He ached for her. Every time he saw her, he could feel his stomach do flip-flops. His throat would become dry while his skin became damp with perspiration. At night, she was all he could see when he closed his eyes to go to sleep. It was no wonder that he would wake up with drool soaking his pillow. Sometimes he woke up with his boxers soaked as well, albeit with quite a different bodily fluid. He couldn't help it, though. She was always on his mind.
Ziva. Even her name brought forth visions of beauty. So different and exotic, like her. He could imagine her during her own nightly routine. Exiting her bathroom with her negligee on—the negligee would alter in color between violet and green—she would lift a long leg up atop her dresser and squirt a small bit of lotion into her hand. She would then run that hand over the bare leg, rubbing the lotion into her beautiful skin from thigh to ankle. Change legs, and repeat. She didn't strike him as the kind of woman who would bother with things such as facial creams and hair products; she didn't need them.
She would slip beneath the sheets—in his mind, her sheets were silk and felt luscious against her skin—and would grab the book which lay by her bedside. She would soak in the words, tongue sticking out between her teeth as she read with ferocious concentration. Finally, as her eyelids threatened to fall, Ziva would mark her place in the book, place it back on the bedside table, give a small (cute) yawn, turn out the lamp, and snuggle down into the bed, her beautiful hair splayed across the pillow.
He could imagine himself there, lying beside her in sleep. He would hold her slim body against him, arms wrapped securely around her. His soft snores would be overpowered by her admittedly harsher ones, but nothing could be a more relaxing lullaby to his ears.
Unfortunately, his bed was lonely, with only his body inhabiting it each night. One indentation had formed right in the middle, an indentation which, in his mind, represented the rut his love life (or lack thereof) was in.
Luckily, he had his dreams, and for now, he would have to be content with just those.
She yearned for him. Whenever he passed, she found herself entranced by him. Her heart would beat far more rapidly than she would like and her hands would become shaky. When she went to bed, she thought about him, images of him filling her minds as she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke each morning, she found herself clutching her pillow as though she was clutching him, her lips pressed against the cotton pillow cover, wishing it was his beautiful skin. It wasn't her fault. He was impossible to forget.
Timothy. His first name was rarely used, but she loved saying it aloud. It rolled smoothly off her tongue. She could see him as he readied himself for bed. After a nice, soothing bath, he would enter the bedroom—a lone towel wrapped about his waist—and dress himself for the night. Usually, her thoughts had him donning boxer shorts with his T-shirt, but now and then, when she was feeling very frisky, she would put him in some nice tighty-whiteys. Either way, his pale skin always looked inviting to her as he changed from his wet towel into his night wear.
He would shuffle out to his desk and slip into the chair behind his desk. A fresh, naked piece of paper would already be settled into the typewriter, waiting for him to strike the keys and compose his newest story. In her mind, the next book would feature a steamy love scene between Officer Lisa and Agent McGregor. After his mind was worn and his creativity was used for the night, he'd succumb to his weariness, falling into bed as he finally went to sleep, his adorably chubby cheek pressed into the pillow.
She could see herself nestled atop him, her own cheek resting against his chest, his heart beating just below her. She would hold him close to her, reveling in his warmth. Their entwined bodies would create more heat than even Israel had.
Sadly, her bed was cold, with only the blankets for warmth. Such a big bed for such a small woman; to her, it only served to emphasize how empty the bed truly was.
Fortunately, she had her dreams, and for now, she would have to be happy with just those.
AN: Just a little something I cooked up one night! Hope you enjoyed it!