A/N: I'm not an M sort of writer – not my forte – but call this "hard T" or "T+" I suppose, though there is some f-bombery. You have been warned. Also, it's kinda longish. I couldn't seem to find a good cutoff point. Sorry about the verbosity.
This might be the final chapter or there might be one other "wrap-up" kind of thing after this one. I'm undecided at this point. Just sayin'.
On we go…
The evening was going exceedingly well so far, and Cal was pleased. Yes, ok, Gillian had seen fit to get herself tipsy in order to face an evening alone with him, and on some level that was probably cause for concern. But he was choosing not to focus on that particular little detail, thank-you-very-much. It wasn't as though he hadn't filled his own glass before she arrived. And it wasn't because he needed to be inebriated in order to enjoy a night with her, either. It was just—well, the nerves…they wanted with a bit of soothing was all. It was just to take the edge off. So maybe that's what Gill had done as well. Likely so. Trouble was, along with the edge also went sound judgment. Not that Cal's judgment was ever especially sound even in the most ideal of circumstances, but…
He had a point. What was it?
Right. Judgment. The soundness thereof. Or not.
And anyway, Gillian was merely tipsy, not drunk. Not like that wonderful, awful night. That distinction bore focusing on.
He felt her eyes on him. And he'd be a liar if he said he didn't like the feeling. She was sitting back there checking him out while he finished pulling the meal together. She was checking him out, and he was pretending not to notice even though she wasn't being the slightest bit sly about it at all. No, she was being quite blunt. Rather like the way he often checked her out, actually. She'd gone and turned the tables on him. Not that he was complaining. He found this take-charge Gillian quite…erotic. So much so, however, that "on her terms" was becoming a bit of a stretch for him; at some point, his resolve was bound to snap. Cal was a lot of things: cynic, smart-ass, bastard…one thing he was not, though, was a liar. And he knew absolutely full well that if she kept on at this pace – and if he kept pace with her (as he fully intended to do) – there was nothing on God's green earth that would be able to put the brakes on. Not this time. Because another thing he was not? Restrained.
Self-control: a virtue he possessed in only slightly less measure than patience.
Their relationship had always been odd, but it had worked for them. Mostly. It had mostly worked. But in Cal's more honest moments (he wasn't a liar, but he could be an ostrich when the need arose) he had wanted more from their relationship, and he'd wanted it for a very, very long time. Patience. Not one of his favourite of the virtues, but he'd done his level best to have it. For her. It had been placid and slow-moving, their relationship. Placid and slow-moving. Lovely, if one was floating on a river. But he was beyond ready to hit the rapids. Patience, he had long held, was overrated. And God bless her, Gillian seemed to finally be getting up to speed on that. Not a moment too soon, either. Because he really thought that if they stayed the course much longer on this stop-start-stop continuum, he might very well die from inadequate blood supply to the brain. And wouldn't that make a charming obituary?
"Cal Lightman: loving father, business partner, entrepreneur; died as a result of losing a 10-year cockfight. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Gamblers Anonymous."
"So, hot stuff," Gillian's voice broke into his thoughts, causing his grin to widen, "…for dinner. Have anything special planned for dessert?"
Cal turned to face her, leaning back casually with his elbows on the counter and matched her wicked grin with one of his own. "Dessert?" he asked. "You think you'll be wanting something sweet after…dinner?"
Her laugh sparkled through the room and if he wasn't already head over heels for the woman, that sound alone would've done for him.
She blinked at him adorably. "You know how much I like dessert, Cal. You must have something planned. I just know you wouldn't want to lure me over here only to send me home unfulfilled."
Cal couldn't quite suppress the genuine smile – not from his lips and certainly not from his eyes – borne from the knowledge that Gillian was not only keeping pace; she was taking the lead. Well, well. Time for a bit of power play, then.
"We can't have that, now, can we? I wouldn't be able to sleep at night, knowing you left my house unsatisfied."
Cal stood from his reclined position and moved lazily around the island counter where Gillian sat. He moved with deliberate steadiness while his heavy, half-lidded stare never wavered from hers. He moved until he had invaded her space in that familiar way of his, and then he moved a breath closer. Still holding her gaze, he reached out with his right arm and picked something up from the countertop. Without looking away from her eyes, he dropped it onto her lap. His smile became impish while his eyes began to twinkle with mischief. Gillian glanced down at her lap then back to Cal.
"Okay, I'll bite. What's this?" she asked, smiling back at him.
