A/N: The parts in italic are meant to be from Michael's memory. As in, it had already happened sometime in his past. Sorry if that isn't immediately clear when you read it.

"Well, now you're in Miami. Get yourself a 24-year-old with big, fake tits."
"They bore me."
- Fiona and Michael, Pilot

Michael's had sex with other women since he left Fiona in Ireland before, but it's never been quite the same.

He's working the cover of a British international playboy and he knows suspicious Iranians have bugged his hotel room. He wouldn't have it any other way – just makes selling the cover easier.

The bar at the Abassi Hotel where Michael's drinking with his contacts is grand – glass walls, paintings on the roof, and beautiful women. Sure enough, he's spotted a loitering 24-year old with big, fake kits eyeing him. Breast mounds so perfectly round that he can practically imagine the implants underneath.

The Iranian economy is poor and corrupt, so women give themselves willingly, especially to the rich. Locals spread success stories around – the businessman who needed a trophy wife and the lucky girl who's gone from starving herself on stale salads to starving herself on gourmet salads while in Gucci.

So Michael makes sure his contacts see him (surreptitiously) checking out the possibly dyed-blonde in the corner. Makes sure they see him swaggering over to her in his Brioni suit and chatting her up.

It's easy. Michael doesn't have to try. One glance at his diamond watch has the girl already seducing him instead.

"I know how to move. I won a hula hoop competition when I was younger," she flirts.

"Oh, I don't know, I'm a harsh critic," Michael replies smoothly, "I prefer to make my own assessments." Moments later, the girl's on his arm and Michael sees the Iranians whispering and glancing at him in the reflection of the hotel mirrors.

Phase one complete. He grins. And he has to admit, he's a bit excited, too. It's been months and he is a man, after all. There is only a fleeting guilt as Fiona comes to mind, the way she'd whisper dirty things into his ear, her Irish accent making everything sound ridiculously erotic. But it's fleeting, because he is a spy and they don't get fixated on things.

So why, when this gorgeous blonde is kissing him on the hotel bed, her tongue running the back of his teeth, is Michael... disgusted? Her hands cup his head, pushing him deeper in to the kiss. Only by sheer experience and discipline is Michael able to keep himself focused and acting engaged. His hands travel down to her blouse, fingers expertly unbuttoning.

It wasn't like that with Fiona, he thinks, and his mind wanders.

Fiona on top. Pushed him back onto the bed hard. She ran her tongue along Michael's lips and pressed small kisses, but never going further. He can't get enough, he needs more of this beautiful creature.

Michael ran his fingers down Fiona's arm and practically fumbled the zipper on the back of the dress that tantalized his mind all night. Fiona tweaked his nipples hard – it's almost painful – all the while whispering, "Oh god, I'm so wet. I've been wanting to taste you all day."

He groaned. Palmed her breasts and she moans too, but doesn't stop talking. "You're so delicious – I love wrapping my hands around you and just sucking you every way, suck, suck, suck, suck, suck. . ."

He's brought back to reality when the girl flirtatiously asks if he remembers her name.

"Sahar," he says, without missing a beat.

She's slightly disappointed at the speed of his response. She's beautiful and the local men love her; it's just a question of who's rich enough to chase. The man should be head over heels for her by now.

"You passed," she says as she brings her hands down to his slacks and deftly unfastens the belt. "Are you so hungry that you can barely wait?" Michael teases, keeping up his act. Her response completely, utterly, shocks him.

"I'm your horny little bitch slut," she replies without a second thought, "I'm your slave and I'll pleasure you the way you deserve."

His eyebrows rise for a millisecond. Definitely something Fiona would never once in a million years say. Except maybe under cover. But she'd have given the guy a lesson in the end. Maybe. He's not quite sure but he knows that Fiona would sooner die than say this to him.

Sahar pushes his pants off and immediately gets to work on his semi-hard cock, swirling her tongue around the tip and squeezes his balls. Michael groans in the sensation of having fingers other than his own, but the excitement fades and he mentally chastises himself.

