Well, folks, here is my addition to the pile. I figured it's a little jumbled and rushed, but I wanted it that way. Oh; and smutty, did I mention smutty?
Do I own? Negative. Do I wish I did? Correct. Reviews? Pending. Spoilers? Jetlag. Angst? Hell yeah.
-Liv
She hadn't said a word in nearly fifteen minutes. It bothered him profusely, but he resisted the urge to turn in his seat and flick her ear like a petulant child. In his mind, he imagined breathing in her delicious scent, being so close to those inviting pink lips-
Tony shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He heard Ziva sigh next to him, still intently reading some magazine reserved for women and men in drag.
He wanted to talk; make some kind of childish innuendo about what they were about to do, where they were going. But he didn't.
Because she just looked too peaceful and normal right then, and in the deep recesses of his mind he liked to imagine this was their honeymoon, not just an assignment. He imagined that she really wanted nothing more than to have hot sex in their hotel -
She sensed him staring at her point blank and kicked him in the shin. Hard.
Tony flinched, but did not say a word.
It puzzled Ziva in the strangest way, but she looked back down at the article she was reading and dismissed it.
Reaching forward to retrieve a booklet on flight safety from the upper compartment, he felt his ears pop ceramoniously, gritting his teeth a little.
Sitting back, both settled in better and didn't speak furthermore. Not that there was anything to speak about.
Paris was still four hours away.
10:32 PM
"Tony."
He turns around, realizing she's caught the attention of a taxi and is motioning for him to put their luggage in the trunk of the car. He does so, and follows her into the musk-smelling vehicle. Her hair is tousled from the flight, there are muted lines around the edges of her brownbrown eyes.
If he hadn't known better, he'd say his ninja has jetlag. But he does know better.
And Ziva has had that tired look for approximately 2.5 months. Since-
Well. Semantics have never appealed to him. Just since.
Her hand does look appealing, though; resting there on her thigh. It looks soft. Warm.
Made for holding.
He shakes himself at the thought, imagining Gibbs slapping him in the back of the head. And there's always that voice that sounds strangely like James Bond.
Rules! Rules! Don't forget the rules!- it says. It amuses Tony to no end that his conscience may be James Bond.
Ziva's tongue does more appealing things as she slips into silky sounding French. She sounded like she was a native. He wonders, rather quietly, if she'd pick up other things really fast.
He wonders if she talks dirty with that sense of class-
The driver pulls out reallyreally quickly, and he just stops thinking. All it seems to do is cause him more shit, anyway. Ziva pops her neck loudly, and he winces. She admires the sights of Paris out the window as they travel the short drive to the hotel.
He knows she knows he's staring at her, yet she says nothing.
It makes him want to smile.
10:57 PM
"Excuse me?"
He feels Ziva, her aura tense and ominous, next to him. Staring at the hotel clerk with likely a more reasonable amount of aghast. He's just in so much shock-
"Sir, I'm sorry. It says here there is only one room. I'm not going to check again."
The girl looks young. But the indignant look in her eyes makes Tony want to hit something. Or someone.
Her blonde hair sways as she holds out the room key frigidly. He doesn't take it...
And then it's out of her hand, and Ziva is pulling her own bag towards the elevator. Her ebony curls are flying behind her.
He says not another word.
He has to catch the elevator, because Ziva isn't holding it for him. She has a blank look on her face, well, blanker than usual-
And the room key card is clutched in her hand so tight her knuckles are a little white.
He grinds his teeth again, and presses the floor number, watching duly as the plastic lights up resolutely.
He knows it's going to be a long night.
11:01 PM
The bed is a king. It has an ivory comforter and tawny pillows that seem ever so soft, to the eye.
Anthony DiNozzo believes this to be the first time he has ever seen Ziva David shell-shocked. Mortified.
Her mocha-colored skin is actually deepening in color in the slightest.
She stands there, in the doorway, and he passes her, grasping her own bag as he goes. He shoves them into a corner, and pulls back the blinds and fancy curtains ever so much.
"At least we've got a view, sweet cheeks."
He'd only looked away a second-
The bathroom door slams shut.
11:18 PM
When she reappears, her eyes are tinged red. He pretends not to notice.
"Ziva, there's one bed."
She rolls those brownbrown eyes and purses those ever so fuckable-
"Obviously, Tony," she mutters, drawing out the two syllables irresistably.
It's really hard not to think about her like this when they're together like this in a town like this. At least he tries to rationalize with himself it's totally undeniably normal.
When it's surely not.
"I think I'll take the floor," he says. She looks at him like she's surprised, and he ignores the hurt that scrapes at his heart.
"No." The response is blunt, no room for arguement. He tries though, to spin the situation his way, but she gives him a look, and he shuts up.
One look.
Since when was his ass whipped-
"I'm going to go take a shower."
And then she's gone.
It unnerves him that she didn't take a change of clothes.
11:36 PM
She's been in there awhile, he thinks. But maybe it takes longer for women, so he won't bother her. He values his life too much.
