Part One: In Which Our Heroes Discern that There is a Definite Problem

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The second the liquid hits Inara's lips, she knows something is wrong. Every fiber of her being screams out, begging her mouth to close against the hot drink, straining against the effects already taking place in her body. Inara's eyes, wide and pleading, catch Mal's equally-as-alarmed gaze for one fleeting moment. Then the deed is done, and heavy earthenware mugs fall from both their hands as a filmy blackness settles over Inara's lids and she gives herself over to whatever unseen force is guiding her limbs.

~*~

There's skin, and lots of it. The play of fire flickering across tawny browns and light caramels. The warmth of candles spreading a glow across the room, heating flesh as it's revealed, as clothing and defenses drop to the floor in the hungry rush for mouth against mouth. His hands cradle her head, tilting her chin so that he can slant his lips over hers, his tongue a wet, langorous slide against her own. He kisses without any real style, any consistent pattern. It's very obviously whatever feels good to him, and the lovely part is--

It feels good to her, too.

All of it, from the hot, dry drag of his lips, to the restless stroke of his knuckles against her breasts. He kisses her and she likes what he tastes of: moonlight and tang and the dull grit of protein. The way he brings her body up and against his erection, she wagers he likes the taste of her, also. His hands are rough and hot and steady and strong, hands that were made for shooting, for supporting, for punching, for caressing. She falls back into those hands and lets him go to work, kneading the muscles in her back, rubbing circles in her skin until his thumbs are running right against her nipples.

Then when his hands touch her center, right where she's aching, the slow, tantalizing entry of fingers against her folds. No one is ever as gentle, no one ever works her quite so masterfully, and she thinks it's because Malcolm Reynolds makes it a point to be good at everything he does.

The rest of the night is nothing but scattered captures in a photodex. Flashes of eyes closed in pleasure, of hands tunnelling through hair, an arm thrown over a slender waist, lips open in soundless pleasure. If she had the faculties, she would submit these pictures to memory to peruse all her life.

As it is, when she finally closes her eyes to rest, all that claims her is sweet oblivion, and she knows she'll wonder later if it even happened at all.

~*~

When Inara comes awake, she is instantly aware that there is no possible way to gracefully extract herself from the situation she's found herself in. For one thing, she has no clothing on. That in itself isn't particularly problematic--Inara is nothing if not used to waking a bit...underdressed.

But the fact that she's lying naked and entwined with one Captain Mal Reynolds?

Well. Problematic is one word for it.

Inara sucks in a quiet, urgent breath, willing her body not to tense so as to wake Mal up. The last thing she needs is for him to open his eyes. From there, the next step will be Mal opening his mouth. And though in certain activities Mal's mouth could certainly be put to not entirely unpleasant means, this situation is not one of them. Because when Mal opens his mouth in this situation, it will be to talk. And Inara knows, mostly from past experience, that Mal talking is anything but "not entirely unpleasant."

In fact, the thought of Mal talking makes Inara so cross, she barely fights the urge to huff. She can just imagine what he'll say. "Used your Companion wiles on me, didn't ya?" he'll ask, his eyes suspicious. "Knew you wanted my body. My hunky, manly body." And then he'll smile smugly and pretend that Inara seduced him and this whole mess isn't entirely his fault. Which it is. Because it always is.

Inara does huff then, careful to only huff in an extremely restrained manner so Mal's arm, which is draped over her waist, does not move.

As if she would stoop to the level of tricking Mal to get him into bed. Inara thinks uncharitably of that redheaded harlot, the one without a proper name. She'd had to use drugs to incapacitate the Captain--

Wait a moment. Perhaps Inara herself hadn't doled out drugs to aid this little venture of theirs, and certainly Mal hadn't, (Inara thinks wryly that the captain has much too much faith in his own innate abilities) but that doesn't mean drugs weren't involved at all. In fact, sadly, that seems to be the only explanation for Inara's current state of lacking dress, and for the way Mal is within two feet of her and not arguing.

Drugs, drugs that made them have sex, (and somewhere in the back of Inara's mind, the images and sensations tell her that it must have been either very, very good sex, or someone has a very, very good imagination) drugs that have effectively ruined Inara's vow to never, ever bed the captain. Not as an active choice anyway, and really--gun held to her head or sex-inducing drugs, what's the difference anymore? Inara scowls darkly, cursing the Reynolds' name and the situations she always seems to find herself in ever since boarding this ship.

Mal mumbles something incoherent and his breath wafts a hot, moist puff of air against Inara's neck. The lather she's been working herself in decreases slightly as she turns her head to gaze at his sleeping face. He does look very peaceful there, his hair adorably mussed and his lashes fanned against his cheek. She rather enjoys the softness of his features when he doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Her eyes trace down his corded neck, his solid, broad shoulders, and the scarred, browned skin of his torso. He's certainly firmed up some since their little adventure with the Lassiter, and his skin is nowhere near as pale as it was under the Bellerephon sun. Perhaps sleeping with him isn't so disagreeable as to necessitate a gun held to her head, after all. The sex-inducing drugs, however--

But really, it's all a moot point now.

