Wow, thank you for the great response to the first chapter! It probably was a bit cruel to leave everything to your imaginations, and I had a few ideas, so here we go.

Please note the change of rating! And I hope you'll forgive me for teasing you guys a bit longer, but I did call the story 'Playing Games' for a reason...:). Enjoy x

Gibbs leaned over, waiting for Ziva to finish her mouthful of ice cream before taking the spoon from her and putting it down on the coffee table, along with the tub that was now almost empty. Sharing the spoon had necessitated sitting close together on the sofa, since Ziva did not particularly want cookie dough dropped all over the brown cord cushions, and the feeling of his leg brushing hers had sent tingles all the way through her body. She had tried not to think too hard about the effect his hands would have on her, how she would react with his lips on hers...She certainly couldn't blame the late night sugar rush for her slightly uneven heartbeat. Every cell and every nerve felt as if it was on high alert, just waiting for the jolt of electricity, exhilaration, excitement, and, although she took care not to let it show, she felt deliciously shaky and on edge with adrenaline. Fight or flight...except that she had no intention of doing either.

Ziva watched as he checked the inside of the tub, smirking as he saw how little was left, but her defensive retort that it was at least partly his fault caught in her throat as he turned and looked at her. He was close now. Very close. His normally ice-blue eyes had darkened to an intense cobalt, and, when they fixed on hers, she found it hard to breathe.

'Did that work?'

Ziva pretended to consider for a moment, never taking her gaze from his, feeling a warmth pool in her stomach as she felt the heat from his body and saw his pulse strong underneath his jaw.

'As a relaxation technique?' She raised one eyebrow, her voice quiet and husky, her words slow. 'Worse than useless'.

'Hmm'.

Gibbs raised one hand and let his fingers casually, lightly, run down Ziva's cheekbone and underneath her chin, a slight twitch of his mouth the only indication that he had heard her sharp intake of breath.

'So what comes next on the list?'

'That depends'.

Ziva was aware of trying to keep her voice steady, of trying to breathe slowly and subdue the hammering in her chest, but the spark in Gibbs's eyes told her that she had not been very successful.

'On what?'

'On you'.

He raised one eyebrow slightly.

'Yeah, how's that?'

She met his gaze again, blue eyes burning into brown, and felt the throbbing of her heart spread down through her stomach and between her legs until it felt like her whole body was beating with heady anticipation.

'What comes next on the list is not normally for anyone else's eyes'.

It was his turn to breathe in deeply, and, through the haze of desire that was threatening to cloud her completely, Ziva felt a dim stab of satisfaction at the realisation that she was affecting him just as much as he was her.

'Normally?'

His voice was gravelly as he closed the remaining inches between them and brushed his lips along her cheek, back towards her jawbone where he took her earlobe in between his teeth and nipped gently, making her gasp.

'Never...for anyone else's eyes'. She managed to correct herself as his lips continued their delicate assault, down her neck to her collarbone.

'Want to make an exception?'

A slow, sultry smile crossed her lips as she heard his whispered question and felt his breath warm on the top of her chest.

'I thought you would never ask'.

Pulling away slightly, she reached down to the bottom of her loose tank top and slipped it over her head, revealing the simple black bra beneath. Gibbs went to stroke her skin, his breath audibly catching, but Ziva held up a hand, her eyes dark and teasing as she let the tank drop on to the sofa arm.

'For your eyes', she murmured. 'Not for your hands. Yet'.

Standing up slowly, she slid her sweatpants to the floor, and registered the low growl that came from Gibbs's throat as he leaned back against the cushions, his arousal obvious and his jaw clenched as he tried to control his breathing. Ziva could feel the wetness between her own legs, wondered how long she would be able to make him watch before it was too much for both of them, but decided the effort would be worth it. She was in control. She had the man that she wanted all to herself. And she was going to have fun.

Sitting back down on the sofa, she stretched out with her knees slightly bent, and reached behind her to unhook the bra, letting it fall on to her lap as she leant back against the arm. Never taking her eyes from Gibbs's face, she took one nipple in between her fingers and began to slowly stroke, roll, squeeze, until the pink bud was hard and dark, and she knew that he was struggling already to stay where he was. Deliberately taking her time, she moved her other hand down over her stomach, watching him shudder, his eyes fixed on her hand as her fingers played with the waistband of her black panties, making him wait before slipping her hand inside and...

She was jolted awake by the loud, harsh beeping of her alarm clock. Startled into sitting bolt upright, she reached out an arm to silence the incessant noise, but was not conscious enough to stop it coming into contact with the glass of water instead. Ziva heard the glass fall to the floor, heard the water splash, and groaned as the beeping stopped and the radio came on. One of these days, she thought savagely, she would aim right and the water would spill all over the alarm instead of the carpet.

Letting herself fall back onto the pillows, one arm slung over her still-closed eyes, she wriggled slightly as she remembered exactly what she had been dreaming about. It was variations on a theme, really. She had woken up in this state every morning for the past three days, and today made four. Four nights of frustratingly explicit dreams, two glasses of spilt water, and one bruise that was still sore from when, in a particularly graphic moment, her head had hit the back of the bed frame.

