The Shade of Pink Rose Petals

by authorjazmyne

Sharon/Andy "There's liquid lip color in her hand the shade of pink rose petals when she's always preferred a darker lipstick. He'd said that he liked the way it looked, complimented her on the new choice of lip color when she grabbed it out of her car that day she couldn't find her lipstick because she was in a rush."

Pairing: Sharon/Andy

A/N: Canon divergence. Like, everything's the same. Except, nothing's the same. Uh... I just wanted Sharon and Andy to bang way before it would actually happen with the way I think their relationship will progress on the show. And then I wrote this and decided I actually didn't want to include actual smut.

(This starts somewhere after Sharon's divorce is finalized.)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

. . .

It sort of just happens.

Sharon snorts as she looks at her reflection in the mirror one morning, laughing at herself as she dabs her lower lip with her finger. What is she doing? There's liquid lip color in her hand the shade of pink rose petals when she's always preferred a darker lipstick. He'd said that he liked the way it looked, complimented her on the new choice of lip color when she grabbed it out of her car that day she couldn't find her lipstick because she was in a rush. It was Emily's, a light gloss that reminded Sharon of flowers wet from raindrops when she applied it. She's still using it a week later, and she had asked Emily where she bought it and ordered a few more tubes for herself.

She rubs her lips together, leaning close to the vanity mirror, and then stretches her lips into a smile. An image pops into her head, brown eyes focusing on her mouth as she speaks, something dark and lustful and inviting twinkling in them, and the smile she gives herself in the mirror to check the application of the lip color becomes real and amused. Her belly feels hot and fluttery, and she really needs to stop thinking about him. It's ridiculous how often she lets him take over her thoughts, but this is new and exciting and – is it really so bad to enjoy being desired?

She breathes out a soft breath and shakes her hair out, running her fingers through her loose waves. Yes, she answers her own question. She shouldn't allow this – whatever this is – to continue having such an effect on her when she knows she won't let it to go anywhere. It'll pass on its own soon enough, she thinks with a frown. She knows how he flirts with women, and she's not even the type he usually uses his charm on. So it's only a matter of time before he moves on, anyway.

Sharon huffs and rolls her eyes at herself this time. No more of this, she declares, reaching for something to wipe her lips off with. She should go back to her lipstick, stop thinking about the way he absently licks his lips when looking at her mouth. She needs to stop thinking about him when she gets ready in the morning, period; she's caught herself questioning whether he would like the way certain clothing items looked on her body too many times for her liking.

This ends now, the authoritative voice in her mind says firmly. No more, she agrees with a purse to her lips, opening her vanity drawer and selecting the sleek black tube of lipstick.

. . .

Parked, Sharon twists in her seat and reaches for her leather purse. She already knows what she's going to do before she has the bag on her lap and is unzipping its gold zipper. Where the hell has her self-restraint gone? The liquid lip color is in her hand within seconds, pink, softer than the red that tints her lips dark, and a reminder of the very, very inappropriate attraction that grows despite her strict orders for it not to do so.

Pulling the visor down so she can look in the mirror, Sharon slowly talks herself through the mental list she created when she first discovered the attention she had been receiving and how much she actually liked it. Every morning before she goes into the building she reminds herself of these things, says them in her head as she sits in traffic or rides the elevator. It's her way of shutting the thoughts of him down, how she pulls Captain Raydor back out and pushes away the woman who slips off into fantasies of a man that she tells herself she isn't interested in despite thinking about him constantly.

He's your friend, and one you're quite fond of.

You have to work with him.

You're finally divorced – enjoy that!

You have enough going on in your life without adding the messiness that would probably come with this.

She runs through the short list several times before she finishes applying the liquid lip color. Again. She doesn't smile at herself this time. She purses her lips and shakes her head disapprovingly.

This is not how you put an end to things.

. . .

Twelve seconds.

His eyes lingered at her mouth for twelve seconds in the break room.

