Chapter 7: Chemicals React

Author's Note—Can't put lyrics into the story, but the inspiration for this chapter is Aly & AJ's 'Chemicals React'.

The bowtie she'd tied for him never made it all the way back to her apartment. His jacket didn't make it past the front door. Neither did her shoes.

By the time they'd gotten into her bedroom his shoes had been left somewhere in the hall; his shirt had lost a few buttons on the stairs. Joss's dress was too beautiful to pull off, but he pressed her back to the wall at the top of her stairs and slid one hand up her pantyhose-clad leg, found the top of the pantyhose and started trying to pull it down—and cursed when the rough edge of a nail snagged the delicate nylon. It was Joss herself who reached down, almost casually, and yanked the waistband of the pantyhose down, ignoring the run that ran all the way down to her knees. Moments later that annoying, tantalizingly thin barrier between his hands and her silky smooth skin was gone, and he could finally satisfy all of his long-held, deeply-buried dreams of feeling what her hot smooth skin felt like under his hands.

She was exquisite; so different from Jessica's tentative tenderness, different from Zoe's bold demand for attention. She held him as if she wanted him, and yet her hold was so light that he could have pulled away anytime, could have left, walked out on his own. And he felt instinctively that as much as her body was, right now, saying she wanted this, if he decided he didn't, she would never try to hold him against his will. She respected him enough to give him his space, to let him make his own choices and she would live with the results of those choices.

And strangely, that just made him want her all the more. It was a strange leash she was holding, a bond of—yes, love—that freed him and yet held him tighter than he'd ever felt himself held before; held him tightly—and he didn't mind. Didn't mind at all.

As her body came out of the black dress—she almost literally peeled it off her body—he stifled a groan as his pants became suddenly several sizes too tight. Too restrictive. He couldn't move in them. Couldn't—he barely noticed when the button went flying off to the right somewhere, toward Joss's closet; his attention was focused on taking her almost nude body in his arms. Pantyhose gone, the only clothing left to her was a pair of black lace panties clinging to her hips, and a matching strapless black lace bra cupping her breasts.

The panties were easily disposed of. The bra...well, damn, the thing was strapless—how the hell was he supposed to get the thing off?

Joss started giggling hysterically as she reached behind her with one hand. "It's not rocket science, John," she teased, and suddenly the bra was a strip of lace dangling from her hand and her breasts were bared to his hungry gaze, framing the dog tag pendant he'd just bought her."Hmm. See something you like?"

"Mmm," he murmured as he stepped close to her, pulled her close as he toed off his socks and stood in front of her dressed in nothing but boxers that strained against his insistent desire. She grinned then, stepped close, and kissed him again.

In comparison with the lips-closed, almost chaste kiss from the business mixer, this one had heat, hunger, lust in it. Mouths opened, lips parted, tongues twined in hot, hungry demand; John was barely aware of her hands sliding down his chest, flicking his pendant before continuing down to his waist, where she took hold of the waistband of his boxers and started sliding them down.

He was aware, however, when her mouth left his and found a different part of him. He bit his lip to keep from groaning aloud—Jesus, but he'd dreamed about this, for so long, wondered what it would be like, what it would feel like to have her there, wrapped around him, sweet heat and erotic wetness driving him crazy, and now she was here, and damn it, if she didn't stop doing...that...with her tongue and lips he was going to come too soon for them to have any real fun.

He forced himself to take a step back, removing himself from that deliciously-talented mouth and the sensations that mouth was causing, and pulled her up to face him; then he kissed her again even as his hands roved over her skin, down her back, her shoulders, around her waist to her front—and then up her front, reaching up to cup her breasts. Their bit of height difference made it difficult for him to take her breasts in his mouth, torment her breasts with the same skill she'd just tormented him—so he applied pressure to her gently, as he'd done when they were in the dance, to let her know to step back.

She did, stepping back until the back of her knees hit the bed, then she sat down. He sat next to her, kissing her once more, then gently pressed back on her shoulder until she lay flat across her bed. Thank goodness she had a Queen, and not a full, or they'd both have trouble fitting on it; but as it was, there was more than enough comfortable surface there for John to do what he'd dreamed of for so long...

"Lie down comfortably. On your back. And relax." She complied, looking for a moment rather like Sleeping Beauty must have. And John was her prince, and she had a feeling that he was going to wake her up rather thoroughly.

He started by dropping a kiss on her forehead, running fingers through her hair. A soft, gentle kiss on her temple, a deeply intimate gesture, and then that gentle kiss turned into a line of hot, hungry kisses from just under her ear, down the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands came up involuntarily to run through his hair, a gentle caress; she felt him moan under her hand even as he took his mouth further down to her chest. She opened her legs, then; propped up her knees and opened her thighs so he could settle between them and give her breasts the attention she sensed he wanted to give her—and that she wanted from him.

