Twinkies, ice-cream and belly-rubs
AN: The smut-monster came back to bite me in the ass. He liked it too! Then, as Deeks would say, this happened.
Disclaimer: Do I need to take ownership of the story? Oh well, it's the only thing I actually do own. Not Deeks, not Kensi, not NCIS: LA.
Spoilers: None. Set sometime after season 3.
Damn it! Not now, not here, not…ouch! You bite your lip to prevent a moan from coming out. This is ridiculous! You, NCIS Special Agent Kensi Blye can most absolutely not be taken out by some stupid monthly cramps, signaling the eminent arrival of your period.
Those three or four days weren't even the real issue. No, it was the two days proceeding it that usually got you down on your knees and begging for mercy. Sweet hell, those cramps could hit you hard! Harder than a bad guy punching you in the gut. Because that never lasted that long. The cramps however lasted all day, sometimes just nagging, then flaring up like wildfire in your abdomen.
You've tried all brands of painkillers available, including those specifically designed for this time a month, but none of them really help, though if you take two at the same time, they take the worst of the edge away. But then they tend to leave you drowsy, something you can ill afford when you're on the job.
And you are usually not known for being a baby when it comes to dealing with pain. Not unlike your partner, who usually starts to whine when he merely thinks you're going to punch him. For that reason only, he deserves it!
And still he wouldn't come up with the idea of keeping his mouth shut!
Not even now. He's talkative and fidgety, sitting next to you on the stained couch in your temporary home, which is a rather dingy one bedroom, one story bungalow, where Daisy Brooks (you) lives with her fiancé Josh Keaton (Deeks). Unlike Justin and Melissa, Daisy and Josh are not rich by any means. The suspect you are targeting comes from this neighborhood and according to your Intel, deals drugs from his childhood home, right under the nose of his grandmother, who's suffering from Alzheimer's and could never testify.
It angers you that a person could take advantage of a vulnerable family member like that. What angers you even more is that this batch of drugs has found its way into the hands of some young Marines who have just come back from Afghanistan and who should definitely not be dealing with the aftermath of their deployment by using any kind of none-prescribed drugs.
The undercover op is almost done and you're glad of it. Not in the least bit so you can get away from your jabbering partner. God knows you love him to pieces (and a lot more than you're comfortable with), but combined with the cramps, it's driving you mental! If anything, you just want to go home and soak in a hot bathtub with a whole box of Twinkies and a full tub of ice cream. Not either or. Both.
This is an emergency after all.
Straight through Deeks' monologue about…whatever, your phone buzzes, simultaneously with his. The message from Eric is clear enough. And devastating in its simplicity. You'll be stuck in this crappy place for at least another night as whatever deal supposedly going down tonight was cancelled, or so the carefully placed bugs in the suspect's home informed him.
One more night of patience. One more night where you can't do anything about how incredibly rotten you feel.
Your tiny postage stamp sized bathroom doesn't have a tub and the showerhead alone could give a person scurvy, so no bath.
You could run out to the nearest 7-eleven and get some more painkillers, but you don't want to leave Deeks in charge of a dim-witted partner who can't keep her eyes open, even if the eminent threat of the op has been taken away. Not that you don't trust him, but you should have his back, like a partner should.
You'd rather be cramping and alert than pain free and high.
Plus, leaving the house now could be dangerous. Wouldn't be the first time a group of criminals changes their schedule at the last moment and you might not be back in time to do anything useful.
Of course, there's always another method that helps, but sadly, that one's not available to you either. If only you had some more privacy, somewhere where the walls aren't made from cardboard and where you could be sure you weren't heard or interrupted by your partner…
God, that would be embarrassing!
Biting back another moan of agony as a violent, piercing shot courses through your abdomen, and stiffening a little on the uncomfortable, dented couch, you alert your partner to your pain.
"Kensi, you okay?"
"I'm fine, Deeks!"
"Right."
His mouth sets in an angry line. He's not a fool, he knows you're lying to him and he doesn't like it. So, as usual, he can't drop the subject. With uncanny precision, he hits the proverbial nail on the head, proving once again how in tune he is with everything Kensi.