She hadn't counted it, not intentionally. Because she's a woman quickly approaching sixty and can certainly ignore a man's eyes on her. (She can also send a deathly glare their way that will make them stop instantly – but it's not as if she truly wanted him to.) She doesn't feel each second tick by like they're counting down until a bomb blows, her breathing coming a little faster with each second, a heavy weight in her chest sinking lower and lower, lower until she feels it in the pit of her belly and it's hot and tight and...nope, not at all. Because she has this under control, just like she always has everything under control.

Sharon clears her throat and turns away from him. No, from Lieutenant Flynn, Andy, because she needs to keep the man she lets slip into her thoughts when she's alone separate from the one she works with. She takes a few steps away from Andy and brushes her hands down her blazer until she chooses to put her hands into her pockets before she starts fumbling with things because of how off-kilter he makes her feel.

. . .

A steaming cup is placed down on the desk she's sitting at, and Captain Raydor's head jerks up at the sound of the cup making contact with the desk's surface. Her eyes are tired and a little irritated from reading through her portion of the large stack of threatening letters that had been sent to their latest victim. They have no suspects, no leads, and very little evidence. It's late and everyone's a little cranky. The entire team is hoping they find something in the letters or something new is discovered soon.

Andy gives her a halfhearted smile, bringing his own cup to his mouth before taking his seat at his desk, the one adjacent to the desk she's using. "Drink up. You look like you could use it."

Sharon snorts as she reaches for the hot cup, the smell of hazelnut coffee meeting her nose. She prefers tea during the later hours, but when she needs to stay alert and she's feeling drained, she likes a nice cup of hazelnut coffee. She smiles a little to herself because he actually knows this – and then she hums as her eyes fall shut and the taste of the rich coffee floods her taste buds, surprised that it's exactly the way she takes it. The warm liquid slides down her throat and its heat spreads through her body slowly.

When she opens her eyes, Andy's got his eyes on her again, this time on her entire face and not just her mouth. She swallows more coffee, using it to shield the smirk on her lips that she can't really control when she notices that look in his eyes, the look he gets when he just can't help himself and openly stares at her like he's invisible or alone or somewhere she can't see how dark his eyes are getting. And she shouldn't like it, she really shouldn't, but her heart beats a fraction of a second faster than it should, and then it skips a beat or two altogether.

"Captain," she hears someone call – Lieutenant Tao – and jumps awkwardly and barely manages to safely put the coffee down.

Andy chuckles gruffly and looks down to the opened file on his desk, licking his lips while slipping his finger into the collar of his shirt to pull it away from his neck a little. Sharon prays the heat she feels flooding her cheeks isn't visible as she turns around, arm draped across the back of the chair while facing the detective.

"Think I've got something," he says, standing up, and everyone looks a little less down in the dumps than they had for most of the evening.

. . .

"You wearing that perfume I got you?" Andy asks her while they're walking off the elevator later, just the two of them. There's a little disbelief in his voice, a little amusement, a lot of something she has no name for even though it makes her skin warm all over.

Sharon glances at him out of the corner of her eye and hums. Their arms brush as they walk through the lobby, their hands knock a couple times; his touch is more dangerous than electricity in moments like this, but she doesn't pull away from it. They say their goodnights to the people they pass, and he opens and holds the door for her; they walk out together like they've gotten in the habit of doing on nights Rusty's not with her and Andy waits for her to leave.

The moment they step outside and the late night autumn air breezes pass them, Sharon verbally responds to the question he'd asked her. Perhaps it's cheating. They're still in front of the building, still there, but Sharon lets the woman with the fantasies and less-than-innocent thoughts trample over Captain Raydor in her haste to be the one in charge again.

"Well didn't you get me the perfume to wear it?" she asks him with a bit of a challenge in her tone. She points with her finger which way she's traveling to her car tonight, knowing he'll just ask on his own. She doesn't mind the company. (She wants the company.)