It did not help that she could remember every detail. After the first one, she was not sure that she would ever be able to look a tub of cookie dough ice cream in the face again. The second one, involving Gibbs's boat, had meant that she could not even contemplate going over to his house until the effect had worn off, not that she had planned on it anyway. And the third had made her blush when she had entered the NCIS bullpen – slightly late – the next day, and had laid eyes on her desk that had figured so prominently. Seeing Gibbs sitting calmly at his own desk had just made it worse.

And now this.

She thought back to the evening that had started it all. They had eaten the ice cream. All of it. And they had kissed. She felt heat pool in her stomach at the memory of that kiss, heated and intense and passionate but surprisingly gentle, the result of months and months of pent-up attraction. Hands had wandered, probably further than they should have done, over skin and into hair and under clothes – and then they had broken apart. He had left her apartment half an hour later.

She couldn't say whether it was herself or Gibbs that had got cold feet first, but she supposed it didn't really matter anyway. For him, she knew, it was his own rule holding him back, and the belief that work and pleasure never mixed well. And her own reason was simple enough.

Self preservation. It was a powerful motivator.

Ziva pushed back the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching down to pick up the glass and grimacing as her bare feet touched the soggy patch of carpet next to the small table. It was only then that she remembered it was Saturday, and that she had set the alarm in order to make it to a kick boxing session at her local gym – a session that she now didn't feel like going to. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. This was getting ridiculous. And a part of her was getting really pissed off, both with herself and with Gibbs. He might be able to carry on as if nothing had happened, but she – obviously – could not.

Enough was enough.

Gibbs's eyes snapped open, reacting to the faint noise coming from...coming from where? For a moment, he couldn't tell where he was. It was dark all around him, and he sensed that he was enclosed, without much room to move. Gradually, he became aware that he was still in the jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt that he had changed into after work the previous evening – that was, of course, assuming that it was now morning – and that the noise he could hear was the ringing of his cell phone. Judging by the strong smell of sawdust and varnish, he had actually fallen asleep underneath his boat in the basement. And other evidence suggested that, once again, he had dreamt about Ziva.

Swearing softly under his breath, he rolled over onto his back and, for the moment, chose to ignore the persistent ringtone in favour of trying to remember his dream. Slowly, it began to come back to him. Ziva. Black lace. The elevator at NCIS...

He groaned and sat upright, banging his head in the process. This was not helping. Maneuvering his way under the boat to work on the inside was difficult enough, with all the supports still in place. Getting out with a large, persistent erection pressing against his jeans was going to be even worse. And his cell was still ringing. Why didn't the damn thing go to voicemail?

Wriggling his way out carefully to avoid any more bumps, he was relieved when the noise finally stopped. According to his watch it was eight thirty in the morning – a Saturday morning – and phone calls at that sort of time never brought good news. Gibbs supposed he should ring them back, whoever they were, but decided to try and get himself together a bit first. He was breaking another rule, but what the hell. Breaking rule twelve had felt pretty damn good, and, right now, breaking rule three was pretty much a necessity. He wondered which one would be next to fall by the wayside.

Sitting down on a stool, the empty nail jar in front of him on the workbench, he thought back to the evening at Ziva's. He had never intended for it to happen. But when he had kissed her, the sensations that had rushed through him had been beyond anything he had experienced before. She was beautiful, sexy, classy...there was no doubt about that, and even now, he felt slightly breathless as he remembered the fire and passion that had driven their kisses. But he had also seen a different side to her that evening, one that he was not sure she knew she had displayed. Curled up on the sofa, eating ice cream straight from the tub and laughing at something he said, she had looked softer, younger, more vulnerable. Almost...childlike.

Gibbs had not, of course, told her that; he had been mindful of the gun still sitting on the coffee table after its earlier cleaning. But he had surprised himself with the tenderness that he had felt along with the physical excitement. It had been fear of that feeling, along with the uncertainty of breaking his own rules and the sudden look of trepidation that he had seen in Ziva's eyes, that had pushed him to leave.

He had regretted it ever since.

Being around her at work had been driving him crazy. He didn't think she was doing anything differently, but every time he saw her he was not only reminded of their evening together, but also of the fairly explicit dreams he had been having about her ever since. On more than one occasion, he had been forced to stay seated behind his desk, concentrating on reports, emails, case notes...anything except her, until the physical reaction had subsided. On top of that, he had found himself fighting something else – that same feeling of warmth and tenderness, of wanting to hold her and protect her, that had surprised him that evening in her apartment. When she had arrived slightly late for work the previous day, slightly flushed and sounding annoyed, he had felt concern rather than the irritation he would have experienced had it been DiNozzo or McGee. When she had stretched and grimaced after spending too long sitting at her computer typing up reports, he had wanted to go over and slowly massage the knots from her shoulders. And when she had given herself a paper cut, he had, absurdly enough, wanted to kiss it better.

Gibbs was pulled from his thoughts by his cell phone starting to ring again, and he sighed, standing up to retrieve it from the shelf above the workbench. The caller display read Vance office, and he groaned. Vance office could only mean a weekend case, which was the last thing that any of them needed, but he couldn't ignore it a second time. Answering the call, taking the details, ignoring the implied question as to why he hadn't picked up before...he did it all on autopilot. And as he headed up the stairs to take a quick shower and get changed before going into NCIS, Ziva was once again at the forefront of his mind.

He didn't think he could do this much longer.