"Cramps? That time of the month again?"
Not the least bit surprised he figured it out, you give up all pretense and nod in confirmation.
"Sorry, Sugar Bear. Do you need anything? Anything I can do?"
You shake your head.
"Not really. Medication makes me drowsy, we don't have a tub in the bathroom and I can't…"
Just in time you clamp your mouth shut. This is one little revelation not meant to reach his ears. Hopefully, he'll let it drop.
Right. This is Deeks, for God's sake!
"Can't what? Anything you normally do? Like eating two boxes of Twinkies with an entrée of Ho-Ho's and a desert of ice cream?"
Taking the way out he offers, you nod vigorously.
"Exactly!"
"Not what you were trying to say, was it?"
His smirk is infuriating, even if his gaze is still laced with concern.
"Yes! It was!"
"No, Fern, it wasn't. Because there's no reason you can't do exactly that."
"What, in front of you?"
He snorts in disbelief, standing up and making his way to the hole-in-the-wall kitchen, decorated with the most tacky 70's inspired flower-patterned tiles you've ever seen. Though inspired? It might be the real thing. And contrary to popular belief, not all things vintage are cute.
"Really Kens? Since when does my presence stop you from gorging like a piglet? On candy yours truly buys for you, by the way."
Okay, so he's kind of right. Only a bit, mind you. Just an itty little bit. Childishly, you stick your tongue out to him.
"Classy"
You don't dignify that with an answer.
He carefully opens some kitchen cabinets (their hinges so rusted it's probably only the dirt keeping them in place), wincing as they creak ominously, and takes out a well-known box. Next, he ducks inside the fridge and unearths a pint of cookies and cream flavored ice-cream. Grabbing a couple of spoons from the permanently open utensil drawer (stuck, with no movement in it whatsoever and already the cause of a nice purplish bruise on your hip when you walked right into it on the dark), he makes his way back to the couch.
Handing his treats to you, he plops down again.
"There you go, Princess. Go wild."
Eagerly, you accept his offerings and, with one look at his tilted, hopeful face (could he look more like his dog?), you give him back one of the spoons and offer him the cold goodness.
Being a true gentleman, he takes the occasional small spoonful, leaving the majority for you to devour. Which you do, accompanied by three heavenly Twinkies.
Okay, four. This is not the time to keep count, is it?
For a moment, it's silent, with the exception of the noise coming from the TV, where the features and words of Tyra Banks scolding an aspiring model get distorted by the static coming over the less than reliable antenna. Deeks has already tried to fix it, but it's the best he can do without almost falling off the roof.
Your stomach settles down a bit, but not a lot, cooled down by your sugary treat. You lean back, glad Deeks seems to have dropped the subject of your monthly cramps and what you usually do about them.
Wrong again! This is Deeks! Stop forgetting that! The man has the tenacity of a damn pit bull whenever he wants to know something. Especially when it's something involving you.
"So, eh…what else can you do for these cramps? What were you about to say?"
Angry and shame-faced, you punch him in the arm.
"Drop the subject, Deeks. I said I was fine!"
He reacts hurt.
"Well, excuse me for wanting to help, for not wanting to see my partner in obvious pain! I was just asking so I know how to help you!"
Oh if only…but it can't be. And he should never know…
"You can't, Deeks. Not with this."
He shakes his head and you can almost see his brain working overtime. He'll never let the issue slide now. Then his face clears up.
"Is it a tummy rub? Because I can totally do that! I give the best belly rubs in LA! Just ask Monty!"
"I'm not a dog, Deeks. So thanks but no thanks. It's not a belly rub, by the way."
"But I was close, right?" He insists
Hell yeah, he's close. A lot closer than he thinks. Literally.
When you moan in frustration and hide your face in the couch cushions to hide the upcoming blush, silence again fills the room. Confused, he whispers your name.
"Kensi? What is it? Could you please look at me?"
Slowly, unable to deny his request when he sounds so forlorn, you lift your head again, looking him squarely in the face.
You can tell the exact moment the penny drops.
"You…you mean…you…"
Oh for crying out loud!
