Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist. I only borrowed the characters for a while to play with them .
Laying in her bed, motionless, Teresa allowed herself to bask in a rare feeling of perfect ease and comfortable intimacy. Apart from the faint engine noises of cars driving by, the closed window locked out the reality of the outside world. Inside the room it was silent except for Patrick's - now calmed down and steady - breathing.
Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked at him. In the grayness of dawn she was only able to see the contours of his beautiful face: the smooth curve of his forehead, graced with some curls of soft hair, the insistent line of his nose, his slightly separated lips, the shapely chin.
His hair had felt so wonderful when she caressed his head earlier that night. Amazingly tender those lips had been as they had wandered over her skin. She thought of his warm, wet tongue, his at first cautious, but soon more audacious fingers and recalled how they had - stroking, rubbing, thrusting - driven her insane with pleasure. Every time anew, when she ended up in her bedroom with him after a long, grueling day of work, she was astonished, how well he knew her body and how easily he could direct her consciousness away from the troubles and to the beautiful aspects of life.
Again, she began to feel the expanding warmth of arousal within her. She gazed at his now limp penis and longed to spoil it with her hands and mouth until Patrick would wake up and fervidly lunge at her once more.
But no, she didn't want to deprive him of his sorely needed sleep. She rather wanted to savor those silent, precious moments, when their bodies were resting sated and languorous side by side in her bed. Her glance returned to the silhouette of his face. The closed eyelids and the slightly open mouth expressed a tranquility and peace that she had never noticed on him when he was awake. The realization that it was her, who gave this troubled, paradoxical, always searching man that deep feeling of contentment, the ability to let his guard down for a while, made her almost giddy. How much she loved him!
And still, like every time in the aftermath of their lovemaking, she could already sense him slipping away from her again. Deep inside she felt the painful certainty that the day wasn't far when he wouldn't be able to bear her closeness, that melting of their bodies and souls, any longer. The day when he would say "I can't do this any longer."
She forced herself to stop thinking about it. Leaning over his sleeping body, she very gently touched his forehead with her lips and was grateful that the single teardrop, which fell upon his face, didn't wake him up.
~ The End ~