She doesn't make a sound as the occasional tear trickles down her face in the dark. Andy is sound asleep; that's a good thing because the moisture she's producing is dripping on his naked chest. She's glad he fell asleep so quickly because she doesn't have the words to explain her tears to him, and she's too tired to talk anyway, but she feels a heaviness in her heart after they've just made love for the first time. She knows it's not his fault; it's not hers either.
The evening started out perfectly with a quiet dinner at Andy's place. She'd had no expectations of anything other than a relaxing meal and good conversation, but when his hand grazed hers under the warm water at the kitchen sink every single reason she'd given herself to take the relationship slowly simply melted as he stopped rinsing dishes and caressed the inside of her wrist. Holding her hand in the water, he moved behind her, and using his other hand he shifted her hair out of the way. She wanted to turn around, but he had her pinned between his body and the sink. His lips brushed the exposed skin of her neck; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in a mesmerizing rhythm that compelled her to close her eyes, and lean back a bit. She felt like she was floating.
"I love you," he whispers in her ear.
Tilting her head toward the sound of his voice, she slowly opens her eyes to meet his intense gaze. He didn't have to tell her he loved her; she could see it in his eyes. It was too much; she couldn't linger in that look. Closing her eyes again, she allows herself to sink, for just a few seconds, into the waves of emotion washing over her. Rarely has she let herself roll with the tide of feelings because it invariably ends in disappointment. That's why she's insisted on dating Andy in the old fashioned sense of the word. He hasn't protested her reticence; he understands her need to keep a lid on her strong emotions at home and at work; however, he doesn't have that need. He freely expresses his feelings, good and bad. He's wanted to put words to his feelings for her for a long time, since before his surgery.
He can sense the conflict inside her as they stand, pressed together, at the sink. He figures this could go either way, and he's okay with that, but he'd prefer to walk her to his bedroom and not the door. He takes a step away from her and says, "Sharon, look at me."
Opening her eyes, she sees him standing with his right arm extended to her, palm up. Words aren't necessary. She knows what he wants; she hesitates for only a second before taking his hand. He's in no hurry. They walk slowly down the hallway to the bedroom; he's slightly in front of her, gently tugging her along. She takes note of the pictures lining the walls: baby pictures of his kids, him with black hair and a dog at the beach, Nicole with her husband and the kids, he and Provenza at a Dodgers game, her standing on the terrace of her condo at sunset.
He uses this time to try to calm himself. His heart is beating rapidly; his mouth is dry. It's been some time since he had company in the bedroom; it was not a memorable experience; he can't even remember her name or where he met her, but he remembers how badly he wanted her to leave when it was over.
He's wanted Sharon for a long time. He fantasized about her even when her mere presence in the Murder Room annoyed the hell out of him. Now he's in love with her, and he almost wishes he wasn't. He thinks it would probably be much less pressure if he really didn't care about her at all. He's very anxious; he fully understands there's no going back. They've told each other that they'll always remain friends, but he knows that he's not really interested in just being her friend.
She also realizes that this is a turning point. This changes everything. She'll no longer be able to look at him and wonder what he's like in bed; she did that back in the days when she'd catch him eyeing her with annoyance and even outright anger, but there would sometimes be something else in his eyes. That something else intrigued her, made her look twice, made her invite herself to his daughter's wedding. He's occupied the space in her mind from the time her head hits the pillow till she drifts to sleep for longer than she'd ever admit to anyone, even herself.
Entering the bedroom, he guides her to the end of the bed. The overhead light is off, but there's enough ambient light in the room for him to see the hesitation on her face. He sits on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand. She's looking down at his face; he's looking up at her; they smile at each other; some of the tension seems to leave the room, and she joins him on the end of the bed. He toes his shoes off; she does the same. He delicately kisses her lips. All the breath seems to leave her body; she breaks the kiss long enough to inhale and remove her glasses. He takes them from her, and places them on the bedside table. Turning back to her, he hungrily attacks her mouth, plunging his tongue between her lips. He's done with being delicate. She's no longer just a fantasy; she's a flesh and blood woman, and he wants to explore every inch of her. Leaning back on the bed and taking her with him, his left hand immediately goes under her shirt and up to her breasts.
Mumbling into her mouth, his lips never leaving hers, he says, "You feel incredible."
