Title: How to Make up for Adding Insult to Injury

Author: Extremity

Genre: Romance

Pairing: Lassiter/OC

Type: One-shot

Summary: What do you get when you add an aging Lassiter, a woman out of his league, a work affair, and a terribly timed confession? Simply put, Lassie gets a concussion, is offended by the truth, then winds up happy anyways. Rated for shameless sexual situations and language, but nothing is too graphic. One-shot.

Spoilers: None

"Holy shit, Carlton! Holy shit! Goddamn… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" Emory mewled. Stars lit up in her eyes as she screamed, subdued, into his shoulder. His breath was ragged as he exhaled into her hair, sweat dripping from his forehead unceremoniously onto hers.

Though it was only a momentary thought, flitting out of his mind as soon as it came, he couldn't help but wonder what her neighbors thought when they heard her moan like that. Seconds later, however, he decided he didn't care and continued struggling against her, legs tangled, sheets sticking, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head.

A loud thud reverberated through the room and he wasn't sure whether had been his head or hers that had collided mercilessly into the headboard. When he felt the pain begin to radiate from the crown of his skull, he decided that it had been his, and that he didn't particularly care. She briefly opened her eyes to look into his, gently stroking her fingers through his hair. A quick flash of pain could be seen shooting through his gaze, but when he leaned down to press his lips into hers, she found that she didn't care either.

"Agent Shay… Dear God… God, I love you," he whimpered, yes whimpered. If that was the closest thing to submissive she'd ever hear from his lips, she could still die happy. Ignoring his poorly timed confession, she pulled his mouth to hers again in the hopes that he'd stop staying stupid things.

But it suddenly occurred to her that she enjoyed it when he said stupid things, called her by her last name in the most intimate setting humanly possible, and acted entirely inept in any romantic setting. So she tore her lips from his and instead bit into his collarbone with unbridled intensity. This time it was his turn to yelp, and she vaguely registered a second thud as his head struck her bed once more.

"Shit. You're gonna be the death of me, I swear," he huffed, viciously. He almost came to a stop on account of the pounding headache that was throbbing throughout his brain.

When she turned her attention to sucking on his earlobe, his moan of pain slowly slipped into one of pleasure.

"Whether it's from a concussion or a heart attack, I'm not really – shit – sure," he panted.

"Shut up," she commanded.

When he made to speak again, his words got broken up when she began to rock her hips in ways she'd never done before. The pure ecstasy of it sent him into the realm of blacked out vision and breathless lungs. He gasped, gasped desperately for air, but her continued pulsation kept him on his heels, straining to take a simple breath.

Beneath him she writhed, pressing sloppy half-kisses over every bit of skin she could reach. On top he squirmed, groaned, begged for her to never stop until he felt her lose control beneath him. The sight of her face contorted in bliss because of him, eyes clenched shut because of him, sweat dripping from her temples because of him… it was all enough to send him over the edge, practically howling, something he couldn't remember ever doing. Still, that could have been an effect of the absurd amount of endorphins flooding his brain as he felt himself not only fall over but throw himself over the edge along with her.

After being brought to the theoretical equivalent of Mt. Everest's crest and back, every ounce of strength left Lassiter's arms and he collapsed atop the woman who'd just pushed him farther than ever before. The muscles deep in his arms and legs began to twitch, pulsing in time with his erratic heartbeat. He was still seeing flashes of colors, even behind his eyelids.

Emory's heartbeat pounded against his ribcage, her breath hot and sticky against the side of his neck. Her eyes were still shut tightly, mouth contorted in an expression of both pleasure and pain. He could only imagine that he looked the same. His formerly styled hair had lost any semblance of hold and stuck stubbornly to her forehead as his face hovered ever so slightly above hers.

"You know, you're allowed to call me by my first name, Carlton." Emory finally opened her eyes to stare into his. Her slender fingers began to run through his short hair, gathering a sticky feeling from his overuse of hair gel. She grinned and tapped his nose, watching as he crinkled in response to the foreign substance.

"I feel as though," he paused to catch his breath for his age was clearly taking a toll on his cardiac endurance, "that would be inappropriate."

"We've already crossed that line." She pondered her statement for a moment before adding, "More like shot it up with an AK, but you know what I mean."

"You're right," he wheezed. His chest heaved as he tried to take a deep breath.

"Aren't I always?" she taunted, massaging the nape of his neck. This caused his head to fall forward, his hairline resting on hers. Frankly, amid his desperate breathing, he couldn't help but be startled at her ability to speak without huffing and puffing already. She noticed his surprise and offered a simple explanation, "I run five miles everyday. You should come with me one of these times. Maybe then you'll be up for round two right away." He gave her his classic perturbed look before rolling off of her. The movement was enough to send the room spinning and he only then began to remember his head injury.

Emory reached to sooth the knot beginning to form on his crown. She couldn't help but snicker at his misfortune.

"I'm sorry I'm old," he remarked with faux bitterness.

"Oh, but I like you old. Salt and pepper is hot."

"You're supposed to say I'm not old," Lassiter protested, self consciously touching his graying temple. The back of her hand pulled his away and twined her fingers through his.

"The truth is, compared to me you are. I mean I'm twenty-seven and you're thirty-five. That's not the smallest age difference in the world, you know."

"Don't remind me. First you smash me into a wall then you insult me. Thanks a lot."

"If it makes you any happier, I love you too." The corners of his mouth turned up in a somber smile. He squeezed her hand with a surprising gentleness before wrapping his arm around her waist. She flipped to place her hand on his chest, rubbing sweet circles up and down his torso.

When she threw her leg over his thigh, he sighed in contentment and acquiesced with a pleased, "I think I can live with that."