Disclaimer: The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of UPN (although God knows they don't deserve "our guys"!), Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. There's no money, property, prospects, to speak of. Only the toothless wonder, a dog named Panda.

This is a Blair P.O.V. companion piece to WEDDINGS CAN BE A BITCH. It's a first-timer, and ridiculously romantic. (That's my P.O.V.) Enjoy!

P.S. To the angst lovers among you, I'm really trying to finish another J/B first-time story just for you, but it's so depressing ...

I love a jacuzzi.

I love a big hotel suite with a jacuzzi.

I love a big hotel suite with a jacuzzi and a sleeping, naked man in the next room.

And if you throw in room service, well, that's Blair Sandburg's idea of heaven on earth.

Of course, part of that slice of heaven is the snoring titan in the canopied bed, Jim Ellison.

"Hey, look at that. 'Mr. Happy' is surfing! My dick certainly is talented!"

Hear that, big guy?

"Isn't that right, Jim? Jim? Jim. Jimjimjimjimjimjim. J-j-j-j-i-i-i-i-m-m-m-m-y-y- y-y. Jimmy cracked Blair, and I don't care!"

I think I have a pretty decent singing voice. Actually, Jim's is better. Jim. My partner. My friend. My Sentinel.

My lover.

"Hot-damn! Ellison, you're MINE!"

Oh, oh. I hear something on the other side of this impressive door. Maybe it's my massive snugglebunny. It's a moan, it's a groan, it's ...

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg, if you don't shut up, I'm going to drown you in that damn bathtub!"

Ah. Love words. From the man I love, and the man who loves me.

This calls for another song. Let's see. What would fit the occasion?

"He's an easy lover, he'll take your heart but you won't feel it ..." Phil Collins is right, even paraphrased.

That big, semi-comatose detective took my heart as he loved/fucked my considerble brains out last night. For good and always, I hope.

I bet you're wondering how Blair Jacob Sandburg, anthropologist, teaching fellow, official consultant to the Cascade Police Department, guide and keeper of a genuine Sentinel's remarkable abilities, soaking in bubbles at this particular moment, got to be here ... sore beyond belief, sated beyond my wilds dreams, and happier than I've ever been in my relatively short life. And that 6'1" 200 lb., handsome, chiselled Greek god in the other room, hungover (and REALLY hung, F.Y.I.) got to be there, trying to roust himself from said hangover and, more to the point, a night of lovemaking, along with a soupcon of fucking, sucking, bucking, and plucking. Well, that's not altogether true. I didn't pluck him. I don't think.

"Hear me, Jim?"

"The Beltway can hear you, Sandburg! Give the dying a break! I swear to God, if you make me come in there, they won't be able to identify the body!"

Fucked into oblivion. You gotta love how the man thinks.

It got quiet out there. No, wait. I hear snoring again. Now THAT's music to my ears.

Well, while my big, buff cop-lover is catching a few more zzzzz's, I'll tell you about the past five days, and how we went from "me" and "him" to "us."

If you're interested, stick around. It's a GOOD story.

Five days ago, Jim, Rafe and I flew into Washington, D.C. Jim and Rafe were scheduled to attend The National Law Enforcement Symposium. Don't let either of them downplay their being involved -- it's a big honor and privilege being invited to represent your police force at the conference.

I spent the time in the Rare Books section of Georgetown University's library, tracking down possible arcane references to Sentinels in ancient Thracian culture. I almost let the subject matter slip to Rafe, but Jim's glare literally froze the words on my lips. I quickly executed one of the famous Sandburg "obfuscations" everybody accuses me of doing (I think of it as "softening" the facts I'm dealing with) and told him I was being given access to a very rare edition of the Kama Sutra, translated by Sir Richard Burton. I could see the wheels turning in Rafe's fine-looking head, trying to figure out how an ancient sex manual dove-tailed into my dissertion research about closed subgroups,i.e., the Cascade P.D. Hey, it's possible.

I also visited the Smithsonian because I love it there. When I was a kid, my mom, Naomi, and I spent some time in Washington. She'd let me roam the halls of the Museum of Natural History for hours on end. I couldn't get enough of it then. Still can't.

So, that's pretty much a thumbnail of Days 1 through 3.

Now the plot thickens. Much like my cock, which I happen to be rubbing here under the water. "Jim, I'm 'doing' myself, pretending it's your hand ... and it feels so-o-o-o good! The only thing better would be your mouth!" If he's semi- conscious, that invitation will shift the old motor into high gear. Back to the story.