"Yeah. That didn't mean you were actually going to wear it, though." They walk a few feet before Andy says, after clearing his throat, "It smells good on you."

Sharon doesn't look away from what's in front of her, her hands shoved into the pockets of her lightweight jacket. "I would hope you wouldn't give me a perfume that you thought didn't smell good." She laughs softly, her heels clicking with each of her steps, their pace slow, as though they're in no rush to part ways.

Andy doesn't comment again on the perfume, which is good because Sharon's not sure she can come up with any neutral responses to his compliments right now. She also doesn't need to be reminded that she's stopped using her usual scent because it gave her a secret thrill wearing something that he'd picked out, something he smelled and thought that she might like – or even worse, a fragrance he imagined smelling on her and had to buy so he actually could.

. . .

Rusty's turned in for the night, and Sharon's left alone with her thoughts.

And her phone.

The device sits on her lap like heavy boulder, refusing to be ignored. There's a notification for a new message in the inbox of her personal email that she read but did not open. It's from him. The subject hadn't given away anything – Thought you might want these – so she's not sure what to expect. The fact that he sent it to her personal account lets her know it's not about work, though, gives her reason to pause.

The front of the condo is quiet and dark, a single lamp on behind her. She's curled up on the end of the sofa, looking out past the balcony to the view of the city, the night sky, and the lights off in the distance. It should be peaceful. It should relax her like it normally does after a long day. Yet, Sharon finds herself impossibly tense and restless, her brain filled with too many thoughts for her to find peace. There's work and their lack of evidence and her need to find answers, and there's little pieces of conversations she's been having with her children the past few days about this and that, and then there's him and the email and the thoughts that keep replaying in her mind of their recent interactions.

Huffing out a long, tired breath, Sharon stands and straightens out the pillows on the couch. She makes her way into the kitchen, retrieves a wine glass, and pours herself a glass of white wine. She twirls the stemware in between her fingers as she switches off the lamp and heads towards the bedrooms. She knocks on Rusty's door and calls out a second goodnight to him so he knows that she's off to bed, smiles when he responds, and then closes herself up in her bedroom.

Sharon's phone gets tossed onto the bed, and the wine glass is placed on the nightstand after she takes a small sip from it. There's a tightness in her shoulders and neck that she reaches behind her to rub away as she crosses over to one of her closets, fingers gripping her neck while her thumb is rolling in hard circles in the back. A low groan bubbles up from Sharon's chest and she releases it quietly into the room, unfastening her cardigan with her other hand.

Moments later, after Sharon's retrieved a laptop that's a few years older than the one she uses for work and taken off the sweater that she wore over her thin camisole, Sharon slips into bed and sighs. As her personal laptop comes on, Sharon drinks her wine and tries to clear her mind a little. It's not late enough to sleep, despite her body's exhaustion. She's going to check Andy's email and possibly do a little reading until she falls asleep.

Or, she decides after opening the email and finding herself grinning against the edge of her wine glass, she'll talk to Andy for a little while.

He'd sent her pictures of the two of them, ones he'd taken while they were at a game not too long ago. She laughs quietly as she clicks through them, face illuminated by the laptop's screen as she sits in the dark with it on her outstretched legs. They're terrible, really, and in most of them she's glaring at him because he'd been impossible and tried getting pictures of her every few minutes. But he's grinning at her in almost every single picture where they're together, and her heart beats a little quicker because of it. It had been a fun day, and she had gone home happy and feeling light and floaty and– Sharon remembers thinking about kissing him for the first time that night when he dropped her off, remembers the fluttering in her belly and the tingling of her skin when he touched her hand.

Sharon puts her wine glass down, now empty. This is another reason she needs to put an end to whatever it is that they've been doing. There's a large part of it that is about physical attraction – or at least it had started that way – but there are moments she aches for him in ways that she hasn't for another in a very long time. He makes her happy, and takes her out to have a good time when she needs it, and there's something about him that she finds herself wanting to cling to, hold close to her.

