Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist. I would really like to own Mashburn, but somehow I think that's unlikely.
His eyes are riveted to her hips in the tight black pants as she makes her exit, and he hopes the slight swagger is for his benefit. Walter leans back against the pillows and is accosted by a wave of her scent. Could it be ginger? Cinnamon?It is spicy and warm, sensual and unexpected, and the smell brings the feel of her silken hair sliding across his chest, the softness of the skin between shoulder and collarbone, the surprisingly deep purr of her response when he touched her...everywhere. He breathes in, exhales slowly, and is hit by the realization that he hasn't felt this kind of excitement, this depth of joy, in years. Not since he was a kid, jumping out of bed on Christmas morning and running on bare feet to see the bounty Santa had left.
Walter has become somewhat of a connoisseur of women's perfumes, but Teresa's fragrance stumps him. He makes a mental note to have his secretary find out what it is, and to have her send the largest bottle money can buy.