This one is for Lynn, who requested another Jack & Brooke story. I can't tell you how flattered I was that you not only wanted another story from me, but that you specifically asked I bring back an original character. Not givin' up the day job, but you sure made me feel good! I hope this one meets with your approval, dear one.

Time frame is several months after the end of Excessive Force. FYI, the steam at the beginning is the reason for the"M" status.

Upon hearing a low moan escape from his lips, she smiled with satisfaction at his obvious pleasure. The sound reminded her of a purr. Brooke Prescott reached across her lover, to the nightstand where the warm bottle of lavender massage oil rested, carefully pouring the some of its contents onto the palm of her left hand.

"More?"

"Hum hum," Jack McCoy murmured as he rolled over to face her. "My body just doesn't respond well to frequent flying."

Prescott returned the bottle to it's place on the night table.

"Trust me," she said as she ran her hands over his shoulders and slowly down his chest. "your body compensates by responding well to other things."

It had been nearly five months since the assistant district attorney for Suffolk county had started her assignment with the Justice Department's Drug Trafficking Task Force, in Miami. Five months - or as McCoy chose to keep track of the time - enough round trip tickets to gain the couple almost unlimited frequent flyer mileage.

McCoy laughed the deep quiet laugh that Prescott had become quite skilled at invoking.

"You think so, counselor," he replied taking her slick hands in his and pressing them tightly to his own.

Once he released her, McCoy ran his hands over her naked breasts, leisurely kneading them, as he began to kiss her shoulder.

After the hectic first month of their long distance romance, the pair had been able to set down a fairly routine schedule to see one another. Prescott flying home to New York three times a month, reimbursed via the expense account that was part of the package she received for work on the task force. McCoy flying to Miami the first weekend of each month reimbursed by Prescott in less tangible, but far more pleasurable ways.

"I know so," she whispered slipping a leg around him to press him closer. She smiled to herself as she felt his hardness against her thigh. "You're sure you're up to this? What about your back ache?"

McCoy smiled down at her, as his hands moved from the softness of her breasts, down her back.

"I have a more pressing ache at the moment," he replied as captured her mouth with his own.

As they began to make love, McCoy thought about how surreal the last several months had been. Their time together had taken on a vacation like feel. The times Prescott came to New York, they split their time between Islip and Manhattan. The weekends together in Florida were spent exploring sight seeing or in her hotelroom, making love like teenagers.

The beauty of the situation was, whoever was doing the air travel had uninterrupted time on the plane to wrap up unfinished business. The person at the other end usually had until nine or ten o clock Friday night to do the same. By the time they connected they were free to focus on each other for the remainder of the weekend. The couple had joked more than once about sending the man responsible for her assignment, a thank you gift. Prescott's old flame, Suffolk county EADA Clint Renard, had unwittingly given the couple a priceless gift.

"Oh God, don't stop," Prescott pleaded as she felt the ecstasy McCoy was so skilled at inducing, wash over her.

McCoy grunted in agreement, unable to speak as he continued to plunge inside of her, stiffening as his body surrendered to her. McCoy could feel the rapid beating of both of their hearts, before he fell back onto the mattress. She turned onto her side and gently licked a few beads of sweat from his still heaving chest. McCoy cleared the strands of auburn hair out of her face gazing down at her as he ran a his other hand over her hips, the subtle possessiveness of the gesture, something Prescott secretly looked forward to every time they were together.

"You are insatiable, woman. Maybe I am a fool to leave you on your own so much," McCoy said as he gazed at her appreciatively.

"Maybe you are," she said playfully. "but then I would be a bigger fool. After all, I'm down here working sixteen hour days with guys with pot bellies and grand children. You on the other hand, you work in an office with beauties like Connie and Kelly, not to mention-"

"Then don't mention them," he teased as he reached across his lover towards the night table. "You know they mean nothing to me, Brooke. You have everything I want, beauty, brains-"

"And twenty four hour room service," she said mischievously grabbing at the room service menu in his hand. "Yeah, I know what you want, Mr. McCoy. The only question is will you have it on white or rye this time?"

McCoy held the menu up, out of her reach, as he opened it.

"All these months - how little you know me," he said mockingly. "I always order the corned beef on rye. It's the soup I have a hard time deciding on."

"All the deli's in Manhattan and you come to Miami for the corned beef."

McCoy leaned over her suggestively, as he whispered in her ear.

"Not only for the corned beef, love."

