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Liz fished her keys out of her backpack and started up the stairs, her mail clutched haphazardly in her mouth. At least there wouldn't be any homework this weekend. Life might have prepared her for any number of things, most notably interpersonal relationships with aliens, but the amount of homework required for a molecular biology major wasn't one of them. The labs alone were threatening to kick her ass.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, reaching for the light. "Maria, I'm home," she called.

"Yeah, but Maria's not."

She flung the door the rest of the way open and chucked her backpack at the sound of the voice, dropping to the ground.

Then the light clicked on, and she scrambled to her knees, pressing her hands to her mouth. "Oh God! Max! I'm sorry!"

"It's ok," Max said, her backpack in his hands. "I should have expected unidentified flying baggage. At least no furniture was harmed. I'm sort of fond of your lamps."

She was across the room in a second, running her hands along his face. "You're all right, though? I didn't hurt you?"

"Not a scratch." He let her backpack fall to the ground. "But if you wanted to kiss it and make it better, I wouldn't complain."

"You're just looking for an excuse," she said dryly, but kissed him firmly on the mouth anyway.

God, was this ever going to stop being fun? Together since their junior year, lovers since their senior year, and every part of her still tingled when she touched him. It was like a dream, sometimes -- she was happy, healthy, doing great in school, and was loved so completely she had to fight off an urge to giggle at inappropriate moments.

If it was a dream, she didn't want to wake up. Especially if the dream, as it looked now, involved him in a leather jacket and tight black jeans. Thank you, Mr. Subconscious.

Speaking of which...

"Max?"

"Hmn?" He stepped back just enough to speak, his lips brushing hers when either one of them spoke.

"What's with the decor? And where's Maria?"

The apartment was...different, somehow. Most of the lights were off, but there was a faint flickering coming from her bedroom. The air smelled indistinctly of spices; not poupourri, but close.

"Ah, yes. Maria." He nuzzled her mouth with his. "Have I ever told you how much I adore your best friend? Her next birthday, she's getting a puppy. Or possibly a car. I haven't decided."

"That doesn't tell me where she is."

"I'm getting to that. She's spending the night at Michael's."

Liz raised an eyebrow at him. "That's not terribly surprising. She spends a lot of nights at Michael's. Almost as many nights as I spend at your apartment."

Max held up a hand. "Ah, but you haven't let me get to the best part. She is spending all of tonight at Michael's. The entire night..." He wrapped his arm around her waist and started towards the bedroom. "...On this, your twenty-first birthday." He opened her door the rest of the way.

She peered inside, and took an audible breath.

Maria had mentioned to her, once, about a godawful hotel room she and her mother had booked on accident. The hotel had referred to it as "the amorous garden" -- entirely *not* what Amy and Maria DeLuca were looking for. Maria had described it in horrified detail, somehow managing not to break up laughing...until she got to the part about the mirrored ceilings, anyway.

In the course of the eight hours since she'd last been home, her bedroom had become a more tasteful version of that. Her bed was now covered in black silk sheets, complete with two roses on the pillow: one blood-red, the other ice-violet. Beside the bed was a bottle of champagne on ice. On the nightstand were four white silk scarves. The flickering, she now saw, came from the dozens of lit candles scattered around the room, most of them surrounding the bed.

Liz had to swallow twice to get past the lump in her throat. "Max, what is going on?"

"I told you," he murmured, nuzzling her throat. He ran his tongue along the big pulse on the side as if tasting it. "Don't you remember? As of today, we are officially legal in every state. So to celebrate..." He moved down slightly to kiss her shoulder. "...I said I would tie you to the bed, pour champagne all over your body, and lick...it...off." His teeth scraped lightly at her skin.

"You...you were serious?" she said, trying to shove her voice down. There was no way she could be taken seriously if she squeaked.

