A/N: Random J/K porn, early s1. Enjoy! :)

He swims when he's anxious.

It's a habit he picked up years ago, after moving apartments and finding the neighborhood YMCA conveniently located just two blocks away. The waiting list to join had been interminable, but as soon as he got access, he forgot what life was like before it. He swam every night after work, no matter how exhausting the case had been during the day. Swimming was mindless in a way that was exceedingly comforting to him. The repetitive action soothed him after long days, and the exertion cleared his mind enough to allow dreamless sleep later.

But that was before, in his regular life. Now, it seems, those old rules don't apply so readily.

And it is different swimming here, in this five-star hotel, where pools seem to be mere decorations rather than facilities to be used. Still, he has tried. He has swum here every night since he and Jane checked in under the guise of a married couple last week, and yet he has not had one good night's sleep. The swimming exhausts him, and yet the cover still keeps him awake.

They are on day six of being fake-married, and it is not going well. Or, more accurately, it is going too well. It should astonish him, how easy it is to slip into intimate familiarity with her, and it does, but only after the fact. When they get back from the parties and the dinners and the drinks, when they step into their room and then immediately separate after closing the door, he is astonished. But while they are together downstairs? While she is closed by his side, holding his hand, resting her head on his shoulder, leaning in close to whisper in his ear? It feels like the most natural thing in the world. And it makes sleeping together in the same bed at night even more difficult. They have—a little childishly, perhaps—been keeping a pillow between them. But it hasn't stopped him from wanting more, from wanting her.

Which is why he's been swimming so much.

He shakes his head like a dog when he gets out of the pool, spraying water everywhere. It hardly matters—after one AM, the place is deserted. He grabs a towel from the complementary pile on the shelf a few feet away, and buries his face into it with a sigh. Everything at this hotel, it seems, exists solely to bring him maximum comfort. The fibers are plush and warm, and he breathes in the clean smell of lightly scented laundry as he dries off his face. Then he wraps it over his shoulders, pulling the edges back and forth quickly to clear off the water, before knotting it around his waist and moving to the exit across the way.

It's then that he realizes he isn't alone.

There's a woman standing on the far side of the pool, by the door. He peers at her for a second, startled. Though this is a public area (at least for hotel guests), it is one-thirty in the morning and he has been here, completely alone, for a full hour. He has been here alone every night for six nights. Why is someone here now? He thinks of the case, of the dangerous targets staying in a suite a few floors down, and he wonders if he's been made.

But before the hunch can spiral to fear, the woman takes a step away from the door. When she steps into the glow cast from one of the pool lights, he relaxes, recognizing her easily once she's brought out of the darkness.

"Jane."

She doesn't say anything back, but quietly makes her way to his side of the pool. She's dressed in one of the hotel's sheer white robes, and for a second he rubs his eyes, clearing the water, just in case he's seeing a mirage, or dreaming in his sleep. What is she doing here? he wonders as he watches her. She moves slowly, and with nothing more than the ghostly lighting from beneath the surface of the water illuminating her, she seems to glide through the half-darkness.

"You weren't in bed when I woke up, and when you didn't come back, I was worried what had happened to you."

You weren't in bed when I woke up. He swallows, trying to push away the intimacy of her words. It's hard, when they're alone and she's standing before him in nothing but that thin robe—it's cinched tight, and he can tell just by looking at her that she isn't wearing a bra underneath. He wonders if she's wearing anything underneath.

"I needed a swim," he replies, shaking off the images piling up his head. He doesn't need to think about her naked, or them in bed together, any more than he already does. "I needed to… to calm down," he adds belatedly.

She nods, knowing the pressure this mission is putting on him without him having to elaborate. She comes to stand beside him, turning to face the pool. The waves are still splashing gently against the sides from his earlier exit. The water's movements make the light from the underwater bulbs refract in erratic, mesmerizing patterns.

"It's beautiful," she says quietly.

He nods in agreement. "I like it here during the night," he replies. "It's private, calming… I can leave the world and myself for a while, and just…"

"Be?" she supplies when he trails off.

