The first time was a flurry of activity and heavy breathing, writhing limbs and rising chests. He kissed her, pressed his lips to her collarbone as she moaned incoherent sentiments. Love. Lust. He couldn't tell the difference. When they parted, she was suddenly shy. He stroked her hair gently; let his fingertips trail down to the perfect V of her hairline. She shivered under his touch, and they both tried to speak at once.
By morning, she was gone.
Monday came and she arrived early, eyes down, studying her desk, and then glaring at him with defiant eyes. The armour was back in place, and for once he could not smile. Ziva. He mouthed it, and it sounded so soft, so intimate on his lips that he broke a little inside. She would not know that she was ever more than just a fuck. He tried to write her a note and place it on her desk but his words were childish and insincere. She would not believe them. Her fingertips played with the sharp-edged Star of David around her neck and she bit her lip whenever he approached.
"Ziva. Boss wants you."
She nodded curtly without looking up and departed from her desk in silence. McGee looked, wide-eyed and painfully innocent, at Tony, who slammed his fist gently against the desk and went back to work.
At the end of the day, he followed her into the lift. She pressed a button. He swallowed, and it was painfully evident in the little metal box. She looked at the floor. He touched her arm and she flinched.
"Ziva."
"Yes Tony?"
"About ... Friday."
"It's fine. I understand."
"But you don't."
She didn't say anything. He plucked, like a child, desperate and uncertain, at her sleeve.
"Ziva. I ... I liked it."
She laughed then, a bitter and humourless laugh. "I noticed."
"No! Not like that ... I liked that it was you."
"You finally had me, Tony, is that what you're saying?"
He was almost crying now. She swallowed. The lift ground to a halt. The doors opened and she left. He did not follow. He sat down in the lift and stared impassively after her. The doors closed. The lift was called back up.
"DiNozzo."
"Boss?"
"Would you like to tell me what the hell you're doing down there?"
"Not especially, boss."
"OK. Have a good evening."
"You too, boss."
The next day he did not approach her. He was meant to be working on a very important case, but somehow his mind kept flickering back to Friday night. She was beautiful and open, and wanted him. Her skin was sweet. Her eyes were closed. A slap on the back of his head.
"What the hell is wrong with you today, DiNozzo?"
"Nothing boss. Sorry boss."
This time, he did not wait for her to enter the lift. He hung around, deliberately extending his working day, as she packed up and cast him a fleeting, frightened glance. It did not go unnoticed. And then she said a small "goodnight" and was gone.
He sank down in his desk and cradled his head in his hands. Out of all the girls he'd screwed, never had he wanted to be with one so badly. Never had it screwed right back with him. A touch on his shoulder did not immediately bring him back to the bullpen. Where he was, was lying next to her, curled around her, watching her chest rise and fall under the cotton blanket, gently stroking the dark hair that spiralled, childlike, around her peaceful face. He had kissed her lips, once, and she had not woken. The moonlight shone on her skin through the curtains they had not closed. And when he shut his eyes, she opened hers.
A touch on his shoulder. His eyes snap open. Ziva. So soft, and intimate, and close.
They do not speak. Their world is one of fingertips and lips, tongues and teeth and moans and mumbled sobs and clothes strewn on the floor. Their world is the jarring thud of a desk and hands clasped oh so tightly around naked torsos and jutting hips. He kisses her neck.
After it is done, they walk together to the lift. She presses a button.
She always has done.
My first NCIS fanfic, after recently getting completely obsessed by the show and falling in love with EVERYONE :) Hope it's bearable! I love reviews :)