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Sometimes Miranda wondered what would have happened if she hadn't said anything. If she hadn't opened her mouth and mentioned rationality. Hadn't brought sense into the equation, but had just let the senses rule.

She dreamed about it. She had no problem admitting that; she figured every woman in her right mind would do the same. This was Viggo Mortensen, after all. The stuff dreams were made of. Arguably any woman in her right mind would have behaved differently at the start and hence not be reduced to dreams alone. Sometimes, Miranda had nothing to say in response to that self-castigating thought.

So sometimes she dreamt, when she really wanted to torture herself about what might have happened.

Viggo had already leant against her, already pressed her against the wall in the dark corridor at Pete's place, already leaned in so he was breathing the same air as her. She had already thrilled underneath him. They'd been halfway there already when she'd said --

No, she hadn't said. This was her dream, her details. She hadn't said. Had, instead, leaned forward. Hand around the back of the neck to make the vicious tease kiss her properly. Yes. Not that he'd needed much encouragement. No urging required once he had his tongue against hers, slick and tilt their heads. Both of them older, both of them experienced, and how good could it be, like a practiced dance, like certainty. He'd pressed harder and she'd arched. All in the leverage, in the geometry, in the pressure you could build.

Had there been a doorway just beside her? Miranda couldn't remember. Yes, yes, there was. Both their fingers around the handle, scrabbling to get it open now. Get comfortable inside, get cosy, because Viggo wouldn't want to rush something like this. Would take his time moulding her like a work of art, all about the layers of sensation and perception. He could strip it all away, make her anew, then start all over again. Oh yes, he could, he would, with their limbs intertwined and she'd be his most willing muse, his most pliant work, his masterpiece.

He would cover her, fill her, every inch of flesh lavish, every drop of sweat annointing, his eyes and his voice - he could say. He could say anything he wanted in her ear, against her skin.

And in turn she would flow around him, earthly and ephemeral. She would lay him out and rise above him, use him as an altar and let him worship.

She'd feel the power of his lips wrapped around the syllables of her name, give him his own in return.

Oh, It would have been wild, rampant, heedless.

(But she'd said, and he'd laughed, and of course she was right, they both knew it, just a moment of insanity. They played two games of chess. They argued theosophy. They teased the hobbits. She gave him a lift home.)

It would have been wildly, rampantly, heedlessly stupid.

Stupid.

But sometimes she wondered if she should have kept her big mouth shut.

END