Compelling

Author: Firebird9

Rating: M

For PhryneAndJack, who asked for something 'spicier'. Post-ep for 'Murder Under The Mistletoe'.

She senses rather than hears his presence behind her. He has moved up quietly over the parquet flooring while she was farewelling the last of her other guests and is suddenly right behind her as the door closes behind them, not quite touching her, the warmth of his body a line of heat against her back and the clean, masculine scent of him spiking the air around her. She glimpses something green out of the corner of her eye a moment before the leaves of Jane's mistletoe sweep sensually over her shoulder and neck to brush against her cheek.

"So, Miss Fisher, what would it take to compel your kisses?" he asks, his tone somehow managing to be teasing, serious and seductive all at the same time.

"Hmmm," she pretends to think. "I'm not quite sure, Inspector. Perhaps it merits... investigation?"

She can tell from his low chuckle that her playful offer has been accepted. She had worried, in the first days of their relationship, just how well his often-serious personality would meld with her more mercurial ways, but has not been disappointed. Jack in private, away from the oppression of public observation, feeling loved and secure and wanted, is every bit as passionate, as affectionate, and as playful as she could possibly have dreamed. The humour which she had only ever been granted glimpses of before is seldom far from the surface in their private moments, and he seems to delight in making her laugh every bit as much as she delights in letting him see just how much she does indeed want him.

"And did you have a particular investigator in mind?" he asks, still touching her only with that little sprig of mistletoe. She arches her neck, but does not turn around.

"Well I was rather hoping you might take the case." She never teases him with talk of other men – infidelity is one thing about which she suspects he would have no sense of humour – and so she leaves it at that.

"Hmmm." Suddenly the mistletoe is gone and his hands are on her wrists, not grabbing, just touching, as he runs his palms lightly up her arms to her shoulders, caressing her neck with his thumbs. "Well, I suppose if you feel it needs my... expert attention."

"Oh, I do." She leans back ever so slightly, so that her shoulders come to rest against his chest. Jane and Mr. Butler have gone to bed. Dot has seen Hugh out a short while earlier, and also headed to bed as the other guests departed. They are alone, and the house is very quiet.

"Would this work, do you think?" And he removes one hand from her shoulder to her waist, replacing it with his lips. He lingers over her skin, breathing her in, taking his time. She sighs in pleasure, but turns her head away when he starts to angle towards her lips. He chuckles again, not in the least bit disappointed by the discovery that he hasn't won this game so soon. He moves his other hand to her waist, drawing her back to rest more securely against him. "No?" he asks. "Then what about this?" And he fastens his lips on her earlobe.

Her knees go weak, and she gasps at the sensation. Yes, he is passionate indeed, the Jack who emerges in private, and she has to fight the urge to turn into him, to press her mouth to his and feel him crush her oh-so-tenderly in his arms, but she forces herself to keep facing forward. She knows that there is more, better, to come, if she can only restrain herself for now. One hand quests across her belly, moves up to cup her breast, kneading gently, and she makes a low sound of need. He swoops, trying for her mouth again, and she is only just faster.

"Hmmm." He rests his brow against the side of her head, so that she feels each warm exhalation of his breath. "It appears that this investigation may be better handled in private."

"If you say so," she accedes, smiling as she slips reluctantly away from him. He captures her hand in his and follows along behind her as she turns out the lights and leads him to her bedroom.

Once there he begins to undress her, peppering her body with kisses as he does so, but making only the occasional half-hearted bid for her lips. She can see from his eyes that he's decided to turn the tables on her, and is looking forward to teasing her some more. She slides her fingers over his clothing, patiently working her way through layers of fabric. Sometimes she is impatient – sometimes they both are – but mostly she enjoys the ritual of peeling away his layers. In public he is always the very image of buttoned-down respectability, from his carefully-groomed hair and neatly-knotted tie to his tightly-buttoned layers and impeccably polished shoes, but this will be far from the first time that she has had him dishevelled and abandoned, tie askew, hair tousled by passion, jacket and waistcoat gone, shirt open, shoes toed impatiently off as he presses her back towards her bed or against a wall. And he has had her in a similar state just as often, and sometimes when he does he looks at her with a kind of wonder in his eyes, as though even after all this time it still surprises him to realise not only how much she loves him, but how much she wants him, too.

Tonight, though, his eyes are dancing as he manoeuvres her out of her dress and onto the bed, laying down next to her with half his clothing gone as he runs his eyes over her body, considering. His hand dips into his pocket, re-emerging armed with mistletoe once again, and he runs the sprig sensually down over her thigh, then back up, stopping just short of the hem of her French satin knickers. He leans towards her mouth, and she only just remembers to tilt her head back.

"You're a very difficult woman to compel, Miss Fisher," he observes, removing the mistletoe from her thigh and dropping it onto the covers so that he can slip the strap of her camisole from her shoulder instead.

"And you're a very compelling man, Inspector," she responds breathily, as his lips find bare skin again.

Somehow, swiftly, they are both naked, and still he hasn't succeeded in gaining her lips, though it's taking every shred of her willpower to resist the urge simply to claim his mouth with her own as he continues to stroke that mistletoe delicately over her skin, filling her with an almost overwhelming urge to tangle her tongue with his and her fingers in his hair, and kiss him until they are both breathless. He rolls her onto her back and comes to rest on top of her. And there he stops, panting slightly. She looks up at him, silently asking him what the delay is. He leans forward, so that his mouth is mere inches from hers.

"It appears we're at something of an impasse," he tells her, one hand holding the mistletoe meaningfully above their heads.

He has won, and he knows it. She can see it in his eyes, in the slight, triumphant smirk on his lips, and gives in, crushing her mouth to his and burying her fingers in his hair, just as she had imagined doing. She has lost, and she doesn't give a damn. Jack can make even losing feel like winning, and she moans in pleasure as he at last throws the mistletoe aside and moves eagerly forward to claim her. Yes, she has lost to him, lost her heart utterly, long ago, but she has won something even better in return. Hemi-parasitic greenery may not be enough to compel her kisses, but Jack Robinson most certainly can.