a/n: My room mate and best friend, Alison, is perhaps one of the only people who violently adores Hart/Gibbs as much as I do and today is her 20th birthday, thus I present her this little smutty gem fraught with lawyer/cup puns.
The tips of her long, stick-straight black hair lingered on his shoulders.
He ran his hands through it roughly. Her hair was like spun silk, smooth to the touch, never knotted, always shining like precious onyx, and prone to lingering on his clothes and his sheets long after she had gone.
She shed like a cat, and when she looked at him, either in the bullpen or with her legs spread over him, she looked at him like cats looked at mice, and he liked it more than he wanted to.
Her skin was slick with sweat, and when he kissed her neck, teeth tugging at her, she tasted salty and hot.
Her thumbs brushed his jaw.
He was impressed that she was unfazed by the excuse for a bedroom he offered.
"Looks like my study," she'd noted coolly, upon seeing the impersonal stacks of boxers surrounding the bed. She'd smirked, and arched her dark brow at him. "I like to fuck in my study."
Her visits were inevitable now; whether their professional interaction had been peaceful or pernicious, she took advantage of his unlocked door policy and the sex was always powerful.
His hands slid from her hair down her back, bunching up her soft shirt and yanking it over her head. Fingers lingered at the front closure on her bra, but he changed his mind, and let his hands wander over the material, teasing her through it.
She pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his bare chest and sat back, hips low on his, her slim fingers unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. She parted her kiss-bruised red lips fetchingly and arched her brow, cheeks flushed with arousal.
"We run into our workplace problems for a simple reason, Mr. Gibbs," she drawled huskily, her hands slipping into his jeans.
He groaned, reaching for her thighs, pushing her black skirt up her legs and tugging at the lace edges of her stockings.
"Yeah?" he challenged gruffly.
She nodded, biting her lower lip in an enticing pout.
"It's been so long since you have properly Mirandized an arrestee," she told him primly, "that I am forced to believe you don't actually know the Miranda Rights."
He let out a sarcastic laugh.
He reached for her hands and pulled her to his chest, shifting his weight and flipping her under him. He trapped her between his legs, pressing his body tightly into hers, his eyes flicking over her lips hungrily.
"I know 'em," he growled, lowering his mouth to hers, giving her an aggressive kiss that directly correlated to her thrusting her hips against him, seeking gratification.
"Do you?" she asked sweetly, talking into his mouth.
She liked to talk while they fucked, and that riveted him—he hadn't been with many talkers, and he hadn't decided if he liked it yet.
He growled an affirmative, mouth on hers again, tongue teasing her lips, and she twisted away, slipping from his grasp and out from underneath him with frustrating grace. He stared at the place where her head had been, and looked around, an annoyed crease appearing between his eyes.
She hung off the bed, searching her purse on the floor, and he reached for her, his hand sliding up the back of her skirt, giving her a light smack on the ass before he gripped her there temptingly.
"C'mere," he ordered in a low voice.
Her muscles tightened as she rolled onto her back and then lifted herself on her elbow, slinging something that glinted in the dim light over her hip and dangling it—no, them-from her index finger.
"Prove it," she said wickedly, and his eyes narrowed at the handcuffs she'd brought into bed with them.
He was silent, considering the cold metal, and then his eyes flicked to hers, and he cocked an eyebrow. She smirked lasciviously, her lips puckering again, taunting him.
"Read me my rights, Mr. Gibbs," she provoked suggestively.
He considered her intently; he grinned.
He moved so suddenly, he startled her, and she laughed breathlessly to find herself on her knees, held tightly against him. He snapped a cuff around her wrist and the other around the bedpost, and he ran his hand down the side of her cheek to her neck, stroking her pulse point.
He drew her skirt up around her waist and her panties down her thighs, his fingers teasing her for a moment, until she tilted her head back and gasped softly, and he pressed his lips to her throat, kissing hard.
"You want me to Mirandize you?" he asked skeptically, his teeth pinching her skin deliciously as he talked.
She breathed heavily, his deep voice coursing through her.
She nodded.
"Do it," she moaned, eyes sliding closed.
