This is not surprising, considering the events of the last thirty-six hours. I have twisted my body into a number of uncomfortable positions in order to fit into various truck, car, jeep, train, airplane and bus seats, none of which were designed with a 5'10" woman in mind. I have walked across entirely too many Indiana backroads and too much of the District of Columbia. By the time I finally reached the relative comfort of my own home, I was too tired for that hot bath I had longed for. I actually stared at my couch for two minutes, trying to decide whether I should just collapse there or whether I could walk the ten feet to my bedroom.

Through a supreme effort of will, I made it to the bedroom.

Less than four hours later, my alarm went off and I dragged myself into the bathroom, where I stood under the shower for five minutes and let the water wash the top layer of Indiana dust off my body.

After that, it was back to the office, onto a plane, off to another noisy, crowded event.

At least there was beer at this one.

I left early. I wasn't needed for anything and, as I explained to CJ (my boss being temporarily unavailable), I had had enough. Enough beer, enough music, more than enough Josh.

And so finally--*finally*--I am about to have my hot bath. I have planned this moment with the kind of attention to detail that Josh reserves for the Democratic national convention.

Because a sane person--meaning, of course, CJ--made the travel arrangements this time, we are actually staying in Cambridge tonight rather than flying back to DC as soon as the event is over. That means I have a hotel room. That means I have at my disposal the two things I crave most in this world--a bathtub and room service.

I've been thinking, all the way back from the House of Blues, about what I want from room service. After careful deliberation (and having committed the room service menu to memory during the ten minutes I had free to check in and unpack), I have decided on the tiramisu. Prepared correctly, tiramisu should practically melt in your mouth. Unlike the chocolate cake I was also considering, tiramisu requires a minimum amount of chewing. Chewing is too much work when you're this exhausted.

I have come prepared for my long-anticipated bath. I have brought enough jars and bottles with me to open up my own Bath and Body Works. I have at my disposal bath salts, foam bath, body lotion and my new favorite thing--sugar scrub. My terrycloth bathrobe was bulky and a bitch to pack, but the comfort factor makes it well worth the effort. For good measure, I even brought along pillow spray. Tonight, friends, Donnatella Moss is pampering herself.

First things first, however: I have to leave a wake-up call for 5 a.m. I also set the clock radio by the bed to 5 a.m. Then, just for good measure, I take the two portable alarm clocks from my overnight case and set them to 5 a.m.

After what happened in Indiana, I am taking no chances.

I fiddle with the dials on the clock radio until I find a station that plays classical music. Nice, soothing, perfect for enjoying during a relaxing bath. Now it's time for the big decision of the evening: bath salts or foaming bath.

Oh, what the hell. You're only young once. Foam bath it is.

What follows is, quite simply, the best five minutes of my life. No worries, no demands, no incessant political chatter. No Josh. Just me, my tiramisu, Mozart and the heavenly aroma of lavender vanilla foam bath.

I could get used to this.

"Donna!"

Or not.

Once upon a time, I was young and naive. Fool that I was, I thought you could ignore him and, like any sane person, he would go away.

I have long since learned that little life lesson.

Tonight, however, I simply do not care. My desire to soak in this tub is stronger than Joshua Lyman's lungs. Let him yell until he's hoarse or until hotel security comes and takes him away. After what I've had to endure since Monday, he deserves it.

"Donna, I swear to god, if you don't open the damn door, I will tell CJ that story about your senior prom."

Damn.

One word of advice: Never confide your most embarrassing teenage escapades to a politician. They don't fight fair.

So it's out of my relaxing bath, away from my half-eaten tiramisu, and into my bathrobe, dripping water across the floor as I go to answer the door.

"I hate you," I announce as Josh breezes past me into the room. Uninvited, I might add.

"Yeah, well, they say blackmail's an ugly word, but I've always found--" He stops, stares at me for a moment, and waves his hand frantically in the general direction of my breasts. "Cover yourself up, will you? Geez!"

Yeah, I forgot. I bought this robe on sale, it's a little large, and it tends to gape open if it's not tied tightly.

Sadly, since I always seem to be alone when I wear this thing, that's never been what you'd call an issue.

I can feel myself starting to blush, so I figure the best thing to do is to take the offensive. "Do you have a reason for barging in on me, Josh, or is this just Make Donna's Life a Living Hell Week?" I ask as I make some hasty adjustments to my robe.

"I have a reason," Josh explains to my breasts. "Stackhouse is going to do the debate."

"And this is news how? We learned all that this morning."

"What we didn't learn this morning was that…" Josh pauses, his head dips just a tad, and he asks, "Are you completely naked under that thing?"

"Why, no, Josh. I was bathing in a lovely ensemble I found on sale at Ann Taylor. Would you get to the point so I can get back to my bubblebath?"

Let's review the situation, shall we? You knock on the door of your assistant's hotel room in the middle of the night. She answers, clearly in the middle of bathing and, just as clearly, eager for some personal time. What does professional etiquette, not to mention common sense, dictate that you do?

All those who answer, "Lay down on her bed," please report to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. You could be the next White House Deputy Chief of Staff.

"Did you know you've got bubbles stuck to your neck?" he asks as he reaches over for the extra pillow and tucks it behind his head.

"Josh, go away."

"I'm just saying."

"Politics," I remind him. The one word guaranteed to make my idiot boss focus. "Stackhouse," I add for extra emphasis. "Debates."

"Yeah."

That one syllable comes out somewhere between a sigh and a moan as Josh shifts around a bit, propping one of the pillows against his back, and my annoyance momentarily fades. All that traipsing around the Indiana countryside can't have done him any good. He needs a hot bath more than I do. Possibly a massage. I'm considering draining the tub, getting dressed and offering him a completely innocent backrub.

"Stackhouse isn't going to endorse the president," Josh continues. He really looks tired. Why did I not notice the circles around his eyes before now? Would there really be anything wrong with my taking his shoes off for him, maybe loosening his tie? Hell, I tie his tie for him before formal occasions. How is this any different? And why are my legs carrying me in his direction? Why aren't I getting dressed first?

"Senator Stackhouse is going to do the debate?" I ask. See? We're having a perfectly normal business conversation.

"Apparently so," Josh replies. He closes his eyes and sort of winces in pain. "He's hired Amy to do debate prep."