Jim was also invited to attend the wedding of a former military buddy who's now some high- ranking mucky-muck in the government. (Fox Mulder, phone home.)

You can imagine how excited my Jim (... "my" Jim ... does that sound great, or what?) gets about stuff like this. If you listen real hard, you can hear the "marriage" and "institution" rants rolling off those fanastic lips. But he had to go, grumbling that he "owed" Bill Lewellyn big time for something or other. Someday, I'll get the real 'skinny.' Hey, I have a lifetime to wear this Ellison character down.

Now, you have to juxtapose the normal tribal rituals attendant to a wedding with secondary social pairing functions (I dream in thesis- speak). In simpler terms, subtext. I figured (rightly so) that Lewellyn's bride, the former Barbara Zachary, had gotten a good look at Jim when we'd all met for drinks, and mentally tagged him as a "available" single man, suitable to escort any one of her friends to the reception.

But, somehow or other, my roommate snagged a toney invitation for me, instead. He knows how much I really love weddings.

I LOVE THEM! From the ceremonies, flowers, and music, to the hors d'oeuvres by the trayful and champagne by the bucketful.

And dancing. I love dancing more than anything. Well, almost anything.

Needless to say, I was "jiggy" with the surprise invitation. (Don't you love the word "jiggy," as in OK? I hear it all over the Ranier Campus.)

Only problem: what to wear? I didn't think tramping into the ultra-elegant Hays Adams Hotel Grand Ballroom in a flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots would score me any points. Rafe said he'd lend me the extra suit he'd brought. This guy is Metro's tribute to GQ. I did try it on. For some reason, I'd never really noticed how much taller and broader the young detective is than me. The bottom line was that I looked as though I were playing dress-up in my daddy's clothes.

I was just about to say "Thanks, but no thanks" to the wedding, because CinderBlair didn't have anything to wear to the Ball (oh, don't worry, this story has a ball, alright, but it comes later on), when an interesting, plot-propelling thing happened.

Jim surprised me by give me his credit card, telling me to "Go out and buy something nice to wear to this thing." Now, if you knew how ... 'careful' ... Mrs. Ellison's baby boy is with a dollar, you'd realize what a really terrific gesture this was.

So, armed with plastic, a map of downtown D.C., and an infusion of caffeine, I went off to explore a few of the better discount places suggested by my Georgetown friend, Bebe Jankowski (great name, isn't it?). I hit paydirt at the very first store, called appropriately enough 'Suit U?.' I decided to go with the preppy look: blue blazer, shirt, and tan dress slacks. I know, I know. I should have bought a suit, but I've already had my bar mitzvah, and the uses I'd get out of one are pretty limited. Plus which, I really didn't want to take advantage of Jim's generosity, since he's pretty much given me a free ride over the last three years.

But the big score was a fabulous Armani suit for Jim. A few weeks ago, he and I had been at the Cascade Mall to buy a new toaster oven (the old one finally gave up the ghost). All of a sudden, I spied this great-looking piece of clothing in the window of an exclusive men's shop. I don't know how I talked Jim "Sandburg, give it a rest" Ellison into it, but 20 minutes later, out came the Cascade detective extraordinnaire in this midnight blue designer suit, jacket buttoned low on the hip, showing off the to-die- for physique. A white-on-white shirt with a elegantly understated tie finished off the ensemble.

"Well, how does it look, chief?" He'd asked as he stood outside the dressing room.

I couldn't speak. Neither could Ronnie, the salesman. That's how drop-dead gorgeous Jim was. (He certainly 'cleans up" nicely!) The cut of the pricey outfit graced the hard, muscular body as though it had been designed and tailored for him.

"Uh, you look ..." It was hard for me to string words together into a sentence, spitless as I was "... you look fine, Jim."

Then Jim asked the price. Then, both of us were spitless. He aimed a gruff question to the still-salivating Ronnie: "Does that come with out with or without this building?"

So, Ellison carefully removed the suit, shirt, and tie, and handed them to the now crestfallen clerk.

Well, damn, if I didn't find its twin here, like the TV says, for a fraction of the original cost. I bought it on the spot, and succeeded in getting a shirt and tie thrown in for good measure. Hey, my people know three things: guilt, haggling, and where to find the best Chinese food.