But she can't.

She shouldn't.

But maybe–

Thank you for sending me these, Andy.

We had quite the day together, didn't we?! However, next time I'm giving you a limit on how many pictures you're allowed to take. Although, I must admit that I do like having something to look back at to remind me of the incredible time we had.

Next time, limit of six pictures including me. (Maybe I'll give you more if I'm in a giving mood and I think you've earned it.)

Sharon

But maybe she wants to do something without worrying about the consequences for once.

. . .

Sharon does not know how to not worry about the consequences.

She regrets sending her email as soon as she reads the word 'sent' at the top of the screen.

She reads it over and over in her head, the last line, the last few words, earned it... What would he think she meant by that? It was innocent enough, wasn't it? Would he think she was flirting with him?

(Was she flirting with him?)

. . .

His response is short and simple:

I'll make sure you're in a good mood. Whatever I need to do to earn it, you know I will.

Sharon's heart skitters as she reads the two sentences, her lip caught between her teeth. Her palms feel hot and tingly, itchy, like the warmth in her body is crawling towards her fingertips. For several long moments she is unsure how to respond, or if she should. Her belly feels heavy and she's wondering what he thinks she meant, wondering what he would actually do.

For a second her mind slips away from pictures and ball games and she imagines him working to earn other things, and she has to bite her lip harder to keep herself from imagining too hard. Perhaps he had thought of the same thing when he sent his response, perhaps they weren't really talking about pictures to begin with.

Maybe he thought she'd been flirting with him, she thinks again. And maybe, just maybe, he liked that.

(Was he flirting with her?)

. . .

Sharon had chosen not to respond to him. She slept instead – and didn't dream about him or his mouth or his hands or her body trembling as bursts of colors exploded in the darkness like a brilliant firework show.

When she wakes, there's a familiar warmth between her thighs where the sheets are tangled, and she groans into her pillow.

Sharon used to keep a dream diary a few years ago. A psychologist friend of hers, Gwyneth, had suggested it when she told her about how terribly she was sleeping and the stress she was under. She'd been suffering from terrible nightmares at the time, and it had helped getting it down on paper and analyzing the dreams.

As she rolls over so she's on her back, she laughs at the idea of putting any of her recent dreams into words. She can just imagine what Gwyneth would have to say about them if she were to actually allow the other woman the insight. Sharon kicks the bedding to the foot of the bed and takes in a long breath as her overheated skin meets the cool air; she lets her nightshirt sit high on her midsection, the satin of her shorts sticking to her body.

A week or two ago, Sharon had dreamed about having him on his knees. She can still remember the dream clearly, having thought about it quite a lot since the morning she'd awoken sweaty and buzzing with a rapidly approaching orgasm that she had nearly achieved while sleeping. Sharon licks her lips and places her hand on her stomach and lets her fingers lightly caress the soft flesh of her belly as she closes her eyes and thinks about it again, thinks about it despite having told herself several times already that she really shouldn't.

He had been on his knees in front of her while she sat in a large, ornate chair. She'd been completely dressed, wearing a black dress with a high slit up her thigh and a pair of rich red stilettos. He'd been stripped down to his underwear, the outline of his erection visible, straining beneath the fabric.

Sharon puffs out a soft breath and rubs her thighs together, squeezing them as she feels a pulse of thick, wet heat between them. She brushes her finger over the edge of her night shorts, nail running against her skin. Her second hand cups her breast and holds it tight; pleasure rolls through her body faster than a bowling ball falling down the steepest of hills.

He had begged her, and God had she loved that. She smirked at him and uncrossed her legs slowly, let them spread apart so he could see up her dress a little, where she'd been wet and her underwear no longer was – those were right in front of him, black lace with obvious signs of how aroused she was coating the material – and then she crossed them back with the right leg over the left, the split in the front exposing much of her lean thigh.