She doesn't say a word; she just thrusts her tongue back in his mouth. They're both lying on their sides. Her right leg hooks around his leg. She moves her arm up to stroke his hair. He pushes her top up, and engulfs her in a tight hug. She can't really move, and she's forced to take shallow breaths. She can feel the stubble on his cheek roughly rubbing against her face. He's looking over her shoulder, trying to see how to unhook her bra. The angle is awkward for them both. Sitting up, she removes her top, and slips out of her bra. She quickly reclines next to him, conscious of the small stretch marks on the sides of her breasts. She'd gone up two cup sizes when pregnant with Ricky, and although she'd returned to her normal size after nursing him, she still bore the stretch marks which she hadn't thought of in a long time. Andy doesn't even notice the marks; his hands immediately stroke her nipples causing a sharp intake of breath from her. "Am I hurting you?"
"No," she answers with a slight shake of her head. It's been so long since she's been touched in this way, it feels a little foreign to her, but she doesn't know how to express that to Andy so she doesn't say anything else. Easing off the pressure a bit with his hands, he kisses her again. Her hand travels down the front of his jeans; she rubs her palm against his crotch; he moans and thrusts into her. She can feel the outline of his erection. Slipping her slender hand down the front of his pants, her fingers brush the tip of his penis. The sudden contact with her skin is almost too much; he flinches away from her in an effort to slow this down; he doesn't want it to be over before it's really even started. Thinking she's done something wrong, she says, "I'm sorry."
"No, no you've done nothing wrong. It's just been a long time for me," he says as he gets off the bed. "I'll be right back."
She watches him walk to the bathroom. As soon as he shuts the door, she is up off the bed. Removing the rest of her clothing, she quickly pulls the covers back, slips into bed, and yanks the sheet all the way up to her neck. She's not ashamed of her body; she's worked hard to maintain her physique and fitness, but she's all too aware of her age, and the fact that Andy Flynn is a notorious womanizer who has dated more than a few young women. That's a fact that initially bothered her when she first realized that she was hoping to be more than just good friends with him; however, it was easy to overcome her trepidation after spending so much time with him, on and off duty. The Andy she knows now isn't anything like the Andy of old, but she's still not entirely comfortable exposing her body and soul to him for the first time.
Standing in the bathroom, he takes a full minute to just breathe then stares at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Stop being an idiot, he tells himself. He has no idea she's experiencing the same jitters on the other side of the wall. They're essentially thinking the same thoughts, and having the same feelings at the same time. Stripping down to his boxers, he takes a deep breath and walks out of the bathroom. Approaching the bed, it's hard for him to comprehend the vision before him. He's dreamed of this moment for so long; it doesn't seem real, but she's very real with her hair spread out on the pillow, the tops of her breasts barely visible under the sheet. There's an anxious look on her face; she's chewing on her bottom lip. Not sure what to do with her hands, she reaches for him as he slides in next to her. She accidentally pokes his eye with her finger. He instantly pulls back, and rubs his eye. "Shit, Andy I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing. I'm fine. I'll probably regain my eyesight someday," he says with a chuckle.
She lets out a laugh and says, "I don't know why I keep apologizing."
"I know why," he says, "because you're nervous, like me."
She's blushing beautifully, but not looking in his face even though she's in total agreement. It's not as if she's a sexual novice. She enjoyed great sex with Jack until it wasn't great. She's also had discreet liaisons over the years mostly far from LA with men she liked but didn't love, and would never see again: a conference keynote speaker, an artist from whom she purchased a painting, a fellow classmate at her 40th high school reunion. They were all physical encounters; each one felt very different from this.
Carefully avoiding his face, she glides her hand down his chest to the waistband of his boxers. Finally looking him square in the eyes; she dips her hand below the elastic. He groans; curling his body into her, he kisses her long and hard, and she strokes him until he's long and hard. She enjoys giving pleasure as much if not more than receiving it; the feel of him in her hand, and the ecstatic look on his face fuels her passion. She's surprised when he rolls away from her. Pulling his boxers off, he shifts back to her; returning his lips to hers, he begins to stroke between her legs with his fingers. Opening herself to him, her jitters are finally starting to fade as his tongue glides over, under and around hers while his fingers mimic his tongue. He's very good at this; nevertheless, her body is slow to cooperate. This happens at her age; she's dry, and it has absolutely nothing to do with her ardor, she hopes he understands.