I headed back to the Econolodge on the outskirts of D.C. (Jim's and Rafe's per diem was ... modest is the kindest word I can think of.) On the way, I stopped at Union Station. If you haven't been there since the renovation, go! Outside, I bought myself a tie and an enormous pretzel dipped in garlic butter.

When Jim saw the suit, he nearly went through the roof. I guess he figured I'd worked the credit card so hard, it should have melted. Sputtering, my friend asked incredulously if I were crazy.

"Why don't you treat yourself, Jim? You want to look good for the pictures don't you?"

"Sandburg, stop it!" He looked at the price tag, and was favorably impressed with my hunting and gathering skills. "Anyway, it's still too expensive."

"All those long-legged, sophisticated Washington types are going to eat you up alive! Come on ... live a little!"

As he continued to grouse, I went into a well- practiced whine, which I find often serves me even better than the Guide voice I use when Jim's senses are acting up.

"Do it for me." At the time, I thought he looked at me ... differently, somehow. He got kind of quiet, then said, "OK."

Doesn't that sound nice? Do it for me. Or to me. Whichever.

Oh, in case you're interested, I guess I looked OK. (On occasion, I can 'clean up' pretty well myself.) I wore my hair loose and down, and two sapphire earrings that I had borrowed from Bebe. Jim didn't seem have much to say. But he kept staring at me. Kind of studying me. At least Rafe gave me the thumbs-up sign.

So, that's how Jim Ellison and this anthropologist ended up at the posh affair.

We arrived fashionably late (my fault). I couldn't get my tie right for some reason. Maybe the fact that Jim was standing behind me, arms draped over my shoulders, trying to help me redo it had some bearing on my clumsiness.

Anyway, almost every set of eyes zeroed in on my partner as he walked over to the table with the seating arrangements to find our placecards. That's just how gorgeous he was. Scores of hot- wired libidos (including alot of the men there) tried to help him, hoping against hope that he was the lottery prize and they were the big winners for the evening. They all lost. Such sad faces at such a happy occasion.

You have to hear the rundown of who was at our table. There was Jim, myself, a dual U.S. Marine couple, Captain Garry Citro, USMC, and his wife, the lovely Major Nancy Resnik-Citro, looking and sounding for all the world like John and Jane Wayne. Finally, there was the bride's best friend, Cindy Whitfield, and her date, Ira Zachary, cousin of the bride and a professor of Romance Language at some college in the hinderlands. The relative in question had been unceremoniously dumped into our merry little group because he was apparently personna non grata with the rest of the Zachary clan.

Cindy was as tall as Jim in her fashionably painful stiletto heels. Insinuated in a long, red turtleneck cashmere dress with a slit up the side, she was definitely hot. Too hot for Ira. Some higher power urged me to plunk myself down between her and Jim, which I accomplished with a little placecard switching sleight-of-hand.

After the initial inanities and pleasantries had been exchanged, Jim fell into 'militarese' with the Citros. In under a half an hour, I discovered why people hated Ira. Why Cindy had been paired with Ira (as a favor to her best friend) and banished with him to this guest equivalent of no man's land. And that, besides being really attractive, intelligent, and as funny as hell, she was a great dancer.

Since nobody else wanted to, 'C.' and I decided to do it. Dance, that is. Once I got over the hurdle of where to put my face (6'1" blonde Amazon, 5'8" brunette scientist, you put together the mental picture), we had a great time! We chit-chatted about this and that, I admired the Zuni fetish necklace she was wearing, and of course, we talked about Jim. As we continued to suck up champagne, we got looser, and started to "talk" to one another, like people. The first and second courses of what looked like a phenomenal meal were history, and C. and and I were still tangled in one another's personal space.

"So, Professor Sandburg, first of all, thank you for rescuing me from Ira. No one deserves that much cruel and inhuman punishment."

"My pleasure."

"That's certainly a loaded statement. What exactly is your pleasure?"

Can you imagine Blair Sandburg at a loss for words?

"Sorry, prof! It's the huge amounts of alcohol I've consumed getting BT through this week."

"Was she nervous?" That didn't seem to fit the profile of the newest Mrs. William T. Lewellyn III, in Vera Wang (somebody told me), who was meeting and greeting the world at large.

"Basket-cases would have pitied her. OK, enough about the bride. So 'dish.' What's the story with you and Jim?"

