"I'll never see your hands again, will I?"
I turn my head away from the field to look to my right and my eyebrows furrow, my eyes moving to my now upturned palms.
"What -" I look back up and offer my hands to her, a playful smile on my lips.
"What are you talking about, they're right here. You can see them right now."
A small chuckle leaves my lips, my head tilting at her question.
And she's turning her head to look at my hands now, a soft almost sad smile gracing her lips and my eyebrows are furrowing deeper. Why does she look sad? What is going on?
It's only the two of us in the dugout right now. The coaches a few feet away, but for the roar of the crowd, they can't be heard and neither can the two of us. We're essentially in our own little space of quasi-privacy - no one can hear us but anyone could see us.
And for some reason I have a feeling that there's something deeper going on here. She can't know how I feel about her. I've hidden it. I've hidden it well.
Her hands shift and I think she's going to touch mine but she stops, a halted, twitchy movement and she brings them back to her lap, clasping them together.
She looks sheepish now, contemplative, before her hazel eyes settle on mine.
She's not smiling anymore. She looks...almost hurt. As if I've offended or wounded her in some way.
"No, they're not the same."
Now she seems angry. God, I'm so confused.
"They're not the same." She says it again and this time I know she's angry.
"Wait - what are you talking about?"
And her eyes snap up from my now fidgeting hands and they're so goddamn gorgeous and fierce and dangerous that my stomach lurches a bit.
"You stopped playing. You just stopped. Why?"
My face goes neutral then, my jaw clenching. If I had known this was why she was angry, if I had known she was going to talk to me about this I wouldn't have left the coaches' side to come and sit by her in the dugout. Just because I had some stupid girl crush on her (okay, it was a shit ton more than that) did NOT mean that she could talk to me about this.
My words are tight, stiff.
"I told you why. I told everyone why."
She rolls her eyes - as if she's heard that statement more times than she'd cared to - which she has, so why the hell is she even -
"Yes, and it's complete bullshit, Jane."
My eyebrows shoot up at the curse word. Maura Isles never curses. It's "vulgar and completely superfluous, Jane."
I bite back the remark and ask a question instead.
"Why do you care about my hands so much?"
And her demeanor shifts, falls, turns into something utterly different and astonishingly recognizable.
She's nervous.
Why?
And if I hadn't been watching her so closely I would have missed it.
The hard set of determination in those tempestuous hazel eyes.
Eyes that were now boring into my own dark brown ones.
Her hands move to pull gently at my own and I flinch, not used to someone touching me there, but I allow the touch. It's her touch, so it's always allowed.
She seems to see this and smiles softly, apologetically, before bringing her fingers and caressing them down the length of my own.
My body shivers in response.
She tilts her head and now she's whispering, leaning closer so she's heard over the commotion of the field.
And there's a fleeting thought for wondering eyes but it's only fleeting and then it's gone.
Maura Isles is touching me; let them look.
"Your hands are beautiful. So long and nimble. So strong. The way they wrap around the ball when you throw to first base. The way the flex around the handle of your bat. Even ensconced in gloves they're magnificent."
She doesn't once look up from my hands when she says this. She doesn't once stop caressing my palm, my fingers, my wrist. She doesn't once falter or hesitate. But her cheeks do pink, her already hushed voice becomes almost breathless, and god does her caressing turn almost languid, lingering - downright seductive.
My breath hitches audibly when her thumb gently smooths across my scar. But instead of ripping my hand away, my eyes flutter closed and I find myself biting my lip to keep from making what would have been an overly embarrassing sound.
God, does she even know what her touch is doing to me?
And I'm painfully aware of an ache between my legs. First just as hushed, just as small and breathy as her voice. But now, now that she's looking at me as if she's just told me some huge thing, some secret that she's been holding in forever, a huge 'holy shit, she does feel the same way' kind of secret, that ache is almost unbearable now.
And Jesus, she has a thing about my hands.
I'm struck dumb in all the flecks of golden colors in her eyes - seriously I could write a thesis on just her eyes alone.
And suddenly, it hits me. It slams into my brain full force and instead of being elated, instead of smiling at her, instead of telling her I liked her back, instead of making a joke about her having a kink for my hands or kissing her or just something, I run.
My legs are carrying me out of the dug out and to the concession stand, to the restrooms before I can even tell my brain to stop.
And I'm leaning heavily into one of the marble sinks, my hands clenched tightly on either side of it and I look up at my reflection in the mirror and exhale deeply, my head falling and my eyes closing as I try to slow down the almost violent beating of my heart.
Jesus.
What the hell am I doing?