"That," he said, voice dripping with seduction, "is dessert, luv." He licked his lips as if in anticipation.
Gillian raised one brow in question. "This? It's only a bunch of bananas, Cal. How is that dessert?"
Cal leaned in close. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice a low hum that vibrated all the way down to her toes when he said, "Well, I've never been one for desserts, but I've always wanted to try bananas Foster."
Gillian wasn't quite sure how he did it. How nothing but the hum of his voice and the whisper of his breath dancing over the sensitive skin behind her ear could cause her lashes to flutter and her eyes to roll back in her head. How he made a simple dessert sound so incredibly, deliciously dirty just by emphasizing her name in it. How the mere suggestion of the touch of his skin against hers could cause a tingle that started in her extremities then spread like wildfire along every nerve ending in her entire body until the warmth became a hot, hard weight in the center of her. His proximity always affected her. Things were a lot more – humid – whenever he was so close. Not that she minded. She liked it. That was why she never discouraged it, that perpetual invasion of her personal space. She wanted it. Secretly, she craved it…just like he was doing right now. He hadn't moved from that spot. She could still feel his breath, warm and just a little shallow and just a little ragged and just a perfect match to her own. She turned her face a bit – only a bit – toward him.
Before she could say anything, Cal spoke again. "Hold that thought, luv. I'm just gonna go slip into something more comfortable. Won't be a moment." He leaned into her smoothly and in one swift motion moved away and out of the room, leaving her to wonder what had just happened and what was yet to come.
She didn't have to wonder long.
The rooms beyond the kitchen were dark and quiet. The silence was the first casualty of the night.
It was soft at first, increasing gradually in volume until it was just perfect. Just like it had been the last time they'd listened to that CD. It was one of her favourites, and Cal knew it. He knew it, and that was why he owned a copy. He bought it because she loved it and because listening to it made him think of her. Hell, everything made him think of her.
When she heard it, she knew he was playing it for her and she had a pretty good idea why. The last time they'd danced to this, the night had ended in a way neither of them really wanted but both of them knew was the only way it could have ended well. She listened to the gentle strains of the songs she loved weaving their way through the rooms in Cal's house, through the space between her and him. And suddenly, she was all too aware that he wasn't in her space, and he should be. She wanted him there and needed him there now, and if he didn't get back there very soon – like right-this-minute soon – she was going to go looking for him. And she didn't care if that seemed desperate or needy because honestly? She was feeling desperate and needy. And it was Cal fucking Lightman, and he read people for a living so odds were high that he already knew it.
The other rooms were dark, so it wasn't difficult for her to notice the dim, small light. It wavered and jerked, dancing against the wall. Faint at first, then getting stronger and a bit larger. It seemed familiar and elicited, along with the music, the most surreal sense of déjà vu…
Cal rounded the corner dressed exactly the same as when he left the room but with a few key differences. The apron and the glasses were gone. He was wearing on his face possibly THE most smolderingly sultry expression she had ever seen. And he was wearing…
Oh, heaven help her.
He was wearing the miner hat.
"Seem to recall you saying something about liking this look, yeah?"
Gillian released a shuddering breath and blinked slowly. "Ohhh, yeah."
Cal walked back to the stove and looked over his shoulder. "Why don't you come over here for a taste and tell me if you think it's ready?"
Gillian kicked off her heels and padded barefoot over to Cal. She stepped in close, as close as he always did and then closer still so that she almost brushed against him. Almost. It made her ache to be so close and not touch him. She looked up. He wasn't much taller than her but without her heels on, the difference was pleasant. He stirred then lifted the spoon to his lips and blew to cool it. She watched his every move. Watched the way his mouth moved as his lips circled around the current of cool air. Watched him watching her. Watched his tongue dart out to moisten his lips, and all she could think in that moment was that she wished like hell it was her tongue on his lips. He gave a tiny smile that was part knowing and part agreement. Then he lifted the spoon to her lips and she tasted. He was a very good cook; the sauce was divine. But suddenly, she wasn't very hungry anymore.
For food.
It could wait.
But she didn't think she could.
Not.
Another.
Second.
"And?" Cal asked.
"Exquisite," she said breathlessly. "It makes me want…more." Her voice dropped low on the last word. She could feel the heat rushing to her face and neck and chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the man who prepared it.
Cal's eyes searched hers, studying and probing, making sure he was reading the signs right before moving ahead. "Not too hot for you, then?" His voice was soft and uncertain. He was giving her an out if she wanted it.
