A/N - thanks for the reviews and sorry for the delay in updating. I don't really have an excuse but I was on holiday and the internet connection was non-existent. But here is a long chapter to make up for it. Hopefully you won't mind the smut or the explanation about what happened on Jenny's wedding night...
Part 10
Jenny had never been any good at pretending and today was no exception. While spending the day in bed was a tempting prospect she had woken knowing she wanted to shake off the feeling that she was a bird in a gilded cage.
The time was fast approaching when she would have to return to DC and face the trial and before that she needed to feel the sun on her face and know that she could wander wherever the fancy took her. She wanted a taste of freedom and to share a simple, uncomplicated day with Jethro – in case she never got another chance.
There was no sense in making it something other than what it was – they were here, now, together and she couldn't think any further than that. But she wanted the time with him and she didn't see any point in hiding away from the reason that it mattered so much.
She wasn't expecting him to agree without a fight - they had already broken far too many rules and now she wanted to go outside. She expected him to refuse point blank; to offer the garden as a safer alternative. But he regarded her levelly for a moment, before nodding once and asked her how long it had been since she'd been riding.
He'd suggested riding because of how wistful she had looked the evening before when it had been mentioned and because it was less risky than taking the car or an expedition on foot. But that didn't stop him from preparing carefully – checking trails and choosing one that took them through woodland that would give them cover.
He knew that they were standing closer together than before, that they could hardly stop touching each other. He hoped they were subtle about it, but when the owner smiled knowingly at them he gathered that his perception might be off about that – and he wasn't sure he cared. He slipped an arm around Jenny, pulling her close and asked the owner to arrange some water and food to take out with them.
The stables were behind the hotel, in a block that had obviously been built for the house's original inhabitants. The horses were sleek and well looked after, prancing happily around at the idea of an outing. He watched as Jenny talked quietly to her mount, stroking his neck, before swinging fluidly into the saddle. He wasn't surprised that she looked as though she knew what she was doing and as he followed suit she smiled over at him – mostly relaxed.
It was shady and quiet in the woods – she could smell the flowers, hear the gentle chirrup of insects. Her horse was well behaved, responding easily to her as they trotted along the trail, leaving her plenty of time to think. As hard as she tried to be only in the present, only in this day – her mind insisted on slipping to the past. Jethro deserved an explanation for her reaction to their intimacy and, for the first time, she wanted to tell someone what had happened to her. But, she didn't know if she wanted to risk revulsion, or pity. Perhaps after all, silence was easier.
But if this was the day she was giving herself to live the way she wished she'd lived all the years that had passed, then she knew she couldn't hide.
It had been years since he had been riding – the memories were too painful, too bitter; even now half of his mind was on afternoons at the beach a lifetime ago. It was testament to how he felt about this woman that it was only half his mind – and that wasn't helping his guilt any.
His previous attempts to let the past go had ended causing more pain – and not just to him; he'd reconciled himself to being alone, or at least without emotional connections. But Jenny was making him wish things were different, making him wish that he was different – or at least that he had the capacity to try to be.
They ate their picnic stretched out on a blanket beneath some trees, with a brook babbling gently somewhere close by. She picked at her food and he hardly needed to be a mind reader to realise something was bothering her. He wondered if she'd share it, or keep it to herself. But she wasn't like him.
"I want to tell you what happened," she said without looking around at him, her gaze off into the distance.
He reached over to push a stray curl back behind her ear and then stroking a hand along her spine, feeling how tense she was. "The man you married turned out not to be the person you thought he was," he told her. "He humiliated you, caused you pain, made you doubt that you were desirable. That was all him – it had nothing to do with you."
She hadn't realised that he'd read so much in her hesitancy, in her responses to him. She couldn't help wondering if she was transparent or if he was just very good at what he did. And she knew he was right – though knowing something and believing it were totally different things.
It had been such a long time since she'd been that hopeful young woman whose father had introduced her to the son of one of his friends; a young man who had proceeded to sweep her off her feet. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance – he'd been handsome, glamorous, with a reputation for being a playboy that had worried her, until he'd promised that he was ready to put all that behind him, ready to settle down. Like a fool she'd believed him.