Sharon wraps her fingers around her nipple and tugs at the sensitive peak. Her head turns into her pillow as her breath forces out between her lips, harsh in the stillness of the early morning. Oh, that feels good. She rolls it around, fingers moving from side to side around the captured little bead of flesh, and palms her whole breast and digs her fingers into herself. She hisses through her teeth quietly and slides her other hand down over her mound, feeling the heat and dampness as she rolls her hips up and cups her center.

He had groaned and dug his teeth into his lip, eyes darker than coal and full of desire as he balled his fists and forced himself to stay right where she wanted him. The smell of her arousal was thick in the air, and she knew how that turned him on. He wanted her, wanted to touch her, wanted to be touched by her, and she got aroused all the more from making him wait. ("Tell me, are you aching for me yet?") He had nodded, his head bobbing so quickly; she smirked at him again and pushed herself up to stand. She took slow steps around him, traced over his shoulders, back, and chest as her heels clicked with each step. She'd stood in front of him, his mouth right in front of her pelvic bone, and licked her lips while looking down into his hungry gaze with a contemplative expression on her face. She tugged with her fingers in his silver hair, made his neck stretch and pulled another groan from his throat, deciding he hadn't waited long enough.

Sharon squirms in her bed, eyes squeezed tight as she lets the images of her dream float around in her mind along with real life memories of him, of them. Her heart is pounding in her chest, hammering, and she's throbbing beneath her fingers, desire threatening to burn her alive. She's been very strict with what she allows and denies herself – it's how things work in her life, and it's gotten her this far, so she must've been doing something right – and usually she stops herself somewhere around here. She doesn't deny that thinking about him gets her aroused, doesn't pretend that she doesn't want to touch herself while thinking only of him. However, she tries not to want it as badly as she does, she always gets herself to stop before she's gone too far.

(Too far, she'd decided some time ago, would be her sliding her fingers through the wetness that coats her heated flesh, the proof of how the thought of him alone gets her more turned on than she's been in years.

Too far would be her mentally chanting his name as she rubs against her clit, fingers sticky wet because she's practically dripping, desperate but unable to get the proper friction.

Too far would be her on her stomach, fingers dipping into her as she grinds against her palm and uses her other hand to grab the edge of the bed to force herself harder, faster, deeper, mouth opened as she breathes heavily into her pillow and imagines him behind her, on top of her.

Too far would be coming apart and thinking about Andy.)

But Sharon fingers stroke through her shorts and she shudders, and even though she stops and squeezes her legs together while fisting the sheets, she knows that she's already gone too far.

She feels more of her control slipping from her fingers each day – that's what the dream had been about, her needing to be in control – and she's not used to the lack of control. She needs it, functions a lot better when she has it.

But, dammit, she's starting to think she likes losing it a little bit, too.

. . .

Sharon pulls out the gifted perfume and applies a little to her wrists, behind her ears, and then runs her finger down her throat and to the valley between her breasts.

She's wearing a purple silk blouse with her skirt suit today. And if he happened to mention that he likes this particular shade of purple on her, that's just an irrelevant fact because she, too, likes the way the color looks on her and is not thinking about him as she gets ready for work. (She also chooses to ignore that she had originally chosen pants but changed her mind; she's been wearing dresses and skirts more often.)

After finishing her morning tea and breakfast, Sharon makes a trip to the bathroom and applies the soft pink color to her lips and hums in her throat as she rubs her lips together and then smiles at herself. She radiates, lips catching the light and shining a little, skin glowing healthily, eyes a brighter green than usual with flecks of gold that twinkle.

. . .

"Someone's in a good mood this morning," Detective Cruz, an officer Sharon knows from her FID days, says as she enters the elevator he's in, smiling at her.

Sharon laughs in her throat, noticing the other occupants of the elevator and seeing familiar warm brown eyes rove over her. "I am," she says, moving towards the wall.

"Good. Happy looks good on you, Captain."