He does understand; he understands she needs more time and attention, and he's happy to oblige. Shifting his focus, he straddles her hips. Bending over her breasts, he paints her left nipple with his tongue while kneading her right breast with his hand. She releases a soft sigh, and digs her fingers into his scalp. He looks up at her face. Her head is thrown back, eyes closed, a smile on her face. "You're delicious," he says. Her smile grows wider.
Moving up to nibble on her neck, he feels his lower back start to seize. This happens at his age; there's not much he can do but move out of the position he's in which he's loathe to do, but he has no choice. Not wanting to completely kill the mood, he doesn't say a word about the pain he knows is right around the corner if he doesn't move. He sits up. She's watching him, and she thinks she sees a slight look of discomfort cross his face. Scooting down on the bed, his eyes stay glued to her body. Feeling suddenly shy, and too exposed, she attempts to squeeze her legs together, but he stops her by kneeling between her knees. Licking three fingers on his right hand he resumes the rhythm she was enjoying minutes ago. The sensations he's making her feel are too much and not enough all at the same time. He's making her wet and it's wonderful, but she knows from experience she won't climax this way. Just as his hand is starting to cramp she squirms away from his fingers. Rising up off the bed, she edges closer to him in the middle of the mattress. Reaching out with both hands, she cups him in her left hand and begins stroking him with her right hand. She kisses his mouth, and then makes her way to his neck. Sucking his flesh between her lips, she's seized with the compulsion to leave a mark so she does. He doesn't protest; he likes the feeling of pressure she's creating with her mouth, but mostly he likes the idea of her giving in to her desires. She's always so buttoned up, tight and in control. Releasing his skin, she blows on the red mark. To see and feel her let go even a little bit makes the months of anticipation worth every single second. He could stay like this all night, but his knees won't allow that. Ducking around her, he stretches out, and maneuvers her on top of him. His body instantly feels more relaxed.
This is her favorite position. Leaning forward, her breasts graze his chest. She slips up and down along his length. She can feel his arms wrapped around her. His fingers trace circles on her back. This is far better than any fantasy he's ever created in his mind. She's no longer just in his head; she's in his bed, on top of him with her hair spilling around her bare shoulders, and a look of bliss on her face. Just when he thinks he can't take it one more second, she guides him inside her. Studying his face intently, she slowly sinks down on him eliciting a groan from deep in his chest. Initially, she doesn't even move; she just rides the waves of sensation crashing into her from the feeling of fullness in her heart and between her legs. To be literally connected to another person, mind, body and soul, is powerful and overwhelming. It's a feeling she hasn't known in a long time. She's been content to live without this, but now …. Now, it's too late. She can't lose this, not again. She once had this with her husband, but it didn't last. She can't bear another loss like that. Andy watches a myriad of feelings cross her face as she begins to rock on top of him.
This woman is still a complete mystery to him after all this time; this woman who stares down hardened criminals and also collects angels; this woman who so fiercely protects her own heart has his heart completely. He can feel his control slipping as he repeatedly thrusts hard up into her. His voice brings her out of her own thoughts; she realizes he's saying her name just in time for her to focus on his face as he climaxes. It's fascinating to watch, but she feels detached which is ridiculous because he's still inside her. Tears form in the corners of her eyes as he slips out of her. Tears of happiness … sadness … disappointment … anger … frustration … joy? She's not sure; all she knows is they'll never again have this first time, and she basically missed it because she can't get out of her own head. She can't lose the deeply rooted fear of another failure.
Rolling off him, she curls up on her side as he gets out of bed. She can hear water running in the bathroom. He returns with a washcloth which he hands her. She doesn't want it. She wants to get up, put her clothes on, and go home, but she knows he'll misunderstand, and she doesn't want that, so she'll stay and fall asleep in his arms, eventually. She takes the washcloth. The only thing she really wants is time to process the depth of feelings she wasn't even aware of before now. The silence is killing him; he has no idea what to say, he's just as frightened by his own feelings. He picks his boxer shorts up off the floor, and heads back to the bathroom. Before he bent over, she saw the look in his eyes, not unlike the look in her own eyes; it's the look of knowing they're in too deep.
She doesn't make a sound as the occasional tear trickles down her face in the dark.