"Yes, smartass! I masturbate! The orgasm takes the cramps away. Happy now?"
Stuttering, cheeks turning a little red, he rubs his neck in a nervous gesture, before he starts babbling in his signature, agitated Deeks way that is both disturbing and endearing to you.
"Oh…okay…I get it. I could, you mean, you could…damn it. I could leave you to yourself for a while. Go for a run or something. You can have the place to do…that. And I'll go…somewhere…I won't be here."
"You can't leave the house, Deeks. Remember? Bad guys in the neighborhood?"
"Right, but then…"
"Then I can't. And I wish you would drop it. Please."
It's silent for a while as you sit fidgeting on the couch and Deeks is pacing on the other side of the room, too antsy to sit down next to you again. Or maybe too scared of what might happen if he does. When the tension gets thick enough to be cut with a knife, he speaks again, his voice hushed now and a little raspy with anticipation.
"How eh…how vocal do you get?"
What?!
"I can't believe you ask me this! Really, Deeks, how perverted can you get?"
"No! I'm not trying to be a pervert, really. I was just thinking that…if you're not much of a screamer, you can still…go ahead. I can stay here in the room, turn up the volume of the TV or something. Really, Kensi, if this helps you. I hate to see you in any pain. Not when there is a solution to it."
Stunned, you look at him.
"Deeks, I…won't it be awkward?"
"I guess it already is. But I'm a grown man, Kensi. I'll live. We'll live. We'll be okay. Partners."
His face is eerily calm.
"Go to the bedroom, Kensi."
In a haze, you stand, walk to the bedroom and close the door behind you.
Lying on the bed, you unbutton and unzip your jeans and peel them down your legs, taking your panties with them. Both items drop to the floor with a silent thud, muffled by the much louder thundering of your heart.
You're really going to do this! You're really going to put your hands between your legs and fondle your pussy to orgasm, while your partner is in the next room! Knowing exactly what you're doing too.
It's terrifying, yet in a strange way, very, very arousing. Oh yeah, getting in the mood now…
As your fingers find your rapidly swelling folds, you bite back a moan, hoping he didn't hear you.
God, this is wonderful! Just what the doctor ordered. It promises to be a big one.
You can only hope, really hope that this time, when you reach your climax, his name will come out as a whisper rather than a scream…
XOXOXOXO
Deeks:
Perhaps this wasn't the best idea you ever had, but you could no longer deny her the release she so obviously needs to ease her pain.
All in all, you think you handled it rather well. No unnecessary innuendo, no offer to help (other than the belly rub, which would have been exactly what it was: a belly rub), no nastiness. Just a man giving his partner the opportunity to provide herself with a cure.
That's it. You're no pervert.
Though you're quite uncomfortable, really.
She has closed the door on you (didn't lock it, you might add) only about five minutes ago and even if she's no screamer, you still hear a stifled moan coming from the next room every now and then.
The image of your beautiful partner lying on that bed, doing what she's doing, is enough to stir a more primitive part of your body into full wakefulness.
Not even the most bland television show, volume turned up to the max, is enough to distract you now, your raging hard-on twitching with every little sound you think you hear.
It's torture of the best and worst kind. With her in the bedroom, you have also effectively blocked the entrance to the only en-suite (really, that's what the real estate agent dared to call it) bathroom/toilet, so there's no place left for you to relieve yourself. With the curtains wide open in case there's something out there you need to be aware of, there's not enough privacy to stay in the room and take care of this.
Nope, you're trapped, at least until she's done. Then you can switch rooms.
You smile a rueful smile at the thought. Here you are, with the partner you're seriously in love with in the other room as she has sex with herself, while all you can do is try not to listen to it, or think about it and keeping your dick in control.
And you were the one suggesting it in the first place. Marty Deeks, you're a serious moron!
How easy would it be to stand up, open the door to the other room and…and then what? Get your ass kicked? Or the other side? She's good at that, you've seen it before. She has no qualms about it either and cramps or no cramps, she'll pull no punches.