Forget the bath. The effect that name has on me is more like standing under a cold shower. I stop walking toward him, all thoughts of backrubs, innocent or otherwise, gone.

"And just what does any of this have to do with me?" I ask. "Isn't this between you and your girlfriend?"

Okay, time to review: The exact nature of Josh's relationship with Amy has been a subject of some conjecture all summer. Everyone has an opinion. In the interest of time, I'll give you the bullet points:

Sam: "She must have broken up with him. She had to resign and find another job. Some guy causes you that much grief, you don't stay with him. I'm telling you it's over."

Me: "No way. She's a self-admitted power dater. He's a major player in the DNC. She's going to hang onto him until she's got a better offer in her sights."

CJ: "Please. This is Josh we're talking about. Mr. Passive-Aggressive, remember? He won't confront her and force an actual break-up. He'll just make himself less available until she gets the idea. It's very Zen: If a couple stops seeing each other but no one says it's over, does the break-up make a sound?"

Toby: "Ritchie's going to win this election. Do you know why Ritchie's going to win this election? Because President Bartlet's staff is too consumed with Josh Lyman's love life to do any work on the actual campaign."

In other words, speculation is rife, but there has been no solid evidence as to whether Josh and Amy have broken up. This is frustrating to me personally since, as Josh's assistant, I need to know whether to treat Amy as The Girlfriend or as A Representative of the Third-Party Candidate. Therefore, you will notice my strategy in the current conversation. I called her "your girlfriend." I am, you see, giving him the perfect opportunity to point out that Amy no longer answers to that title.

Damn, I'm good.

"I need to figure out what to do about Stackhouse," Josh says, ignoring the implied question about his relationship with Amy. He's wincing again, but I'm beginning to believe that this is a clever ploy on his part--sort of like saying, "I got shot, and my back hurts. Feel sorry for me." I'm not falling for it, no matter how good his shoulders look in his white Oxford shirt. "I have to present a strategy to Leo and the President tomorrow."

"How about you go into the Oval Office and say, 'Sorry, but my girlfriend screwed us over again'?"

"Donna, focus. The issue isn't Amy. The issue is Stackhouse."

Okay, I used the word "girlfriend" twice and didn't get so much as a non-denial denial in return. That's an answer itself, don't you think?

"You know what, Josh? I'm off the clock here. These are not office hours; I don't have to listen to you drone on about elections and debates and how your girlfriend's double-crossing you. I'm going back to my nice, relaxing bath. Don't let the door hit you on your way out."

And with that, I go back to the bathroom, give the door a satisfying slam, take off my bathrobe, and try the water.

Of course. The bubbles have dissipated, and the water's tepid.

No matter. I can start again. Just drain the tub and--

"See, I don't think--Ohmigod. Sorry."

Yes, that right there? It's exactly what it sounds like. Josh "she works for me; why would she need privacy?" Lyman just barged right into my bathroom.

If I hadn't been naked when he opened the door, this would be amusing. I have grabbed my bathrobe and have hugged it tightly to my body. Josh, on the other hand, is standing like he's rooted to the spot, while his mouth makes these little round, gulping motions reminiscent of CJ's goldfish.

Very round. It's almost hypnotic watching it. Josh has an exceptionally sensuous mouth.

That's a purely aesthetic observation, you understand.

Finally, he speaks. "Donna," he says, and his voice sounds somewhat strained, "I'm begging you to put some clothes on."

This is all very awkward, but at least I'm the offended party here.

"This would be a good time for you to leave," I say in my iciest tone.

"I'm really sorry, Donna." He does look repentant, now that he's stopped doing his Gail imitation. He's studying the bathroom tile rather than looking at me; but when I dip my own head down, I can tell he's wincing in that way he does when he's embarrassed.

"Well, you should be." I've gone past embarrassment myself; I'm working on righteous indignation, which is hampered only by the fact that I can't gesture without losing my grip on the bathrobe. Also, I'm doing my best not to fall for his contrite act. "Twenty hours getting home, Josh. Twenty hours getting home because you were flirting with Cathy--"

"I wasn't flirting. I was asked to--"

"And then when I came back into the office after four--not eight, not six, not even five--*four* hours' sleep, I had to get on another airplane and come to Massachusetts. And for what? What is so important that you had to drag me along when all I wanted was a hot bath and a good night's sleep? Let me think: Oh, right. You had to talk to Amy."

"Hey!" His tone changes to mild indignation, and he manages to look me in the eye. "There were other considerations."

"None of which justify your walking into my bathroom." I get carried away with making my point, I start to gesture, and the bathrobe slips down an inch or so. I can feel my skin turning twelve different shades of red as I cover my shoulders again.

Josh, who has now opted for staring at the ceiling, rakes a hand through his hair. "I heard water running," he says. "I didn't think you'd be--" He squeezes a handful of his hair so hard that even I wince. "I thought you were dressed."

"Yes, well, that would be because you're an idiot."

He looks at me for half a second, winces again, then looks back at the ceiling. "I admit this, yes."

"You're a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen, Josh." The bathrobe's still slipping, so I do a little readjusting before continuing. Josh, who has taken this moment to stop his study of light fixtures and linoleum, stares transfixed, whether by the exposed shoulders or the word "sexual harassment," I have no idea. "Honestly, do you ever listen to the words that come out of your mouth? Do you have any idea how lucky you are that I took this job? I was there, remember? I saw some of the other people who applied to be your assistant. Remember that one woman--Phyllis what's-her-name? Do you think she would have stood for this kind of thing?" I'm on a roll now. I barely pause for breath before I start again. "Of course that's probably why you hired me in the first place--the poor pathetic little college dropout who has to put up with your crap because no one else is going to hire her."

"That is not true." All of a sudden, Josh manages to look me in the eye, gesturing in my direction. "I hired you because you were the best person for the job. Because you're as organized as I'm, well, not. Because when I'm obsessing over something, I can explain it to you and you'll listen to me and you'll ask me all the right questions and I'll be able to figure out what I need to do. Because if you weren't with me, I'd still be stuck in Indiana trying to figure out the time zones."

See what he just did there? That's the thing about Josh. As soon as you're convinced that the man is hopeless and your life would be much better without him, he does something like that. And it's good-bye, righteous indignation; hello, unconditional loyalty. And more awkwardness while we stare at everything but each other.