The girl I'm in love with basically just told me she likes me - er, at least my hands, anyway - the way I thought she'd never EVER like me and I run the fuck away from her like a damn dog with its tail tucked under itself.
I groan and move to turn the cold water on.
I'm cupping my hands, the cold water instantly calming and am leaning down when I hear the door wrenched open. And my eyes snap to the mirror to see her standing, her hand still on the doorknob, her breath slightly labored - as if she had ran after me - and the water slides through my fingers and into the sink and I move them to grip the sides of the marble again, needing the balance.
And she steps all the way into the restroom and closes the door behind her, her back leaning fully against it as she does so.
Her eyes never leave mine and it's incredibly disconcerting. My breath is caught in my throat and we don't break eye contact as she takes a step forward.
And then another.
And another.
And one more and she's directly behind me. Ours eyes still connected.
She shifts and takes another step and is directly to my left, my hand around the marble twitching.
And then her eyes leave mine and settle on that twitching left hand and her right one comes out and moves to gently extract it. To my bewilderment, it instantly loosens at her touch and to my chagrin, a shot of tingling heat races up my arm, down my abdomen and settles with a hard clench at the base of it.
My eyes flutter.
She cups my hand in her own and then suddenly it's against the warmth of her right cheek. My eyes snap to our hands and oh, god.
Her eyes have darkened, her irises almost completely being swallowed by her pupils and she's biting at her bottom lip in a way that should be illegal and that damn ache is now a steady, dull throb.
And then she turns her head into my palm and places a gentle kiss there - right on my scar - and I'm helpless to stop the soft moan that leaves my lips, helpless to keep my eyes from fluttering shut.
"Jane."
And god help me, the way she just whispered my name - as if I was the only thing in this world she needed. Wanted.
My eyes open and I turn my head to look at her.
And her eyes are so incredibly soft, gentle, loving. My brain stutters at the word. Does she really -
"Please tell me this isn't just one-sided."
She looks so vulnerable, so exposed, so small and something inside of me snaps, breaks.
My strong, infallible, doesn't take anyone's shit, stunningly beautiful Maura should never ever look like this. Ever.
I move the thumb still cupping her cheek and caress just below her eye, smiling softly when I see a glitter of hope.
"It's not."
God, if only she knew how much it wasn't.
It's a whisper. And I'm not sure why - it just felt right.
And her smile is so big, so bright in that moment - her dimples on full display - that every little dark memory in my life is completely shrouded in a blinding light. God, I love this girl.
And then she's biting her lip again and she looks down before bringing her eyes slowly back up to mine - and it's when her gaze takes a few seconds too long to meet mine before I realize she's - oh, jesus. And then her eyes sweep over my jersey clad chest and when they finally do meet my eyes, hers are such a darkened amber, my stomach clenches and a soft gasp leaves my lips.
Her eyes flick to the sound and then back up, her voice coming out in a breathy exhale.
"Good. Kiss me, Jane."
A not so soft tug and my hand is now at the base of her neck.
And if it's at all possible her voice is even breathier when she utters a soft "please".
And I turn and my right hand is shooting out to grip at her waist and then my lips are crashing against hers, a whimper and then a deep moan meeting my ears when I pull us flush together and my stomach feels as if it's bottomed out.
Her hands are tangled in my hair, the pony tail I had thrown it into almost loose to the point of falling out, and then with one swift tug of her left hand it is gone and on the floor behind me, her fingers threading through my now free, wavy locks - an appreciative hum vibrating against my lips.
And then I'm gasping and my hand still gripping at the back of her neck shoots down her back and I'm wrapping it around her waist and I take a step forward and she's against the tile wall next to one of the stalls.
Her back hits it with a dull smack and she rips her mouth away from mine to gasp loudly, her hands tightening almost painfully in my hair now.
I have one leg in between her own, our bodies pressed hard into one another and her eyes shoot to mine, her chest heaving against my own, her breath labored, mirroring mine.
And she looks so god damn wanton, so turned on and she's biting on her damn lip again and then she's whispering, the sound raspy and hoarse and her hips are canting forward against my thigh.
"Jane. I want those gorgeous fingers of yours inside me."
And jesus christ. If Maura Isles won't be the death of me.
Without moving her eyes away from my own her right hand shoots down and grasps my left one wrapped around her waist and brings it to cup herself, a soft hissing sound leaving her lips as her eyes flutter closed at the contact. She presses my hand harder and I grind my palm, smiling wickedly when she cries out, surprised.
Her eyes fly open and the look in them is so predatory, filled with so much raw desire that I swallow. And then she growls out:
"Now."
And I'm completely and oh so willingly at her mercy.