AN: Thank you for all of the positive reviews so far. I hope I don't disappoint with this chapter...let me know what you think.
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The second touch was far less fleeting: more purposeful, and therefore not as easily dismissed. She'd been perched carefully on the edge of his desk and chatting with the other agents one morning when he'd come in. She didn't move as he approached the desk, and he didn't address her as he sat. He could feel his senior agent's questioning gaze—perhaps wondering why he'd just completely overlooked his Favorite. He knew that the wheels in his head would be turning, trying to come up with an explanation. Had they fought? No, because why would Abby dare sit on his desk. Had they slept together? Of course not, this was Gibbs here, and he would never break Rule 12.
In truth, each of them felt the other's presence as if they'd been looking straight at each other. No words were necessary. As he sat, she shifted a bit, as though making herself more comfortable and permanent in his personal space. This left him relatively hidden from the rest of his team, and free to let his eyes travel down the length of her spine, along the gently sloping curves and valleys of her waist and hips and backside. For a brief moment, he allowed his mind to wander to the pale skin that lay hidden just a few inches away from him.
With very little effort, he could raise his hand, slip it beneath her shirt, and trace the border between ink and skin. Goosebumps would erupt in the wake of his touch and maybe she would arch backwards into his touch with a pleasured moan. He'd have no choice: the rest of his team would vanish into insignificance as he rose from his chair and tugged her top effortlessly over her head. He would trace her tattoos with his eyes, his fingers, his tongue, and her eyes would grow wide, excited.
Instead of slipping beneath her shirt, however, he moved his hand to press against one rounded hip. His fingers splayed out over the dark leatherlike material of her skirt, warmed by its intimacy with the skin that drove him to distraction. He felt her flinch momentarily, but after a moment she resumed conversation, almost seamlessly. His thumb slid around and up her back, stopping just before he reached the waist of her skirt. She moved, a short-lived arch of her lower back, but it was there, along with that sharp intake of breath that keen ears caught despite her attempt to cover it with a cough. Images filled his mind—each flashing for no more than a few fractions of a second—of his hands gripping her bare hips as she moved astride him. Guiding her into a rhythm that would lead both of them over the edge. Reaching between them to touch her, send her toppling first. Names—his name, her name—gritted out in pleasure and desperation. Heat and darkness, and sheets tangled around sweat-slicked limbs.
She twisted, shooting hi a loaded look over one shoulder. Her eyes were dark, wide with some strange combination of confusion and understanding. He shot her a rare grin as he lifted a file folder into sight—one that she'd been sitting on. A quick exhalation of breath, a set of ponytails tossed in frustration, and she was sliding off of the desk, taking her hips and her scent and her tattoos out of reach once more.