"So this thing with Senator Stackhouse has you worried?" I ask after a minute.

"Yeah, but--"

I find that talking right over Josh is an effective strategy whenever I'm in danger of getting too emotional. "Okay, here's what we'll do. You will walk out of this room, closing the door firmly behind you."

"I am really, really sorry." This time he manages to look me in the eye, and it's clear from his sorrowful expression that he's honestly contrite.

"We've established that," I reply. "You will then pull a chair up to the door and tell me all about your problem."

"While you're in here naked?" Contrition is a fleeting emotion where Josh is concerned, judging from the way his eyes twinkle and the corners of his mouth turn up.

"While I'm in here having my long-delayed hot bath, yes. The door's not that thick. I'll be able to hear you just fine."

He's not unattractive, you know, when his face lights up this way. I'm actually quite fond of his face.

"Don't you think this might border on the unprofessional?" he asks. He's smirking, and his eyes are now taking in the sight of my fully exposed shoulders. If I had a free hand, I'd be tempted to smack him with it.

"Don't push your luck, Josh."

"Okay, but I just have one question."

"And that would be...?"

He points to the room service tray on the floor. "Are you planning on eating that? Because I'd hate to see good tiramisu go to waste." 

*** 

Five minutes later, the tub is once again filled with hot water and lavender-scented bubbles. I'm so relaxed that I'm in danger of falling asleep mid-bath, and I don't even care that Josh walked off with my tiramisu.

Hell, I don't even mind that he's on the other side of my door, droning on about how much trouble we'll be in if Stackhouse fails to withdraw before the debates. When you tune out the words and simply listen to the sound of Josh's voice, it's quite soothing. He may be yammering on about third parties and swing voters and electoral math, but his voice has this raspy, almost seductive, quality. Common sense indicates that the raspy tone is the result of his spending too much time in the smoke-filled bar, but who the hell wants to apply common sense when you're taking a bubblebath and a man you find not unattractive is giving you his sexy voice? I'm mean, I'm tired, not dead.

If I close my eyes, I swear I can imagine the feel of Josh's breath against my neck. I can almost feel his hands massaging my shoulders while I lean back against his chest. The ends of my hair have gotten wet, so he'll kind of groan when his skin comes into contact with…

"--the environmental lobby."

Yeah, this is my problem where Josh is concerned. I can't stop paying attention to *what* he's saying long enough to get a really satisfying fantasy going. Maybe if I lean back against the bathroom wall and close my eyes tighter this time.

Where was I? Right. Wet hair. Josh's chest.

So he'd whisper something in my ear in that raspy tone--yeah, exactly like the tone coming from the other side of the door--and he'd start kissing me. Tiny, feather-soft kisses on that sensitive spot just behind my ear. From there, he'd move down my neck, the kisses getting harder and more intense as he…

On the other side of the door, Josh is off now on some tangent about the debate format--I have long since lost the thread of his argument--and I can tell that he's warmed up to his subject because he's talking faster now. He's also started moving around the room, the way he does whenever he gets excited or agitated by an idea. He must have moved over by the bed, judging from how his voice sounds like it's coming from a distance.

Damn. It's not easy to fantasize about a man kissing your neck when he sounds like he's several miles away.

"Stop pacing!" I yell as I give up my perfectly good fantasy and reach for the sugar scrub.

Sugar scrub is a heavenly invention. It's right up there with the loofah and with bubblebath itself. This is how we could win the female vote; write sugar scrub into the platform. Every woman who votes for President Bartlet gets her own jar in the scent of her choice.

We could give her a four-year supply if she's in a key state like California or Michigan.

Yes, I know I'm overtired, thank you.

Just like the instructions suggest, I start applying the sugar scrub to my heels in a circular motion. For the first time since we watched the motorcade leave without us, my feet stop aching.

Life is good.

Except for the part where Josh is back at the door, talking politics. That soothing quality in his voice that I mentioned before? Yeah, that's pretty much gone. In its place is the frantic "I've got an election to win and you're not helping" tone that I have come to loathe. I'm having trouble matching a fantasy--well, one that fits my current surroundings--to that tone.

To hell with him anyway. The sugar scrub is doing wonderful things for my legs. I'm feeling quite relaxed.

"After all," Josh is saying, "it's not Ritchie who'll lose votes to Stackhouse, it's us. We appeal to the same groups."

"What happened to 'nobody takes Stackhouse seriously'?" I ask while I rub some sugar scrub on to one arm.

"She speaks!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you've been awfully quiet in there. Until you yelled at me, I was beginning to think you'd fallen asleep. I was debating the wisdom of knocking the door down to make sure you didn't drown."

Hmmm….I can work with that. He'll open the door, all hot and sweaty from the pacing and…Damn, he's waiting for an answer, isn't he?

"I'm enjoying my bath, thank you. And answer my question--When did Stackhouse go from being the guy you didn't take seriously to being the guy who could cost us the election?"

"That happened right around the time Donnatella Moss raised her hand in the Oval Office." For a guy who's in danger of losing an election, he sounds awfully chipper.

I, on the other hand, seem to be scowling. "Wait. You're blaming this on me?"

"Not specifically, no. You didn't tell the man to run against us. But you are the one who pointed out the thing about the autistic grandson. Which was shortly before the media decided to make Stackhouse into this icon of the lovable grandpa with the great liberal voting record. So thanks a lot there for pointing that out. You really helped get the ball rolling."

"I try." Or, you know, we could be facing each other--it's a nice-sized tub--and kissing, in between making teasing remarks. Maybe he's rubbing the sugar scrub over my body. Slowly.

"Yeah, you and Amy. What is it with Stackhouse and the women in my life?"

Or maybe he could just splash some cold water on me.

Why is it that every time I start to enjoy a conversation with Josh lately, her name comes up? I might as well just rinse off and get dressed because the charm of this whole bath thing is wearing off.

"What about Amy?" I ask while I step out of the tub.

"Stackhouse offered her debate prep. Can you believe it?"

Not really. I mean, isn't the ability to open your mouth when you talk pretty much essential to debate?

No, I don't say that. Snarking the once-and-future girlfriend is never a wise move for an assistant.

Reaching for the towel gives me a minute to come up with a civil reply. "Is she going to take it?"

