You watch him walk across the room, his bearing straight, his head held high. His gait is fluid, graceful. He walks like a man who knows his own worth.

His hair is a riot of light brown curls. His t-shirt clings to his chest, nipples outlined. His trousers stretch tightly and draw attention to his endowments. And he is well blessed by nature.

You try to keep your eyes on his, but can't. Your eyes drift lower as he continues towards you and you see him smirk at you.

He is lethal, you know this with an instinct you have learned not to question. If he is not the killer you are, then he is deadly in his own way. Not a man to be trifled with.

Lust flares deep and hot and rich. You suppress it ruthlessly.

He stops before you.

"Bodie," you say, revealing nothing in your voice.

"Doyle," he says, an assessing look in his eyes.

And you know.

-- THE END --

2004