The drug pounds through her veins like acid, like a tornado, like spontaneous combustion. Each breath is a sensory explosion. The night breeze is a thousand Eskimo kisses against her skin. And her heart beats fiercely, like a hungry predator out on the wild plain. This is power, pure and bright as the sparkling halos surrounding the torches on the wall, and it's building up inside her, screaming for overload.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Cam is demanding, grabbing her shoulders with this concerned puppy-dog look in his eyes.

She wants to spit in his face at the weakness. "You told them that it was okay to drug me." Anger runs through her like pleasure, a current bursting and shorting out its circuit.

"Well, I didn't have a choice!" His southern drawl is ignorant-sounding and infuriating. She wants to slap him across the face. "They all gave it to their slaves and if I hadn't, it would've blown our cover." Oh right, the mission – the one that had her in a leather halter top and a miniskirt, kneeling at Cam's feet while she kept her eye out for useful technology at this Lucian Alliance-run bazaar. But she wasn't this pathetic, weak little thing, to be gazed at and bargained over and taken. She deserved . . . no, she commanded the attention rightfully hers.

"If it was necessary, then we'll both have to deal with consequences." Somewhere deep down she knows that this isn't her – that she would never bully, and boss, and take. But the world is humming around her, the walls melting in and out, and it's like she can see beyond all the hollow words and the coquettish games, and the averted gazes. It's about power and pleasure and violence, and as much as he might protest, she can smell Cam's arousal.

He holds up his hands like he's surrendering, even though he's anything but. "Hey, hey, Sam, just slow down now. But we have to grab that Ancient doohicky and get out of here. I'll take full responsibility for this when we get to the mountain and you're not . . ."

His hands paint a poor picture of her and she snarls, surging forward and latching on to the softness at the front of his leather pants. His scent is heady and arousing and she's weeping between her legs.

"Okay, too much touching!" His fingers are digging into her shoulders, but he's too bewildered to resist when she pushes him down only the hard pallet they've been granted to sleep on. Only sleep isn't what she plans on doing.

He's trying to get up now, and she doesn't like to do it, somehow vaguely aware that they are still in enemy territory, but he's not cooperating. "Sam, you're drugged. You don't know what you're doing."

She slaps him hard across the face. "You're not attracted to me?"

"Yes . . . No . . . I . . . you know you're gorgeous, but you and me? We don't do this."

"But you've thought about it." She straddles him now, rubbing her silky underwear right up against the coarse leather of his pants, and almost exploding from the sensation of it.

"Well, I'm thinking about it now," Cam splutters, griping her hips and trying to move her off him. "But even if I did want this, this is not how I want it."

Well, fuck him. She's tired of men lusting after her, flirting shyly and stuttering. She's sick of regulations and courtship and all of those stupid barriers that the electric passion sparking through her strips bare. She's spent her life waiting for things – submitting to sex after carefully holding herself back, and for once in her life, she just wants to take it. "Shut up, Cam," she says, before grabbing his wrists and wrenching them above his head.

They're still tied together by a silver leash that extends from wrist to wrist. She'd modified it so that she can take it off, but when she yanks in up and through the slats of the bedpost to clasp around Cam's other hand, she knows he won't be able to get it off. He's bigger than her, and stronger, but she doesn't hesitate and her blood is boiling with energy – she feels like she could take on an army right now. Besides, he's worried about hurting her. Men trying to be noble normally frustrates her, but not she just laughs down at the bewildered look on Cam's face.

He rattles at his chains, shouting. "Colonel Carter, I order you to untie me, right now!"

That earns him another slap across the face – hard this time. How dare he presume to order her. "You don't outrank me. And now, you're going to lose your pants again."

Cam is outright struggling now, but his pants come off easily enough, setting his erection free. He's a little disappointing in size, though not in girth. "This'll do," she remarks, not bothering to do anything more but shuck her underwear before sinking down onto him.

He bucks up into her, still trying to keep with the illusion of struggling. His eyes are wild and terrified and he begs, "Please, Sam, stop this." But his cock belies his words and it feels so good inside her, the drug making every sensation sparkle and explode, the blood rushing to her head in a landscape of colors. It's almost too much, except that it's not enough, and no matter how she grinds down on him and rides him, quaking and gasping out around him, she can't seem to feel sated.

"God, Sam . . . please . . . I don't want to . . ." Cam is gasping out, trashing his head from side to side and not looking her in the eye.

She grabs his chin then, tight enough that she knows it'll bruise, but she forces his eyes up to meet hers. For a moment, when there eyes meet, the world falls away, and even though she's still perched in his lap, they might be floating out in the deadly calm of space. His gaze is bright and glazed and miserable, but she leans down to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, finding herself in the middle of all this. "I need this, Cam. I want it. Just do it and then we can get out of here."

He finds the sincerity in her words and nods, looking almost innocent.

When she releases his hand it immediately comes up around her, and though she's afraid that he's going to knock her out and try to get away with carrying her to the Gate, or turn the tables and handcuff her to the bed, he just flips them over and starts pounding harder, deeper . . . yes! He's nipping and biting at her jaw and her neck, hands sliding beneath her shirt to play with her nipples, and the sound and color and sensation are so overwhelming that she can't bring herself to make a noise for fear she'll shatter. When she comes this time, it's like falling, crying, and writhing, so bright and razor-sharp and painful, but Cam gentles her through it, even after spilling his own seed.

When she comes back to herself, the torchlight is much dimmer than she imagined it to be and Cam is stroking her hair, letting her rest curled up against his broad chest, her clothes still half on. She knows she must look completely debauched, but she can't find it in her to care.

"So . . . that artifact?" Cam asks. He looks troubled and unsure.

Sam just raises her head, pressing a filial kiss to his cheek before rising. "That artifact."

They never speak of it again.