Inara sighs. She is about to give a grudging smile, very small and only for a second, when Mal's hand tenses on her waist, and his eye unexpectedly cracks open.

And then there's no time for smiles, because Mal's mouth opens very, very soon after (just as Inara expected) and amidst all the bellowing and raving, Inara thinks a response like that would be rather innappropriate.

~*~

"What kind of Companion witchery was it, huh, Inara? What kind of potion did you slip me?" Mal would look positively threatening, Inara muses, if only he had some clothing on. Instead, he clutches her silk sheets to his chest, his expression so indignant that she has to stifle a laugh.

"I didn't slip you a thing, Mal," Inara says. "I've been put on official reprimand by the Guild, remember? I don't have access to anything other than my own teas and oils until I agree to dock on Sinhon once more and deny all the claims we brought against the Alliance. And since I don't intend to do that, I haven't had any contact with anyone from the Guild in over a month. Besides, what we drank last night was specially imported in your name."

Inara raises an eyebrow and slips out of bed, unaffected by the cool air that hits her skin. Mal makes an inarticulate sound in his throat and clutches the sheets closer. Inara grins at him as she slips into a soft, woven robe.

Mal recovers quickly and snorts, trying to look unaffected. "Oh, so now I'm the one who dreamt up some feng le plan to get you all drugged and nekkid? Please, darlin'," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest, "I may live a life of crime, but that's a danger even a bug-eyed loon wouldn't touch." Mal smirks. "Or maybe he would. We could go ask River."

Inara rolls her eyes. "I live in shock that you don't identify yourself with your kind, Captain," she retorts, her voice cool. "However, if anyone else should need medicinal aid to lure in unsuspecting--"

"Whores?" Mal interjects.

"--people," Inara continues, unruffled, "Then it would be those who life the life of crime, such as you claim that you do." Her eyebrow arches. "Whereas all I have are the few legal drugs that the Guild does allow, and that I have kept." She reaches her cabinet and pulls out a few bottles. Inspecting them, she smiles and then gently tosses them to Mal's waiting hands.

"A-ha!" Mal says. "You do keep your spells and doxy hocus-pocus 'round here. Teas and oils, my pi gu," he mutters under his breath. "Which one did ya slip me, huh? Bet it was this one." He holds up a pink container with a sensual drawing etched onto the label.

"As a point of interest," Inara says dryly, taking the container from him, "The only items that Companions from House Madrassa are licensed to use in their trade are sleep-aids and herbal cures known to remedy headaches." She looks down at the container in her hand and sits, her lips curving into an even wider smiles. "Also? Powders for impotence."

Mal winces, taking the powder container from Inara and gingerly dropping onto the floor, staring at it like a particularly loathsome bug.

Inara chuckles throatily and leans in, bracing her arms on either side of Mal's body. She considers the way Mal's chest is rising and falling rapidly, and the pink blush spreading faintly across his chest. Her lips curve even deeper into a wide smile as she hears the audible gulp working through Mal's throat. She leans in further, swinging her leg over Mal's waist and holding onto the board behind his head.

If this were any other man, perhaps she wouldn't go through all the trouble of the predatory slink, and indeed, because it's Mal, she definitely shouldn't be doing this. But it's so exhilirating, so simply fun to see the terror in Mal's eyes and the way his eyes flutter shut at the slow, heated slither of Inara's body against his.

There are so little opportunities for power over this man, and Inara relishes this moment because it is hers. Not the "whore's", nor the Companion's, but Inara's.

"Which of those conditions have I treated you for, Captain?" she asks finally, her lips a hairsbreadth away from his. "A headache? Trouble sleeping?" Her knee nudges his hip and Mal gives a yelp. "Difficulties...getting up?"

"None," he insists, his voice higher than usual. "Ain't got none of them---conditions."

Inara bites the inside of her cheek for a moment, willing herself to respond, but it's too much. The situation they've found themselves in, the absurdity that neither has really acknowledged, coupled with the sheer affront in his manner, breaks her resolve. He looks so much like a petulant child, and she gives in to the giggles bubbling in her chest, spilling past her lips.

Mal just looks at her for a startled second before his forehead uncreases and he sighs, his lips twitching. Then he gives up and smiles, full and wide and bright like sunshine peeking brilliantly out from clouds. Inara stops momentarily, stunned that she has forgotten how his smile can make a woman feel.

A thrill rushes up her spine, hammers through her veins and brings the blood rushing to her head. What is going on? she has time to dazedly wonder, before instant heat spreads from her toes, up her legs, to her--

Oh. Oh.