"Well, Jim's a Cascade, WA police detective. He's had the the best arrest record on the force for the last three years. That's why he was chosen to attend a National Law Enforcement Symposium this week. Me, I'm a consultant to the department and his partner. He's my best friend and roommate."

"As interesting as that all is, what's the story with Jim, Blair?"

"Uh ... you mean is he available?"

She gazed down at me with a sympathetic look on her face. Kind of the look you'd give someone whose I.Q. is roughly the same as his age.

"No, hotshot, I mean how long have you two been a couple? And if you say, 'a couple of what?' I'm going to hurt you."

My face was probably as red as her dress.

"We're not ... we don't ..."

"Really?" The genuine surprise in C.'s voice startled me. I decided to 'dip' her to get off the subject because it was starting to make me uncomfortable. I'd loved my Jim for a long time, almost from the moment at our first real meeting when he'd slammed me against my office wall. But I prided myself on how well I'd hidden it from everybody. From Jim, from the men at metro, and the world at large. Except, apparently, from this stranger.

C. wouldn't be put off.

"OK, Blair ... or should I call you 'chief?' Number one: that man who's watching us like a hawk isn't doing it because he considers me the best thing since sliced bread." We cast a tandem glance toward table 11. My Blessed Protector was lurking just under the surface of a surprisingly dark visage, waiting for a chance to erupt and shake up the festivities. "You know, I have the strangest feeling that he can hear what we're saying. Really weird. Can your friend read lips? Anyway, he's burning a hole in my forehead because I have my hand on your ass, which, by the way, is just as wonderful a butt as I've ever grabbed." C. gave my left cheek a little squeeze. Silently, I tried to figure out how I was going to run interference when my partner eventually decided to "rescue" me. Maybe, he'd just cut in, and dance me away.

"Number two: when you talk about Detective Ellison, and look at him for more the 10 seconds, those beautiful eyes and that fabulous face of yours shine."

"No, they don't!"

"Oh, get out of town! I could read by them! Finally, number three, and this is the big one: the proprietary interest in you was off the scale. But I felt absolutely no interest directed toward me. Not to put too fine a point on it, men usually react favorably to me. Even the 'taken' ones. But not Jim Ellison. 'Your' Jim."

"'My' Jim?" I blushed, and almost stumbled over the two words.

"Want some good advice, little Professor? Take that impossibly handsome companion out of here, now, and talk to him. About the two of you. And, do it preferably while you're naked. That will most likely get his attention."

"I can't! Aside from the fact that this is the craziest thing I've ever heard, we've got another man from Cascade with us. Where ... "

While we were still dancing (as the entree was being served), C. moved us closer to the table. Dammit, she was right! Jim was conversing with the Citros, but his eyes were burning embers. I swear, I think I heard him growling. I also saw tiny, little empty shot glasses interspersed among the hoc glasses and champagne flutes. Knowing Jim's particular poison, I estimated that he'd been throwing chilled Absolut vodka back "with extreme prejudice," as they say in the covert ops biz.

As satisfaction skated across her laughing, animated face, C. crowed: "Am I good, or what? Is that man on fire for you? Score one for the tall blonde!"

With that, she grabbed my hand and dragged me away from Jim, the table, off the dancefloor, and toward a group who were chatting with the bride. All women. All looking at me as though they were a pack of wolves, and I was the last steak in the free world. C. kept me close by and stood slightly in front of me, almost in an Ellison-like posture. (Maybe it's something unique to alpha units. I'll have to do some additional research.) I was introduced to a half-dozen women, who had been friends for many years. How could I tell? Remember, I'm an anthropologist. It was apparent from their body language, the verbal short-hand they used with one another, and the fact that they told me.

I once said that I felt violated by the Tanners, the supposed swinger couple Jim, Megan Connor, and I had met on the Lonny Stevens case, looked me up and down a certain way. Compared to this, they were Barney and Baby Bop.

C. looked at them for a split second, then said something like: "Everybody be very nice to Professor Sandburg! He's charming, intelligent, and spoken for." The woman on the end -- Bonnie, I think her name was -- whispered under her breath, "O-o-o-oh ... A teacher ... I wonder if he's a strict disciplinarian?" Laughter exploded around me, causing lots of glances to be cast in our direction. From the outside, I guess it looked like a little sultan and his harem.

One of those belonged to Jim. I saw him stand, almost knocking his flimsy chair over, and move deliberately toward us.

Time to sink or swim. To find out if I'd been fooling myself about Jim's feelings for me. To see if there were some future, the possibility of "us."