He looks at her with a soft smile. "Yeah. Just be."

She understands the over-simplification better than anyone else. It isn't only his real life he's running from when he comes here to work his body to exhaustion, but his fake life, too. Their charade of a marriage this past week has been draining him. It's not just the constant threat of exposure (and, surely, the torture and death that would follow, given the criminals they're after), but the strain on his emotions as well. He isn't naïve where Jane's concerned—Taylor or not, he doesn't want to marry her—but pretending to be married to her only throws into sharp relief all that he does want from her.

Mostly it's the little things, and as the days pass, he's been wondering how and when he got so attached to the small gestures—her arm linked through his, her fixing his tie, the feel of her hand at his back as she escorts him through a party. But looking at her in that robe, just like lying next to her in bed at night, reminds him that he wants more than just the little things. A lot more.

He starts to say something, just so he can clear all those unattainable desires from his mind, but before he can speak, he catches sight of her in his periphery. Her hands are pulling at the tie of her robe, and he opens his mouth, wanting to ask what she's doing, wanting to ask if he's really been that obvious these past few days… But before he can speak, the tie is undone, and then she's shrugging the robe off and it is falling to the tiles at her feet.

She is entirely naked—she isn't even wearing underwear—and for a minute he just stares, as mesmerized by her body as she had been by the water a moment before. He has seen her naked thousands of times before, thanks to the files at the Bureau, but somehow it's different this time.

Perhaps it's because she's kept her tattoos covered up with expensive outfits and copious amounts of make-up for the last six days that he's hardly seen them. Perhaps it's because he's never truly seen her naked in person. Perhaps it's because he's only recently acknowledged his feelings for her, and that he fled here, to this private rooftop pool, so he wouldn't have to stay a moment longer trapped in bed with the woman he wants but isn't sure he's allowed to have.

He tries to open his mouth, to ask what she's doing, but before he can speak, she steps to the edge of the water and executes a perfect dive, slicing through the deep end of the pool like a perfectly shot arrow shaft. He watches, but she doesn't surface, not until she's swum the entire length of the pool and then back again.

"Well?" she says when she surfaces. She's breathing only a little harder than usual. "Are you going to join me or not?"

He doesn't need a second invitation. He tosses aside his towel and dives in after her, but he doesn't even make it the full length of the pool before he has to come up for air. When he does surface, he spots her to his right, a few feet away, swimming in time with his strokes. For a while, they do laps side by side. It isn't a race—if it were, he's certain she'd win; she needs much less oxygen than him—but it's still a competition nonetheless. It always is, with them.

He tires first, hoisting himself up out of the water to hang on the lip of the pool. She does a few more laps, and then when she sees he isn't returning to their game, she surfaces beside him. Her multicolored arms rest on the concrete beside his, slim as always and yet surprisingly powerful. They rest there for a few minutes, legs dangling, heads tucked against their forearms, doing nothing more than breathing, until she swims away again.

He turns his head to watch her, expecting to see her start up her laps again. But instead, she swims to the middle of the pool and then stops there. He cranes his neck, turning a bit further away from the edge of the pool to watch her. And he finds her watching him.

For a moment, they just stare at one another across the space, no sound between them save for the gentle lapping of the water and the dull drone of late-night street traffic far, far below. He looks at her and she looks back at him and there is something in her eyes, something in the slight curve of her mouth, something that makes him think: Go.

So he goes. He paddles out towards her, each stroke measured and slow, giving them both time. Her, to move away and stop this before it happens; him, to think better of his impulsive actions and act according to expectations.

Neither of them takes the outs offered. Instead, they end up together in the middle of the pool, treading water with not more than five inches of space between them. A couple times, as they kick in place to keep themselves afloat, their toes knock against each other's shins. It doesn't have the usual effect of creating space; instead, it seems to minimize it. He can't tell if he's moving closer to her or she's moving closer to him, but soon enough they're so close that it doesn't matter who started it. He can feel her breath against his chin as they bob up and down, infiltrating each other's personal space.

