A/N: This little one-shot was inspired by that amazing picture of Derek in Pen's apartment, wearing only a towel.
It started a conversation with KricketWilliams and Harleyzgrl about the possible scenarios which could have led to him being there, and whether or not there was any circumstance under which he might, while there, take things in hand, so to speak.
That led to me saying that I thought I could make the situation work. One does not say something like that to these ladies without being immediately told, "Write it! Write it!" LOL. So this was what resulted. I hope you enjoy.
Thank you very much for the conversation and the encouragement ladies :)) This would never have been without you two!
It's wrong. It's completely, totally wrong. There is no way he can justify it, even to himself. It is such a violation – of their friendship, of her home … of her. Yet, he cannot help himself. He's been rock-hard since the very second he stepped into her bedroom. He's been here before, in her apartment, yes, but never before in her bedroom. She has a tiny guest bathroom off the kitchen – just a toilet and sink, nothing more – that he always uses whenever he's here and needs to. Always.
This time, though, he needs a shower and a change of clothes and that means using her proper bathroom, which you can only get to through her bedroom. He's been fixing her car – that damn, ancient Caddy she refuses to part with – and both he and his clothes are covered in grease and muck. She has gone to the store, struck with a sudden desire for spaghetti, but she doesn't have the ingredients. As she's leaving, she casually offers him the use of her bathroom, saying she knows he has his go-bag in his car, and it makes no sense to get into his own car dirty and covered in grease.
She's gone before he even steps through the parted, bead-curtained doorway of her bedroom, so he's already alone when the force of her presence hits him. An indefinable rush of sensation floods him and he pauses uncertainly, just inside the threshold. He is face to face with the reality that he can want her desperately, even when she's nowhere in sight. With effort, he shakes off the feeling and heads for the bathroom, trying to avoid looking at the bed to his right. Yet he still manages to notice though the bed is neatly made, the pillow holds the indent of her head. He knows the sheets will smell of her.
Smell. It's his undoing. Her bathroom is small and warm and full of the smells he associates only with her – vanilla, pear, peaches and cream, honey. They should clash, those smells, but they don't. Just like her, their combined presence is a contradiction that works.
The hard-on that started when he stepped into the bedroom is now a raging, towering ache, pressing against the front of his jeans, painful and overwhelming. He drops his bag to the floor and almost in a daze, toes off socks and shoes even as he pulls the soiled gray shirt over his head. Dropping the shirt on top of his shoes, he reaches for the button on his jeans, and then the zipper, hissing in pain as he works it over the sensitized, straining bulge. His erection springs out of its confines, mocking him with urgent electricity that has nowhere to go to ground.
The cold water is a slap in the face, and does nothing to calm the heat coursing through him. At some point – he isn't even sure when – he decides to stop punishing himself for something he knows is not his to control. He switches over to hot, and lets the water sluice over his heated skin, his forearms braced on the wall, his head bent.
It's impossible to tell, between the ache in his heart and the one in his loins, which precisely is worse. There is pain and pleasure in each, and he can neither give them up nor give in. Unless what he knows he's helpless to prevent now counts as giving in. His shoulders droop, and he sighs, defeated by the desire for the one woman he knows he can never have; the one woman who will never want him. His hand, almost of its own volition, drifts down.
It doesn't take very long; he is already on the edge, after all. He comes, shaking; an almost inaudible groan slips from his lips. The water washes away the evidence of his transgression as his racing heart slowly calms. A single word escapes him in an agonized whisper …
'Penelope.'
Through the haze, he can hear his phone ringing. He forces himself to let the intrusive sound anchor his ragged thoughts. At least she will never know his weakness.
Just as she enters her apartment and shuts the door behind her, she is met by the sight of Derek Morgan stepping out of the doorway of her bedroom. He is wearing only a blue and green striped towel, and his bare chest is covered in droplets of water. She is instantly irrationally jealous of each and every drop.
'I'm never washing that towel again!'
His low, dark chuckle makes her realize she has said those words aloud. A furious pink blush suffuses her face. She can feel the heat in her cheeks and knows he can see it. She knows it's a risk – to give in to temptation and stare – but still she cannot turn away from the glorious sight before her. She wants nothing more than to lick every drop of water from his beautiful skin, and it is the fear he will see this desire written on her face that finally gives her the courage to look away, to move.