What happened next? Coming up behind my semi- gyrating hind quarters (I was operating in 'dance' mindset), he grabbed me around the waist, and tried to hold me still. My partner looked over my shoulder, his face close enough to steal a kiss, if I'd wanted. Jim spoke in the charming voice I've heard him use when dealing with women: "Ladies, good evening! Can I borrow Blair for a minute? I promise I'll bring him right back to you." Then, his warm breath tickled my ear, as he said in a soft purr, "OK, buddy, you're flagged." I lifted my baby blues up to look at him. Time to put Plan A into action. "Oh, sorry, Mom, didn't know I needed permission to have a good time." Jim continued, a little less smoothly: "Come on, chief. There's food back at the table that has your name on it. You've been dancing for hours." On to page 2 of Plan A. "Chill out, Jim. My friends, the lovely village 'elders,' here and I have more talking to do. I know how to get home."

Bingo. That's the one that did it. I'd seen Jim angry before, but not like this. The best way to get Jim Ellison's attention is to ignore him. (This hard-to-come-by information had been gleaned over the past three years. I only use it when I'm desperate. This qualified on all fronts.)

I was about to excuse myself, and go back to the table, when C. nodded her head toward the rapidly-departing figure of my friend. "Go after him, Blair! Now! And take this with you," she put the keys to Suite 1471 in my hand as she kissed the top of my head. "Oh, by the way, everything you might need is in the end table. Just in case your 'conversation' goes well."

Even though I needed to catch up with Jim to put things right, I had to ask: "Why would you do this for a couple of strangers?" The smile that C. flashed could warm the coldest day in January: "Consider it a random act of kindness, beautiful Blair. And who knows? Maybe something, or someone, as good will happen to me because if it." I brushed her lips gently with mine in gratitude. "Thank you, so much ... for everything." Her final bravery on behalf of the Sandburg-Ellison away team was to run interference with the women who'd been talking about adding me to their seraglio.

An angry Sentinel is a piece of work. No humor. No shades of gray. Black and white. Or, in my case, black and blue. You fuck up, you fuck up. And you're fucked.

Well, an angry Guide can be as much of an asshole as his Sentinel. So, rather than choosing a calm and reasonable approach, I decided to tackle him. Literally. Yes, folks, can you believe it? Me, "Can't we all get along?" Blair Sandburg. I hit him from the back going 1,000 m.p.h., and started moving the both of us in the direction of the nearest elevator. I was yelling that he was a stiff-necked, anal- retentive s.o.b., among other things.

"Don't you run away from me, Jim Ellison! We're going to talk this out, even if I have to beat the crap out of you to get your attention!" As the doors opened, we fell into the car. I pushed him up against the wall, right between two sightly 'overserved' gunnery sergeants whom I'd seen at the affair. (They had been none too friendly the moment I took C. out of circulation.)

Jim was still seething from anger, adrenalin, and the shots of Absolut. The two other passengers were laughing their asses off at our little domestic tiff. "Hey, Florio, it's the 'dancer' from the wedding! Does this little shit have a set of 'em, or what?"

And then something snapped. I must have flooded the small enclosure with an embarrassment of pheromones. It pushed my Blessed Protector into a frenzy, and he shoved me roughly behind his back, roaring at the startled figures: "Back off, Marines! He may be a little shit, but he's MY little shit! Out! Now!" They knew to vacate as soon as possible. I think we blew them off the elevator on the very next floor.

Finally, we were alone. Jim glowered at me. I returned the favor, glower for glower. And then, everything changed. In for a penny, in for a pound. I threw my arms around his neck, and kind of cantilevered myself onto those inviting, clueless lips. Try to break this hold, you bastard.

So, there we were, kissing tentatively, in the executive elevator of a five-star hotel. This first kiss was surprising, gentle, but filled with promise. The second was like being set on fire, with flames that burned, purified, and renewed. If I live to be 100 (and probably will, given my gene pool), I'll never experience a kiss like this one again. Because the way Jim went after me, practically inhaling me, he summoned up my soul. It became his for the taking. Never a "no" to Jim, never, ever again.

Now, my Sentinel just had to understand it. He needed to open his heart to me. To turn over the control that his primitive fears made him cling to in the past, that part of him that always held something back. Funny what comes to mind at a time like this. All I could remember was something I'd read as a geeky little kid. (No cracks, please.) The writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, once made an astonishing observation in one of his later romances: "In most hearts, there is an empty chamber waiting for a guest." Well, I'm here now, James. For you. The waiting's over.

