note: Well hi there everyone! This little thing started off as a result of a writing prompt on Tumblr and it just kinda... spiralled. The prompt itself was just a sentence of speech, which you'll see below and also saw in the summary.
Make of this fic what you will; I don't mind it much. It's basically just sex. Mhm.
disclaimer: yeah, disclaimed.
It's Mary-Kate's birthdaaay! Happy birthday, you. I give you this smut for it. Ta-da!
"I think you should call a cab."
The bar is dark, and smoky, and from where they sit, huddled into the corner booth at the furthermost reach of the room, the rest of the world is blurred in a gray haze. Much like they cannot see the world, the world cannot see them.
That's his logic, really, as he tips his head back and drinks the dregs of his beer- likely the final one of the night. Ziva still has half a glass to go but she's alternating between little sips and quiet laughs that make her inch closer to him, curls tumbling down her shoulder as she turns. Her scent is invading his senses the nearer she gets, and soon he knows that if he leans in his nose would be buried in that oh-so-soft hair. The hair that cascades and falls and shines in the smoke.
His arm soon finds itself resting along the leather side of their booth, fingers tugging and twisting gently on her curls as she continues drinking and laughing at whatever it is he's saying. There's a lost, distant look in her eyes, almost as if she's completely aware of what's going on but has also just been struck by a thought. He knows that feeling, well, and wonders if he has the same look on his face.
She sets her drink down, tilts her head to the side in contemplation, and waits before shifting even closer. He leans in, his other hand landing on her knee then sliding up her thigh. Her dress is short and her skin is warm and oh god.
His fingers shift to tangle deep within her hair and he pulls her in to press his lips to hers.
The kiss is slow but still somehow frantic; messy. It's all tugging and pulling and battling of mouths and it's not until his tongue slips past hers that the pace controls itself. The warmth of the bar and the thrill of the darkness encase them both and he groans as her lips move on his. They're pressed against each other but it's not enough, and so when he slides his arm up her thigh to her hip, she gets the message, and swings her leg over his to straddle it.
Her hands are running through his hair, pulling on the strands to make him angle his head more to deepen the kiss. Her tongue runs through his mouth and his hand curls into a fist upon her thigh; his self-control is diminishing more and more each second.
Eventually, he pulls his mouth from hers and breathes heavily across her neck. She presses a kiss to his jaw, then leans down to whisper against his ear.
"I think you should call a cab."
They stumble through his apartment door in a tipsy, laughing mess. Their limbs are entangled and his jacket's already halfway off and he can hardly bear the wait much longer.
While they kiss again- god, it's addictive- his fingers roam the expanse of her back before finding the zipper of her dress. Sweeping all her hair aside, he teases it down slowly then runs his hand under the fold of material to brush her skin. She's hot and smooth and her back is heaving along with her ragged breath. He pulls the fabric away and drags it over her shoulders, leaving it to pool at her feet before he takes her hand and walks her through to the bedroom.
She pulls her shoes off midway and he stands, staring, shirt untucked and crumpled, tie askew, jacket… somewhere or other. She leans against the wall, clad only in her underwear, and grins at him as she undoes the tiny little buckles on the straps of her tiny little shoes. Her mouth is on his the moment she's done.
His tie has been disregarded by the time he backs up into the bed, and his shirt is half-unbuttoned too. As he falls back onto the sheets, she crawls on top of him, hovering just above his waist as she makes light work of the rest of his shirt. Her mouth falls back onto his as she tugs it off over his arms, and he pulls her down to sit as his tongue explores her mouth again. She gasps, clearly feeling how hard he is, and her sudden shock makes him chuckle against her lips. Her hips roll on his, agonizingly slow, as she trails her hand down his bare chest to dip just below his belt. The constant rocking movement makes his blood rush and it's all he can do to stay calm and controlled despite the alcohol fuzzing up his mind.
She shifts backward all of a sudden, and her fingers flip open his belt, deftly. He hisses aloud as she teases the zipper down and he thinks she tuts, though he can't be sure.
The wait nearly kills him, especially as Ziva seems more concerned with making sure his pants are off than attending to the pressing matter right in front of him. When all his clothes are removed, though, he need wait no longer.
Her hand wraps round his length and the warm feel of her palm alone is enough to make him swear. She sends him a look but runs her thumb round his tip as she does so. Again, her pace is painfully slow, but effective. By the time she brings her other hand up he's clutching desperately at her hips to stop himself from flipping them over and rushing things more than she seems to want. She plants wet kisses down his chest and round his hip and eventually up his length, and he's extremely glad that she chooses that moment to pause.
He reaches up and takes her hands in his before rolling them both to the side. His fingers clutch the straps of her bra- an item very much in the way- and he pulls them down over her shoulders, kissing the skin before reaching round and unclasping the material and pulling it off altogether.
His eyes take in the sight before him, of Ziva, wide-eyed and flushed, breathing hard and blushing just a little at his gaze. He looks lower, to her perfect, pert little boobs, and runs a thumb over one of them before focusing solely on the last remaining item of clothing.
He hooks his fingers round the thin waist of her panties and drags them down, eyeing the glistening satin before tossing it to the ground and claiming Ziva's mouth yet again.
She uses the kiss to her advantage, and rolls him onto his back once more. He can feel her lift up her hips and tears his mouth from hers; their gazes are locked together instead.
When she slides down onto him her eyes widen and she gasps, loudly. It's a sound and a sight he'll never forget.
She moves all of a sudden, as if not of her own accord. Her knees raise her up then drop her again and a moan slips between her lips each time. He rolls his hips in time with her as they pick up the pace just a little, no longer as slow as she had been earlier. She leans forward, for a better angle, and her fingers grip at his chest each time he hits her just right.
He reaches out with his hand and finds her clit as they speed up more. Her control is slipping, her legs getting less tight round his hips, and when he runs his thumb round such a sensitive area her head angles back and her hips roll quicker. He snaps his to meet her still.
As they build up and up, she leans back, hands gripping his thighs behind her rather than in front. The angle is tight and makes his own control loosen but when he presses down on her clit in time to their own movements she moans loudly. The sound spikes lust in him yet again and he speeds them up more. Their skin meets, the sound hard and rhythmic and fast, and Ziva starts to gasp and cry out, head thrown right back and eyes shut tight.
Her muscles are getting tighter round him and he knows she must be close so he goes faster yet again. She starts making short, sharp keening noises, and when he presses down on her clit once more her muscles relax altogether and she can hardly stay upright.
He flips them over, suddenly, and slams into her. She cries out, loudly in his ear, and the sound makes his hips snap only faster. Over and over again, building and building and building until finally, with a firm flick to her clit, she comes, muscles clenching round his length gloriously. He thrusts into her a few more times before he comes, too, head rolling forward to her shoulder as he groans, eyes shut tight.
He wakes to an aching head, sometime in the early hours. His nose is buried in thick brown hair that smells like smoke and sleep, and Ziva sighs in his arms every now and then. A clock ticks just a little too loudly.
When she murmurs his name, he shifts his position, brings the sheets up round them a little more, and drifts back to sleep. It'll be just fine.