She reaches out first. It's just a hand on his bicep—could be nothing more than a steadying hand to help keep herself afloat—but he knows she would never need that sort of help. Her grip is firm, though, tight. It makes his breathing pick up a little.

He watches her eyes—just for a second, just to check—and then he reaches out second.

Her mouth is already open for his when he kisses her, and there is something so supremely gratifying about that fact that for minutes at a time, he can't think of anything else. All his mind, heart, body cares about is the fact that she wants him, and better, yet, that she has been waiting for him. Just like he's been waiting for her.

As he kisses her and backs her towards the shallow end of the pool for easier access, he thinks back to all the times he's fantasized about this, about her. He knows without having to go very far back in his memory that there were never any fantasies like this. Wet clothing had been involved on a number of occasions, yes, and close proximity, and complete privacy, but never pools. They had never been in water.

But they are now. Even in the shallow end—or as far into the shallow end they make it, which is not far—the water is up to their stomachs. He doesn't care, though, and it seems neither does she. They both have firm footing, finally, on which to stand before one another, and neither brushes aside that advantage. In the cool air, her nipples are already hard, and he presses himself closer to her, delighting in the way they scrape against his chest. She moans at the feel, liking it too, and moves against him. He is getting hard already, and not embarrassed to let her feel it.

Her reaction is immediate: arching into him, pressing closer, but she truly surprises him by reaching out to touch. He starts at the feel of her hand on him, breaking their kiss by instinct as reality rushes back to him. They can't do this here; he can't have her here.

"We should—go back to the room," he pants. It isn't much of a pause button, considering, but he know there will at least be a bed there, and hopefully some birth control they can access. If not, they can call room service. He's certain they've gotten stranger requests than a couple of condoms.

But she shakes her head at his offer. "I don't want to go back to the room."

"Jane—"

"We lie when we're in there, Kurt. That's what that room is for: lying. I don't want to go back there for this."

He can't argue with her fierce logic, and so he doesn't. Instead he kisses her, harder than probably necessary, but he doesn't hear her complain. Her hands are back around his neck, her fingers holding on tight, and he needs no other encouragement. He shoves his swim trunks down, kicking them off from around his ankles, doing his best to keep kissing her the entire time.

She swears out loud when he pushes inside, and he immediately stops, his eyes going wide as he pulls back to look at her. He has never heard her swear before—not a single Damn, not even a casual Shit. She knows the words—she has to after so many months in New York City—and yet he has never heard her utter a single one. No matter the hits she's taken, the mistakes she's made, the tragedies that have befallen her: She doesn't swear.

And so hearing it now frightens him. He glances down between them, irrationally searching the clear water for traces of blood, as if she were a virgin in body as well as mind.

"You okay?" he asks, and she nods sharply without opening her eyes. Her nails digging into his shoulders, however, tell a different story. "We can stop," he offers, half hating himself for how disingenuous he sounds, half not caring at all because he feels like he's been waiting his whole life for this.

She shakes her head at the suggestion, eyes blinking open. "It's fine. It's just… the water…" Her gaze falls between them, to where their bodies are joined, his inside hers. It takes him a second to realize what she's getting at: the water washed away what natural lubricant she had. For a moment, he wonders what she was thinking, coming on to him in the middle of a pool, before he remembers that she wasn't thinking, that she hasn't done this before, that that particular drawback was something she—like him—would never have thought to take into account.

He starts to suggest the room again, but manages to bite his tongue.

"Lounge chair," he says after a moment, spotting a few of them scattered poolside over her shoulder. She turns to follow his gaze and nods once, Okay.

He slips out of her far more carefully than he entered, trying not to cause any more unnecessary discomfort. They make their way up the stairs, back onto dry ground, and he hasn't taken more than a step before she is pulling him close, her mouth hungry and wanting his. He cups her waist with one hand, another sliding into her wet hair, relishing in the feel of her wet, smooth body moving against his. She has to stand on tiptoes to kiss him, and he likes that, too, likes how much effort she is putting into this.