"Let it go, Ellison. Come here to me. Come 'home.'"

As he lifted me up effortlessly, and the doors opened on the 14th floor (who pushed the right button?), I knew Jim understood was I was saying on an instinctive level, even if his mind couldn't wrap around it yet.

The double doors swung open at the touch of the big, gold key.(Don't you love rooms with keys, not computer cards?) Jim cast his eyes around the darkened room looking for the lights, not to mention the bed, while I started talking, no, babbling: "You love me, man. Come on. Say it. Tonight, you acted like a jealous, possessive, insensitive, scared jerk. It's got to be love. Now show me!"

I like the way my tongue wraps around commands. And if I play my cards right, my tongue will be wrapping around a lot more before this night is over.

Oh, God, he was pressing up against me (the heat was almost unbearable!), carrying me over to a impressive canopied bed in the middle of the room. Right across from the fireplace. And the balcony with the view of the Mall. I only caught shards of images as I was tossed unceremoniously on the glossy bedcovers. Oh, so we're going to play rough? Yes! A little physicality might be just the ticket to get this party rolling.

So there I was, lying rumpled, splayed, expectant and excited, looking up at him, devouring every inch of his unsurpassable beauty. I have to say it. Jim Ellison is an honest-to-God, my-hand-held-to-heaven beauty. It took my breath away. In the flicker of the firelight, his eyes flooded me with their passion, feral need, but, most of all, love. He's mine. Jim Ellison's mine. Lock, stock, and barrel.

It didn't matter that he'd acted like an idiot in front of strangers. Who am I to throw the first stone? Me, Blair "Date them all, and sort them out later" Sandburg. But no more. I'd die if he left me behind now. Others have, and it's never really mattered. But, I'll never survive losing Jim. My Jim.

"OK, Chief, you win."

Yes! Score the big one for the vertically- challenged scientist!

Jim started to undress me as fast as he could, but given the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, the poor man couldn't make a proper fist, let alone navigate buttons and zippers. So, I helped him out. (What are goals-oriented friends for?) Then I turned my attention to his Armani, which seemed to magically fall away at the touch of my fingers.

"No, thanks to C., we both win."

At the mere mention of C.'s name, he snarled at me to 'make sense.' This from a man trying to strip his roommate naked in a frenzy of lust.

"Not only did she give me the keys to this ultra-fine den of iniquity -- not to mention the honor bar -- but also some mightly good advice: that we should have a face-to-face talk about 'us.' Preferably while naked."

"And what made her think we needed to, Sandburg?"

"Because, my big, strapping lover," I whispered as seductively as I could as I pushed my soulmate's face down onto the luxurious bed, and began licking his back deliberately and massaging that fine, hard ass, "you and I are supposed to be together like this. Don't you know that by now?" My blood began to sing and burn like the best Pon-Farr experience you could imagine. I needed to keep Jim focused, so that he wouldn't zone-out. (Having his heightened senses overload, collapse and spiral down into the Sentinel's no-man's land was definitely not an option.) So I bit into that sculpted, well- defined shoulder near my mouth. Oops, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I think I drew blood. Hey, it proves I'm serious, doesn't it? And it also proves that he's the one. Not Chris, nor Maya, nor Molly, nor Cindy Whitfield. Him.

I remembered what C. had whispered about supplies in the end table. I fumbled with the drawer, and found everything a Guide could need to "do right" by his Sentinel. I covered my fingers with the flavored gel (I hope Ellison likes black raspberries) and slowly entered the tight opening hidden in that magnificent cleft.

Tight was an understatement. It dawned on me that even if Jim had played for both teams during his days in Vice, his last scrimmage would have been quite a while ago. Imagine. I had my index finger up the ass of a 6'1", 200+ lb., 40-year-old-ish virgin. I almost lost it then and there. The idea that he'd saved himself for someone -- and that someone was me -- stirred up feelings so tender, so intimate that I'll probably never be able to put them into words.

I didn't ask for permission. He didn't offer it. It wasn't necessary. I slowly inched my second finger in, followed by a third, moving, scissoring, anointing the flesh channel. Preparing the panther for his wolf. I promise, I'll always take care with you and of you.