"She said she hadn't decided," Josh answers.

That's depressing. Cause if she's broken up with Josh, why hesitate to accept Stackhouse's offer? On the other hand, if she anticipates any kind of future with Josh, the conflict of interest presents a problem.

That sound you hear? That would be me kicking the wastebasket.

By the way? Kicking a wastebasket with your bare feet? Painful.

"Owww!"

"Donna?" Josh's voice is extremely loud and concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just sort of tripped a little. Can you do me a favor and get my nightshirt off the bed?"

There's a slight pause before Josh replies, "Your nightshirt? This frilly pink thing?"

"It's not frilly," I protest. "It's tasteful and elegant."

"It's..." Josh's voice trails off. "It looks soft," he finally says.

"That's because it's silk."

"It's pretty flimsy," he says. His tone has gone from raspy to slightly choked.

"You know," I reply conversationally, because I am not at all affected by the idea of Josh commenting on my lingerie, "when I was a simple Wisconsin farm girl--"

"There are no farms in the suburbs of Madison. You should let that particular fantasy go."

Joshua, you have no idea how many fantasies I've had to let go of tonight.

"When I was a simple Wisconsin farm girl," I repeat, "dreaming of a career in public service, I never envisioned the part where my boss critiqued my sleeping apparel. Or the part where I collected a really nice settlement from my sexual harassment lawsuit."

The door opens ever so slightly, just enough for Josh's arm to poke through, my nightgown dangling from the end of his hand. When I take it from him, our fingers touch for an instant. I'd like to blame what I feel on static electricity. But I might as well face the sad truth: that right there is the closest I've come to a non-self-induced orgasm in about a year.

I hate Josh. I may not have mentioned this, and it's worth noting. He's standing there on the other side of that door, with his raspy voice and his talented hands and my tiramisu, and I want him to go away.

Mostly so I can think about what I'd like to do with him and his raspy voice and his talented fingers and his mouth which probably tastes like my tiramisu.

This is not good. Not only is the man my boss, he's my boss who, it would appear, is still actively involved with another woman.

Donna Moss, I tell myself as I wipe a bit of steam off the bathroom mirror, this has gone far enough. I should just go out there. I can talk to the man about work. I can be strictly professional.

While wearing my silk nightshirt.

Okay, I can be professional while wearing my terrycloth robe over my silk nightshirt. A terrycloth robe I make sure is tightly belted so we don't have a repeat of the embarrassing gaping from earlier in the evening.

A close inspection in the mirror reveals that I am now decently covered, even if my cheeks are a bit flushed and my hair is a bit damp and curling from the steam in the bathroom. But, all in all, I am ready to finish talking about, well, whatever it was Josh barged in here to talk about.

Stackhouse. The debates. Right.

In fact, as I open the bathroom door, he's still nattering on about Stackhouse, pacing the entire time. "If Stackhouse is part of the debates," Josh is saying, "the focus will--"

He comes to an abrupt halt and stares at me. I have the sudden urge to pull my belt tighter.

"Wow," Josh says. The raspy voice is gone, replaced by this whispery tone that I don't recall him using before. It's really quite unusual--all intimate and sensual.

I wonder what a person has to do to get more than one syllable like that out of him.

"What?" I ask. I mean, a man sees you and falls into that tone--even if he is your boss and he's seeing someone else, you want to know what you did to bring that on.

"Just…" His voice trails off, he looks away for a second, and then he waves a hand in the general vicinity of my head. "Your hair…it's all curly. And your face is all pink and…" He shrugs. "You look good," he finishes. It's almost his normal tone of voice, with just a trace of that whispery thing left.

We've been here before. Well, not here literally--not in a hotel room in Cambridge, Massachusetts, half an hour or so after Josh walked in on me naked. But "here" in the sense of some moment when I'm entirely too aware of the fact that I want this man and that he is not entirely indifferent to me.

Come to think of it, though, a lot of those moments have happened in hotel rooms--hotel rooms in New Hampshire, South Carolina, California, Michigan, Ohio. Assuming we win re-election, by the time President Bartlet's second term is over, Josh and I may end up having sexually charged encounters in hotel rooms in all fifty states.

Without ever having actual sex.

Dear lord, but that's a depressing thought.

It shouldn't be. It should absolutely not be a depressing thought. It should be a good thought--a sort of "Hey, look at me! I'm so adult that I can have the hots for a man for eight years and have the will power not to act on my attraction."

I don't always enjoy being an adult, you know?

Especially when he's staring at me like…Well, you know the cliché about someone's eyes getting as big as saucers? In Josh's case, "dinner plate" might be a more accurate description.

Being an adult who knows she absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, give in to this attraction she's feeling, I attempt to ignore that look. Of course, in order to ignore a look like that, it's necessary to turn my back on him. Lucky for me I have an open suitcase and various lotions and bathing accessories to load back into that suitcase.

It takes me a second to get my voice under control, but I've done it before and I manage it again this time. "CJ said something on the plane about the visual if Stackhouse is in the debates," I comment. "What was that about?"

It's a second or two before Josh answers--just long enough for me to start another fun fantasy where he grabs me by the shoulders, turns me around and announces that he's sick of the two of us acting like responsible adults. He's about to throw me down on the bed and untie my bathrobe when reality intrudes. "It's about Ritchie," Josh answers. "He'll be looking all young and tan and healthy, and he'll be flanked by two sick old men."

"The president isn't sick." I turn back around to face Josh, who starts to interrupt me. "Yes, I know," I say, waving a hand in the air to acknowledge that I know what he's going to say. "The MS. But he's in generally good health. And he's not old."

"But if he's standing there with Stackhouse and Ritchie," Josh replies, "people are going to think he's closer to Stackhouse in age. And then the health thing comes up again. We can't afford that."

"Why isn't this a problem if he's on stage with just Ritchie?"

"Because…" Josh looks away for a minute, then shakes his head as though he's trying to make some unpalatable thought go away. "Because if it's just Bartlet versus Ritchie, the president can take him in a heartbeat. The age difference isn't that great; the health thing can be minimized as long as the president's having a good night; and if Stackhouse isn't there, we're dealing with our own agenda. We're on the offensive instead of the defensive, and that alone makes the president look stronger."