He slides his hand around to her ass, cupping it and pulling her closer, and he can feel her gasp into his mouth when his erection presses against the joining of her thighs. She pushes her chest into him and he tightens his hold on her hair, her ass, kneading the soft flesh. When she starts to grind her body against his, he knows they need to find a sturdy surface soon, lest their movements accidentally send them both hurtling back into the water.

He pulls her over to the lounge chair, and they lie side by side, kissing and touching and writhing. He slides his hand between her thighs, just to check. She is warm, and wet from the pool, but he can tell just by touching her that she needs more. So he slides his fingers against her and whispers to her, wanting to keep her close in this moment with him, wanting to stoke her excitement.

"Do you know how many times I've thought about doing this?"

She whispers his name, so softly it's almost a plea, and he kisses her neck, reddening her pale skin with the scrape of his stubble.

"Hm?" he presses, nipping nightly at her tendons as his free hand rises to her breast. "Do you know?"

She shakes her head, panting softly as he rubs his thumb against one inky, erect nipple. "No," she whispers. "I don't know." Her hand reaches up to cover his, to guide him to massage her breast. "But I want to," she whispers, lifting one of her legs to rest atop his. She hooks her heel around the back of his leg to pull them closer together. "Tell me."

He shuts his eyes, kissing her hard to combat the awe that leaves him speechless.

"I've wanted this for weeks," he whispers, swirling his fingers between her legs. He hears her breath catch at a particular movement, and he pulls back a little so he can gauge her expression, and understand what she likes. "It's been torture staying here with you," he murmurs, rubbing his thumb gently against her exposed clit, and listening to her whimper softly in response. "Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about turning to you in the night, touching you like this?"

"Do you know how many times I've wanted you to do more than think about it?"

Her words are so unexpected that, for a moment, all he can do is lie there and stare at her. She holds his gaze for barely a second before her eyes drop.

"This hasn't been easy for me, either," she confesses, and though an hour ago he would've accused her of lying by saying such a thing—everything comes easy to her—he knows now it must be the truth. He can feel how much she wants him: in the dampness between her legs; the warmth of her breasts; in her sudden inability to look him straight in the eye as usual.

He bends forward to kiss her, long and slow, and he hopes it reassures her.

"How about we make things easy for both of us," he murmurs when he pulls back, and she smiles. He kisses her again, just for the hell of it, and then moves to roll her onto her back. She moans, her body vibrating beneath his, as his weight settles atop hers. He does his best not to crush her, and she makes it easier by spreading her legs far enough apart that they fall off the edges of the chair.

He leans back onto his knees, wanting to savor this moment, this sight: her naked and ready beneath him, wanting him and no one but him. He has no idea if this will last any longer than this one night, and so he takes it all in. It's only when she starts pulling at his arms that he finally comes to his senses.

He slides in much more easily this time, and her responding moan of pleasure momentarily erases the echoes of her curse that had been reverberating in his head. She is so warm around him, and her body hugs him so close that for a minute, he doesn't move but instead lies there still inside her, still on top of her. It's only when she kisses him and pulls at his back and asks for more that he starts to move.

Neither of them lasts long—he blames the six-day buildup. Or has it been a six-month buildup? Whatever it is, the finale culminates quickly, and he just barely manages to pull out before he comes. She gasps in surprise when he spurts onto her stomach.

"Sorry," he mutters after he collapses, thinking belatedly that perhaps he should have warned her. But he figures it's better for her to be surprised by a bit of ejaculate now than by a screaming infant nine months down the line.

"Here…" Once he catches his breath, he gets up and grabs the nearest towel, handing it to her so she can wipe herself off. She does so, and then she lies back, closing her eyes as she reclines with a sigh. He watches her for a second, wondering what to do, and then finally he takes a seat on the cool tile floor, his back against the side of her lounge chair. He closes his eyes too. Leans his head back to rest against one of her thighs. This is the calmest he's felt in weeks. Perhaps years.

He opens his eyes only when he feels her hand on his shoulder, her fingers gently stroking the curve. He reaches up, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles briefly. Then he lets go, and leans back once more. He closes his eyes again too, but not before he catches a glimpse of her lazy smile.