I'm surprised. Jim is a really vocal lover. Well, let me rephrase that. It's pre-language, but still quite effective. His moans, groans, yowls and screams should have brought hotel personnel knocking on the door, but noone bothered us. I guess if you're staying above the 10th floor, nobody hears anything.

I couldn't wait any longer. My cock was going ballistic. I scrambled onto the broad, glistening back, stretching my full length to cover him protectively. I was going to take my friend gently, then enthusiastically, and every other way I could think of before the night was over. But most importantly, I was going to take him with all the love I felt. Hell, there wouldn't be enough time for that.

After the initial penetration, the plan changed. I was a goner. That incredibly hot, vice-like tunnel sucked the head of my penis in and took me hostage. Jim began to thrust backward blindly, swallowing me up. I couldn't believe how fantastic and frightening and unbelievable this felt. Because it was Jim.

I needed the "words" to make it real.

"Come on, big buy, say it. Say it for me."

"Right ... everything ... love ... uhh ... harder ... we ... good ..."

Does my Sentinel have a way with words, or what?

"I love you, too, mine. Harder? You want me to do it harder? Hey, I'm 'jiggy' with it!"

If I ever fucked anybody with less abandon, the experience doesn't spring to mind. A splinter of my brain knew that Jim was going to be sore beyond belief tomorrow. Scratched and bitten within an inch of his life. But he's such a good boy. Either the sensory dials were turned way down low, or he enjoyed the ride I was giving him. Damn, I was drilling so deep that I probably reshaped his prostate.

I know for a fact that as I pounded him into the padded headboard, he lost what little control he had. A mating panther is formidable. Even on the bottom.

How could I not do a little yelling myself? "Man, do I LOVE 'away' weddings!"

The orgasm we both experienced catapulted us into a place I'd never been. Time deconstructed. Shapes were ambiguous, sounds pouring over us were soft-edged. I only know that my soul was blazing like a binary super nova, if such a thing exists. And its other half, the better half, lay in the exhausted mountain of a man below me.

If Burton had any information on how a sexual connection between Sentinel and Guide would evolve their bond, he was sure pretty tight- lipped about it. I can see the margin notes now: "It was observed that Guide and Sentinel became closer in the confines of their relationship when said Guide carnally possessed his Sentinel until their eyes ran water, or until he fucked him blind." Or something to that effect.

What's happening here? Oomph! I jugt got flipped onto my back. Oh, do satin sheets feel good against bare skin! Uh, no, THAT feels good! Jim's hand is on my soft, yet nontheless interested cock. Petting it. Caressing it. Encouraging it to come back and play. If he keeps licking my ear, and kissing ... God, I didn't know that place right behind the lobe was so erotic ... he's going to have 160 lbs. of Guide permanently attached to him until the maid service has to pry us out of the bed to change it.

Those hands. What they're doing to me. Please. There. Lower. Better. They're the devil's. Sorry, I take that back. They belong to an angel. To my lover. My mate.

"Blair ..."

God, he used my real name.

"Please ... can I ..."

"Fuck me? Do it!"

"No ..."

"Make love to me then? Do it!"

"No ..."

"Blow me? Fist me? Do the horizontal mambo?"

"No!"

"Jesus, James, then what?"

"Kiss you again?"

HE IS SO GOD-DAMN ROMANTIC! I willingly parted my lips for him, using my tongue as a targeting device. His Sentinel eyes took over to find it, his mouth dove onto mine with the delicious abandon of newly realized passion. Jim milked me softly, sensuously, as though I were the most precious thing in the world to him. I guess I am.

As I'm telling you this (and you won't breath a word to anybody else, will you?), tears are swimming around my eyes. I've never been so moved, felt so cherished in my life. And never will be again.

Jim suddenly lifted my legs over his shoulders, and began to penetrate me using long, probing fingers coated with lube and my own semen. As he stretched me wide-open, I couldn't make words, I couldn't think, or remember what I'd done with that half-eaten pretzel that I'd bought in the day. And then I was claimed, pierced with that steel rod of Jim's in one, long gliding movement (now I definitely can call him 'big guy' with reason). Well, I guess being split in half is an equitable trade for what we were sharing. And then the eye-crossing pain disappeared, just as I knew it would.

Pain transformed to pleasure. Pleasure to ecstasy. Ecstasy to delirium. Over and over, this giant taught me lessons in "brinksmanship" I'd never known before. Again, and again, I was "almost there." Again, and again, Jim wouldn't let me cross over. I finally screamed in his ear (God, let his hearing be turned down!): "NOW! DO IT NOW! LET ME COME!"

