A/N: The idea came into my head and then I decided I couldn't not play with it. This is basically just me messing around inside of Jane's head, and no plagiarism is meant through the use of the quotes!
"C'mon Maur, what are you keeping from me?"
It didn't take a great Detective to realise somethin' was up with Maura Isles, but in Jane Rizzoli's case her day job came in handy. Three days ago her suspicions had been raised along with quizzical eyebrows, starting with the moment the Medical Examiner turned down an after-shift drink at The Dirty Robber and ending that morning with the refusal of an early run. Trained to spot uncharacteristic behaviour the officer had naturally become concerned, but it wasn't really in her contract to go rifling through the house of a sudden shut-in.
That was the job of a best friend.
This wasn't right, Jane knew that. That wasn't to say it was strictly speaking wrong either, a little voice in the back of her head telling her that it was okay to use her spare key to get into Maura's house whilst the owner performed an autopsy, because her heart was in the right place and that she was doing this to help. It was okay to then check through the neater than neat stacks of paper work on her office desk until the big words gave her a headache, followed by a failed attempt to access the usual hostess' password locked laptop (the idea that it would be 'Jane' never quite occurred to her).
Disgruntled but determined the search continued to her current location – Maura's bedroom, where each item was carefully put back into place after being checked over like a piece of evidence. Stupid amounts of shoe boxes were investigated thoroughly, under the bed was cleared of monsters, and each draw was snooped inside of (all but one, where Jane knew her friend kept her... Intimate items.) Given that she had no clue exactly what she was looking for her little bust was exactly that, and suddenly the olive skinned woman had slight sympathy for her mother in the days where she'd scuttle around looking for a diary that Jane had already been clever enough to keep hidden in a secret tree house. Not that she could be compared to her overbearing, snooping mother. No, of course not...
"Give me strength and make me stop, before I start making bunny pancakes" head thrown back as natural instinct (and constant drilling from sister Winifred Callahan in years gone by) taught her to voice her words to the ceiling, the detective resorted to sense and logic, giving in and giving up with a short fall onto Maura's mattress – careful to stop her boots from touching any of the scatter cushions or the throw beneath her. Why did she feel the need to do this, and more importantly why did she feel the need to do this again? Sure she'd been right in keeping with her gut feeling about Ian, but Maura had been far from impressed with her when finding out. Already she could picture the usually smooth brow of her favourite female crinkling in anger, something Jane usually tried hard to avoid. Maybe she could lie, tell her she was looking for something of her Ma's, of Tommy's... Hell, maybe she could even fake a warrant— No, lying to Maura wasn't an option but how exactly did she explain treating her home like a meth lab?
"Hey Maura, got a hunch somethin' was wrong so I figured I'd raid your house instead of downright asking you. Standard cop procedure, how was your day?"
Exhaling through her nostrils the loose curls of the sleuth's dark hair splayed out beneath her head as she took a moment to get comfortable, only to find something hard beneath the pillow disrupting any chance of rest. Twisting onto her side in order to rummage beneath the fabric the blockish item was drawn out and revealed to be a book; a cover of blue with a silver tie across the front, the title simply stated in the right hand corner.
"Fifty shades of... Grey?"
Further inspection surprised Jane as she settled back down onto her back. She'd always expected Maura to be the sort to use a fancy bookmark, leather with gilded letters down the middle maybe, but the pages were dog-eared, creases in each sheet proving it to be as well read as the porn she had found under Tommy's bed during their teen years (although none of these pages stuck together...). Thumb brushing through the edges of the paper she stopped at random, eyes absorbing text that she never would have expected from a woman who swore by Gray's Anatomy.
"He leans down and kisses me, his fingers still moving rhythmically inside me, his thumb circling and pressing."
There was having Jersey Shore on your TiVo and then there was this. Watching Snooki for ethnogra-bleurgh research might well work as an excuse but Jane failed to think of an reason Maura could give for the book in her hands that wouldn't make her break out in hives.
"His other hand scoops my hair off my head and holds my head in place. His tongue mirrors the actions of his fingers, claiming me."
Breath hitching in her throat it suddenly occurred to Jane that she had stumbled across a very different answer than what she'd expected when starting her search. Leaving work for early nights although greeting Jane at the door with a clear lack of sleep (Jane had noticed all the stifled yawns) yet surprisingly upbeat, not needing a release of endolphi—endorphins? Maura was never one to miss a chemical hit but had turned down one of their regular runs, and the owner of the reading material had reminded Jane more than enough times just what sex was good for in google-mouth terms...
"My legs begin to stiffen as I push against his hand. He gentles his hand, so I'm brought back from the brink ..."
Slacks feeling tighter than their name suggested Jane realised that the temperature in the bedroom had risen with each word she read, her spare hand having naturally formed an 'L' shape just below her waistband, her thumb pointing inwards to the fly of her trousers, her index finger decisively lower. Jane was no prude, (even if Rondo's nickname for her had a second meaning that he would never ever know about) but Maura's book was really—
Maura's book. Maura's book. Maura's book, in Maura's room, in Maura's bed meant Maura in Maura's room, in Maura's bed, reading a book about a guy placing his hands in places that the doctor could quite easily use as an instruction guide.
Fingers still moving rhythmically inside.
Thumb circling and pressing.
All of a sudden there were parts of Jane Rizzoli other than her brain that wanted to explode although her body soon jerked in a different way than where her thoughts were leading to as a familiar voice came from the doorway, challenging her position.
"It's good to know your libido is healthy enough to appreciate some fetishes, Jane."
Scrambling to sit up the busted brunette only worsened her situation, the book clapping its pages onto her nose with a small 'oompfh!', Jane beating it away with a less than graceful swipe leading to an imbalanced get perfectly comical 'thunk!' onto the floor beside the bed. If it wasn't for a God she would later curse placing her beneath the spot she had just been imagining fingers lingering then maybe Jane could have saved the situation just a little. Instead she was left with the lingering gaze of an overly amused Maura, her leather boots and fashionably matched jacket not helping in the slightest.
"I see Anastasia's submissive role has given you ideas. Doesn't the author just have a wonderful turn of phrase?"