Or…
No. you're dreaming, Deeks. Wishful thinking. She's not in love with you. She tolerates you, lets you flirt with her, she might even like you on occasion, but you can't just barge in and expect her to welcome you with open arms, not to mention open legs.
You offered her this opportunity, man. Now leave her alone, sit down and deal with this like a man!
With a groan you plop down on the couch, hissing as the fabric of your jeans rubs over your cock, which hasn't gotten the message yet that it's out of dumb luck tonight and might as well throw in the towel it won't need for anything else.
Sighing, you run a weary hand over your face and scruff and try to focus on the football game now showing on the crappy TV. Hopefully the game is a good one and the cheers of the public will drown out the squeals coming from the other room.
You're so focused on getting focused, you don't hear the sounds stopping, don't even hear the door opening until she calls out to you.
"Marty?"
XOXOXOXOXO
Kensi:
Now normally, the mere thought of your partner, the mere fantasy of feeling his scruff softly tickling your thighs is enough to bring on the tsunami, but for some reason, tonight it doesn't work.
Maybe it's the knowledge he might still hear you and that you have to keep quiet that causes you to seize up and freeze in the middle of your little session. Maybe it's the overall weirdness of the situation, with him knowing exactly what you're doing that stops you from taking it further.
Whatever it is, it's not working for you tonight.
Yet, there's no way back either. You're horny, slick and wet and panting, but so far without even the promise of a release. The need has only grown to intolerable levels.
But what to do? You never thought you'd find yourself in this situation, so you haven't brought any of the toys that usually do the trick when your hands can't. And giving up is not an option, not with the knowledge that it might take a few more days before you can try again in the privacy of your own home. By then, the need will be over.
Plus, the cramps. They've lessened for now, but they'll be back with a vengeance without the counter spasms of your sweet release.
In short, you really, really need to cum.
Damn it!
Lying still on the bed, the reality of the situation hits you. There's only one thing you can think of doing, but it terrifies you as much as it excites you.
It's impossible…it's dangerous…
It'll cross every line, written or unwritten between partners and once you make the decision, you can never go back to the way things are. And yet, the die is cast, the choice made and accepted long before you recognized and acknowledged it.
Damn it.
Heart thundering in your heaving chest, you stand from the bed and wobble over to the door, opening it softly. Your blouse is hanging open, your bra discarded some time ago so you're revealing your boobs to him. And there's no underwear either, so your soft glistening folds are on display too, peeping underneath the hem of the blouse.
Nope. Not even the biggest doofus could misinterpret the invitation for anything other than it is. And Marty Deeks is no doofus.
Okay, well, a bit. But not when it comes to things involving his Kensi.
Tonight, you'll be his Kensi.
If he…but how can he not?
To retreat or not to retreat. That's the question.
You answer it yourself when a moment later, you call out to him.
"Marty?"
Slowly, he turns, the smile on his lips faltering as he takes in your appearance. For a few devastating moments, no sound leaves his lips and if it wasn't for the TV commentator blaring on, it would be quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
Was this a mistake? This is a mistake, isn't it? You're standing in the door opening, barely covered by your opened blouse, panting, sweating and in heat and he…
Please, Marty, do something, say something. Laugh, joke for all I care! Just…
Oh God, what have you done?
You gulp away the lump in your throat, refusing to cry in front of him and adding insult to injury for yourself.
The nervous gesture must have triggered something in him, because, mimicking you, he takes a huge gulp of air, before standing up and approaching you. He's smiling now, but it's not one of the smiles you know so well and hold so dearly.
His smile, his eyes, they hold tenderness and reverence and suddenly, as he reaches for your hand, taking it into his own, you know this was most definitely not a mistake.
He takes you back to the bedroom, where he leads you to the bed and gently pushes you down. You lean back against the head board and with heavily lidded eyes, you watch him take off his clothes.
Wow. So endlessly beautiful. So yours.
He spreads himself on the bed next to you, raising his hand to tenderly cup your face, draw you in and capture your lips with his.
It's soft and slow and languid. It's loving without being greedy and you realize that this wonderful, dear man won't take or demand anything from you until you're ready to give it to him. In the ultimate loving gesture, he's happy being the instrument to your pleasure.