The Sentinel roared his total possession over this Guide. "YES, NOW, BABY!" He fist-fucked my cock until it almost broke off, and plundered me from behind ruthlessly. I was marked as Jim Ellison's territory as he savaged my neck where anyone could see it. Our bodies exploded for a second time, even more primally than the first. We collapsed onto and into one another, afraid that breaking the physical connection would wake us from some remarkable dream.

I couldn't to go to sleep. Suppose this really had been just one of my hormone-induced fantasies, and I'd wake up back at the loft, in my own room, in my own bed, isolated, cut-off, alone.

"Baby, what's wrong?" Sentinel eyes must have caught the flash of pain on my face even in the darkness. He spooned into my back protectively, instinctively, molding me to him, stroking my hip and thigh with the side of his calloused hand.

"You'll remember, won't you, Jim? You're not going to get up tomorrow morning and forget 'us,' are you?" The fearful words caught in my throat.

A warm, golden laugh showered me, and scared the uncertainty away.

"Who, in his or her right mind, could forget you, chief?" Jim kissed he back of my neck over and over, in both a comforting and an arousing intimacy. "You know, for a smart guy, that's just plain dumb." Like soothing a child who was afraid of imaginary monsters.

"Oh. OK." And as my lover began to stroke purposefully down my damp chest and between my legs, to start our carnal dance yet again, I knew we were both where we belonged. Finally.

I woke up with Jim's large leg wedged between my knees, his right hand tangled in my hair, the left nestled low on my belly, right above my penis. The "Little Professor" seemed to be aware of what was brushing up against it. With a determination I admire in body parts, it stood up and began tapping on the underside of Jim's little finger, as if to get the sleeping man's attention.

But Jim was dead to the world. So this is what a Sentinel in love looks like. A curious combination of innocence, sensuality, and liquor-induced stupor. I placed a butterfly kiss on the forehead, lips, and, finally, chin. Moving slowly out of the bed, I pulled the satin sheets over his beautiful nakedness. From now on, noone gets to see it but me.

I needed to find something elible, besides Jim. (Remember, I hadn't actually eaten anything at the wedding. Unless you count three dozen canapes and a few ... make that several ... glasses of really expensive champagne. I just remembered! I didn't even get a piece of wedding cake. The things I give up for Jim Ellison ...) I once saw an ad about protein at a price that was easy to swallow. I can't go there, or I'll never get out of this bed...

The honor bar. That's it! Breakfast consisting of cookies, nuts, pork rinds, and orange juice for a mere $75. It has my name written all over it. I offered to share my Oreos, but Detective Ellison was still passing for roadkill.

So with my petite dejeune finished, I answered the circean call of the jacuzzi. But before I left, I picked up my 'lucky' black bikinis. I used to tell Jim I wore them when I thought I'd get lucky. Looking back, that was a lie. I never was lucky. Until last night. Until Jim. Hmm. I should leave them someplace 'visible.' If my Jim had a better sense of humor, I'd put them on his head, like the Jags cap he usually wears. Just the thought of it makes me laugh. No. That would be pushing the luck thing. Let me do something a little less dangerous.

Oh, I've got it. There. It looks like a spandex anklet around that sturdy leg. I guess I really should pick up our clothes and hang them neatly in the walk-in closet.

N-a-a-a-h-h-h.

So, here I am, in my own personal bubblepalooza. I think I have a heart-shaped love bite on my tush. (How did he do that? Wonder if he can do it again?)

Back to my warm and fuzzy thoughts. You know what I need? Well, besides THAT. Even more than a real breakfast? Or my doctorate? Or clothes that match? Or a bigger tube of K-Y?

I need a song. We need a song. The Sandburg- Ellisons/Ellison-Sandburgs need a song.

A 'Peabo Bryson,' maybe?

"If ever I'm in your arms again
This time, I'll love you much better.
If ever I'm in your arms again
This time,I'll hold you forever.
This time we'll never end ..."

Good, but not quite there ...

I've got it. An oldie. Jim should love it. (Or at least, have some nodding acquaintance with it.)

"Hey, Jim ... you listening out there? Do you like this song?

'There's a somebody I'm longing to see
I'll hope that he
Turns out to be
Someone to watch over me ... '"

Perfect. I can sing it all the way home. Because 'home' is in the next room.

THE END