Disclaimer: I do not own the copyright for Waking The Dead or its characters – all rights belong to the BBC – who incidentally should just bring it back!

Rating: K

I wrote this months ago for Joodiff and am posting it tonight in the hope it will help to make her, and whoever else may read it, smile. *Hugs*

Moondance

She doesn't need to turn around to know that it is him approaching. It is the scent that first alerts her to his presence. Distinctive. Expensive. And intoxicatingly his. The air is now heavy with an infusion of wood, musk and heat which lingers provocatively, igniting her senses as she closes her eyes and deeply breathes him in. She won't turn to face him. This is all part of the game. Waiting. Expecting. The heightened anticipation of his arrival is almost unbearable, yet strangely and addictively alluring. Just knowing he is there, watching, wanting, needing. Her pulse begins to quicken as she hears his breath catch. Slowly, as a predator stalks its prey, he approaches, his footsteps firm and precise. He won't wait, not now he knows that they are alone.

It had been the same since that first night, when in a moment of unexplained utter weakness they both surrendered and gave in to the undeniable attraction between them. It wasn't planned, but neither was it regretted. Her lips still tingle at the memory of their first kiss. The feel of his beard against her cheek as he explored and discovered the contours of her face had sent shivers cascading joyfully down her spine. Deep brown eyes burning intensely with fire had seductively held her gaze daring her to back away, knowing that she wouldn't. Couldn't. From that moment she was spellbound, captivated by a man who now held her in the palm of his hand.

Night after night he had returned, his eyes reflecting the same hunger and desire she knew her own to portray. A hunger that was carefully concealed during the working day, but which glinted dangerously, wolfishly under the moonlight. Their colleagues didn't know, couldn't know, so the secret dance of pretence had begun.

Her entire body begins to shudder, an involuntary reaction, as his strong muscular arms snake firmly around her waist. His breath is warm against her skin as he draws her gently to himself. Softly his lips begin to trace the delicate curvature of her neck, his kisses gentle like tender fireflies rising and falling in the summer evening air. She instinctively leans into him turning her head unashamedly to allow him full and unrestrictive access to her exposed flesh. Expertly he kisses, his caress effortlessly displacing the stresses and strains of the day. Until she can bear it no longer.

Slowly she turns, her eyes meeting his. Deep, arcane and cavernous, she is instantly lost in the darkness of them. His hands tangle through her hair as he grips the back of her head and pulls her towards him, his lips impatiently claiming hers. Her mind briefly considers the paradoxical nature of the man who is now tenderly embracing her. The daytime revered tyrant has been transformed by the setting of the sun into a gentle, giving, loving worshipper of all that she is.

Softly he whispers her name, desire saturating every syllable. It's the only sound that breaks through the silence between them but it says so much about how he is feeling. Huskily her name floats and soars through the air like a summer breeze as he whispers once again …..

"Frankie."

Apologies to all those who hoped it would be Grace … :S xx