You groan into his kiss and only when you growl in frustration when he won't deepen it, does he give in with a smirk.
"Patience, my love. The night's still young."
He kisses you again, but lets his hands wonder over your body, squeezing, caressing, playing, fingertips ghosting over your neck, to your hardened nipples and the soft skin of your belly, which he rubs playfully.
You sigh and he grins. Monty's right. Marty Deeks gives delicious belly rubs. Already the cramps are subsiding, giving way to a series of frantically fluttering butterflies.
But it's not where you need his hands the most. You whimper softly and, hearing your demand, he lets his hands venture further down, tickling the soft patch of curls before dipping one finger inside your needy, weepy core.
You squeak and he laughs, a soft deep, happy rumble coming from his chest.
"Good?"
Oh yes.
He curls his finger inside of you and you go a little cross-eyed at the sensation. With his slightly crooked finger he sets a gentle pace, one he mimics with his tongue as he resumes his kissing. You writhe deliciously against him and soon, one finger is not enough anymore. You need…
"More." You beg between kisses.
He smiles.
"More what? More fingers? Like this?"
He adds another finger, pushing it in deeply and oh God! A rush of liquid seeps from your folds. This time, he doesn't need to ask if it feels good for you.
You yank his head back to yours for another deep kiss, just in time for him to smother your scream as his thumb finds your swollen, throbbing clitoris and starts to circle around it, closing in with every little move until you beg again.
"Marty, please…Oh fuck, yeah…"
You shudder as he complies, flicking his thumb repeatedly over the sweet nub, and pushing in a third finger for good measure.
From somewhere deep in the pit of your tummy, a rolling wave of ecstasy is rapidly gaining momentum, preparing you for what you suspect will be one breath-taking orgasm. You've gone deaf and blind for everything else but his hands, his lips, his scent…Marty. Your whole world is reduced to Marty Deeks.
He must have seen your impending release in your eyes, because he whispers in your ear:
"Just let go. I got you."
You know he does, so you let yourself surrender to the feelings building inside of you. Growling, panting and kissing him sloppily, you ride his fingers until, with a wail, the wave tumbles over you, surrounds you, drowns you.
Oh, the pleasure! Endless…gorgeous.
As you come back from your high, which was so much higher than anything you could have done to yourself, you turn your bleary gaze to this wonderful, sweet man. Whenever you reach your peak on your own, that's all it is, a delicious peak, but never lasting for more than a few seconds before ebbing away. It's like taking a sprint.
Leave it to Marty to turn it into a slow, sweet dance, perfect in choreography and blissful as it reaches its crescendo. One that lasts for many, many incredible seconds as his fingers keep up their gentle caresses until you softly land back in the land of the living.
When slowly your eyes regain their focus, it's your heart that almost stops.
There's no simple way to describe the way Marty Deeks is looking at you. It's a heady mixture of pride, awe, tenderness and love, more love than you think you can handle at any given time. But here he is, giving it to you, fully and willingly.
He's yours for the taking. All of him. Anytime. Forever.
With a shock, you realize the power you hold over this man. Yes, he can get you off with just one hand, he has proven that much just now, but you? You can bring him down or lift him up with just one word, one smile, one gesture. One request you were afraid to make, which he granted without turning it into a fuck-fest, literal or metaphorical.
For all his constant flirting, his cocky smiles, he's as insecure about love as you are, perhaps even more, never considering all he has to give as anything substantial or valuable (it's been thrown back in his face one too many times for that) and thus never expecting to get much in return, if anything. You've always been so full of your own 'people always leave Kensi Blye' past, that you have totally disregarded the very obvious fact that so far in his life, people haven't really shown Marty Deeks any loyalty either. For a long time, you, Sam and Callen have made the same mistake too, much to your shame now.
How it is humanly possible for a man like him to have so much left to give still amazes and inspires you constantly. And if you need him, then it's crystal clear that he needs you too, maybe even more than the other way around. But as you've always been waiting to receive love, he's been waiting for someone to give his overflowing love to.
