A controlled panic set in. She knew it would come to this, but if she was honest with herself, she had anticipated a little more verbal foreplay. He was making this so easy it was giving her chills. Chills that had the small hairs rise along her forearms and a tight feeling in her stomach. There was a punchline coming, she almost taste it, gathering in the air around him like the still before the storm.
"You mean a bed?" She asked, playing for time. This had seemed such a good idea from the ivory tower of her office when she was looking for ways to entice him back on to the team. He had so much to give, and she wanted it, all of it, including now, the parts that she had personally wrapped with yellow tape stamped in big, black, bold letters that read, 'do not cross.'
Her heart hammered painfully fast, tripping and skipping over how this might play out. He would stand back and let her walk up the stairs out of the basement ahead of him, because he always made sure that a man's respect for a woman won out, even if all they were headed for was a roll in the hay. It had thrown her off guard the first time he had gestured her ahead of him and let her lead.
It made her feel precious, she had never lost the feeling of him walking behind her, carrying the surety that he had her back. She had never forgotten how gentle he was that first time, when she was expecting something so very different after the ferocity of the argument that preceded it. She carried it with her always. It was the reason why she never strayed from his memory, not that he would ever know. The time she had allowed to pass with them apart sliced at the fragile membrane of her self-control.
"I meant Jack, but yeah," he paused for emphasis. "There's a bed." He added with a rumble of humour, "I got a TV too." His home accent came out in his vowel sounds when he had been drinking she remembered, in the 'o' sound most of all. She caught the inside of her bottom lip with her teeth to keep from commenting on it, wondering how full the bottle had been when he first got back.
She stood her ground while his eyes searched her face. He had always been good at reading people. It was just one of the tools in his personal arsenal that made him so damn good at his job. He knew exactly when to yell, and when to say please, although the latter was so rare, it was the stuff of legends.
He tilted his head to one side, looking at her out of the corner of his eye and straightened again, as if checking what he could see from the skewed view was still true head on. She watched the corners of his eyes tighten the way she felt hers do the exact same thing, while he tried to work out how many steps ahead she was and how to get in front.
She could feel her shoulders tense as her guard went up. He was a worthy adversary, even when they were working towards the same goal, they had an unerring habit of approaching the same problems from diametrically opposing directions. More often than not, it became a battle of wills.
"You have something against beds," he asked lightly, before destroying the illusion that she might be in control by adding, "Madame Director?"
The address stung so badly, it made her head jerk back. "We're outside of the office," she snarled, feeling her blood rise. The last thing she felt she needed was a reminder of her position of responsibility, not with what she was about to do.
"You're still in that suit," he said shrugging. "Hell if I can tell the difference."
She gave a snort of choked laughter, "is that your way of saying take it off?"
He stepped closer, close enough that she had to look up into his eyes. "In case there was anything lost in transmission," he murmured. She could feel her eyes start to close of their own volition as he lowered his face to hers. There was the barest pressure of his lips on hers. She swallowed the small groan that lodged in the back of her throat at the feel of him, so close and still so far away.
A slight squeeze of his fingers signalled their disentanglement an instant before she registered him reaching for her waist, feeling his way swiftly to splay his fingers either side of the small of her back. He tucked his head into the crook of her neck, while his hands edged down, over the swell of her behind, drawing her body irresistibly closer.
She could feel the warm puff of air against the base of her throat when he spoke quietly with an air of forced surprise. "Well, it's not there."
She turned her face to nestle closer to his, "what's not there?" A bubble of amusement stalled in her chest. This was his playful side, but it was just as dangerous to her as the other, it was a mask for the hard edged killer he had to be in the field. It also helped to hide the shrewd workings of his mind.
Against her neck she felt his lips curve into a sly smile, "knife."
"I'm not a field agent any more, Jethro." His name rolled throatily of her tongue, memories vied to remind her of what he liked, how he would respond if she touched him here or kissed him there. She nudged his face further away from her neck so that she could tease the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. He hummed into her skin in response, eventually twisting his face closer to her neck with a grunt and effectively cutting her access off, close enough that she could feel the low rumble of his voice as a tremor against her.
"I don't think," he started, fitting her body to his, although he had to hunch his shoulders to make it work with his head so low, "you'd let that stop you." She swayed with him, away from the sturdy support of the workbench.
"What would stop you?" she asked breathlessly at the way he placed himself deliberately against her. The position made plain that this was no game for him at a physical level. Her hands rose to mimic the placement of his. Over the tooled leather of his belt, her fingers snagged on a metal clip. The sort of clip riveted to the handle of a knife worn flat against the belly, or off centre, inside a waistband around back.
"I don't want to," he said drawled honestly, answering the indirect question with the same words. "So if there is a problem…" He stopped suddenly, as she pointedly traced the outline of the hilt against his body. She deftly separated the knife from his belt and tossed it behind her on the counter top, where it landed with a dull thud. He drew his head back, squinting into her eyes.
"You know what you're doing?" he asked searching for certainty, all amusement gone from his face.
"I don't want to hurt myself," she tried to explain, with more in her voice than just about a knife. "Or you." On a par with his own dual conversation, she added with a lift of her chin. "It's not like you don't have another one in your boot."
He gave her slow smile in reply, "Going to take my boots off too?"
"We don't have to, "she replied archly, reaching for his belt buckle. She watched him draw his lips into his mouth, so that they all but disappeared, and the pink tip of his tongue peeked out for an instant as he wet them.