She met his stare, the stare that made so many people uncomfortable. The stare that looked straight into your soul. And she loved it, to be so completely…known. It was unsettling. It was erotic.
"Cal," her answer sounded warm and rich. "I like it hotter than you think."
He stepped in closer, closer. His forehead brushed the top of her hair. His inhalations caused the briefest, feather-light contact of his chest to hers. His voice came out raw and ragged. "Are we still talking about food, darlin'?"
Gillian's fingertip skimmed across the surface of the curry. She lifted it to Cal's mouth and stroked slowly across his lower lip, locking her eyes with his, "Were we ever?"
Cal's hands came to rest lightly at her hips. She inched her face closer so that his exhales became her inhales.
"You've got a little something—just there. Let me get that for you."
Cal had no idea what good deed he had ever done in his lifetime to deserve this moment – Gillian Foster in his arms, in his kitchen, pressed very very wonderfully snug against him, sucking (sucking!) Jalfrezi curry from his lower lip – but if he could find out, he would do that good deed again a million times over if only to repeat this beautiful moment ad infinitum.
"Gillian," Cal murmured.
"Mmm," she hummed in reply, eyes closed and still clearly preoccupied with Cal's lip.
"Gillian," Cal tried again.
"Mmmmm," she moaned into his mouth before sliding to his jaw, the stubble there scraping against her swollen lips, then buried her face in his neck and just inhaled deeply, wrapping her arms around him.
He circled her tightly with his arms, and they began to sway. They stayed like that and let their silence work as the minutes ticked by. It seemed to each like an eternity, swaying in perfect synchronicity.
It was a perfect moment in a perfect evening.
When their silence reached its end, Cal spoke because – loathe as he was to rely on spoken word over body language – there were some things he needed Gillian to know before things went any further. They were things she needed to hear, not merely see. So he would give her what she needed.
Her terms.
He reached up, his fingertips ghosting lightly over her pale cheek, losing themselves in the soft tangle of her hair. She regarded him with curious eyes.
"Before things go any further between us, there's a couple things you should know," he said softly.
"Gillian." He spoke her name like an invocation, like a sacred thing. He said it by itself and then paused because it was important and because it was beautiful and because it deserved its own space.
"This night, Gillian, it's all you, luv." His eyes searched hers, dipping briefly to her lips, caressing their way back up to capture her gaze. "This can go as far as you want, or it can stop anytime you want. There is absolutely no pressure either way. I wanna be clear on that point. I don't think there's any question," he breathed, "which side of the issue I come down on." This he punctuated with a gentle but insistent grind of his lower body to hers, causing her to sigh in the most brilliant way. "But this isn't about me. I want this to be about you."
Gillian swayed forward – intentionally or not, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was the sweetest, most achingly intense friction; and for a split second, his vision went dusky and stars – actual honest-to-goodness stars – began to shoot across his ceiling and he really started to think the possibility of loss of consciousness from lack of blood to the brain a very real one.
Where he got the presence of mind for it, he would never know because synapses had long since called a ceasefire, and higher brain function had thrown up the white flag and handed the reins over to his baser instincts the moment he opened the door to her. But somehow, with her melting against him, he managed to remember there was one more thing to say. One more thing she should hear. Needed to hear.
Because he meant it.
"Gillian." One rough finger stroked lightly under her chin, lifting her face to his so she would look at him. She needed to hear this with her ears and her eyes. His other hand rested loosely at her waist, his index finger tracing tiny, lazy patterns on the small of her back, on the little patch of exposed skin between the hem of her shirt and the top of her jeans. His touch raised gooseflesh there, and she shuddered and made a small sound that might've been the sweetest sound he had ever heard a woman make. It instantly made him wonder what other sounds he might be able to coax from her, each one sweeter than the last.
"The other thing you need to know – I need for you to know – it's always been you, Gill. I chose…you. Long time ago." The weight of his gaze was heavy and almost more than she could bear. It was so direct and so honest and so unlike anything she had ever seen from him that is was painful to look at. "When I first asked you to be my partner – in our business – I chose you. It's part of why Zoë always resented our relationship so much. And that 'choosing you' like that earned me a bed on the sofa for the better part of a month. But it was worth it."
"And I chose you every time I've made stupid decisions that put myself in harm's way but kept you out of it. Because, see," He shifted closer so they were pressed together, like pages in a book. "It may be my science our company is built around, but you're the backbone, Gill. You're the dynamic, driving force that keeps it alive and thriving. So, I'm expendable; you aren't."