"Nothing but." Max moved his hand up her back, the fingers tracing the ridges of her spine, and slid the hooks of her bra free. "Of course, then there were the other fantasies I never told you about, but those can wait." Her shirt came off with remarkable ease, leaving her bare to the waist.

"Care to share?"

"Oh, there were plenty." He reached around to the front of her jeans and unsnapped them, teasing the zipper down. His hand followed its path, tracing the sensitive skin of her lower belly through her panties. "I'm saving most of those for the honeymoon, though."

She let the barest edge of a whine to enter her voice. Whining always worked. "Not even a preview?"

"Well..." Max thought for a moment, still running his fingers over her skin, seemingly in no hurry to go any further. "All right, just one. We're in front of the fireplace, on a bearskin rug. I'm going to see how many times I can make you come without touching you."

Just for a moment, the mood was broken as the scientist part of her brain surged to the fore and shoved her hormones out of the way. Liz straightened, turning to look at him. "How are you going to manage that?"

Max shrugged, smiling lazily. "The brain is supposed to be the greatest sex organ we have. I thought I'd test that theory. I'm just going to lay beside you -- not touching -- and talk to you. It should be possible to bring you to orgasm without ever touching you."

The image -- the two of them curled together, not touching, his words stroking her as surely as his hands ever had, her cheeks flushed and her hands balled into fists -- seared itself onto her brain. She moaned aloud.

"And then...I'm going to tie myself to the bed and let you do anything to me you want. *Anything*." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Can't you see it?"

Ridiculous question. Of course she could. He was flat on his back, and flushed clear to the middle of his chest. The firelight outlined him perfectly: rose-dark nipples, erect from chill and pleasure, stood out against starkly defined muscles. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his mouth parted ever so slightly. His arms were pulled to the sides with black silk scarves, leaving him unable to cover himself. Not that he would have; from his expression, she could have brought in an entire video crew and he wouldn't have noticed.

Liz shook her head once, and the image faded. There would be time for that later. Now...now it was her turn.

"I'm all yours," she whispered, turning to look him in the eye. "Whatever you want."

Just for a moment, everything was visible in his eyes. The shock that she trusted him so completely; gratitude, for allowing him this; not a little bit of lust. And through it all, love. She blinked the tears away before they had a chance to form.

Then the moment passed, and something changed. His eyes...they weren't harder, exactly, but they were less innocent. Almost...devilish.

"Then we should finish getting you ready," Max said softly, and started edging her jeans and panties off of her hips. Liz made no move to aid or hinder him, merely stood there impassively. If she was going to be tortured within an inch of her life, the least he could do was undress her.

The last of her clothes hit the ground, and she stepped gracefully out of them, arching an eyebrow at him. "Better?"

"Much." Max ran his eyes appreciatively over her, smiling again, and the temperature in the room rose another ten degrees. That smile...Every time he wore that particular expression, memorable things happened. Most of them invoved clawed backs and splintered furniture.

He moved his hands to her waist and guided her towards the bed, careful not to let them drop too low. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped neatly in her lap, and looked up at him. "What now?"

"Now, we make you more comfortable," he said, and picked up one of the scarves from the beside table. He ran it along her forearm for a moment, a smile ghosting his mouth when she shivered. "Lie back. I have to do this part."

Liz leaned back unhesitatingly, moving around until she was in a position that wouldn't bother her for long periods of time. She had the sneaking suspicion that this was going to take a while...not that she minded.

"Lift up your arms," he said. She did, and he carefully pulled her wrist back against the bedpost, tying it there with one of the scarves. He repeated the motion with her other arm on the other bedpost, then took a step back. "How does that feel? Too tight?"

She flexed experimentally and shook her head. "No. I could get free if I had to, but not if I don't want to."

"Good. That's what I was going for."

A thought occurred to her, and she looked up at him. "What about the other two?" she asked, nodding at the remaining scarves.

"Well, I was thinking about using them on your ankles...but no. Not yet." He leaned down and kissed each high arch, flicking his tongue over the area lightly. "Not unless you start struggling too much." He smiled again. "Besides, we might come up with a better use for them later."