She clutches the grocery sack in front of her like a shield and moves to the kitchen. She starts unpacking the items she bought, but is still fully aware of him fiddling with the buttons of his phone. As a result, she knows exactly when he puts the phone down and begins to walk toward the little kitchenette. She feels more than a little trapped, by his suddenly larger than life presence, and by the knowledge that there really isn't anywhere to go.
Worse, she just knows her irrational longing for him is still blazed across her features as though written in letters ten feet high. She has always before been able to keep her wanting hidden, but then again, he has never been half naked and dripping wet in her living room before. All at once, it is just way, way too much. The air is being sucked out of the room at precisely the same pace at which her body is responding to him – a knot of desire in the pit of her stomach, and heat and wetness just a little lower down.
She is never going to get out of this one with her dignity intact.
He is stalking; his gait as he walks to where she is hiding in the kitchen is a prowl, and he knows it. He has just seen something in her eyes; something he has never imagined as possible. Desire. Longing. There was sexual heat and wanting in her eyes when she looked at him just then. Is this the first time she has thought of him like that … or has she done it in the past, and he has just never noticed? He can't help it. He has to know. He is about to take the biggest chance of his life. The fear of losing their friendship has stopped him from doing many things in the past … but not even that is enough to stop him now. He simply has to know.
Rounding the tiny island in the middle of the little kitchen, he stops just in front of her. She is caught between the cupboards behind her and him in front of her. She can go round the other side of the island, but if she does, he will know she is running from him, and he will have his answer anyway. She doesn't move. She freezes, really, and he can see her eyes flicker rapidly behind the burgundy frames of her glasses. She does not raise her head.
His heart beats so loudly in his ears, hope and fear warring in him, he wonders whether she can hear it.
"Penelope?"
"Hmm?"
She doesn't look up into his face, but he is watching her carefully and sees her hand move involuntarily, almost as though she was a heartbeat away from touching his bare chest. At least, he hopes that's what it means.
"Look at me." His voice is low, husky … sexy. He's not doing it on purpose, not trying to influence her, to seduce her. It just happens. He is standing so close to her; her beautiful, enticing body just there – right in front of him, so close he thinks he can feel the heat from her rosy skin. Maybe that's just wishful thinking, but he hopes not.
Still, she doesn't raise her head, but her blush deepens and as he steps closer, he can feel the trembling of her body charge the air between them. Reaching out, he strokes one finger down her cheek very gently, before curving it under her chin and tilting her face up to his own.
He feels the token resistance, and just for a moment her eyes close. Then, he senses when she gives in – her shoulders stiffen just a little, she lets him lift her head, and she meets his gaze squarely. The combination of strength and fragile vulnerability that could only co-exist in this woman makes his heart swell. Her heart is laid bare to him in her beautiful eyes, and he understands how wrong he has been to ever think she couldn't want him.
At the same time, he reads her fear that she is in this alone, and he cannot bear a moment more with misapprehension between them. Never releasing her gaze, he bends his head, anticipating the moment when his lips will touch hers for the first time. He senses the movement, even before he feels her pull away, doubt and fear in her eyes.
Cupping her face in his hands, he smiles at her – the smile he saves for her and her alone.
"It's always been you, Baby Girl. Always. I just never dreamed you'd feel the same way."
He waits patiently while she processes his words, and he sees the moment when it registers. Her whole face lights up, and then she is smiling at him, her hands coming up to rest over his, still against her cheeks. He smiles back … and suddenly she squeals, and throws herself forward, crashing against him and sending him off balance for a moment. He laughs out loud as he steadies himself and her, feeling her hands wrapping around his neck and tugging him forward.
This time, when he bends to kiss her, she meets him half way, and they simultaneously groan and clutch each other tighter at the pure, almost unbearable sweetness of it all. Reluctantly breaking the kiss, he takes her hand and begins to lead her out of the kitchen.
Walking backwards, he grins wickedly at her and says, "C'mon, why don't we go find out what else you won't want to wash ever again!"
She giggles, and blushes again, but matches his pace eagerly. Pulling her to him, he kisses her again, tasting her sweetness and gasping into her mouth when she presses her hips to his and literally rubs herself against him.
Stumbling into the bedroom, they practically fall onto the bed, and he is right … the sheets smell of her, but the intoxicating warmth of her luscious body pressed against him is way, way better than he had ever imagined. Desire is sharp and hot between them, but still, they kiss and kiss. There is no rush. There is only forever stretching out ahead of them.
FIN