In a euphoric sort of way.

The euphoric part should be easy to grasp.  I love Josh; Josh loves me.  Life is good.

As for the hellish part:  I've suddenly discovered that this whole banter thing we've got going translates into fabulous sex.  Incredible sex.  Really, "explosive" would not be too strong a word to employ when describing Josh and me and sex.  But now, having discovered that, I must keep my hands off Josh's body for two months.  He must keep his hands -- and very nice hands they are too -- off me for two months.

You have not lived until you have felt Joshua Lyman's hands on your naked skin.  He starts with this soft touch.  Hell, it's hardly a touch at all; it's more like he's just sort of brushing his hands against -- Okay, I cannot allow my mind to go there.

Like they used to write on ancient maps, "Here be dragons."

Are there unfortunate Freudian overtones to that phrase?  I can't tell anymore.

Whatever.  Freud was a misogynistic bastard anyway.

My point is that I got one day of making love with Josh.  I believe we made the most efficient use of our time that day.  We maximized our potential.  We discovered that we are as gifted a team personally as we are professionally.

And then we gave it up for Lent.  In a manner of speaking.  No more sex, I told him, until I'm not working for him anymore.  Once I've quit and I'm back in school, we can have as much fun as we can work into our schedules.

I should buy him a book on time management skills.  He'll need to know how to increase his free time once I resign.

Being Josh, of course, he is not content to wait.  Being Josh, he wants to debate the issue.

"Define celibacy," he says.

"Celibacy," I answer.  "The practice of abstaining from sexual intercourse."

"Aha!" he says, as though he has discovered weakness in a political opponent.  "Intercourse."

"Yes, intercourse.  That act you won't be engaging in for another fifty-eight days."

"There are numerous other acts which do not include intercourse and which can be quite pleasurable."

I am blushing, a vivid visual image of Josh performing one of those acts having popped into my head.  Josh, who has developed an unhealthy obsession with making me blush as often as possible, smirks at me.  The bastard.

"No," I say.  "We are not doing that either."

"As I recall, you liked that even better than--"

"Josh!  Would you look around?  We're still in your office.  We should not even be discussing--"

"I'm just saying.  We could go home and spend a pleasant, mutually satisfying evening without violating the terms of the celibacy agreement."

"Not going to happen.  Get over it and move on."

"But, Donna--"

"There will be no touching.  There will be no kissing.  There will be no foreplay of any kind.  And there will certainly be no -- no -- no mutual oral gratification."

"Mutual oral gratification?" he repeats.  "Not one hundred percent clear what you mean there, Donnatella.  Could you be a little more specific?"

Damn bastard.  Damn smirking, sexy bastard.

Damn memories.

"And," I say, with much more confidence than I'm feeling, "there will be no discussing acts of a -- of an intimate nature."  Dammit, I'm blushing again.

"You really want me right now, don't you?"  He grins at me, and I can't help it.  I grin right back.

"Not half as much as you want me."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"You've got a bet," he says.

"A what?"

"I'm betting you.  First person to cave on this issue wins."

"What do we win?"

"When you cave, as you inevitably will, I win coffee. You will bring me coffee every morning for the remainder of your tenure as my assistant."

"Never gonna happen," I insist.  "And what if I win?"

"Not going to happen," he says.

"Textbooks," I suggest.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm a woman on a budget, Josh," I say.  "You will reimburse me for the cost of my textbooks my first semester at Georgetown."

"Hey!  That's expensive.  A lot more expensive than asking you to bring coffee."

"I've seen your paycheck; you can afford it."

"It's not equitable is what I'm saying."

I start making chicken clucking noises again.  He hates that.

"You promised never to do that again," he says.

"I really didn't.  And if you don't want to take the bet--"

"I didn't say that.  Okay, you've got a bet."  He holds out his hand, presumably so I can shake it.

"Oh, like I couldn't see through that," I tell him.  "I take your hand, you 'accidentally' stroke the palm, and next thing I know I'm--"

"Yes?"  He's grinning too much, but I can't help the blushing.  Damn alabaster skin.

"We need terms, Josh.  I mean, what constitutes caving?"

"True.  There are, after all, innocent touches."

"There certainly are."

"We work together in close quarters.  Occasionally we're bound to--"

"Through no fault of our own."

"Kissing," he suggests.

"Kissing cannot be considered innocent," I agree.  "Under the current circumstances."

"Of course, not all touching is innocent."

"Benefit of the doubt on the touching.  Warnings allowed."

"Illegal touching will be discouraged but will not cause someone to lose the bet," he says.

"I can live with those terms."

He gives me his best Arrogant Bastard Smirk.  Note to self:  Avoid staring at Josh's mouth for the next two months or so.  "Then we have a deal," he says and holds out his hand again.  This time I take it.

And run my thumb ever so gently across his palm.  I do believe the poor boy whimpers.

He'll never stand a chance.  That textbook money is mine!

THE END

03.15.01