Prelude to a Kiss

Oh, as usual, I don't own a lick of psych, no infringement is intended, I have the utmost respect for TPTB, and the world they've created. Hopefully, I'm not tromping too horribly on their creation as I spin my own little tales.

That said, this is a somewhat M-ish (more content than explicitness of language) one-shot that could possibly expand into more that's not necessarily M, but in the meantime, we gots the M.

Long and elegant, capable in everyday interaction, efficient with a pen as he wrote, deadly with a weapon, decisive on a horse's reins, graceful, yet deceptively strong. She knew from observation and the occasional glancing touch that they bore callouses on fingers and palms, their skin warm and shockingly inviting.

She'd long wondered what those hands would feel like.

She could confess that to herself now, as those hands trailed along her body, slow and deliberate, by turns confident and wondering, exploring every curve and crevice, teasing every sensitive point to a near-painful intensity, time and again, bringing an entirely new level of awareness to her skin. He'd bring her to the precipice, then soothe her back to simmering before adding a new level of sensation by adding his mouth, following the same path those elegant hands had taken, lips, teeth, and tongue working in concert, leaving damp trails that cooled into a tingling layer of sensation, leaving her whimpering and gasping his name, fingers tangled in the thick, surprisingly soft waves of his hair. This man who was so hard in so many ways, having the softest hair she'd ever felt, inviting her to hold him closer, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp, spurring him to begin anew, leaving her writhing on the bed's wide expanse, the sheets growing damp beneath her back as his mouth leisurely trailed from neck to collarbone to the shadow between her breasts. As it moved from one breast to the other, teasing at first, then intent, his tongue moving in slow circles, teeth nipping, those long fingers, with their subtly rough callouses providing contrast, her nipples aching for more and more and more…

Those hands continuing their slow seduction as his head moved lower, pausing to trace patterns on her stomach with his tongue, their names, he teased, his gaze meeting hers, and there, in the brilliant blue depths, evidence of a new, surprising softness. This so hard, often unhappy man was happy here—with her. He loved what he was doing to her.

She loved what he was doing to her.

She wanted more.

Arching up to meet his mouth and tongue, one hand reaching back to clutch the headboard, the other remaining on his head, her touch gentle now as he brought her up in new ways, ways she would have never imagined him capable of. Ways she would never have believed this man, so hard and often gruff and impatient, would have had the patience for. But those hands, one of which had joined that mouth and tongue, the soft, yet intent expression in his eyes as he glanced up, so mindful, gauging her enjoyment, it all merged into an experience that seemed to go on forever. An experience he was willing to prolong as long as necessary to bring her the most arousing, earth-shattering, erotic moment of her life.

Her hair trailed along his body, the long strands like a thousand little caresses as she dragged mouth and tongue and teeth along his skin, exploring, her nails leaving thin, fiery trails along his sides. Much as he wanted to bury his hands in that thick mass of hair, direct her exactly where he wanted her to go, he couldn't fully trust himself to be as gentle as she deserved, especially as her mouth descended lower and lower, ghosting a kiss in the sensitive hollow beside his hipbone before trailing to center, her palms stroking his flanks, soothing, even has her mouth found its target, enveloped him, warm and wet and everything he'd never allowed himself to consciously dream of. His fists clenched in the sheets as he submitted to her will, fighting his natural impulse to dominate, to drive, to own her body with his. Time enough for that. Now that the unimaginable was reality, there was all the time in the world, never mind that the idea he could ever truly dominate her was nothing more than a laughable conceit. She'd owned him for far longer than he'd been willing to admit. Would have never admitted, except for now, that they found themselves in this moment, surprising, yet somehow inevitable.

He'd known her scent, had known exactly how she'd feel, how she'd taste, how she'd move beneath his hands and mouth—how she would feel, draped over his body, strength and softness and silk and heat.

But no amount of knowledge or dreaming could have prepared him for the perfection of fitting his body to hers, feeling the unique strength of her enveloping him, inside and out. The rhythm of her sinuous movements as her hands gripped his shoulders, nails leaving new marks, the slide of her thigh against his, foot teasing his calf as they moved slowly, at first, her eyes wide, gaze meeting his, almost defiantly, as if saying she could take anything he could give her. Challenging him as he increased each drive—finally begging, by look and eventually by word. His name and please and harder and faster and more and Oh, God, please, more emerging on high-pitched cries and harsh gasps that would have frightened him otherwise but in this moment—this first moment between them—only compelled him to push harder and arch back. To push again, harder… faster. Fighting the strong pull of her body, reveling in subduing it with his larger one—finally submitting, allowing her to pull him close, merging together, sinking into each other until, for the first time, he felt whole, a missing part of himself found as he lost himself in the woman to whom he'd lost his heart long ago.

And there would never be anything more perfect than her warmth wrapped around him in comfort and trust as he held her close, drifting off into sleep feeling… complete.

Body throbbing with unaccustomed, yet not entirely unpleasant aches, Juliet blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the shadows and burgeoning light of dawn turning the sky and snow-capped mountains shades of pale blue and rose gold beyond large, wall-spanning windows.

Warmth enveloped her from behind, at once familiar yet completely unexpected. Carefully, she rolled over, fighting a sigh as an arm tightened around her waist. She swallowed hard against the twin sensations of panic and utter rightness battling in her chest.

No.

No.

This couldn't be happening. Yet clearly, judging by her state of undress and the warm, naked length of him pressed against her beneath the sheet, it had happened. And the fact that it felt so familiar and yes, right, it had happened quite a lot, if she had to guess, over many hours.

Hours of which she had no real memory outside of a random wisp of sound, a sense of touch, a quicksilver image, flitting in and out of the transom of her mind before it could fully coalesce into a complete whole.

What happened?