"So what's it going to take to get Stackhouse out of the debate?"

"I have no idea," Josh sighs, and I wonder how it is possible for a man to look so tired and so hot at the same time. I mean, here he is after our little adventure in Indiana, operating on four hours of sleep, and there's something about the sight of him that's absolutely mouth-watering. I think it's the shirt. The way he wears the shirt, I mean. It's like his poor shirt is trying to take a vacation--all loose and half unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. He and his shirt are screaming, "It's the end of a long day; take care of us!" And it's frustrating being the one who's supposed to take of him in every sense except the one that would bring me some pleasure.

"Your girlfriend didn't tell you what deal Stackhouse wants?"

"No, Amy didn't…" His voice trails off, as though he's reasoning out an important political problem. Well, at least we'll get the Stackhouse issue resolved tonight.

"You know," he says, and he emphasizes that last word, stringing out that one syllable, "you keep mentioning Amy."

I do my best imitation of the wide-eyed, innocent Wisconsin farm girl I never was. "Is there some reason I shouldn't mention Amy? I mean, she is working for Stackhouse now."

He takes a step toward me, and I swear there is a downright predatory gleam in his eye. "Yes, but you keep using that word."

"Stackhouse?" I ask.

He takes another step toward me, and now he's grinning. "Girlfriend," he says. "You keep calling Amy my girlfriend."

"Well, that's what she is."

He takes another few steps until we are practically toe to toe. "You're fishing for information." His tone clearly expresses that touching sentiment--"gotcha."

"What information could I possibly be fishing for?" I smile up at him, in a manner that conveys the message "dare ya to say it."

I don't know whether to be pleased or worried when he takes me up on my dare. "You," he says, "want to know whether Amy is still my girlfriend." He pauses just long enough for me to worry about whether I should deny having any interest in that question, then smiles. "You want to know whether I'm still going out with Amy, and you've been trying to trick me into admitting we broke up."

Because, in reality, I am not a naïve Wisconsin farm girl, I pick up on his turn of phrase immediately. "Admit?" I echo.

I swear to god, he blushes. "It may be possible that I'm no longer seeing Amy."

I muster every bit of restraint I'm capable of, even though I suspect the smile that's suddenly plastered all over my face gives me away . "Well," I tell him. "That's too bad. Sorry to hear it." I pat him on the shoulder, unable to resist the temptation to let my fingers linger for a moment. "Better luck next time."

And with that, I let go of him and make a beeline for the bed.

He stands there.

He simply stands there. He doesn't follow me, he doesn't make some suggestive comment, he just stands like he's planted himself in that one spot for the night.

This is disconcerting. I'll admit it: I didn't walk to this bed as much as I pranced to it. I sent out every possible signal I could send. My body language is screaming, "Come over here and rip my clothes off!"

And the man I'm trying to entice? Not reacting.

You'd think he wants me to make the first several moves. You'd think he wants me to come right out and say that it's okay to…

Oh. Of course.

Because we've been adults for almost five years and we've ignored the obvious attraction between us since, after all, he is my boss and there is that whole sexual harassment thing I was kidding him about before. So he's going to stand there and he's not going to do a damn thing because he's got all the power in the professional side of our relationship, and he wants to make sure I'm the one taking the lead in this area.

Well, that's just…it's sweet is what it is.

Unless, of course, I'm miscalculating and the reason he's standing there is because he's thinking that this is a very bad idea and we should keep acting like adults.

This is quite the conundrum. How to figure out what he's thinking without doing something as obvious as, you know, asking.

I mean, really, what would be the fun in that?

Luckily, I have five years' worth of fantasies to draw from here.

Any good fantasy should begin with a strong visual element, so I gaze at him. I let my eyes start their little tour with his hair--and please explain to me how he can make a receding hairline look boyish--moving down to his eyes, which are dark and gleaming and staring right back at me. I take in those arms, the muscles of which are nicely accented by his white shirt. I notice how the ends of that shirt draw my attention to his hips, and I spend more than a few moments contemplating that intriguing bulge below his belt.

"Josh," I announce, folding my arms together and looking deep into his eyes, "you look like crap."

The stunned expression on his face is worth every bit of self-restraint I've shown in not immediately jumping his bones. "I what?" he asks.

"You," I repeat, "look like crap. You look like a man who has had less than four hours sleep in the last two days. You look like you sat in the back of a soy diesel truck, and your back has been bothering you ever since. You, Joshua Lyman, look like a man who needs a good back rub."

"A back rub?" he repeats. He scrunches up his face as though he's trying to figure out whether he's reading too much into my statement. "You're offering to give me a back rub?"

I nod. "It's a simple process, Josh. You just get undressed, make yourself comfortable on the bed, and let me do all the work."

At least one of my fantasies has come true tonight. After five years of dreaming about this moment, it has finally arrived: I have rendered Joshua Lyman speechless.

Since he seems too stunned to either move or speak, I take matters into my own hands. Walking back over to him, I kiss him on the cheek and then start unbuttoning his shirt.

He's still speechless. In fact, I'm not entirely sure he's breathing.

"Josh?"

"Yes?"

"I'm assuming you remember how to actually take your shirt off."

He blinks as though trying to get the world to come back into focus. "Right. Yes. I can manage that, thanks."

He pulls off both the Oxford and his t-shirt in record time. He's standing there, stripped to the waist, and I am not unaffected. I mean, I've seen his chest before; it should not be a big deal. But it's such a nice chest. Because he gets seven kinds of grief from his doctor, from his mother, and from me, he stays pretty well caught up with his physical therapy, and it certainly seems to be paying off. Not an ounce of flab, nice muscle tone--that chest is in better shape than the last time I got a close look at it after the shooting.

Honestly, I want to be all cool and teasing, but I can't quite restrain myself. I rest one hand against his heart and put my other hand on his arm. Then I kiss him.

I was right. He does taste like tiramisu--sugar and cream and espresso. I just mean for it to be a light kiss, just a touch really; but Josh, it would seem, has other ideas. One second he's sort of groaning, and the next he's running his hand through my hair and he's deepening the kiss. Our tongues play around until it's clear we're both in need of air. Or possibly just more touching. And fewer clothes.

"I'm way overdressed, aren't I?" I'm trying to be clever and seductive, but I think the amount of blushing I'm doing may be ruining the effect.