She had rather full, thick, dark nipples. Great for breastfeeding Taylor—he'd had no trouble latching on, first; then there wasn't much of a transition later when his appetite outgrew her body's production rate and she had to change him over to a bottle—but Paul had always teased her about them, saying they made her look like a cow. She'd laughed along with him the first time he'd said that after she'd stopped lactating, but later on, when their relationship turned bitter and his anger became a tangible, living being in the same room with them, he'd repeat it when they were in the middle of their arguments, and what might have started as a harmless joke soon turned into another in a long line of hurtful words Paul had said to her that had hurt her feelings, her self-esteem, and ultimately had led to leaving him.

She shouldn't be thinking about this while in bed with John. She shouldn't. He was so different from Paul, and it wasn't just the skin color—she didn't even notice the skin color. When he was angry, he didn't lash out, take it out on anyone and everyone around him; he channeled it into a direction it would do the most good. He talked to her, respected her, cared about her and protected her even as he gave her the independence and freedom to do what she felt she needed to do, in her life and in her work. He had the ability to have Harold track her every move, every word of every conversation—if Paul had had that kind of power he'd have done so unashamedly, watching every minute of her life, waking and sleeping. And although she knew the cellphone she carried was Finch's—and John's—conduit into her life, she never felt like they were intruding, or spying. She might joke about it, but it was clear it was a joke; they interfered when her life was in danger, or when she asked them.


"Joss..." John sensed that she'd drifted away there for a moment, she wasn't responding to what he was doing to her. It wasn't an annoyance; he wanted to know what it was she was thinking about.

"I'm sorry," she said, but there was something different in her voice. Hurt. Pain.

He took his mouth and hands off her and settled beside her, one arm lying warm across her stomach. . "Tell me."

"It's silly," she said, taking a quick swipe at her eyes, and he decided that he wasn't going to let this go. Whatever it was, it was something that affected her enough to forget her own desire, and he wanted to figure out whatever it was...and get rid of it.

"It's not silly if it affects you like this."

She sniffled. "Paul...used to say my...my breasts...looked like a cow's."

John fought a rush of anger. How the hell could anyone say that to a woman he was in bed with? A woman he loved? The same woman who had borne his child?

As if sensing his anger, Joss tried to defuse it. "It was a joke. Or it started out as one. Right after I transitioned Taylor over onto a bottle—I breastfed him for a while. And Paul would joke about my... nipples...after he was done. That I looked like a cow."

"It's not a joke, Joss. It's never a joke when it hurts your feelings." John was trying not to be jealous of Paul Carter when they'd had their run-in at the mixer; now he felt no jealousy. Just pity, anger and contempt. "Having a child changes everything. I used to wonder how you women do it, make that choice to let your bodies change like that, a choice to g through all the misery of carrying an expanding watermelon in your stomach for nine months, then go through all that pain again just to get that watermelon out." His hand came up to her lower belly, traced the wide, pale scar across her lower abdomen where she'd had her c-section. "I can't imagine what this must be like for you, for women. I certainly wouldn't do it. Your bodies are never the same again."

"But it's all worth it. Taylor's worth it." A fond smile. She wasn't thinking about Paul anymore.

"If I were you I'd say it's easy to say from this end of time. I don't know if I could have said that when diapers needed changing."

Joss laughed—and he felt her attention shift, focus back on him. "The great John Reese, afraid of a baby diaper?"

He nodded. "Absolutely. Terrified."

She grinned as she sat up, then straddled him as he rolled over onto his back. Now he was the one on the bottom, and she was on top, and the sight of the underside of her breasts bouncing as she giggled was erotic. And she knew it, too; he could see the light in her eyes, feel the hunger in her as she took his erection in her hands.

By the time she dipped her head, took just the tip of him in her mouth and started working her magic on him again, he knew she wasn't thinking about her ex-husband anymore.

And when he finally slipped inside her, he wasn't thinking about Paul Carter either.


Silly. So silly.

Paul had no place in her mind, in the same bedroom, as John. No comparison. Yes, both men had flaws. But John's flaws she could live with. Paul's...well, she could have lived with his character flaws if they hadn't hurt her son. But it was done, long over, and she was here, with John. And her own body wanted this...

She hadn't had anyone in the years between them. Too busy with work, life, with Taylor; no desire to; and more importantly, no one she really wanted. Every man she'd been attracted to reminded her of Paul and she'd run the other way. As fast as she could. She hadn't realized, until John came into her life, how much she'd missed.