She pulled the tongue of his belt back against the buckle hard enough to make his stomach cave. He pushed his hips sharply into hers in response, crowding her fingers and what they were trying to do. He placed his hands either side of her face, cupping her jaw and drew her mouth to his. She fumbled with the button at his waistband, slipping it through, feeling his stomach muscles hollow and contract against her touch. His tongue brushed against her lower lip, followed with a gentle nip. She sucked in a breath that was all Gibbs and the scent of sawdust. Talking was over for now.
She closed her eyes and let go. Her fingers stalled on his zipper, derailed by the roar of need sweeping through her body, emanating from his lips moving against hers. Pressing and retreating, sucking and biting to create a vortex of feeling that had her leaning into him before she even realised he was angling back, pulling her off balance. One of his hands swept nimble fingers over the back of her neck and hooked inside her jacket collar, pulling it back and off, down her arms while she struggled to free herself from its suddenly restricting confines. She barely noticed it gone as anything other than a brief annoyance keeping her from running greedy fingers under the edge of his polo shirt and over the warm, firm planes of his back.
Her body traced the path knowing fingers took, down the hollow of her spine, bypassing her skirt fastening to reach awkwardly for her hemline, hitching it up unashamedly exposing her thighs to cooler air.
"Jethro," she growled against his mouth in warning at his finger tips testing the elasticity of her underwear, along the band of fancy lace at the leg and infinitely slower with two fingers hooked inside, across the expanse of her waist. She gave a low squeak when he snapped the barely there fabric back against her skin
"Take them off. Before you have to replace them," he offered hoarsely. "They're wet anyway," he remarked blithely, as if he had nothing to do with it.
She stumbled against him in her haste, dizzy at the way he made her blood pound when all they had done was kiss and touch, and kiss some more. He grunted at her shoulder bumping him square under his rib cage and reached to steady her, using the opportunity to tug her blouse free of the skirt. She retaliated, reaching for where the deep, grey jersey of his briefs showed in the open vee of his pants.
Gibbs reached to push her skirt up again, curling his fingers under to bunch up the material and brush feather light touches across the top of her thighs. He managed to twist the pair of them so that she was astride his legs and he could lean back against the edge of the workbench. Shepard pushed both pants and briefs half way down his thighs in an economical movement, reaching for his straining cock with her right hand and inverting it so her knuckles rubbed against his belly.
His head dropped back with a groan, when she squeezed him gently at the base. His hands worked blindly behind him to grip the edge of the workbench.
"Going to hold on for me, Gunny?"
She watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed convulsively, making the effort to answer. "We should have gone upstairs."
"You used to be able to do it standing up," she reminded him, rubbing the head of his cock in a circular motion with a cupped hand while the other squeezed slowly up his thick shaft.
He grunted in amusement and panted out, "I was younger then."
She leaned in, whispering against his throat, "I'm not complaining." She let her teeth graze against his skin, taking in the familiar taste of him.
"Jen!" he groaned at her squeezing to emphasize her point.
He reached for her hips, snapping his head forward and down to watch her hands manipulate the head of his cock lower, until it was sliding between her legs against hot, slick flesh. She raised herself on tiptoes, angling her hips to allow the tip to sink in and took a shaky breath, closing her eyes at the reminder of how he felt, how they felt together. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. She noticed a fraction of a second too late that he had solidified his stance, before the span of his hands had found their way to rest firmly against her ass cheeks and he hoisted her up, over him with a muted grunt.
Her hands scrambled for a grip on his shoulders, feeling how they flexed under her palms, tense and hard while he controlled the descent of her body over him. She let her shoes drop, reaching for the edge of the work top with her toes to lever some of her weight off him, going slowly out of her mind as he filled her. He stared up into her face, his mouth falling open as more of him disappeared inside her. She curled down to kiss him, hard, pressing her mouth and upper body close against his heat.
He was sheathed in her, his body in her body, the scent of them together cocooning the pair of them. She could feel the strain in his legs as a low shudder. His fingers hollowed into what little flesh there was at her hips, digging hard into the bone making tomorrow's bruises. She pushed herself up and away from him, feeling him slide and catch against her inside, catch and release, while her body fluttered on the edge of oblivion. He groaned, deep in the back of his throat, gripping her tighter and pulling his mouth free, pressing his cheek so hard against hers she could feel the muscles in his jaw clench as he hissed in a breath. Panting, the pace of his gasps matched her slow, short movements, squeezing him tighter inside her.
Her eyes were closed, brows drawn close together in concentration, lips barely parted kept repeating a silent litany of his name, using it to burn the image of her over him into his memory. Her hands moved to behind his neck.
He moved one hand up, bracing against her blouse, feeling her undulate under his touch, a lazy ripple of desire feeding desire, to behind her neck, under her hair. She leant her head back against it, elongating her neck and croaking a throaty, "Mmmm."
Air left him in a rush, she had barely changed position, but suddenly he was further in, higher up and the head of his cock was gripped inside her so tight. He gasped, curling his abdomen forward, shaking with the strain.
"Jen," he urged. "Jen!" It was all he could manage, the rest of his vocabulary deserting him.
Her hips shifted forward, seating her hot wetness over his straining body, squeezing the base of his cock. His whole body jerked as his will let go. She froze, startled and suddenly shook, she gasped, shuddering inside. Her arms lost the ability to lock, collapsing her body over his, her face tucked into his neck. Her legs trembled and he dragged her free of the workbench, holding her pressed so tight against the length of him that she could scarcely breathe.
He whispered into the side of her neck, hot and heavy with emotion, "I've missed you, Jen."