Sharon hums and straightens out her blazer, her jacket folded over the arm that holds her bag. Her other arm brushes against the man beside her when she lets it drop, and she bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smirking when she hears the almost inaudible sound of him inhaling quickly. His knuckles brush the back of her hand and they both shift, as if without noticing it, and the pressure against her becomes more solid.

They ride up a few floors in silence until there's just the two of them left in the elevator.

"He's right, you know. You look good today."

Sharon bites the corner of her lip, glancing up to the numbers counting up as they near the ninth floor. "Just today? Really?" Sharon asks in a quiet breath, not looking at him.

He chuckles and the sound vibrates down her spine, making her a little warm. "Do you think I'd spend as much time "ogling", as you put it last week, if I thought you only looked good today?"

Sharon smirks and looks at him out the corner of her eye. She moves her hand a little and runs her knuckle over his, allowing just the smallest of touches, out of sight from the camera or anyone that might suddenly appear as the elevator opens up to a floor.

. . .

Two weeks.

For two weeks this thing between them continues without them talking about it.

Sharon has stopped trying to prevent it from happening. She wants it. She enjoys it. She's having a good time.

(He's your friend, and one you're quite fond of – their friendship has only gotten better.

You have to work with him – they're both professional enough to make sure their personal relationship does not affect their working one.

You're finally divorced – enjoy that! – She is enjoying it.

You have enough going on in your life without adding the messiness that would probably come with this – he's convinced her the small messes aren't necessarily a bad thing.)

. . .

"So here's the thing," Andy says as they walk out of a restaurant together one Saturday night, having just enjoyed a delicious meal after he surprised her with tickets to a show she'd been wanting to see, "I've been thinking lately."

Sharon hums to encourage him to continue. They're walking to the pier the restaurant faces, air thick with the salty smell of the ocean, light breeze blowing through her hair. There's been something between them tonight, something different and unidentifiable, but certainly something Sharon likes.

Usually they let their arms touch as they walk, never straying too far from the other as though there's a rope wrapped around them that has little give. Tonight, Sharon's entire side is against him, leaning into him as they take slow steps. Earlier, in the dark theatre, when Andy had been watching her instead of the performance, Sharon had laid her hand atop his and hadn't moved it away. In the restaurant, Andy had initiated the touch, holding her hand on the table as he told her a tale from his past and they laughed.

"Did you enjoy tonight?" he asks, and Sharon detects a little uncertainty in his voice.

She tilts her head up and smiles at him, reassuring and bright. "Yes, I did. I've had a wonderful time with you."

Andy nods and presses his lips together, looking off into the distance as they sit down on one of the benches that faces the water. They don't separate any – in fact, Andy wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer. A flood of warmth seeps through the layers of her clothing and spreads through her body faster than a fire in the woods.

"I was thinking, I don't know – how 'bout we do this again? You know, dinner. I wanna, I don't know..." Andy clears his throat nervously and Sharon leans her head down on his shoulder and places her hand on his, rubs her thumb over his knuckles. It shouldn't feel so comfortable when it's not something she's used to doing, but it is. He breathes out. "Dinner, sometime next week. How does that sound?"

Sharon smiles and tilts her head to look at him. She licks her lips and watches him do the same, feeling the familiar flush of heat that climbs her neck at the sight of his tongue crossing his lips. "Depends on if you're asking me what I think you're asking me," she responds quietly. After all, they already go to dinner often. She needs to make sure they're on the same page.

Andy lifts his brow slightly and nods once, rubbing his hand up and down her upper arm, pushing the wave of warmth up and down her body. "There's this restaurant I thought you might like." He shrugs his shoulders, the right one barely moving beneath Sharon's head. "I was thinking..."

Sharon laughs softly and looks away from him, towards the water, and then down to their hands clasped together on his thigh. "You've been thinking a lot," she says with amusement.

"Actually, I have. About you mostly."