Beautiful woman. Beautiful woman who wants to be your whore. Iranians no doubt making sure he's who he says he is. Get. It. Up.

The woman is a bit surprised that Michael still isn't fully hard after five minutes; she's no amateur after all. But that doesn't stop her from redoubling her efforts. She will not stand to be stuck in the dusty streets of Iran; she will go to London with this man.

In a last ditch attempt to salvage the situation, Michael imagines that it's Fiona blowing him, Fiona who can have him panting like a marathon runner just by kissing him. He remembers their last time.

Fiona didn't have him drop trou immediately, instead prolonging his torment by sucking his nipples while giving him only the occasional squeeze of the bulge in his pants. Her hands rubbed behind Michael's ears and he pulled her up for another kiss. His tongue locked in a frantic struggle for dominance with Fiona's.

She broke away suddenly and started trailing kisses down his front, stopping at the opened pants hanging off of his hips. Without warning, she fisted him under the boxers and pulled his constraints down. "Fuck, Fiona," Michael gasped at the pressure, his cock jerking. He let his fingers tangle in her hair, anticipating the moment.

By now, Michael is hard and moaning and Sahar is smiling in satisfaction as she works his cock and balls. She thinks this man is pulling just a bit too hard at her hair, but it's a small price to pay for the chance at a life off of the streets. She licks both of his balls and fits them into her mouth. Another moan ensures from Michael and the fingers tug harder.

Fiona dragged her tongue along the underside of his dick, up and down and back and forth, sensations driving Michael wild.

"Best you've ever had," Fiona said confidently.

"Yeah," Michael grunted, "Don't stop. You're so damn good."

Her tongue is so amazing, the way it passes over his slit and makes his hip writhe in want. And then finally, she kneaded his balls and took him in whole, throating him. Any last thoughts Michael may have had were erased; his mind blank, his eyes glazed and as slits in rapt pleasure as Fiona bobbed up and down, tongue raking around as she sucked him.

"Fi, stop," Michael moaned, "I want to do it to you." Fiona's response was to hum the vibrations sending pleasure shooting through his cock and up his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood on edge.

"Oh god," Michael gasped, "Fuck, Fi, fuck, fuck, fuck, stop." Michael pulled her head off and kissed her, tasting his precum on her tongue.

"Mmmm, you taste great," Sahar said, looking Michael in the eye. Her voice jars him from his memory. He started to wonder why in hell he thought tonight would be great.

But the show must go on. He is a goddamn spy at the top of his game, for Christ's sake! The art of deception is one of one of his greatest talents; it's why Max gave him the Iranian job.

"Fucking voyeurs," Michael thinks, "Iranians want a show? I'll give them one."

"Sahar, the last man you had? I taste just like him, only sweeter." Michael flips Sahar onto her back and goes down, down, down. She's clean-shaven and smells like cocoa butter. Tastes sweet. She must have eaten a lot of pineapple. But it's just not the same sweet tanginess he was addicted to. He envisions Fiona in his mind's eye as he goes about his ministrations.

Michael rolled over and pinned her wrists above her head as her lithe body writhed below him, trying to escape.

"My turn," Michael said, refusing to cease control.

"Just fuck me already. I know you're so close," Fiona taunted, eyes flashing, a hidden challenge to her lover's control.

Always the perceptive and never one to let a challenge go, he grinned. "I think you'll find this worth experiencing." Damn him if he wasn't going to make this just as good for Fiona as it was for him.

He breathed in her scent and dipped his tongue past her folds, tasting her. Tangy. A bit of salty. Sweet.

Right then and there, Fiona Glenanne became Michael Westen's favorite delicacy, even more than yogurt.

Michael leaned back and looked at her, taking in her every detail. His hands traced her body, touching every curve and sucked her nipples as he rubbed her clit. Then he traced his tongue down her body until he was at her hood again. He pushed past and swirled his tongue around the nub. Fiona moaned and squirmed, pushing down into his face in a bid for more.