"So I'm guessing we were set up?" Mal asks ruefully, blissfully unaware of the sudden fire currently writhing inexplicably through Inara's bloodstream. "I have to say, whoever dreamt this plan into life is a mite bit dirtier than the riff-raff we generally make dealings with."

Inara nods distractedly, attempts to calm herself, breathing in the way she's been taught to center herself, but that only brings her nipples against the fabric of her robe, and oh merciful Buddha, if she doesn't get away soon, he's going to notice her sudden lapse into insanity--

Mal reaches out with an easy fluidity, catching Inara's wrists in his hands lest she fall backwards in her haste.

Inara stares at his hands around her wrists, at the strong fingers and the warmth radiating from his palms at her pulse-points. "It would...appear that we were a part of some elaborate scheme, yes," she says, her mouth dry.

She wonders why Mal doesn't seem similarly affected by the same sort of heat radiating through her body, by the veritable explosion of sensation in the pit of her stomach. She can feel sweat bead at her temples and nape, and she fights the urge to wriggle in Mal's lap, to relieve the tension coiling low beneath her belly.

And to think, it all started with Mal's smile. Inara distantly wonders if she ought to rethink her previous stance on not ever choosing to bed this man. Because right now, Inara chooses to feel that she'll crawl out of her skin if Mal doesn't kiss her now.

"Mal, listen--" Inara gasps, her voice unintentionally breathy. "I feel...I feel so...Oh. Okay, alright, I think we have been drugged, you were right--well, almost right, so don't get insufferable--" Her hips finally roll in spite of herself, and she groans as Mal's hands tighten on her wrists and his own hips come up to arch against the apex between her thighs. There is a moment of intense tightening in her limbs, as her vision narrows to just Mal and the bright, dangerous blue of his eyes as he groans, stuttery and low.

"Inara," he grits, letting go of her wrists and stilling her hips, which have taken to squirming incessantly against the hardening ridge that tells Inara that Mal has been anything but unaffected. "Stop. You gotta stop or--"

Inara's fingers grab at Mal's shoulders and even that scant feel of skin against skin is too much for her to bear. She burrows her head in the crook between Mal's neck and shoulder, and moans. "Mal," she pleads. "Mal, just shut up--and touch me." She is aware that there will be no recapturing of her lost dignity after this moment, but she can't bring herself to care.

"Inara," he says, his voice hoarse. His hands are trembling against her robe, bunching into fists at her hips.

"What?" she asks, breathing heavily, her lips tracing patterns light as a feather across his chest. She just can't stop herself now that she's started, oh, her skin is on fire it's so hot--

"Do you choose me?" Mal grips Inara's shoulders, and she can feel how much he wants her, knows firsthand right now how blinding and insatiable this drug is making their passion, and yet...yet, he is still asking. It is enough to break her away for a moment, to make her pause.

Companions choose their own clients and hasn't that been Inara's most important refrain for so long? Perhaps, even lost in this whirlwind firestorm wrapping its tendrils around them both, Inara will find a way to keep her honor. And to reward Mal for his own.

Right now though, all she can do is hold on to the last tenous strand of sanity she has left. Denying their attraction right in the face of it, she thinks wildly, even till the end.

"Mal, we shouldn't, you know we shoudn't, we've been drugged--" even as she nods at his questing, desperate look; even as her fingers wind through his hair and her legs cradle his hips.

Mal's eyes are dark like coal now. "Only one thing I can think of that we should be doin' right about now, Inara, and that's shuttin' up."

Inara is inclined to agree, in fact, she would be where she not staring directly into Mal's narrowed gaze. How did she miss the stealthy hunger lacing his tone, and the way his arms corded like steel bands in his restraint? She's not the only one who's going veritably mad right now.

They should talk about this, she thinks, they really should, but the way Mal's looking at her right now, tracing her lips with his eyes and breathing through flared nose, she can't bring herself to speak a word.

Yes, shutting up seems like a good plan even under normal circumstances, but especially now, when his hands are sliding through her hair to angle her head against his, his mouth slanting over hers in a kiss that's hot and lazy and tastes like the cider they were drinking last night. Inara has had plenty of opportunities to dwell on what bedding Mal would be like, but the reality of it, the wet heat of his mouth on her neck, on her breasts--oh, oh, how do ship captains learn to do that with their hands and--

All thoughts of being set-up and traps are lost under the stroke of Mal's tongue against hers. The way his hands fist in her hair and his knees cocoon around her hips, bringing her belly-to-belly with him so she can feel the thrum of his desire against her skin.

Then they're lost, swept up in a swirling, churning wave of something Inara can't even begin to articulate. It makes her giddy, and Inara, to her knowledge, has never, ever been giddy. She's read about it, sure, but--

Somewhere behind the rushing heat rocketing through her body, she is lucid enough to think that "Just Say No" from Earth-That-Was seems like a pretty sound policy.

tbc