How fortunate are you that he chose you to receive the lion's share of his affection, way before you realized its potential, way before his actions just now brought your experiences in the bedroom to a whole new level?
He doesn't even seem to expect any kind of reciprocation on your part, though you feel his arousal against your outstretched leg. Well, that's too bad for him, because suddenly, this is no longer about him giving you a helping hand to ease your pre-menstrual cramps (was it ever just that?), but all about the two of you showing the other one the love growing and developing between you for the last few years, ever since Tracey met Jason and was completely stuck, smitten…whatever with him.
So obvious to everyone except you.
Damn you, Callen.
Wait…why are you thinking of your team leader? That's seriously ew…
To distract yourself, or better yet, to get back to the subject at hand (literally), you seemingly carelessly stroke your hand over the velvety skin of his erection. He hisses in reaction and you feel him jerk his hips a little.
"Good?"You ask him playfully.
His hand (the one that's not still deeply embedded within your occasionally still convulsing folds) comes up to caress you face.
"You don't have to return the favor, you know. This was from me to you. This doesn't, you know, have to…"
Oh yes it does!
"Marty? I want to."
You put some merit to your words by wrapping your hand around his dick, stroking him up and down. His answering moan you quickly swallow in a deep, sweet kiss. Oh dear Lord, does it feel incredible to kiss him.
Wanting to tease him and please him the way he just pleased you, you stroke a little faster, then carefully sweep your thumb over the top of his straining cock, feeling the digit get wet with his pearly white pre-cum.
He grunts deeply in his throat and you smile in victory, until…you shudder and gasp as his hand (this time the other one) resumes the sweet game of push and pull inside of you.
Driving each other into a frenzy of lust soon catches up with the both of you and it is with immense difficulty that you reach down and pull his hand away from your sopping pussy, whimpering with the loss as you do so.
"K-Kensi?"
"Marty, inside me...now!"
"Condom?" He rasps out through gritted teeth.
There's no time. You're not sick, you're pretty sure he's not sick, you're taking birth control pills (not just for protection, but because you believed your gynecologist when she said it would considerable help against the PMS symptoms, yeah right) and you need to feel him. Now.
"No need. Now, Marty!"
Seeing your determination and your need in your eyes, he stops his protests and pushes himself deeply inside of you. Twin groans soon fill the room as het sets a maddening slow pace. Pushing your hips up, you desperately try to increase the tempo of your lovemaking, more than eager to feel the sweet sensation of another orgasm washing over you.
Yet, your infuriating partner seems to be hell bent on making you suffer as he refuses to be baited. For an antagonizing long time, he keeps up with the torturous rhythm, until you actually feel tears streaming from your eyes as you shamelessly bag and whimper.
"No more teasing, please. Faster…"
He just smiles and bends over to kiss your lips in a lazy, thorough kiss. But still, he doesn't comply. Instead, he lifts your left leg a little, changing the angle and allowing him to drive in even deeper. You're sure you're seeing a whole new constellation behind your eyelids.
"No, my sweet. Not faster. Just…better. It's not always the same, you know."
So no, no upgrading of the pace, he still goes on with deeper thrusts and languid kisses. Somewhere, deep in the pit of your belly, a tingling feeling begins, announcing the onset of another orgasm. You want it, badly. Crave for it, hunger for it, but nothing can deter your lover from his slow, slow, thrusts.
His hand finds its way back to the place right above where your bodies are joined and, in perfect sync with his movements, his finger swirls around the engorged button. A small mewl, pitiful really, escapes you lips and he chuckles before kissing you again.
You've given up on urging him on. All you can do now is just surrender yourself to the most incredible feelings he so effortlessly draws from your very soul. The tingling grows stronger, stretching its tendrils like a sampling of a tree after a day of rain.
Oh yes, it's growing alright, and you pant in pleasure. Marty looks down at you, smiling a most gorgeous smile and whispering soft encouraging words.
"Close, Kensi?"
"God, yes."
"See what slow can do?"
"Marty, please."
"Shhh, slow. You'll get there. It's worth the wait, I promise."
Growing, growing, closer…oh dear. This is…oh my…oh…OH!
