like knotted twine. She was winded. Chakotay lay on top of her like the dead and she couldn't breathe. Her hands went to his shoulders, to try and gain some breathing space, and as she looked up he was close, lying like a lover over her, covering her body with his.

The other dancers whirled around them without breaking step. The two of them lay still, and Michael could see that their eyes were locked together. Katie lifted a hand and touched the bronze cheek. She seemed unable to look away from the dark gaze. The dark head lowered towards her, hesitated and then claimed her lips. Claimed. Staked. Possessed. In horror he saw Katie wrap her arm around his neck drawing him closer.

He hurried towards them. "Katie," he said his voice rusty with disbelief.

The black-haired devil lifted his lips from her, and Katie turned her head and looked straight at him, Michael, her quare one. Was there a slight tinge of remorse in her eyes?

The laughing comment to him to move his hulking frame off of her died on her lips. She saw the smile fade from his and they studied each other. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she raised her hand and touched his face, hoping that the question that she saw in his eyes was answered in hers.

It was enough. His head lowered, he was so close his face was blurred. He hesitated a second, maybe giving her a chance to change her mind, but she knew deep in her heart that this was finally it. There would be no going back from this point in time.

He kissed her and in that instant, the focus of her world tilted and shifted. His lips, soft and persuasive on hers were all that mattered. His body warm and heavy, his arousal stirring and pressing into her belly. He didn't hold back, sweeping his tongue into her mouth, claming her and possessing her. She melted underneath him, her own arousal as swift and urgent as his. She wanted him, inside her and on top of her.

Dimly she heard a voice say, "Katie."

Chakotay lifted his lips but not his gaze from her, silently giving her the choice between them. She turned her head and looked Michael in the eyes. His anguished expression gave her a momentary flicker of guilt.

"Computer, delete holographic characters."

Chakotay's mouth came down hard over hers again, and she wound her arms around his back, spreading her thighs apart so that he settled between. Devoid of musicians and the rumpus of the bar, the wooden floors were empty and echoing.

"Kathryn." Chakotay's voice throbbed with emotion. "Not here, not in the echo of his presence."

Her lips felt so swollen she could hardly shape the words. "No, somewhere else." There would be time enough later to tell him that she had never taken the hologram as a lover.

"Computer, run program Chakotay Beta Zero One Zero."

The holodeck shifted around them, and she had time to dimly notice that they were lying on a grassy hillside, under the green leaves of a shade tree. Sunlight dappled around them.

"Kathryn." Chakotay's voice was slurry with his want of her. "Please, I need you so much."

She rolled out from underneath him and stood up, stripping off the heavy costume she wore. When her shaking fingers wouldn't undo the fiddly small buttons from the holes, she gave up, and just ripped, bursting the buttons, tearing the fabric as she pulled it off her. The dress fell to her feet and she pulled the cotton camisole she wore underneath over her head. She stood before him dressed only in her panties.

His eyes were heavy and hot, the heat in his gaze alone made her nipples pucker with the anticipation of his touch. He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head in one swift movement, and undid the waist of his pants. Raising his hips he pulled them down and off and reached for his briefs.

"No," she said. "Let me."

She dropped to the grass at his side and rolling onto her side reached up to kiss him, delighting in the feel of his mobile lips moving on hers. Her hands moved down, over his chest to his solid hips, banded by the tight black briefs. His penis was hard, the purple head escaping the top of his underpants. She put her lips to the head of his penis and turned her head so that she could see his face. His eyes were hooded and his hands came down to tangle in her hair. She slid his briefs down, following down his exposed shaft with her lips, smelling the musk of his groin and feeling the wiry hairs tickling her nose. His hips started to undulate involuntarily; she tasted the saltiness of him, the maleness, the essence of him.

"Please, stop," he gasped, even as his hips moved, urging her on. "Not without you."

She moved away and he rolled over, one large hand cupping her breast, running his thumb over her nipple. His mouth followed his hand, sucking and licking on her other nipple, drawing the hard peak into his mouth, vibrating his tongue over it.

She held his head to her breast, her head thrown back, quiet gasps coming from her throat. His hand left her breast and crept lower, over her stomach, over the cotton panties to trail light fingers over the damp material before he dragged them down and away from her body.

"Please..." She was fierce in her demand, with the carnal instinct to let him take her.

He slipped thick fingers into her, stroking through the slickness of her sex. He raised his head from her breast.

"Please, Chakotay, please..."

A gentle finger circled her clitoris, drawing ripples of sensation through her belly, pushing her to the edge of coherent thought. She spread her legs wider, allowing him to rake through her curls, spreading her moisture.

He moved again, settling between her legs. She reached down between their bodies and grasped his shaft, stroking the tip of him at the entrance to her sex, tilting her hips in readiness to accept him.

He thrust once, hard, and slid home in one sure stroke. She couldn't suppress the small gasp of discomfort, but raised her knees to encourage him deeper, ever deeper. He started to thrust, hard and fast, filling her completely, raising himself up, supporting himself on his elbows.

She stilled her movements, unable to match his thrusts, and let him pound hard and fast inside her. He was sweating; drops ran down his chest and dropped onto her skin. Her thighs spread wide around his hips, opening to him, feeling the sparse hairs on his legs rub along softer skin. She ran her hands down his back to his buttocks, holding him to her, and he panted and thrust, hard as a rock, sliding easily in her wetness. He was gasping her name, a syllable for every thrust and withdrawal.

The wonderful friction, the thrusting relentless shaft and the sure knowledge that the man she loved was making love to her, was pouring himself into her without restraint, was bringing her closer to her peak. She brought her legs up closer to her chest, and his large length filled her, stretched her, opened her to him body and soul. Her climax crashed down her, shattering her into a million pieces of light, spinning her out into the void where only *he* existed. Chakotay, her universe, her light her life.

Her inner spasms triggered his, and with a final thrust he pulsated and throbbed inside her, flooding her with his semen.

She was boneless and liquid, floating within his grasp like seaweed drifting on the tide. His face was wet in the crook of her neck, his skin clung damply to hers binding them together, skin, sticky, clinging, binding. He raised his face from her neck and kissed her, tenderly, softly, with love.

She studied his face, she knew it so well, but she saw it now for the first time though the eyes of a lover. His lover. She saw happiness in his eyes, joy, satisfaction and overlying it all, love.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. So Michael had said to her once, once long ago, in another world or so it seemed. All of Michael's programed poetry and romance couldn't match the dark gaze looking tenderly down at her.

"Can I tell you now that I love you?" He smoothed a tendril of hair from her cheek. "Or will you run away and throw me in the brig?"

"Only if I can tell you first that I love you." She watched comprehension spread over his face like a sunrise. Watched him absorb the knowledge that finally, things were as they should be.

"Tell me. I want to hear you say it so that I can never doubt it again."

She framed his face with trembling hands. "I love you, Chakotay." And the foot stomping, rhythm of his heart swelled and burst to a crescendo of music that only they could hear.

Feedback? Please. Shayenne

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