a/n: lo and behold, i've finally gotten around to posting something to this. MATURE RATING WARNING!
Wine: Makes Her Feel Sexy
He had agreed to accompany her as her date to this godforsaken charity banquet due to her tempting little suggestion that she would drink a few too many glasses of wine, which implied he might get lucky afterwards. It was a black tie dinner and the Director of NCIS was a woman who held her liquor impeccably well, but he knew from personal experience that wines were as much an aphrodisiac to her as moonlight on the Seine and since they weren't in Paris—well.
Wine made her feel seductive and sexy and if her hand resting dangerously high on his thigh under the table was any indication, the third glass was doing the tipsy trick. He leaned back in his stiff white seat, one arm resting lazily on the table, his other positioned possessively around the back of her chair.
She was in the habit of selecting colleagues to escort her to events like these—Ducky, McGee, Balboa—in addition to her security detail, so as to demure the curious away from her personal life and provide herself with safe, platonic conversation. He had stood in for her a fair few times, but she knew he hated it and usually never asked. This time, he was experiencing a lot less hatred and a lot more smug hope. His hands brushed her shoulders subtly every so often, reminding her that he was there. She smiled into her wine goblet when he did so.
She was clearly bored by the blowhard political speaker droning away from the pulpit in the Watergate Hotel's elegant ballroom, though she made a spectacular show of looking enthralled.
Her hand pressed into his thigh through the smooth black material of his suit and she kneaded her fingers in a light, catlike way. He cleared his throat and shifted, but said nothing; he liked it.
He let his gaze wander over her, drinking in for the hundredth time the sight of her in her lithe, dusty green gown. It bared one of her shoulders and tastefully covered the other, while an open gash of material across her chest revealed a fashionably taunting strip of white skin. The slit in the side crept up near her hip, and the way she crossed her legs just so had it falling so he could see a considerable amount of thigh. He contented himself with looking, and imagining how good those thighs would feel around his waist later.
She tipped the clear crystal glass to her lips again, the red smear of lipstick growing darker each time she took a sip. She lifted her chin, and her hair fell back over her shoulders. He gently tugged on it playfully and she turned in her seat, rolling her eyes subtly at the man speaking.
She tapped the edge of the glass with a manicured nail and met his eyes mildly, flicking her gaze down to his lips. Her green eyes were relaxed and tinted with slight wickedness, and now she was moving her hand over his thigh a little more suggestively, her fingers sliding higher and—
He removed his hand from her chair and slipped his fingers into hers casually, entangling their palms and holding her hand safely on his knee. He shook his head slightly, narrowing his eyes, and she pursed her lips. She twitched her foot, squeezing her crossed legs together and lowering her lashes.
The speech was over, and the social buzz was beginning again. He leaned forward, and she stroked her thumb over his knuckles.
"You going to ask me to dance?" she asked flirtatiously, taking a sweet sip of the wine.
He pulled her hand closer to his stomach and smirked, a muscle in his jaw flexing.
"No," he answered pointedly.
Her eyes fell to his lap and she smirked right back, leaning closer. She didn't seem to mind that her closeness might indicate intimacy to her political counterparts; she moved the napkin he'd had over his other knee and covered his arousal. Her wine glass lingered close to her lips. She moved her thumb over his knuckles again, slower this time, her nail tracing the lines in his skin.
"I did promise you I would be generous with my wine," she said quietly.
He looked at her wryly, raising a brow. Her lips parted seductively.
"What are you thinking about, Jethro?" His name seemed to melt off her lips, coated in blush White Zinfandel.
"Back seat of your town car," he answered gruffly. Her brow arched prettily.
"What am I to expect in the back seat of my town car?"
He lifted his chin in an arrogant gesture that was all his own and reached over with his free hand to gently steal her wine glass from her, and savor a sip.
She did not utilize her seatbelt in the broad back seat of the car and she leaned on the seat at an angle, her head cradled in her palm as she looked at him.
"Peterson, put up the partition, will you?" she requested silkily, her hand kneading his thigh again. Her agent complied without a word and Gibbs leaned over, his lips brushing hers slowly.
She tilted her head back and opened her mouth, her tongue sweeping along his lower lip lazily. She still tasted like dry, soft blush wine; her tongue and lips crackled with the acidic fruit punch hint of White Zin. He deepened the kiss, pushing her back until her head rested against the back of the seat. She moaned quietly, her lashes brushing his face.
He slipped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her towards him, pulling her warm, pliable body against his. He ran his hand over the cottony silk of her evening gown, letting the expensive material sift through his fingers as he drew it up her long legs, adjusting the slit so it fell conveniently. His palm slid up her thigh and his hands pressed into her shoulder, pulling her closer. He moved his lips from her mouth to her throat, nudging her jaw with his nose.
"Your security detail isn't stupid," he growled in a low voice, his hand still lingering teasingly on the inside of her thigh.
Her breath hitched in her throat. He felt her throat move as she swallowed and she moved her hand down his chest, fingering the buttons on his starched shirt. Her fingers hooked into his belt.
"Wine," she reminded him. She shook her head to indicate she hadn't a care about it and lowered her head, her lips moving against his insistently. "Touch me."
His hand moved under the remaining material of her gown and found her panties. She was wet and warm and he made a sound of approval somewhere deep in his throat. The drawn out assault she was performing on his mouth was mind numbing, and he took his time between her legs, his fingertips exploring the panties as he imagined what they looked like. Black, no doubt, and nothing more than a thin scrap of lace in a sheer floral pattern. He pushed his hand against her and then drew the edge of the panties aside, seeking more.