Sharon licks her lips and hums, brushes her thumb across his fingers. "What about me?" she asks in a whisper, her heart beating with harsh thumps as she waits for him to speak, the sound of waves crashing into the shore seeming to quiet as she focuses entirely on Andy.

"I really like what we have. Getting to go out to dinner with you, spending time with you outside of work. You are... God, you're one helluva woman, Sharon Raydor. You fascinate me, and I don't know, I've been getting to know all these things about you that I didn't know before and I really like them. You. I really like you.

"Call me greedy, but I still find myself wanting more of you. You know? A date. More than one date, if you felt the same way. I mean..."

Sharon slides her fingers between Andy's and turns into him so he can see the happiness she can feel spilling out of her. She smiles at him, looking into his eyes. "I do. Feel the same way, I mean. I've been enjoying our time together, Andy. I think there could be something really...special here if we let our relationship continue to grow as it has been for a while now."

Andy's grin is quite possibly the biggest Sharon has ever seen it, and she feels her lungs tighten as he looks at her. "Yeah?" he asks.

Sharon nods and breathes out, "Yes."

. . .

So they date.

A lot.

Whenever they get the chance to slip in a night out together, they do.

Sometimes Andy comes over for dinner and cooks for her. (Sometimes Rusty's there, too. Usually he finds an excuse to get out of it, because apparently they're a little gross when they look at each other the way they often do.)

Sharon takes Andy to a game one day and they both end up with sore throats by the end of the night.

They go dancing and bowling and to the movies, and Sharon can't remember enjoying getting out as much as she does with Andy.

. . .

And Andy still looks at Sharon's mouth like he wants to taste her lips all the time.

But now Sharon doesn't pretend not to notice.

She runs her tongue over her lips one morning she catches him staring at her, flicking her tongue over her lower lip and then tracing the other. He absently nibbles on his bottom lip, and Sharon smirks and then pulls her own lower lip into her mouth and mimics him. When he emits a low groan, Sharon laughs and shakes her head, turning away from him. ("Get back to work, Andy.")

. . .

He's worse than she is, though.

Way worse.

They're in a movie theater to see some new movie that everyone keeps talking about that they decided to give a try. Neither of them are really into it, but Sharon's not even paying attention to it at all while Andy at least pretends at first.

Her hand has been resting on his knee, absently stroking while she leans against the armrest and lets her thoughts get away from her. Her nails scratch the coarse fabric of his jeans on her upstrokes, and then the pads of her fingers smoothly slide downward. It's hypnotic. She barely registers him shifting beneath her every now and then, or the way his breath puffs hot on her cheek when she inches her hands a little higher on his thigh.

She does notice when he brushes her hair away from the side of her face, though. His nose touches her ear and she can feel his breath as it blows against her skin. "That bored, huh?"

Sharon turns her head, intending to give him a questioning look, but she instead ends up pressing her ear against his lips. That more-dangerous-than-electricity feeling zips through her body and her lashes flutter. She swallows quickly, but doesn't pull away. "Hmm?"

"You're getting handsy," Andy gruffly responds, his low voice thick and hot and spilling into her body.

Sharon realizes then how far her hand has traveled from its original spot and feels herself blush. She's thankful for the lack of light in the theater as she pulls her hand away and mumbles, "Sorry."

"I didn't say that I had a problem with it."

Sharon closes her eyes and hums a nonverbal response. She doesn't trust herself to speak. There's too much heat between the two of them – there's always been too much heat between the two of them. It's what had been on her mind just moments ago, her thoughts slipping away to a place she usually doesn't allow them to go when she's physically with Andy. She'd been thinking about touching him, feeling his skin on her own, finding out how it feels to have his weight atop hers... She wonders how far her hand would have traveled without her noticing if he hadn't said anything, and the thought of where she would have been touching him makes her throb between her legs.

"What's on your mind? Tell me."

Sharon licks her lips and shakes her head. "I don't think I should."

