Her hand is soft on your cheek as she pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. Her body twists over the arm rest, pressing against you, and you wrap your free arm around her waist and let your fingers settle into the hollow of her spine.

She tastes delicious. Warm and spicy and sweet. And something else that you can't quite figure out and don't have the chance to because she pulls away and smiles at you again.

You offer her your seat in case she wants to look out of the window, but she declines and snakes her arm through yours as she rests her head on your shoulder. After a minute of silence she mentions again what an excellent notion this is.

You turn away from staring out the window at the baggage handlers on the tarmac, and look down at her and grin as you tell her she's already said that.

She shrugs because it was worth repeating and then admits, despite that, she almost didn't make the flight. She was in an important meeting with Mrs. Santos and she didn't have her cell phone on. When she got the message it was already late afternoon, plus she was stuck in traffic on the way to the airport.

You ask her what the meeting was about and she lifts her head and tells you that they were discussing the position Mrs. Santos had offered. And that she had decided to accept it.

You stare back at her. She's smiling, waiting for your response, but her eyes are filled with doubt. Doubt over her decision, or your reaction, you're not sure.

You ask her if she really wants to be Chief of Staff for the First Lady, and she nods, and with a passion that should shock you but doesn't, she says she wants it more than anything, and she thinks she can do it.

You stare at her for a few more seconds and then take her face gently in your palms and tell her that you know she can do it. And that you're so very proud of her. And that you know she can do it.

Her eyes light up, but she maintains a straight face as she teases you for saying that twice, and you grin back, saying it's only because you believe in her so much that you can't help repeating yourself.

This time, her eyes fill with tears as she leans in to kiss you again, softly and gently. Her arms slide around your neck as yours wrap around her back. It's such a simple position, but one that you've both naturally fallen into, what few other times you've kissed each other.

So you know that it'll be the way you kiss again and again. With her fingers sliding through the hair on the nape of your neck, and your fingers stroking the beautiful curve in her lower back. Her head sloping to the right, her nose nudging gently against yours. Your tongue tangling comfortably into hers.

It's so familiar to you and it's only been a few times. You've only kissed her a few times - one in the heat of election excitement, one at an open door at night, one in the confused, early morning exhaustion. One mere minutes ago.

The kisses you've shared in bed. Together.

And you're kissing her now, but you're also on an airplane that's about to take off, and there's a cough beside you both. When you break apart you see a flight attendant smiling as he asks you to buckle your seat belts.

You both smile back with embarrassment and she wipes the smeared gloss on her mouth before latching the belt over her lap. She turns back to you and grins, this time amused and bets you that by the time the flight lands, the entire Beltway will know that Josh Lyman was caught making out on an airplane with his ex assistant.

You raise your eyebrows and tell her that they probably already know that Josh Lyman and his ex assistant - soon to be the new Administration's Chief of Staffs - are going on vacation together in a place where clothing is optional.

She grins and corrects you, saying that it's Chiefs of Staff, and that it's good that clothing is optional because all she had time to grab was the blouse she's wearing, a skirt that probably needs laundering, and a few spare pairs of panties. And her toothbrush.

At your blank expression, because you're now picturing her naked, which is fairly easy to do because you've had the good fortune of seeing her naked on several occasions, she laughs again and reminds you that she's been living out of a suitcase at CJ's and all her summer clothes are in storage. And that she really didn't have a lot of time to pack anything because your phone call was so last minute.

You swallow with difficulty, and then, in the embarrassingly high voice you despise with a passion, tell her that if she has no clothes then you two can just stay in the hotel room and watch television. Or something.

She rolls her eyes and says that while the or something is something she's planning on a doing a lot with you, at some point she's going to want to be social and, at the very least, lie in the sun. Which means she needs at least one bathing suit or everyone will see her naked.

You hastily assure her that the very first thing you'll do is take her shopping... provided you're allowed final approval on whatever bikini she wants to buy, and she agrees with a grin as, over the airplane PA system, the passengers are asked to make sure that all electronic equipment is turned off.

She reaches across to her bag and pulls out her cell phone, switching it off, and then turns to you and says that, despite your unnaturally umbilical attachment to your Blackberry, you can probably live without it for fifteen minutes.

And that's when you admit that you don't have it with you because you left it on your desk in your office along with your laptop. You tell her that you don't need them for the next week. That you have more important things to concentrate on.

She's silent as the airplane's engines rev on the runway, but there's a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she stares into your eyes. The brakes are released and the airplane gathers speed, and she slips her arms round your neck, pressing her lips to yours.

The gravitational force during take off pins you both back into your seats but you don't stop kissing her because there's no turning back now.

By the time cruising altitude is reached, the clatter of the flight attendants in the galley reminds you again that you're not alone on this flight and you really should remove your hand from its slow creep towards her silk covered breast, before some snap happy tourist decides to make a little money with a front page shot.