The possibilities alone made the temperature rise a few more degrees. "Uh-huh. And the roses?"

"Huh. The roses. Almost forgot about those." Max lifted the blood-red one and considered it, fingers tracing the petals. "That wouldn't do. They could get crushed. We'd better put them aside." He placed the blood-red reverently on the bedside table -- which, she saw, was getting a little crowded -- and picked up the ice-violet. He glanced from the rose to her and back again, smiling wickedly. "We'll leave this one nearby," he decided, and rested it on the pillow beside her head, far enough away that she couldn't thrash around and cut herself on the thorns.

Well. The mood was set. Chilled champagne, roses, black silk sheets, a willing girlfriend tied to the bed with silk scarves -- what the hell was he waiting for?

"We've had this discussion before," he said, stepping away from the bed. Liz resisted the urge to groan. The man chose the most damnable moments to read her mind. "I hate rushing. Tonight is the result of years of planning and fantasies on my part, and I refuse to rush them just because someone's jumping the gun."

"I am *not* jumping the gun," she snarled, pulling herself upright as far as she would go.

Max raised an eyebrow at her. "Aren't you?" he said mildly, running a hand up her thigh. He slid a finger inside her, eyes automatically closing at the feel of her wetness against him. She relaxed her bonds, moaning aloud. "You're so ready, and we've barely begun. I haven't even had time to -- uncork yet." He opened his eyes and pulled away from her, a flash of regret touching his face. "Soon," he whispered, tracing his other hand along the curve of her cheek. "I promise."

Liz let out a long, shuddering breath and nodded. "All right. I'm just --"

" -- waiting for the roller-coaster to drop. I know the feeling." He touched her cheek again and got up, headed for the bathroom. "How was your day?" he called back.

Liz didn't even bat an eyelash at the question. They'd had this discussion in far more awkward circumstances; that was half the fun. "Not bad. I'm glad it's Friday, though. I thought I would never get that stupid lab report done."

Max's voice floated to her from the other room. "See, that's why I'm a journalism major. I finished my science requirements a year ago. No labs."

"Yeah, but I *like* my major. I don't even mind the hideous amounts of work, because I know it's going to be worth it in the end. It's just tiring after a while."

"And that's the purpose of tonight," he said, stepping out of the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. "You need to relax."

Liz lifted her head to look at him.

And almost swallowed her tongue.

Max was on the other side of the room, wearing black boxer-briefs. *Tight* black boxer-briefs. Every inch of him that wasn't on display was outlined clearly. Her eyes widened at the sight.

He glanced down at himself. "I don't want to get my clothes dirty," he explained, and grinned. "And this way, there's still something left to take off."

Liz didn't say a word, just looked at him. He crossed the room and lifted the champagne from the bucket. Tiny drops of condensation dripped down, down, down into the waiting ice. She swallowed again.

Then a thought struck her, and she found her tongue. "Max, wait."

He glanced up. "What? What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"No, I'm fine. It's just -- that's got alcohol in it." Memories of the first -- and only -- time he'd ever gotten drunk flashed through her mind. Granted, he was a cute drunk, but she wanted him sober.

"Not this bottle," he said, tapping the bottle with a finger. "One of the great things of controlling molecules: You can alter the actual chemical content, and still leave the taste and those little bubbles that get up your nose. It's the equivalent of non-alcoholic beer." He held the bottle carefully over the bucket and concentrated, shooting the cork across the room. Liquid trickled over his hand, and he licked it away.

"Nice trick," she said, admiration coloring her voice.

"Thanks." He put the bottle on the table long enough to straddle her body, covering hers with his. "You ready?" he murmured, giving her one last look. One last chance to back out of it, if that was what she truly wanted.

Liz looked up at him, willing him to believe her words. "I'm ready," she said simply, relaxing against the scarves. "If you are, that is."