She gasped and broke the kiss, biting her lower lip. He felt her teeth against the corner of his mouth and smirked, tightening his hold around her shoulders. She lowered her hand from her head and clutched his neck, her nose resting against his cheek. It was a tangled embrace; he curved his finger and drew it over her lightly and she whimpered.
The wine swirled in her head, mixing in with the heady haze of desire.
She liked nothing more than his hands when she was this lightly buzzed on fine wine; the utterly fantastic thing about sleeping with Jethro was his unparalleled ability to stroke her just right without any fleeting moment of doubt. She was fairly sure one of his infamous ex-wives had whipped out an anatomical chart and shown him exactly where a woman's clitoris was located, because he had always been mind-blowingly, deliciously familiar with hers.
He was better with his hands than any man she'd ever been with.
He wedged his feet in between hers and shoved her knee out a little, pressing his thumb against her hard and kneading two fingers against her. She bit her lip, compressed her lips, and then moaned quietly, her eyes sliding shut. Wine always made her want it slow and easy and incinerating; there was sophistication in a practiced climax that matched the elegance of fermented grapes.
His teeth grazed her jaw and he teased her for a moment, thrusting two fingers inside her and removing them rapidly. She cried out and he pulled her head into his chest, laughing quietly. His lips brushed the top of her head and she dug her nails into his neck, breathing a little hard against him. Her hand yanked at his belt and she struggled to tilt her head back, puckered lips begging for another kiss.
He gave it to her, moving his fingers inside her again, this time in a come hither motion, and she swore he was finding some secret spot only he had every known about, because she felt hot and tense all over. Her abdomen clenched and she panted against his lips.
"Gibbs," she moaned hoarsely. "Jethro, oh," her voice jumped an octave, and a decibel. "God."
"Shh," he muttered seriously, stubbornly continuing his ministrations. She swallowed and gripped the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling hard and then moving her hand into her own hair.
He thrust his fingers a few hard times, his thumb hitting perfectly against her with each jerk of his hand, and she lowered her head to his shoulder, biting desperately into his suit. He slowed a moment, frustrating her, and she twisted into him, arching her hips in a silent plea. He toyed with her lightly, then, and pushed another finger inside her. She sucked in her breath, her stomach tightening again.
He ran his hand through her hair.
"Jesus, you're wet," he growled. "Christ, Jen."
She moaned quietly. Her lips moved against his neck, kissing him passionately, marking him. Her teeth bit into his skin and she murmured to him, begging him to get her off. Her lips were shaking. He pushed his fingers in up to the knuckle and she shuttered, a cry catching in her throat and dying between closed lips. Her mouth opened and she gasped again, her jaw clenching.
He turned his wrist, thrusting his thumb against her and his fingers hard into her, and she breathed out harshly, her shoulders shuddering.
"I'm coming," she mumbled against his throat, her breath dragging through her lips in soft, hard gasps.
She fared well at trapping her moans and cries in the back of her throat. He moved his fingers with the clench of her muscles, pushing against the resistance of her body, fucking her with his fingers to the apex of her climax. He felt rather than heard her mumble his name against his neck and he pulled her head back by the hair, kissing her again, searching the lush corners of her mouth for more tastes of that intoxicating wine.
The car jolted to a stop and he pulled his hand back abruptly, eliciting a soft cry of startled discomfort from her. He apologized with a soothing stroke of his hand over her hair and helped her right her dress before Peterson opened the door and ushered them out.
Jenny stumbled and caught Gibbs' arm, her mess of red hair falling from its elegant up do and tumbling over her shoulder. He steadied her with a hand on her back and Peterson gave them an expressionless look. Gibbs gruffly told him he'd see the Director in, and she pushed her hair out of her face with a sated look, her lashes fluttering coyly.
Gibbs led her up the steps of her brownstone, and they were barely in the door when he shut it, locked it, and pushed her against it. He raked his eyes hungrily over her tousled hair and took in the flushed, heated look in her hot green eyes. He didn't bother to fumble to turn a light on before he was pulling her dress up again.
She removed his belt with surprising dexterity for someone woozy with wine and lust, and started to sink to her knees. He caught her at the elbows and spun her away from him, bending her down to the table in the hall and hiking her dress up. He bunched it into a wrinkled knot on her back, slid her wet panties off her and down to the floor, unzipped and thrust inside her with a satisfied groan.
She rested her forehead on the table, running her hands through her hair tightly and tangling red strands around her fingers. Sensitive and sanguine, she let him slam into her, finally able to cry out as loud as she wanted to. She felt languid and coquettish and sizzling all at once. She was surprised when he pulled out and turned her around.
She lunged forward and kissed him, and he lifted her up on the table and ran his hands over her bare thighs, pulling her legs around him and burying himself back inside her. His lips were on hers the whole time he moved, breathing through her, a long, drawn out kiss that made her light headed until he broke it with a groan to push his forehead hard against hers and shudder against her, mumbling her name appreciatively.
Her body ached for him again and he leaned against her, breathing harshly. She ran her hands over his neck and shoulders, massaging his skin in a soothing, lightly sexy way, reminiscent of long hot nights in Marseille. He moved his hands up her thighs and wrapped is arm around her, hugging her against his chest.
She wasn't the only one who felt a little more intimate, and a little sexier, when wine was in the glass and uninterrupted nights were—quite literally—on the table.
She snuggled into him, blithely unperturbed by the eccentricity of their position, and rested her head on his shoulder, her mind already running wild with fantasies of what he could make her feel again if she let him recover for fifteen minutes.
"I have a bottle of Sauvignon blanc in the study," she murmured huskily.
He nodded slowly.
"Bring it to bed," he growled.
-Alexandra