And so you reluctantly release her again, but it's only a few seconds before she crosses her legs so your thighs are pressed together under the arm rest, her ankle resting lightly against your calf. You like this new position. Nothing visibly untoward, she's still close enough that you don't miss her physical presence. Something you've missed a lot the past year.

The same flight attendant as before, with an identical grin, parks his cart next to your row of seats and offers you drinks and little foil packets of roasted peanuts. You manage to slurp down a Coke and, despite several days worth of stimulants still swilling in your system, it revives you a little more.

The peanuts, on the other hand, present you with a challenge until she silently removes them from your death grip and pops them open. With a muttered thanks, you add that the last time you ate was this morn- no, last night, you're starving and she's just saved your life. You throw the entire contents down your throat.

Slightly amused, she mentions that it's a nine hour flight so she's fairly certain that there'll probably be dinner shortly and a snack before you reach your destination, and it's not healthy to inhale food no matter how hungry you are.

You roll your eyes and reply that considering the small fortune you had to fork out for a last minute vacation so close to Christmas, you're expecting lobster and caviar. At the very least.

The minute the words leave your mouth you tense up, realizing that you've said a very stupid thing, but she laughs and points out that the last time you had lobster you couldn't get the shell open and was reduced to beating it with your fists until it skittered across the table and fell to the floor.

You're not surprised she remembered that incident; you are surprised that she overlooked your selfish complaint about the price of this vacation, but you apologize anyway, hoping she isn't upset.

She thanks you but it isn't necessary to apologize; she knows you didn't mean it, knows you well enough to ignore half the comments you make because you're an idiot who doesn't think before opening his mouth.

You feel a little insulted but it vanishes when she kisses you again. Vaguely, in the back of your mind as her tongue probes yours, the thought occurs that from now on, all she has to do is kiss you and instantly everything is better.

A bad day can be repaired because she's with you. A good day can become phenomenal because you're with her. Not as friends, not as co-workers. As more. And you're an idiot for taking this long to accept what you've always known.

Then, for awhile, there are no other thoughts present except for extremely inappropriate - at least for the location you're currently in - ones. And again, you have to forcibly jerk your hand away from its position high on her thigh before it decides to explore further.

Her face is flushed when you pull away and she whispers that perhaps it'd be safer to wait until you're in the hotel suite to kiss again because the only private place here is the bathroom and as much as she want you right now, the only airplane bathroom she'd ever be willing to have sex in is on Air Force One. And only because it has the suede covered bench in it. And a shower.

At your open mouthed expression of shock, disbelief and, of course, desire, she smiles sweetly and pulls a headset from the webbed pocket of the seatback in front, handing it to you before taking one for herself.

You murmur that you want to discuss the interest she has in the bathroom of Air Force One but she shushes you, willing to discuss it later when she might even demonstrate some things to you, but right now she wants to watch the movie, so you sit in silence, plugged into your individual headsets.

As the credits roll, she lifts the arm rest between your bodies and slides fully against you. Automatically, your arm snakes around her shoulder, and her head leans against your neck; She reaches for your other hand with hers; it's cold and damp from holding your drink, but she still clasps it tightly, two sets of fingers interlocking with natural ease.

You don't pay attention to the screen. You just sit, listening blankly to the actor's voices in your ears, enjoying the feel of her body pressed to you. She's kicked her shoes off, and her foot is rubbing lightly up and down your calf, and her hair is tickling your cheek and you feel... good. Happy, you'd probably describe it.

Halfway through the movie, dinner is served, and still you don't speak to each other. Again, automatically and without conversation, you swap various foodstuffs on the trays. You take her bread roll and dessert; she eats your salad and rice.

Neither of you gets lobster nor caviar and you make a mental note to yourself to find a restaurant on the island that serves it. Just to show her that you can crack a lobster without losing it.

Trays are removed. You hold her hand again, idly threading your fingers back and forth through hers, stroking the delicate flesh of her wrist. The movie switches to an entertainment program about the latest movie releases. You don't remember the last time you managed to actually have the time to go to the theater. You want to make the time for it in the future. The time to go out for dinner without constantly calling the office. The time to sleep in on the weekends with her curled up in bed next to you.

And the time to have a life. It's taken you decades to decide that you wanted what other, normal people had. Only seconds to decide you wanted it all with her.

But you're starting to get tired again, the constant drone of the engines lulling you, yet you don't want to fall asleep in case it sends the wrong message. Besides, you and she still have to work things out. Create that life together.

You're still not sure how to have the talk she wants to have. How to even begin to approach it. And it annoys you because, all of a sudden, you want to confirm exactly what this is. Despite years of confusion, the thing between you really isn't that difficult to understand. It wasn't then, it isn't now.

So, despite the pull of exhaustion, you force yourself to open your eyes wide, remove your headset, indicate for her to remove hers, and ask if she wants to, you know, talk.

Have the talk. You're pretty sure you're ready even though you have no idea how to do this. In fact, you're ready right now to talk. If she wants. No pressure.