Prescott sat up as she kissed his cheek. Handing him the cordless phone, she looked over his shoulder as he read at the daily specials.

"When you call, get a order of the cherry cobbler a la mode."

McCoy chuckled as he began dialing.

"It's almost midnight, are you sure all that sugar won't make you restless?"

Prescott smirked as she ran a hand through the tousled grey locks.

"I thought you liked it when I was…restless."

"Yes, this is room 874," he said not quite suppressing his chuckle.

Prescott slipped out of his embrace and went into the bathroom as McCoy placed the room service order that had become habit. If his nine pm flight arrived on time, by the time he was knocking on the door of Prescott's hotel room, carry on bag in hand, it was usually nearly ten pm. After a few minutes of welcome banter and occasionally a drink, the pair either fell into bed or the Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.

Like clock work, by midnight the couple's appetite for food had been aroused. The obligatory airplane meal at seven thirty for McCoy was little more than a snack. A late lunch at four thirty, often with a colleague or two, before they headed home for the weekend was customary for Prescott.

"Brooke, you're sure you just want the cobbler," he called out. Upon hearing an affirmative reply from the bathroom, McCoy shook his head. "Yes, that's all….thank you."

McCoy absentmindedly picked up the remote control and pressed the on button. McCoy went to the closet and slipped on the pair of jeans and tee shirt he had left of the course of his prior visits. As he channel surfed, he perused the pile of brochures and flyers on the small dining table.

"So what do you want to do Saturday," Prescott asked taking her place on the bed, wearing a yellow terry cloth robe for the benefit of the room service staff, a sheer silk night shirt underneath, for McCoy's benefit.

McCoy scooped the pile up and joined her on the bed, leaving the remote on the table.

"Lady's choice" he said as he propped up a pillow and started to watch CNN's national news report.

"Well considering, it's snowing in Manhattan and the high here has been in the low 70's all week, maybe you'd like to do something outside?"

McCoy leered at her and made a suggestive remark. Although he really didn't care what they did, he had to admit after a week of gloves and snowplows, the idea of getting some sunshine was appealing to him.

When the knock at the door came, Prescott was telling him about an afternoon jazz concert scheduled for a near by park.

"Sounds good," he said as Prescott let the waiter inside, signing the room service slip as he quickly set up and closed the door behind him. "although, I figured you might want to hit the antique stores again?"

"The concert starts at two. Maybe we could hit a few stores before the concert," she said taking a bite of the warm dessert. "Humm. Almost as good as mine."

"As yours," he asked as he bit into the corned beef, turning the light weight chair towards the set. "I thought you were born and raised in New York?"

"I was. You forget, I was married to a Southerner. Remember that mint julep I made you last summer? That was only the beginning of the things that good old boy taught me."

McCoy raised an eyebrow, as he grinned back at her, letting her slip a piece of the cherry cobbler in to his mouth.

"You like?"

McCoy nodded as she sat in the chair across from him.

"Maybe if you're nice to me Saturday, I'll make some when I come up next weekend. Could we invite Jake and his new boyfriend over for bunch next Sunday? He always was a sucker for my cobbler."

"You know that's just an excuse so you can meet his mystery man," McCoy countered. "You know you've been curious about this guy since Jake started coming into Manhattan every weekend to see him."

"Your corned beef's getting cold," she said dryly.

Prescott knew he was right. The excitement she saw everytime her assistant spoke about the mysterious civil attorney had peaked her curiousity. In the nearly two decades she had known Jake Cohen, Prescott had only seen him this mesmerized by a love interest once before.

Before he could reply, McCoy's attention abruptly turned to the set. He reached for the remote as Prescott turned to view the screen.

"What's going on?"

"Cutter and Rubirosa where waiting on a verdict when I left this afternoon. Being that this is Mike's first case as my Senior EADA, I've been taking more interest than usual," he replied.

Prescott nodded. She knew McCoy had finally filled the spot that had remained vacant for months after Tracey Kibre had resigned. The anchor was deferring to the reporter in Manhattan who began to reveal details of a shooting in front of a gentlemen's club in Manhattan. McCoy picked up the remote.

"This isn't Mike's case. This-"McCoy froze.

Prescott stared at the screen as the reporter revealed the name of the club and the victim of the shooting.

"… in front of The Townhouse - a prominent Manhattan club - catering to the gay community. On the steps of the elegant Townhouse, Suffolk county assistant district attorney Jacob Cohen, was gunned down as he exited the club with a male companion, just after two a m, local time."