Josh sorts of grins, nods, and proceeds to undo the sash on my robe. Instead of helping me take it off, however, he pushes the terrycloth aside just a bit and puts his hands around my waist over top of my silk nightshirt. It's an amazing feeling, having just that little slip of silk between my body and the warmth of Josh's hands. I take a minute to enjoy it, then give myself a mental shake. I mean, I started all this with a clear purpose.

What was it again?

Oh, right. Back rub. Me in control. Yes, I can do that. Taking a deep breath, I slip out of Josh's grasp and motion toward the bed.

To my utter amazement, he doesn't smirk, he doesn't argue, he lies face down, while I take a deep breath and fold my robe over the chair.

Okay, Josh's back. My hands on Josh's back.

This is going to be fun.

I get on the bed next to Josh. I'm on my knees and my nightshirt has started to slide up, giving Josh quite the view of my thigh. He's grinning as though he enjoys the view quite a bit.

I look down at him, hair falling in my eyes. "Pervert."

"Hey," he objects, "I'm a perfect gentleman. And the reason I know I'm a perfect gentleman is because I spent at least twenty minutes in here telling myself I was going to forget what I saw when I walked in on you in the bathroom."

"And how'd that work out for you?" I ask as I shift until I'm kneeling astride his hips.

He twists his head a bit until he's looking at me. "I tried, Donna," he says. "God knows I tried. But I just don't think I'm going to be able to get that image out of my mind."

"Hmmmm." I lean over and touch him gently, just sort of gliding my hands over him. "I guess we'll just have to replace that image with something else, won't we?"

The next couple of minutes proceed with what, for us, is an astonishing lack of chatter. I'm so focused on what I'm doing to Josh's body that I can't manage to talk a lot. While it's true that Josh isn't exactly quiet, I don't think the occasional moan he utters can actually be described as conversation.

It can, however, be described as sexy as all hell.

As is the feel of his muscles beneath my hands. It strikes me that the way he feels is the exact opposite of how he presents himself to the world. I mean, on the surface, the skin I'm stroking is soft and tender; that's the emotional side of Josh that he keeps hidden from the rest of the world. Underneath that, his muscles are taut and knotted. That's definitely the Josh the world sees--tense, almost hyper, worried about electoral math and public opinion and all the ways we can lose the election. And after that, even assuming we win, he'll find something else to obsess over, because that's what he does.

Of course, if we could work this so that I get to do this every time he freaks out, I might not mind so much.

Bending down just enough so that my lips can brush the back of his neck, I slide my hands up his back, then put more pressure along the top of his shoulders. And that's when he starts giggling.

No, really. Not laughing, not guffaws, not chuckling--Josh Lyman, self-professed manly man, giggles like a teenaged girl.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"It's just…" There's a pause while he giggles some more. "…your hair…"

"What about my hair?" It's possible I sound a tad offended, but I'm trying to seduce the man and he's giggling.

Okay, the giggling is not unattractive, but it's destroying the mood.

"That spot…" More giggling. "…brushing…" He's practically gasping for breath now. "…ticklish."

"Oh." Assuming I'm translating this correctly, he's saying that the ends of my hair are brushing against the spot where his neck and shoulders meet, and he's ticklish there. Which is a useful piece of information. I myself hate being tickled beyond anything, however, so I raise up just enough that my hair doesn't come in contact with his skin.

At which point Josh lifts himself up, rolls over, and grabs my waist. "I didn't say it was a bad thing," he tells me as he presses my body against his.

I like this. I could happily spend the entire night like this, my body touching Josh's at all the more intriguing spots. However, as I point out to him, I wasn't finished with the whole back rub thing.

"Yeah," he says, "but I feel kind of bad about making you do all the work."

"That's a first," I mutter.

"Well, maybe if you'd be giving me this kind of incentive before now…" He leers at me, or attempts to, but the look is so damn funny on him that I'm in danger of collapsing in my own fit of the giggles. My laughter stops, however, when he unbuttons my nightshirt and begins playing with my breasts.

His fingers move in a teasing sort of pattern, barely grazing my breasts at first, gradually getting firmer and more intense as my nipples harden. I'm digging my own fingers into his shoulders so hard I must be leaving marks on the poor man. It's when his hands start to move lower that I come to my senses and realize that I need to wrestle--bad choice of words?--control of the situation back from him. Swatting his hands away, I sit up and take a good, long look at his chest.

I've seen his scar before, of course, but I've never touched it. The scar tissue feels just the tiniest bit different than the unblemished skin--a little rougher--and he shivers as I run my fingers along it.

"Does it hurt?" I ask. "Should I not touch it?"

"It's okay," he answers, his voice just above a whisper. "It feels kind of good, actually."

And that's all he says on the subject, not that I ask any more questions. The scar, the shooting--all of that is serious, and we're doing our best to avoid serious discussion tonight. So I just accept the fact that he likes the way I'm touching him, and I go on from there, running my tongue around one nipple.

Kissing my way down the length of his chest, I sit back up and reach out to unfasten his belt. He covers my hand with his, and I look into his eyes. I'm not entirely sure what I'm seeing there, but I wish he'd look at me like that more often.

"So," he says. He clears his throat, like he's trying to be casual about this but can't quite manage it. "We're really going to do this, are we?"

He seems the slightest bit off balance about the prospect, and I can't help smiling. "Why, yes, Josh, I do believe we are."

"Because," he says, squeezing my hand, "I'm not entirely sure what to make of this."

Maybe we're not avoiding that serious discussion after all.

"Do we have to make anything out of this?" I ask. Because I know where that serious discussion will lead us. It will lead us right back to all the reasons we should be adults, get dressed, and never speak of this night again.

He takes his hand off mine and sits up, putting a pillow behind his back. "You and I" he starts, "this is the longest relationship I've ever had with a woman."

Oh, shit. Is there a woman out there who doesn't know where this is heading? Any moment he'll utter those three little words--"let's be friends." And then I'll have to kill him.

I'm already rebuttoning my nightshirt and looking around for a blunt instrument to hit him over the head with. I wonder if my hair dryer is heavy enough.

"And the thing is," he continues, and I notice that he isn't looking me in the eye, "when I broke up with Amy, and before that, with Mandy. And then when things didn't work out with Joey."

