Cal Lightman loved Gillian Foster because she is brilliant.
He wasn't three feet from her. Hazel eyes probing blue. Questioning her; challenging her. Was that it, Foster? That's all you've got? I already knew all that. His condescension was the perfect bait.
She closed the gap slightly. Two mere feet from each other. Lips pursed, blue eyes flashing dangerously: challenge accepted Dr Lightman. Facts and figures tumbled off her tongue faster than his brain could process them. Scenarios, analogies, examples and evidence racing forth. She looked up at him through dark eyelashes, the perfect punctuation to an impressive riposte. Did you get all that Cal? Do you need anything repeated?
His rebuke was unexpected and swift. Hungrily he pulled her to him, his mouth crashing on hers, firm and passionate. His hand caressed the base of her head and the other gripped her lower back, holding her against him. Her hands moved to the nape of his neck: fingers knotted in his hair as she responded. Her lust was tangible, matching his passion: desire became their master.
They stood in the centre of his office flushed and panting. His hands rested on her hips and she ran a thumb over his lips removing any telltale trace of lipstick, any trace of her. "Not here Cal" she said firmly, "you know the rules". His eyes pleaded with hers and she leant in, black pupils pushing out blue irises. "Later" she whispered. Her breath ghosted over his neck, her scent intoxicated him.
Cal watched Gillian confidently stride from his office. Yes, he loved her because she was brilliant. And honest. And moral. And beautiful. But mostly, Cal Lightman loved her because she was his.