So, there he sits, on the big soft bed. He changed into his sleepclothes; an old OSU shirt and a pair of boxers. It's not as if she hasn't seen more before-
The door creaks open, and a wall of steam wafts into the quiet air.
His eyes meet hers. There is a funnyfunny look in those eyes. She is in a towel, and nothing else.
And then, she does something he never expected in a hundred million bajillion years.
The white clothe fell to the floor carelessly.
Breath leaves his lungs in a hurried woosh. Every muscle is frozen. His eyes look as if they'll buldge from the sockets.
She looks unfazed by his reaction. Her brownbrown eyes are dull as she flounders over to the bed and pulls back the covers.
11:38 PM
Scars. More than he's ever seen. More than in nightmares.
So. Many.
They leave paths and crosses and swirls across her gorgeous skin. That appealing skin. That he so desperately wants to taste-
There are no stopping the thoughts now-
And suck and kiss and fuck. And fuck.
Her nipples are a shade darker than the rest of her skin. Pert. Her breasts are not full like a hookers. Not small like Abby's. (Some nights they just get drunk.)
They're perfect. She's perfect.
Her stomach is flat and toned.
That spot between her inner thighs is what sweet dreams are unearthed from. No pun intended.
And then there are the scars. Those dark lines in twisted forms and shapes.
It's been a few minutes, he knows, and he still hasn't said anything. She's still staring at him, content. Pondering. Quiet.
Now he will understand why she never wears tank tops.
He reaches out, to touch one, on her shoulder. It's faint. But it's there.
"Tali and I were at the beach. I fell. Hit a rock. Deep, bled profusely. I was thirteen."
His hands are rougher than she'd ever expected, as they travel down to her breast. She quakes a little. He sucks in a breath, and squeezes.
"I can't...Ziva."
He says her name, and she admires the way it flows from his tongue so huskily. They are partners. She trusted him until-
Until Michael. Until Damocles. Until Somalia. Until. Until. Until.
Until she realized she might just love him.
Love is the word that nightmares are made from.
She so desperately needs to get that trust back. She has to. This is the only (as she tells herself) way.
"You can. Please."
She kisses his lips, moving her bare self on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck as his fingers dig into her hips.
It's only been three seconds.
Her nimble fingertips tug at the bottom of the ratty t-shirt and she realizes she's trying to pull it down instead of up. Her hand slips beneath the boxers in a hurried frenzy, gripping his hard member as her head swims with a dizzying sensation. His hands won't stop touching her, fondling her, teasing her, and when she does this, he moans. Unhinged.
Two minutes.
She does not quite know how, but they manage to get the boxers down far enough for her to lean down and take him in her mouth gently.
And God, her little mouth is just so hot and so tight he almost wants to-
But he pulls her back up, because now is not the time. He wants to be deep inside her, wants her riding him, when he lets go for the first time.
The don't talk about protection. Something they'll regret at a later date, something proving just how reckless this all is.
But he teases her weat heat, and neither really gives a flying fuck. She sinks down, hissing sharply, her nails biting into his hands on her hips-
There is silence, and then a high keening noise. No one ever figures out who it came from. There is just Tony.
And there's just Ziva. And the words God and Jesus Christ.
Nothing has ever felt this good. Something makes her jerk ever so slightly, making him slip deeper inside her, creating a whole new realm of pleasure. One she basks in, as he thrusts upwards, hitting spots she never knew existed. Ecstacy radiating off of every pore as sweat finds its way into satin bedsheets.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she hears the bed frame knocking roughly against the wall.
She's so close, as he play with her breasts and the moans and words and sighs are so inseperable you can't tell anything from anything. He reaches down, breathing just as rough, and strokes her for just a few seconds.
And then it's over-
and he's so far over his head as her muscles clench so damn hard around his cock. A vice, as her scream is so loud and so welcoming and he's done for.
Everything is really done for.
12:46 AM
They've only been asleep for half an hour when she starts kicking an cursing and sweating for a not-so-good reason.
He wakes, even though that is usually such a hard thing to do.
"Ziva," he whispers into the darkness. Her eyes snap open, hard and scared and vulnerable and numb all at the same time.
It takes his breath away. She's been doing that a lot tonight.
A few minutes later she finally breaks from the daze, and she looks so defeated he wants to kill Saleem all over again.
"Go back to sleep, Tony."
And so, he does.
But not before pulling her into his arms in a less-awkard-than-expected embrace. Not before kissing her forehead and stroking her hair and saying a three word combination she's so sure he'll regret in the morning.
6:43 AM
She is awake when he rises. Fully clothed. Quiet. The curtains are not drawn. The Parisian sunrise hits her dark skin. She looks like she's glowing.
And so; all he wants to do is pull her back into bed and kiss those ever so fuckable-
But one look silences-
One look at him reassures. Surprises. Cements.
Neither regret one damn thing.
And so; he pulls on his shorts and crosses the short distance, wrapping his arms around her in a solidifying way.
Suddenly, rules and pacts and life-lessons and Jenny and Gibbs and Somalia and Michael do not matter.
He matters.
And she matters.
And that is all.