But she shakes her head with a smile, and says that the talk doesn't matter right now and that she's really glad you invited her on this vacation. She's very happy you didn't bring work with you. She's extremely pleased that you thought of it all yourself. And you don't need to feel pressured to say anything at all, to fill the silence with conversation. She's happy to sit and read a magazine, or listen to music, or sleep.

Whatever's happening, she adds, doesn't need to happen right now on this flight. You both have a long time to do what it is you eventually decide to do. There's no hurry.

She says it all quietly, with a soft smile and a shine in her eyes and you're pleased with yourself for doing something right for once. Doing something right with a woman. Doing something right with this woman.

In the noise and commotion and assemblage of the new Administration, today you closed your eyes and took a deep breath and realized that you had to make a choice.

And you're so glad you made the right one. The softness of her hand enclosed in yours. The feel of her thigh, warm and firm beside you. Her ankle curving against your leg. The gentle tickle of her hair on your arm as she leans forward to pull a magazine from the seat pocket in front.

She flicks idly through the advertisements and you stare out of the window at the flashing light on the tip of the wing. The rhythmic pulses are hypnotic and you feel your eyelids growing heavy. You yawn widely, your entire body all of a sudden aching with exhaustion, every muscle screaming for release from the tension of the past year.

You yawn again, your eyes watering from the strain and she looks up and asks if you want to sleep. You shake your head and tell her that you're fine but, as usual, she ignores you and says that she doesn't mind if you want to sleep.

You shake your head again and remind her that this isn't Air Force One so there are no beds and, sadly, no bathrooms with suede couches. She grins at you and you add that the last time you fell asleep in an upright position, your body refused to move in any other way than something resembling a robot for several hours afterward. And you're fine and can certainly stay awake until you reach the hotel.

She nods and then suggests if she moves to the aisle seat, you can curl up on your side with your head in her lap and get enough sleep so when you get to the hotel you'll have enough energy to explore... or something.

You laugh when she adds an eyebrow waggle, but when she continues, saying you both really need to call the something something else, you shake you head and run a finger up her bare forearm, feeling the skin tighten beneath your touch.

You lean over to whisper in her ear that you really like using that as a code word because the first time she'd used it was the first time, in nearly nine years of double entendre, you'd realized that she meant exactly what she'd said.

She whispers back that there were more times in those nine years that she'd meant what she said but that you were too pig headed to realize.

Maybe you were pig headed, but you know you were also afraid. Of course you knew what she meant, knew that the expression in her eyes could have been taken as something other than harmless, friendly jest. Fear and the appearance of impropriety held you back.

Oh, who are you kidding, it was nothing but fear because you've never let the idea that something might look bad stop you from doing whatever the hell you wanted.

And right now you want to sleep, and she's offered a solution, already unbuckled her seatbelt and placed her bag onto the floor, raising the arm rest on her other side to shift towards the aisle. Her hand pats her thigh and you give in, and scoot across, laying your head into her lap, curling your legs up onto the seat you abandoned, squashing your feet underneath the window.

It's definitely more comfortable, but the seatbelts are cutting into your back so you wiggle around to dislodge them and then close your eyes as another wave of exhaustion hits you.

Her thighs are warm beneath your head and, against your will, you remember them wrapped around you waist two nights ago. When you'd held her in your arms and made love to her. The feel of her welcoming, naked body pressed to yours. The softness of her skin when you ran your hands over her breasts, her stomach, her back.

But you also remember the kisses you'd shared that night. When, after you'd both been satiated, the kisses had become less frantic, more romantic, and you'd clung to her in the moonlit darkness of your bedroom and silently begged to her to never leave you but you couldn't say the words aloud.

It scared you, the feeling of being so out of control and yet feeling like you had finally gotten everything you always wanted but was unable to find.

She'd rested her head on your chest, her fingers roaming over your stomach, gently tickling you until she'd fallen asleep, and you'd shamefully slid away from her warmth, crept into your living room, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed.

But she'd called you on it. Told you that something important could be happening so something had to change.

You turn your head to look up at her. She's leaning back against the headrest but she staring at you, her eyes soft with that... shine.

The glow that you've never seen in anyone else's eyes but hers. The sparkle that's been there for years. The thing you always saw but always tried to ignore.

The thing that neither of you are ignoring now. You like what it is and you're pretty sure she does as well because she's smiling back at you, matching the silly, goofy grin tugging at your mouth. Tentatively, you ask if she's happy.

She is. More than just happy. Completely, totally, amazingly overjoyed, but you really should shut up and go to sleep because she has big plans for you and needs you to be in top physical condition for them. You smirk at her, she smirks back then you turn your head forward again, and close your eyes.

A soft hand settles on your brow, slipping through your hair, stroking it gently. The other hand slides down your arm, fingers curling into yours. You squeeze back; nuzzle your head deeper into the comfort of her lap.

And your body relaxes. Your mind stops whirring for the first time in forever.

You sleep.

Warm and safe and loved.