Before the question had even completely formed, his eyes blinked slowly and despite her increasing panic, chipped tiny pieces from her heart, with the sleepy, pleased, and undeniably happy expression in them. In this blurry, hazy moment before full awareness gripped him, they were a muted, lovely blue, their expression tender as one long-fingered hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, his fingertips trailing along her jaw and neck as he murmured, "Juliet."

She still had no idea what was going on, but she knew what had gone on, and was beginning to comprehend what might have precipitated this most unimaginable situation. Her panic continued to grow, winding tight and insidious along her spine, yet even so, she couldn't resist grasping his hand and pressing it against her cheek, breathing deep of the two of them, wrapped in early morning warmth and the fleeting sensations from the night before that grew stronger with his touch.

"Carlton."

His eyes widened, their expression sharpening into one of full awareness and yes, panic, as sharply-honed instincts kicked in and he quickly took stock of their situation.

"Wha— O'Hara? What—where the hell are we?" He bolted upright, the sheet pulling away, revealing her nude body to his slack-jawed gaze. The hands that had been so graceful and sure as they caressed her face moments before fumbled to cover her, as his fearful blue gaze took in the opulent suite, the clothes marking an obvious trail from the door to the bed, and finally, the unfamiliar scenery beyond the window, enveloped in the same early morning light that had woken her so gently.

Given the reality of their situation, it seemed almost incongruous, not to mention unfair. Inexplicably, Juliet wanted to kick something. Hard.

"Oh, God, what the hell happened?" He dropped his head into his hands as if it ached, which it probably did, if the throbbing in her own head was any indication.

"Well," she started slowly, sitting up and holding the sheet to her breasts. "Judging by the evidence, it would appear we're in a very nice hotel, I'm not quite sure where, exactly, and we… we, um…"

He glanced up in time to see her gesturing helplessly with one hand, suddenly unable to articulate the obvious.

"Jesus, O'Hara, are you sure?"

His voice held the high, cracking note that only appeared under extreme duress. Retreating wasn't far behind, but dammit, they didn't have the luxury of time to allow him to retreat, assess, and figure out how to emerge, defenses up. She needed him here, with her, now, so they could figure out what the hell was going on.

"I know it's not necessarily as obvious for men as it is for women, Carlton," she snapped, trying to keep him grounded, "but judging by how much my body aches and not to get too graphic, other physical evidence, yes, we made love last night. A lot."

In a corner of her mind she registered the terminology she'd used, but she couldn't dwell on that now. Semantics, anyhow. And the prickling that stung the backs of her eyes that he wasn't any better able to remember? Just a reaction to the situation as a whole, dammit.

A new sort of panic suffused his expression as he looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time since waking up. "Oh God," he repeated, his voice low and shaking. "I didn't hurt you, did I? Please tell me I didn't hurt you. Oh, God, O'Hara—"

"You didn't hurt me," she broke in, impatience riding alongside the urge to defend him against the self-flagellation with which he was always so quick to punish himself. "At least no more than I hurt you," she added more gently, one hand reaching almost involuntarily to glance against the slightly inflamed scratches leaving a trail along the width of his shoulders. "And by the way, stop calling me O'Hara."

"What?"

"After what we've done, I think you need to practice calling me Juliet."

"Why the hell would you want me to?" His voice trailed up toward the end of the question, revealing just how deep his panic ran, but to his credit, he was breathing steadily, if a bit shallowly, and he continued to meet her gaze, as if sensing she needed him. Because hell, she really did right now.

Brows drawn together in an all-too-familiar expression, he extended a hand, tentative, shaking just a little, to glance against a spot low on her neck, the slight throbbing there indicating that she probably had a pretty good hickey going. That was going to be fun to explain.

All of this was going to be heap big fun to explain. Especially since neither of them appeared to have any blasted clue how they'd wound up in this situation.

"Well," she began again, her voice very soft and very gentle, knowing that in his panic and desperation to assess the situation, he'd yet to notice one of the most damning bits of evidence, "unless it's Regency England, I believe it's customary for husbands and wives to address each other by their first names."

Juliet couldn't conceive of any other way to have told him. She really couldn't. But the way he paled and swayed, made her desperately wish there had been some other way. Some way that wouldn't have left him swallowing hard and scrubbing a hand against his morning beard-roughened face. A hand he slowly lowered to stare at, taking in the etched gold band resting on the ring finger.

"Husbands and—"

"Wives," she finished, holding up her own left hand, silently noting that her narrower band matched his exactly, providing another small bit of evidence, however ephemeral. Some thought, some plan, had gone into this bizarre moment. But what? If only she could think past the throbbing in her head that was growing worse by the second. But the more she thought, the worse it got, along with the sick feeling in her stomach she instinctively understood had nothing to do with Carlton and what they'd done. If anything, knowing it was him—that he was here with her—was the only thing keeping her grounded and from dissolving into a screaming, freaking out mess.

What the hell had happened?

Okay.

Okay.

They could do this. They could figure it out.

They were partners. Together, they'd figured out some pretty improbable cases. This might be their most improbable one yet, but they could figure it out, dammit. She knew they could. So long as they stuck together.

"O'Har—Juliet," he corrected, his voice holding a note she couldn't consciously recall ever having heard, yet that she nevertheless recognized. "You can't possibly be saying—"

"Yeah, Carlton, I am." And suddenly, it didn't matter that they were both naked and that clearly, they'd gotten to know each other pretty damned intimately—as intimately as two people possibly could—and it didn't matter that they'd been friends for more than six years and partners through harrowing situations that would have broken others. In that moment, having to say the words out loud, Juliet was overcome with an inexplicable shyness, unable to meet Carlton's gaze.

Holding the sheet more tightly to her chest, she stared at her hand and the shiny new band and quietly said, "It would appear we are… married."