"Marty, oh God…"
It's unlike any other orgasm you've ever had. It's no peak that sears your skin and skyrockets you to the stars. However good that feels, this supersedes it by far. It's more like an endless, endless, deep submerging into a deliciously warm pool. Like a cooking pot which bubbling contents are pouring over. As slow and thorough as his thrusts inside you are, that's how overwhelming this experience is. Your whole body is shuddering, your juices are flowing generously, your skin is flushed. And it goes on for what seems like minutes, finally leaving you in a breathless, powerless, liquid state.
For Marty too, sweet release is just within reach. He thrusts into you once, twice, three more times and lets out a low grunt, before shuddering and emptying himself inside of you, his squirts triggering a counter movement from your inner muscles as they spasm again, clenching around him in a continuance of your own barely subsided high.
Silence falls over you, only punctuated by both your ragged breathing. The cooling evening wind blows over you from the partially open window and you shiver with the unexpected cold. Immediately, Marty untangles the covers of the bed and spreads them over the both of you, cocooning you in a warm combination of his arms and the bed linens (your own; you insisted on that).
And yet, as your heart rate slows down again, doubt creeps in.
You've just slept with your partner. Saw the reverence, the devotion, the love in his eyes and as much as it excited you to see it, to feel it, you still don't quite know how to hold onto it. If you even should. It's like winning the lottery jackpot and not knowing what to do with your sudden fortune.
Only Deeks is much better than winning some lottery. And worse.
Money, whatever you do with it, doesn't have a mind of its own.
It's not hard to figure out what he wants. He might not have said it, but his actions spoke loud and clear: he wants you. All of you. However little that might be.
But you're not sure you can provide it. You're no winning lottery ticket. You're the consolation prize they hand out to small children at the county fair which is usually broken and discarded before it makes it home. No tears shed over it. A dime a dozen. Get a new silly toy with the next Happy Meal.
The silence stretches out until it becomes almost unbearable and just when you want to wriggle your way out of his embrace, does he speak softly.
"Kensi?"
You don't want him to notice the tears rolling down your face, not wanting him to think you're regretting this happened. You really don't. You just don't know how to move forward from here. But when you feel him tilt your head up, you can't bring yourself to look away, once again captivated by the look in his eyes.
"Regrets?"
His question is hesitant and you're quick to shake your head.
"No. Just…confused, I guess. About what will happen next."
He smiles softly, before capturing your lips in a sweet kiss.
"Anything you want, Kensi. I personally want it all, but if you don't than…well, call me crazy, but I'll take whatever I can get, however little you want to throw at me."
He's either an idiot or he loves you even more than you have just figured out. Or both, probably both. But how idiot are you yourself if you don't take his oh so very sweet, selfless offer and take it all! You'll learn to give it back. You can't wait to learn!
Teasingly, you peck his lips again.
"So eh…we'll do this again next month?"
His eyes cloud over for a moment, indicating that, despite of what he said just now, he had hoped for something more. His answer however is steady.
"Eh yeah, sure. Just let me know when you got the cramps."
Your smile widens.
"Whenever I got the cramps. Okay, deal."
A quick peck seals the deal and you put your head down on his chest, hearing him sigh with sad acceptance. The silence steles between you again. Not as heavy as before, but still loaded with his disappointment.
Stop teasing the man, Kensi!
"Hey Marty?"
"Yeah?"
"I do get a lot of cramps you know. Not just from my period. In fact…I have some kind of cramp almost every day."
He chuckles as he catches on.
"Do you now? Every day? Poor Kensalina. Anything I can do to help?"
"I have it on very good authority you give great belly rubs."
His warm laughter triggers the critters in your stomach, which then go wild as Marty puts his big warm hands on your belly and lets them drift down.
"That I do, my dear, that I do."
"Well, get to work then."
"Now?"
"Yes, now. And later. Tomorrow, day after…oh my…"
Your voice drifts away as the pleasure again takes over.
You seriously doubt you'll ever need ice-cream and Twinkies ever again.
Oh well, not for the cramps anyway.
THE END