But John was so different from Paul. Face, form, character, manner. Everything. Paul had been gorgeous when she'd first met him; lean, muscled, authoritative—she'd found that sexy. John, too, was lean, muscled—hell, yeah, she was looking at them now—but while he could be authoritative, he also respected her enough to step back and let her make her own decisions, her own mistakes—and he knew when she needed help and would step in even if she didn't think she needed him. Such a fine, delicate line.

And John was gorgeous. Sexy. She hadn't known this was what was hiding under the dirty clothes and wild hair and beard back at the precinct the night of John's subway fight with Anton, but when she'd first seen him after Finch had gotten hold of him, she'd been delighted—and amazed. He sure cleaned up pretty...and in the years since their first meeting, she'd leaned that he really was as beautiful under the skin as he was on top of it. And she'd never had the courage to make a move on him. Their jobs decreed they came from two different words, and besides, there was Zoe. And for her, there'd been Cal. She'd liked Cal, but she understood now that he'd been more of a distraction for her, a way for her to avoid facing her feelings—and her undeniable attraction—for a man she'd felt she had no right to, a man she'd thought would never feel the same.

And then last night, he'd completely blown that out of the water with his hurried words 'I love you' and his kiss.

She'd been stunned as she closed the door. She'd been feeling, for some time that what they had between them was deeper than friendship; but, unsure of how he really felt, she'd hesitated. Last night had been an eye-opener—and waking up in the middle of the night with her sheets soaked with sweat and hot desire raging through her because she'd just woken up from a dream of him, in this bed, with her, had clarified to her what she really wanted. And when she'd woken up she'd called her mother and arranged for Taylor to stay at her place that night.

Now she had him right where she wanted him...and she could make that dream, the one she'd had last night, come true.

She slid herself onto him, sheathed him inside her. Jesus, but it had been so damn long since she'd had anyone in her... John was proportionate for his height, and she groaned as she settled herself on top of him, feeling her deep inside her body.

"Take it...easy.." john managed through gritted teeth. "Don't...hurt yourself..."

"I can handle you, Mister Reese," she growled at him, and he looked at her, his blue eyes darkening to sapphire with lust and desire. "I've handled you just fine the last few years—don't think I can't do it in bed, too."

His hands came up and brushed a strand of her hair off her forehead. "I would never insinuate that you couldn't handle yourself. Or me." His lips didn't say it, but his eyes did; I belong to you. Do what you want with me.

And she had every intention of doing so.

His hands cupped her breasts as she started to ride him, rising slowly, almost completely, then settling herself back down, each time going deeper and deeper until the dark curls at his groin touched the smooth skin of her own loins. Back in the Army, she'd quickly learned a tip from senior female officers; if you shave there, hygiene will be easier. So she'd started shaving—and even after she left the army, she'd continued—partly out of habit, and partly because she really didn't have much time in her busy life to worry about herself. This morning after she'd made the arrangements with her mother for Taylor, she'd taken a thorough shower with some expensive scented soaps and then shaved everything below her waist thoroughly. No roughness of stubble on her legs or between them, which was where it most counted—and now, the coarseness of John's hair tickled and teased the core of her body, providing a tiny amount of sensation that nevertheless had a huge impact on her growing desire.


John was in heaven. All his dreams, heated fantasies, imaginings, came down to this.

He'd dreamed of what being inside Joss would feel like. Too many nights had seen him waking up with a hard-on because he'd dreamed of her. And in the beginning, he hadn't understood. Yes, he liked her. Yes, she was a good friend and a good woman. But he'd always believed himself partial to blonds, had never been attracted to a black woman.

But Joss was different, and he'd gradually understood that it had less to do with her color, her race, or his previous preferences, and more to do with simply who she was as a person. She didn't have as perfect a body as Jessica- not that there was any comparison, she'd had a child by c-section, after all, and her career in the Amy had left its own scars on her skin. And she didn't have Zoe Morgan's endless legs and perfect composure. But her body, her figure, her mind and soul and everything that made her who she was today, had been shaped by her selflessness, her giving nature-even to carrying a child for nine months and then nearly losing her life giving birth to that child. And he found that incomparably sexy—more attractive to him, now, that mere physical beauty.

And then she started moving on top of him, and he forgot everything except the incredible sensation of her riding him. She raised herself up off him, slowly, then sank back onto him; each time she did, he could feel himself delving deeper and deeper until she had all of him sheathed inside her.

And then she leaned forward, braced herself on her elbows, and captured his mouth in hers in a kiss as she started really riding him. Hard and fast, and there was no distraction now, no other thoughts for either of them except taking pleasure in what their bodies were doing. He had to exert every ounce of his self-control, forcing himself not to come until he felt the contractions of her own pelvic floor become stronger, more intense; until she whimpered his name in tones of lust and need, and then he exploded at the sound of her voice, taking her over that inexpressible peak with him.