"This is nice," she whispers.

He nods, humming a soft agreement.

But in the back of his mind, the gears are already spinning. This does feel nice. He does feel relaxed. But why? This should be more complicated than that—it has to be more complicated than that. Where is the guilt? Where is the anxiety about breaking the rules? Where is any rational thought except Let's do that again?

He shakes his head, pushing the latent worries away. He can have a crisis over it all tomorrow; tonight he just wants to sit here and rest and maybe, after a while, do it all over again. Perhaps in a bed this time, he thinks, and he smiles. He turns his head to the side so his cheek can rest against her thigh, his face canted towards her upper body. When he draws in a deep breath through his nose, he can still smell her—and him. It's a better perfume than whatever Chanel number she's been wearing for the last six days.

"Kurt?"

It's many minutes before she speaks again, and when she does, he is almost asleep. He's been dozing on and off for the last few minutes, and he barely manages to rouse himself to speak when she calls his name.

"Hm?"

"We should probably go back," she says, and though he knows she's right, all he wants to do is stay right where he is, his head resting against her, his eyes closed. She seems to sense this, for when he doesn't immediately reply, she punches his shoulder playfully. "C'mon. Don't make me carry you."

"Please," he yawns. "Like you could lift me."

"I could too," she replies matter-of-factly, and he doesn't bother arguing further. Besides, she's probably right.

With a groan, he opens his eyes, lifts his head, and finally gets to his feet. It takes him a few minutes to fish his swimsuit out of the pool, and a few more to dry himself off again. He watches her as she wraps herself up in her white robe again, not feeling at all sad to see her body hidden from him once more. Something tells him he'll see it again soon.

She meets him by the door, and whether it's out of her own impulse or a part of their cover, she takes his hand. His mouth twitches into a brief smile at the feel of her thin fingers interlaced with his. As they wait for the elevator out in the hall, he leans over and presses an impulsive kiss to her hair. Then he bends down to kiss her mouth. He doesn't pull away until after the elevator arrives.

It is only then, as they ride the lift back down to their suite, that he remembers. He is staring up at the illuminated numbers above the elevator door, watching the light as it travels further down the list, when he notices it. The small, black half-circle set into the ceiling: a security camera.

They're everywhere, he knows. He studied floor plans of this hotel for weeks before the mission began; he has nearly every floor of it memorized. He knows for a fact that there are cameras posted on every level and in every common space: hallways, elevators, dining rooms, sitting rooms… Apart from the guests' private rooms and the bathrooms, there is not one single blind spot in the entire hotel. Not even in the basement, not even on the roof. Security sees, hears, and records everything.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't mind so much.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have to explain himself or his actions to anyone.

Under normal circumstances…

But these aren't normal circumstances. They are nothing like normal circumstances.

The elevator arrives at their floor, a gentle bell toll trilling their arrival, and Jane steps off first, smiling back at him as she tugs at his hand, pulling him behind her. She is awake again, clearly wanting more, and he forces an amenable smile to his face he no longer feels. The lack of dread from before is coming back to bite him, hard and fast. It won't let go.

He can feel a buzzing start in his ears and he staggers behind her as if drunk. She stops less than halfway to their room, turning to him with an oblivious grin and an open-mouthed kiss, and he thinks numbly that she must not have figured it out yet.

There are cameras everywhere, he wants to tell her. Currently, in the middle of this hallway, they are in full view of no less than four. He thinks about how many were on the rooftop, how many in the pool, and what their mechanical eyes and ears had feasted upon. Even one record of what happened would be too much, but he knows there are more. He knows they were seen from every angle, heard at every decibel.

Had it only been hotel security watching, he might have shrugged it off. But a deal had been struck before this mission began, a very important deal between one of the most exclusive hotels in the city and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was meant as a precautionary measure, as a way to save his and Jane's necks if they ever ran into trouble.

How could he forget?

There are cameras everywhere, yes. And the FBI just so happens to have access to each and every one.

A/N: Thanks for reading! It's been a while since I've written for J&K, so feel free to leave me a review and let me know how it went! :)