He shrugged, and smirked.
"Doubt you're gonna remain silent," he said arrogantly.
He pushed her forward. The cuffs jingled as she gripped the bedpost, and planted her free hand against the mattress, bent over on her knees in front of him. He pushed his jeans down and gripped her hips tightly, thrusting inside her hard.
She moaned appreciatively.
"Jethro."
She rested her forehead on her arm.
"You have the right to remain silent," he growled, and thrust into her again, digging his fingertips into her skin.
She grit her teeth and moaned again; he smirked, his muscles already tight.
"Anything you say can," he thrust again, "and will be," again, "used against you in a court of law." He pulled her hips against him hard this time.
"Fuck," she swore. "Harder, Jethro," she moaned.
Her knuckles were white on the bedpost.
"You have the right to an attorney," she arched her back and pushed her hips back into his, and he broke off with a groan, gritting his teeth hard. He pulled back slower this time, teasing her. "If you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."
He slid his hand over her back, marking her skin with his fingerprints, resting his palm on her lower back. She tilted her head back, her lashes fluttering, and he pulled her hips back against him roughly a few more times before he slid a hand below her navel.
She cried out, her breath coming in short gasps, and he felt her abdomen contract against his arm—he slowed his movements.
"Don't stop," she pleaded. "Fuck me."
"You understand these rights as they've been read to you?" he asked instead.
She swore, realizing he was turning the game against her. He forced himself to remain still, thinking of all manner of boring things to ignore her tight heat and resist the urge to thrust hard and fast until she was screaming.
"Yes," she answered.
"Yes?" he asked, feigning incomprehension.
"Yes," she ground out, and he rewarded her with a hard thrust. "Oh, god, yes," she moaned.
He grit his teeth and stopped again, reaching for her licorice black hair and tangling his hand into it, letting the silk tangle into his fingers, determined to knot it up and leave his mark.
"You waive 'em?" he asked.
She let out a whimper of desire, frustrated passion.
"If I don't?" she asked brazenly, her voice ragged.
"You don't come," he answered boldly.
She laughed huskily.
"Waive 'em," she decided wisely, and he gave her exactly what she wanted; it took no more than a few rough thrusts to get her off, and she moaned his name desperately, the word tumbling from her lips over and over—she gripped the mattress, dug her nails in, and tugged at the handcuffs violently, shouting in part pain, part pleasure when she her wrist was pinched in the metal circle.
He didn't worry about her; Margaret Allison Hart liked it rough down to the strictest definition of the word; the woman liked sex, and she liked sex that left her a bruise on the knee or a rug burn on the wrist.
He slammed his hips against her one last time, bottoming out, and closed his eyes, setting his jaw tightly. He groaned, his hand digging into her thigh, resting his arm on her back as he leaned over her, climax turning his vision white.
"Allison," he swore gruffly, biting her name into her skin.
He recovered for a minute, his forehead pressing into her hot skin, and then he eased out of her. She moaned softly and shifted forward, twisting around and leaning back against the headboard, her black hair tangled and falling around her shoulders, her arm yanked above her head at a comical angle, manipulated by the cuffs.
He collapsed next to her, his hand running over the stockings, wrinkled on her thighs, and she rested her head back, breathing shallowly through parted, swollen lips. His eyes ran over her, and he reached for the zipper on the back of her skirt, loosening it, and sliding it off over her legs.
"You gonna un-cuff me?" she asked huskily, rattling the metal at him.
"No," he growled.
Her eyes flickered, her lashes danced. She cocked a brow.
He looked like he couldn't give a damn if he tried, and smirked at her roguishly.
"You waive your rights, you're still under arrest," he pointed out, sliding his arm around her leg and pulling it under his chest. He rolled towards her and kissed the inside of her thigh, his cropped hair scratching her stomach.
She gasped, and laced her fingers into the silver.
His lips moved below her navel, and then his tongue was on her.
"Oh, god, Jethro!"
Allison Hart suddenly understood the right to remain silent was very different from the ability to.
Happy Birthday, Sassy Snickle Fritz!
-alexandra
story #138