He flicked his tongue fast back and forth and slid two fingers into her pussy, testing the waters. It was so unbelievably incredible, the way her walls were clenching around his fingers, trying to find something to grip onto.

He started a fucking rhythm with his fingers curved slightly up, such that every time he brushed against her erogenous spot, Fiona moaned a bit faster and faster until she arched and convulsed and was screaming his name with Irish swears like a string of beads.

Michael lapped her juices up like a thirsty dog, eating her and tasting her and not getting enough and needing her more and loving the taste of her on his lips after.

"How'd you like that?" He smirked, loving Fiona loose and her hair wild and her as crazy with pleasure as Michael was before. He was satisfied with his handiwork, knowing that he could pull apart her perfectly crafted exterior.

But there is no smug satisfaction when she comes, although she definitely appreciates the orgasm. There is just the boredom of another job finished, and she doesn't taste like Fiona either. Nowhere near. It is too… sweet. He doesn't bother eating up the ejaculation; let it be extra lubrication instead.

"You're so damn amazing," Sahar breathes. "Come in me, make me your little cumslut!"

"Yeah," Michael mutters. Sahar's complete lack of self-respected really does not turn him on. It's the damn economy, he thinks. Sahar is the breed of woman catering to the male chauvinism and ego. The kind playboys have. The part he is playing.

He positions his cock at her opening, closes his eyes, and thrusts in. Slowly at first, feeling his surroundings, and then gradually building up speed. Sahar's moans and screams of encouragement go in on ear and out the other.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Michael groaned, feeling Fiona's walls pulsating around his cock. He was so aroused, so in lost, so hard that he had to use all of his self control to just not start pounding away at Fiona's small frame immediately. He forced himself to look at her, study her face, her breasts. Fiona stared back at him and squeezed him with his muscles, hurrying him to start moving.

Michael tasted her mouth as he pushed in and out, establishing a rhythm. Tongues twisting. Sparks flying. Sweat beading. Fiona wrapped her legs around him, sending him deep into the abyss of pleasure. She moaned and twisted and bit his shoulder so hard that he winced, but the pleasure outweighed the pain. Her fingers felt like fire on his skin, scorching everywhere with chilling sensations. Her walls clamped and Michael kept pumping, drawing out her release and until he exploded himself and fuck, fuck, fuck the world faded to grey and he was riding the most intense high, the highest wave and he was over the edge, liquid heat coursing his veins as he saw stars, stars, stars, as he screamed and then collapsed, panting and happy and with the silliest fucking grin on his face and so damn content.

"My name is Sahar. Not Fiona."

He blinked. "I know."

"You called me Fiona. I'm Sahar."

"Sahar. I'm sorry."

Michael rolled off of her and stared at the ornate ceiling with its gold beveling.

Jesus fucking Christ, I called her Fiona?

Sahar sat up nervously, wrapping the bed sheets around her and bit her lips in self-consciousness. "Is Fiona your wife?"

Michael turned his face to look at her, unsurprised at the question. She really was exquisite. He could see the high cheekbones, the perfect face, the large, round eyes. He didn't miss the hidden meaning behind the question. "Honey, do you think I would let some woman tie me down?" He sneered at the word woman, as if it were venom on his tongue. "I drink and party and by God this is my life and nothing will take me away from it!" He laughed and laughed and laughed as Sahar picked up her clothes, flushed and embarrassed at her assumption that he was looking for a girl.

"People are assets, resources to accomplish a goal. In and out." Max, his handler, had drilled the mantra into from the start. Michael didn't miss Sahar's cocoa butter smell when she left. Instead, he missed Fiona's smell of gunpowder, spent shotgun shells, and her.

Years later, he would dine with Fiona again, and he'd remember Sahar, how no matter he tried to focus on her, the only woman that could occupy his mind was the one sitting across from him, making the sexiest show of eating with chopsticks he'd ever seen. For a fleeting moment, he didn't care about the three FBI agents behind him or his burn notice; in this instant, he only cared about her.