She tried to protest. He quieted her, first with a finger pressed gently to her lips, then with a kiss. He pulled away just barely, so that he was speaking against her lips. So she could feel his words as well as hear them. "I chose you when I stepped away from what I wanted – which was you – so you could be with Alec. And then with Dave. And I didn't interfere. Much. Only enough to protect you, yeah? Not to take you for myself, even thought that's what I wanted, Gill. And even though it was killing me to see you with them. Just—I only interfered enough to protect you and only when I was afraid those men would hurt you. Because you—you are only ever my priority. Always have been. So don't ever make the mistake of thinking I don't choose you, because I have. Over and over, every day. For years, Gillian. And it's about the only choice I've ever made that I can say I don't regret. Just thought you should know."
And then he kissed her.
Only this time, it wasn't placid or tender or slow-moving like floating on a river. It was an over-the-edge, whitewater rapids kiss, turbulent and tumbling. It was sweaty and urgent and messy. And it was the most perfect kiss any two people ever shared.
It stole her breath away. Figuratively. Poetically. Literally. She came up gasping for air only to drown herself in him again and again.
Somewhere in the background, the music played on, and they were moving with no sense of direction. She advanced, and they stumble-stepped together until he bumped against an end table. He advanced, and they stumble-stepped again until they knocked over a dining table chair and she banged against a bookshelf. On and on they continued their clumsy, amorous dance, kissing passionately and incessantly. His hat fell off with a loud clatter against the polished wooden floor as Gillian backed him into a wall. Instantly, he bounced forward, taking her in a new direction, the fingers of one hand tangling in her hair while the other hand pressed flat against the bare skin of her back where her shirt had ridden up, crushing her to him. She already had half the buttons of his shirt undone when her elbow hit something and sent it crashing to the floor.
"Shit!" she exclaimed, pushing back from him, not sure in the dark what she'd just destroyed.
Cal grabbed fistfuls of her shirt and pulled her roughly back to him, covering her mouth with his and trying to speak all at once. "Fuck it. I've always hated that lamp."
Next thing they knew, they fell onto the stairs, her atop him, and slid partway down.
"Gillian, if…" Cal tried. Then they were on the floor, and Gillian was dragging him back into the rapids. He broke the surface and tried again. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I mean, I really bloody hope you want to, but we can stop. Anytime." Every sentence he spoke was punctuated by a forceful kiss from Gillian. "Really, Gill. Anytime. You just say the word. We'll stop. I can keep talking."
"Cal?" She took his face in her hands and pulled him in close, breathing hard. "Shut. Up."
"You know, I sensed that I should—" His words were stifled by one too many tongues in his mouth.
"Hang on," Cal muttered into her mouth.
"No," she breathed back.
"Stove," he managed.
"What?" she asked, backing off and looking at him quizzically and not a tiny bit exasperated.
Cal was panting. "I need to turn the stove off. Y'know, so we don't burn the house down while we burn the house down. Know what I mean?" He waggled his eyebrows at her in his comically lascivious way and Gillian thought she couldn't possibly want him more.
She traced one finger down his chest and looked up at him coyly. "Tell you what. You go take care of the stove, make sure our dinner stays warm for us for later. And I'll go wait for you in your bed, make sure things stay warm for us in there. Hmm?"
Cal was off the floor and practically at a dead sprint for the kitchen, calling out, "Just don't start without me!"
Gillian was already up the stairs and rounding the corner to his doorway when she called back, "Then you'd better not keep me waiting!"
"Cor, I could use a cigarette!"
Gillian giggled into his neck and swatted at him weakly. "You don't smoke."
"I could, after that."
They lay in a disheveled, messy tangle of sheets and blankets and limbs, draped over one another in contented exhaustion. Her head was resting on his shoulder with her face nuzzled into his neck. It was her new favourite place. She loved breathing in the scent of him, more now than ever. Cal turned and kissed the top of her head. He lingered there, his face buried in her hair.
"You know, I can't believe you fell for all that bollocks. I only said those things to get into your knickers," he said softly into her hair. "Worked like a charm."
He felt her smile against his chest; it was the best feeling in the world. Well, second-best.
"Me? I can't believe you thought I wanted to hear all that stuff. No, I just wanted to see how many hoops I could make you jump through before I got into your pants."
Cal laughed. "Oh, I say! You're an evil one, you are."
"Damn straight."
He hugged her tight to him, pressing another kiss into her hair. "Perfect for me."
She rolled her head up and kissed his raspy chin. "And don't you forget it."