A sound forms in Andy's throat and then he takes her hand into his. His thumb caresses the inside of her wrist and she breathes in through her nose. Her pulse jumps beneath his touch and that low, deep sound in his throat happens again.

Sharon enjoys teasing him a little when she catches him looking at her mouth because she knows exactly what he's thinking. But she doesn't expect what happens next, hadn't thought he'd be able to figure out where her thoughts had been so easily. She didn't think he'd torture her with her own desires.

"Well, if you won't tell me what you're thinking about..."

He drags his finger up her arm, slowly, towards the inside of her elbow where it's a bit sensitive and it feels really good if he touches her just right, just so. The pressure of his finger decreases, featherlight, and he moves from side to side over the middle of her arm, and then he increases the pressure and lets his nail skate across her skin. When she releases a shuddery breath, he continues speaking.

"Maybe I'll have to guess."

Sharon hums long and low, crossing her legs towards him. "You can try."

His grin is practically audible as he says, "I'm going to guess it was definitely something sexual."

Sharon hums again, looking down to where his hand now rests on her thigh. But he doesn't say anything else, nor does he move his hand. Sharon carefully turns to look at him, and she can see the hesitation in his eyes. She puts his hand on his and smiles, gives it a long squeeze.

"Is that all you're going to guess?"

Andy looks around them and then shifts so when he talks, his mouth is against her ear again. His hand just lays there, a weighty reminder, a tempting tease of a touch that could be more. The buttery smell of the theater mixes with Andy's intoxicating scent, but it's his close proximity that makes her dizzy.

"I don't need to guess," he starts, confident. "I know what you were thinking about, because it's the same thing that's on my mind." Sharon hums, and then he brushes his lips against her ear. "So instead of guessing, I'll just tell you what I want to do to you."

Sharon swallows loudly, gulps. "W-what do you want to do to me?"

"Exactly what you want. I want to make your body feel good, Sharon. I want to make you feel so, so good..."

. . .

I wanna run my hands over every last inch of your body. Outline the curves of your breasts with my fingers and slide my palms down your stomach as you shiver in ecstasy.

I wanna make you experience sensations you've long forgotten, give you such incredible pleasure that you can't think about anything else. You'll be lost in it, so consumed by the intensity of my touch that you'll be made powerless by it.

I wanna make you breathless, have you sweaty and aching and desperate for more and more even after I've made you fall apart in my arms repeatedly.

I bet you sound so damn good when you come, Sharon. I wanna make you scream my name, make you breathe it out like a plea as I run my tongue over the dips of your body, whisper it into my ear as I fuck you senseless.

That's what you want, too, isn't?

You've thought about it, haven't you? My mouth worshiping your body, tasting you, kissing you... How would you like for me to make love to you with nothing but my tongue? Show you complete devotion that will make you come so hard that you'll barely be able to make it through the powerful sensations.

Or maybe you want me inside you? I have thought about having your legs wrapped around me for so long that I can almost feel them there right now, squeezing and pulling me closer to you.

I wanna press my mouth to your neck and kiss your skin over your heavily beating pulse. I'm always very tempted to sink my teeth into your neck and leave my mark. But this time I'll leave it there as a reminder of how I made you shake and convulse while you orgasm.

Do you want me to fuck you hard? Can I? I could make you feel how badly I've been craving you, Sharon. I can show you how just a look at your mouth, at your hips when you walk, can practically bring me to my knees. You make me weak, make me crumble so easily, and only you have the power to give me the strength I need to be whole again.

I wanna make you feel so, so good.

I can.

I will.

. . .

Sharon dabs her lip with her finger, pale rose lip color coloring her smile even though she used to prefer a darker lipstick.

"Damn, I wanna kiss you," he says, leaning against the doorframe and watching her.

Sharon smirks into the mirror, glancing up to catch his eyes.

"That's exactly why I wear it."

. . .

The end. Thanks for reading.