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The bathroom filled with steam. Long elegant fingers tested the spray that fell before Michael stepped beneath the cascade to let it beat down on his head and down the back of his neck. He moved with considered slowness due to his injuries, leaning forward with his hands against the tiled wall and closed his eyes. It had been a long time since he had been able to enjoy the luxury of a shower. Hell, the luxury of running water that so many took for granted.

Weeks, months, years even. He had lost track of time. The four years he had spent in Ogygia prison, in the middle of a war zone, in solitary, there hadn't been much thought to prisoner hygiene. The best he'd been able to hope for was a splash from a bucket. It hadn’t really mattered. He had been more concerned about escape and survival. To get back to his family than washing.

And now here he was. His brilliant mind was barely able to contain that it was actually over. Taking this moment he thought about all that had happened, the losses suffered and everything he had done to achieve his end goal: his family. They were here with him now, in this rented motel room. His wife, his son, his brother in the next room, because none of them had wanted to spent their first night as a family, especially Sara, in a house that been tainted by memories of Jacob. Poseiden.

His hands curled into fists of anger before he forced them to relax again. Beneath the clear water, Michael stared at the tattoos that covered his hands and arms. Physical reminders of all he had done, sacrificed, to have his family safe. Free. He could have them removed as he had done previously with the Fox River tattoos but he knew that his hands were still dirty. They were covered in blood that could never be washed away. Whip's death weighed heavily on him. He was responsible for bringing him into this, into the fight. The game of cat and mouse with a man who was a deluded, power hungry psychopath.

He had used him. Yet, for so many years they had had to rely on each other, the younger man had become family. A brother to him as surely as Lincoln was. A little bit twisted considering his father. Did that make T-bag his family too? God, he hoped not. But, he thought grimly, there was a way to revenge. A plan to ensure it.

Michael was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the bathroom door. It was the movement of the shower curtain that alerted him, his entire body tensing even as he felt the the small, soft, hesitant hand on the back of his shoulder. Sara. He relaxed only sightly as her hand glided down his back, joined by a second, in a manner that suggested that the person touching him was trying to determine if he was real or a ghost.

Michael's eyes drifted shut. It was the same thought he was having. He had dreamed of this moment so many times and now feared that he was perhaps having some delusion. But before he gave into the fantasy of this moment wholeheartedly....

"Mike?"he asked softly.

"He's with Lincoln," she said slipping her arms around his waist and kissing the back of his shoulder.

The feel of Sara's naked female form pressed against him had his breath hitching. Her hands stroked up to his chest and down to his stomach in delicious slow exploration mindful of the wound she had stitched up in Greece. Every nerve ending in his body was hyper aware of her, his muscles trembling. She stepped back, picked up the soap and started to wash him. His beautiful sculpted shoulders, the strong muscles of his back, across his flanks. She seemed to take particular delight in smoothing her hands over his ass. With every stroke of soap she soothed the tension from the straight line of his back.

He stood still, enjoying her ministrations even as he was desperate to turn around and grab hold of her. Because, God if this was a dream, Michael didn't want it to end. Sara sank to her knees so she could wash him down the back of his legs. Her face came close and he felt her lips touch the right cheek of his ass, then the sharp nip of teeth as she bit him. Her tongue licked out to soothe the minimal pain. Michael let out a gasp, his body more than just a little responding to all this touching. It had really been too long!

Sara stood up and said, "Turn around."

He did. Slowly.

And was greeted by the angelic vision of his boldly naked wife. Her hair hung in wet strands around her face, pale skin flushed and gleaming with steam and heat. Her smile lit up her face and eyes like she was beholding the sun. Michael reached out to touch her, cradle her face in his palms, thumbs stroking across her plump lips. His eyes followed the running water as it trailed down her neck, the swell of her breasts, the soft, fuller curve of her hips. Intelligent, observant eyes took in the visible stretch marks on her stomach, evidence of where she had carried their child.

"God, You're beautiful, " he whispered just before he kissed her. Sara's lips were a soft sweet boon, succour to his ravaged tormented soul. Years of dreaming could not compare to the reality of having her in his arms again. Kissing her far outweighed the memory of his dreams. Sara broke the kiss first. Stepping back slightly, he saw she still held the soap. Her eyes followed the glide of it across the smooth expanse of his chest, up and down his arms. He was leaner than she remembered. Harder.

Most likely a result from the years spent in Ogygia prison. What he must have been through. She touched gentle fingers to the place he'd been stabbed by a crazed terrorist. His body was bruised and he carried scars she'd never seen before. She could have lost him before ever seeing him again. Mike could have been robbed of ever getting to know his father. Again. It was all too much. Her eyes filled with tears. There was a lot they needed to discuss. Her marriage to Jacob, his work for 21 Void. So much they had to relearn about one another. Seven years changed a person.

But there were some things that remained the same. His belly quivered as she trailed her fingers lower. Her love for this man was boundless. Time and even death could never change it. They had the rest of their lives to talk about other things. As intelligent people they both knew it wasn't going to be easy, but then when had anything about their lives ever been simple. Right now their very souls needed connection and healing of a different kind.

And if she knew anything about her husband, it was that he was driving himself crazy with analysing everything that had happened. Things he could have done different, but most of all the guilt of someone's death on his conscience. Her small hands stroked his very obvious male response to her nearness. He was beautiful too. Michael still held her face, his eyes closed and breathing deep. He leaned his forehead against hers.

"Sara," was all he said. Her very name held all the emotions he couldn't express. She knew he was still over-thinking things. She had to stop him thinking. She'd dropped the soap some time ago and that old prison joke about never dropping the soap flitted through the back of her mind. The slim fingers of both her hands squeezed his hard, velvet cock.

"What do you need?" she whispered as he groaned out loud. Michael opened his eyes and his hot gaze bore into hers. It thrilled her as much as it scared her just a little. But this was Michael and she knew he would never hurt her.

"Tell me," she demanded.

"I need to fuck you. Hard."

The word was crude. So unlike Michael. It was also raw and honest. Yet he didn't move. Because this was Michael and he was asking her permission.

"Then fuck me."

This time when he kissed her it held none of the tender tentativeness of their recent kisses and all the built up rage of love lost, denied and now found after seven years. His hands were everywhere. Using his bigger body he crowded her against the wall. For a moment she wanted him to tell him to slow down, be careful of his stitches but his tongue was filling her mouth with the taste of desperation and need. One hand roughly kneaded her breast. He broke the kiss and this time it was her turn to gasp as he bit the curve of her neck, fingers slipping down to test between her legs.

Her body was a soft and welcome harbour to the driving force of his. Sara knew this was going to be a hard quick fuck for both of them. It was also an act of love edged with darkness. He lifted her to wrap her legs around him and steady her against the wall and he spoke hoarsely. "Look at me."

Sara watched him watching her as he thrust in deep. It was pure sublime ecstasy. It was homecoming. It was fast, hard and intense. The thrusting of his hips slammed with almost bruising roughness. His fingers digging into her thighs to hold her possessively. It was like he was trying to drive out thoughts of anything else. Anyone else.

"Mine," he said spilling himself inside her.

"Yours," Sara assured him breathlessly.

Michael rested his head in the curve of her neck, harsh breath matching hers, spent. Sara clung to him tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him. She kissed the side of his face. After a few moments Michael lifted his head to look at her, wondering if he'd gone too far, but all he saw was Sara's smile.

And that was all he needed.