"Do you want to get to the point, Josh?" I ask. My voice sounds harsh and strident even to my own ears. "Because you're talking in sentence fragments, and you're not making any sense."

"It's just that I have come to the conclusion that I suck at relationships. I fuck up each and every time. I'm barely on speaking terms with Amy. Hell, I'm not even sure where Mandy is any more. The only reason I'm still speaking to Joey is because I never went to bed with her. And that's fine. Because I don't want to call Joey or Mandy or Amy in the middle of the night just to talk. I don't care if they're to be around on election day to keep me from freaking out if we lose. I don't need them to be part of my life. But if we did this and we screwed it up and we couldn't be us anymore, I don't know how I'd deal with that."

"Oh." My hands are resting over the third button from the top, where I stopped halfway through Josh's speech. "That's okay then."

Josh sighs, starts to sit up, and nods. "So I'll get my shirt, and I'll leave, and we'll just forget…"

"Like hell we will," I announce as I land on top of him again. Several minutes worth of kissing pass before either one of us is capable of talking. I decide I'd better start the conversation before he says entirely the wrong thing.

"First of all," I announce, "I'm not convinced that you suck at relationships. Joey wasn't even a relationship. And as it happened, I watched you with Mandy and I watched you with Amy. No one can say you didn't try with both of them. You did your level best--"

"Which wasn't very good," he adds.

"See?" I tell him. "This is what you do. You blame yourself for every single thing that goes wrong. Last time I checked, a relationship takes two people, so I don't see how you can rightfully claim more than half the blame in either case."

"Even if you're right, he begins, "and I'm not saying you are, what happens when you and I break up?"

"You know," I reply as I begin unfastening his belt, "assuming that we'll break up assumes that we're doing something here other than having a fling."

"A fling?" He starts laughing, and I notice that the worry lines around his eyes have vanished. "I never for one minute considered this a fling."

"Well." I think I'm beaming. "Good point to know. Still, if this is going to be a full-fledged relationship…"

"Full-fledged?"

"You always have to mock my word choices, don't you? Whatever you choose to call it, I don't think it has to end badly."

"History would suggest otherwise."

I've got his belt undone, and I'm working on unfastening his zipper. Despite all his protests about his rotten history with women and the inevitability of our relationship crashing and burning, you will notice that he's not making any effort to stop me. "History can be wrong, you know. And even if we don't last as lovers, we've been through a lot together in the last five years." My hand wanders back to his scar as I say this. He puts his hand over mine, our fingers entwining. He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it.

"Yes," he agrees, "we have."

"So we can deal with whatever happens here. There's even the radical possibility that we'll be happy," I point out as I help him undress.

"There are still any number of problems, beginning with the fact that I'm your boss."

"Well, look on the bright side," I point out, as he begins unbuttoning my nightshirt again. "Stackhouse is back in the debate. We might still lose the election."

"You know," he says, letting go of me so I can take off my nightshirt, "your sense of humor actually frightens me sometimes."

"I'm just pointing out that--why are you staring at me like that?"

"You're glowing." He's doing that whispery thing with his voice again. "You're actually glowing."

Plus? I'm experiencing all kinds of interesting physical sensations from listening to that tone of voice.

"It's the sugar scrub," I explain, trying my best not to act like a woman who's about to have an orgasm from listening to a man's voice. "On sale at Bath and Body Works for $5.99 while supplies last."

"You're giving me a commercial?" He's leaning back against the pillows, laughing. Josh, naked and laughing--this definitely goes on the list of my favorite erotic sights.

"I prefer to think of it as a subtle hint. After all, my birthday is coming up soon."

"I'll remember that," he says, as he pulls me back down onto the bed. He's kissing me when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the remains of my tiramisu. I break away from him, grab the plate sitting on the nightstand, and take a bite.

It's heavenly.

Especially since Josh is kissing his way down my spine while I eat.

"You know," I point out, "I'm having a pretty good day, all things considered. I had a bubblebath, I'm having some of the best tiramisu I've eaten, and the sex isn't bad either."

Josh is, it should be noted, making coughing sounds behind me.

Because I am a considerate sort of person, I set the plate down on the nightstand, run one finger along the edge to pick up the last bit of custard, and turn back around to face Josh. I watch while Josh, just as I suspected he'd do, catches hold of my hand at the wrist and pulls my finger toward his mouth. Watching him lick the dessert off me? Another one of the best erotic sights of my life. Not to mention that the feel of his tongue against my hand is amazing.

We spend the next several minutes exploring each other's bodies. We seem to fall into some sort of rhythm where what I'm doing to him parallels what he's doing to me--I touch his arm, he kisses my shoulder; I touch my lips against his thigh, he runs his hand along mine. We end up lying on our sides, facing one another. Josh has propped himself up on one elbow, looking at me so intently that I hardly notice as his free hand moves down my side. I'm so busy trying to figure out what that expression means that I'm caught off guard when his fingers reach my center. I close my eyes for a second, just enjoying the feel of his fingers doing these incredible things to my body, then I reach out and touch his erection, doing my best to make him feel as good as I do right now. Once his fingers find my clit, however, I can barely manage to breathe, let alone hold on to him. I close my eyes again, concentrating on the sensation, the pressure building inside me until I honestly think I can't take a second more and something inside me swells and bursts and I'm screaming his name as I come.

I open my eyes to find Josh watching me, looking more content than I think I have ever seen him in all the years we've been together.

And, considering the size of his erection, I honestly don't know how he can manage to look content. Smug, I would expect. I just had an incredible orgasm: he knows that, and he knows he's responsible for that. Yes, smug I could definitely understand. Content? Well, it throws me for a second. Content would seem to indicate that he's more interested in my satisfaction than in his own.

Well. Honestly, who knew? This is turning out even better than my fantasies. Expect for one small detail.

"So," I say, once I've caught my breath, "here's an interesting predicament. I try to be a good assistant, I really do."

He looks a trifle confused, but he decides to play along. "And, for the record, let me just say that you succeed admirably."

"Thank you." I wind one hand around his neck and start playing with the curly hair behind his ear. "I try to anticipate your every need."

"You're surpassing yourself in that respect tonight, I must say." His hand reaches out to cup my breast.

"But the thing is, I failed to anticipate this particular situation."

"Really? I've been anticipating this particular situation for years."

Is that so? Because at some point we really need to compare fantasies. Tucking that thought away for the moment, I reply, "So, you see, I didn't bring anything in the way of protection."

At which point Josh groans and falls back onto the pillows. "Please, please, tell me you're joking," he begs.

"Well, I'm on the pill, so conception isn't the real problem. However, since you yourself pointed out that you were recently involved in--"

"And haven't I suffered enough for that in one lifetime? I ask you."

"Still, given the fact that you have had another partner lately, we do need--"

"Yes." He sighs. "Is the gift store still open, do you think? Or maybe I could call Sam and ask if he's carrying any--"

"Yeah, and while you're at it, let's call CJ and Toby. I know both of them will be just thrilled with this turn of events."

He no longer looks contented. "Right. I'll just get dressed and check to see if the gift store is open."

"You know, a lot of men actually carry condoms," I point out. "You should try doing that in the future. You'd save us both a lot of grief and…" He grabs me by the shoulders and gives me quite the impressive kiss.

"Donnatella Moss, I love you," he says as he bounces out of bed and starts rummaging through the pockets of his discarded pants.

Wait? What? Run that by me again, please.

"You what?" I ask. My voice seems to be squeaking.

Josh isn't paying attention to me, however. In fact, I'm not entirely sure that what he just said registered with him at all. I mean, was he serious, or was it just one of those things men sometimes say when confronted with a woman's naked body? How am I supposed to react here?

"Aha!" he exclaims as he holds his wallet out for me to see.

"Yes," I observe, "it's a very nice wallet. I've seen it. I'm the one who bought it for you for your birthday last month, remember? Now can we please get back to what you said--"

"And do you remember what you did when you bought it?" he asks.

"I handed it to you and told you not to lose it."

"Because?"

"Because your old wallet was falling apart. Now what did you mean when you said--"

"You were doing it even then, weren't you?" he grins.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to get me to admit that Amy and I had broken up."

"Yes, but since we've resolved that issue, I don't see why--"

"And how did you do that when you gave me this wallet?" he asks, dimples fully visible.

"My god, I am a genius," I exclaim. "I am an absolute genius."

"I will not disagree," he says, taking the condoms out of his wallet.

"Yet at the time, as I recall, you seemed perturbed when I pointed out that I had been helpful enough to make sure that you and Amy wouldn't find yourselves without protection."

He gets back in bed, pulling me into his arms. "I readily admit that I was being shortsighted."

"So," I suggest, "if you'll hand over the condom, I'd be more than happy to do the honors."

He actually blushes as he watches me slip the condom on his erection. He's rather adorable when he's not being smug. Okay, he's adorable when he's being smug too, I just wouldn't be caught dead letting him know that.

"Now getting back to that thing you mentioned before," I say as I position myself on top of him.

"What thing was that?" he asks as he grabs me, stroking my skin from hip to thigh.

"That thing before you got out of bed?" I gasp as his fingers begin moving inside me. I'm going to point out that he really doesn't need to do this again, he should just concentrate on his own satisfaction, when a couple of things occur to me: 1. I don't want to be distracted from getting an answer on the whole "I love you" issue and 2. Why the hell shouldn't he concentrate on my satisfaction?

He looks slightly stunned, but then that could have something to do with the fact that he just entered me, and we're both approaching a pretty impressive climax. "What?" he asks as he pulls out. Before I can answer, he's back inside me and I'm moving my hips in time to his thrusts. His fingers touch my clit at just that moment, and I come again, not as strong as the first time, but the feeling is wonderful all the same. Josh comes a second later. He's absolutely glistening with sweat, and he's never looked more gorgeous than he does at that moment, the second time he says that he loves me.

"The world's longest hot bath," Josh mumbles into my ear.

"What?" I ask. I lean back against his chest. This is nice: hot water, bubbles, and a man to rub my back. Life just doesn't get any better than this.

"On the bus from the airport," he says. "You said you were going to take the world's longest hot bath. I couldn't sleep last night, imagining you in that bathtub."

I turn my head to the side to get a good look at his face. He looks much better than when he barged into my hotel room earlier tonight. Much more rested. Which is surprising when you think about it, because we certainly have been exerting ourselves.

"Then I guess that if the tuition incentive thing passes, the educational system will have Donna Moss to thank."

"I'm thinking Toby will want part of the credit," Josh replies.

"A mere technicality." I wave my hand to brush aside the notion that Toby had anything to do with my accomplishment. Josh catches my hand and places a kiss on my palm.

When I look at him again, he's still rested, but he's looking way too serious. Running my hand across his cheek, I tell him, "We're not going to crash and burn, you know. It doesn't matter who wins the election or whether anyone finds out about us or even if we keep doing this. One way or another, our relationship is the one that's going to last."

He smiles a little, as though he's not entirely convinced but is willing to humor the nice lady who letting him share her bed and her bath tonight. "If you say so."

"I do. Because, for one thing, I have never known you to lie. You have, on occasion, bent the truth to suit your purposes politically, but an outright lie? Never. So this is going to work."

"Once again, you have managed to lose me."

"It's simple really. You said you loved me; you don't lie; therefore, you love me. And therefore, since I freely admit that I love you too, we have more than enough incentive to make this work."

"Wait?" he asks. "What? When did I say that?"

"On two occasions tonight," I explain, describing the circumstances.

"Are you sure I said that?"

"Positive. It's the sort of thing a woman remembers."

He shakes his head. "Imagine letting a thing like that slip out."

"It was a tactical error on your part," I admit, "but I appreciate the sentiment."

He kisses my neck again. "Well, as long as you return the sentiment."

"I do." I put my arms around his waist as I look him in the eye. "I love you, Josh. Seriously."

"And sometimes not so seriously," he grins back at me.

"We're quirky that way," I agree, turning back around and reaching for the jars and lotions I've brought back into the bathroom for my third attempt at a hot bath.

He runs his hand along my arm, watching me as I read the labels on the jars. "Where's the one that makes you glow?" he asks.

I bite back the obvious reply about how that would be a certain organ that is currently covered in bubbles. Instead, I hand him a jar. "This," I inform him solemnly, "is what we call sugar scrub. Learn to love it. We're going to be here awhile."

THE END

06.14.03