"We decided to wait until we were married," she said, "I thought it meant he respected me, but it wasn't that at all and I found out later that he had other women, lots of them."
The wedding had been beautiful – she'd felt beautiful and she'd only just managed not to cry when her father had told her how proud he was of her, before walking her down the aisle. She'd believed her future was all mapped out but she couldn't have been more wrong; her honeymoon had robbed her of all those illusions.
"On the first night of our honeymoon, he – couldn't perform," she was unwilling to remember their excruciating fumbling, his growing frustration and how he had chosen to make her the target of it. "I thought that it might be the pressure of the wedding night, or the alcohol, but he just wasn't aroused. He was angry, said it was my fault, that he wasn't attracted to me. He wanted to restrain me – apparently that was what he needed, but I just couldn't…"
She closed her eyes, remembering how she had cried and probably even begged – how he'd flung accusations at her, how the abuse had followed her into the bathroom where she had gone to hide. "He said that I was frigid, that all the other women he'd screwed had turned him on."
Jethro was still beside her, but she couldn't look at him and think about this. She'd hidden in the bathroom for hours, even after her husband had stormed out of the bedroom. When she had eventually crept out she'd been numb and confused but even then she had thought that she ought to try – because he was her husband.
"He stormed off to the bar and apparently drank a lot more. When he came back I could smell the alcohol on him and cheap perfume from some other woman." The failure to consummate their marriage, the names and the insults hadn't been enough. The final humiliation had been after he returned; she'd found the cords in his luggage and offered herself and her self-respect to him, desperate to make it right.
"I offered to let him tie me up, but he laughed in my face."
She hadn't wanted to cry, but she felt the tears on her lashes and as she blinked they spilled over to slip down her cheek. Going home, alone, had been another humiliation. It was the one moment in her adult life that she had desperately wished for her mother. But her father had tried in his own way, arranging a quick annulment – so she could pretend it had never happened, only of course it took more than the stroke of a pen to do that.
Gibbs couldn't remember the last time he had been this angry. Cases had got to him before, criminals provoked a range of emotions in him and he wasn't known for holding back. But rarely had he felt such a glowering rage against a man he hadn't even met. Last night's vague desire to cause him pain solidified into a plan to track him down and make him suffer – but not right now. Right now this woman was his concern and he knew that his anger would not help her – though perhaps he didn't need to completely hide it either.
"Jenny, look at me," he said, his voice hoarse. When she turned her head he brushed away the tears she'd shed with the pads of his thumbs, his every gesture tender. One of his hands slipped around to cradle the back of her head and lowered his mouth to hers. He held nothing back, his need for her mingling with the tangled up emotions her story had provoked. He knew she probably tasted his anger – the sharp pang of it dissolving against something he was too scared to even try to put a name to.
He pressed her back onto the blanket, settling himself on top of her as they kissed. He wasn't going to press things too far, his intention was to offer comfort, not arouse her. But she needed to know that nothing about how he felt had changed. As they eased out of the kiss he rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, nuzzling her neck with his lips – holding her close.
"I wanted you to know," she said at last, "it's not you Jethro."
"I already knew that," he told her gently.
They meandered back to the hotel as the sun was setting, there hardly seemed to be any point in resisting the closeness that came as a consequence of sharing something so painful.
Tonight there was no question of having dinner in the restaurant – he didn't want to share her, didn't want to have to think about other people watching them. Tomorrow would mean a return to DC – he had a feeling the knowledge of what was to come had been praying on her mind all day, even if she hadn't mentioned it.
He wasn't naturally demonstrative, not any more. But he wanted her to feel special. So – dinner was ordered from room service; with wine for her, bourbon for him. The curtains were closed, the night shut out; a fire burnt gently in the grate as he pottered around in the room, while she soaked in the bath.
"You still there?" She called softly.
"Need a refill?" He paused in the doorway, wine bottle in hand, smiling at the sight of her practically up to her neck in bubbles, her hair piled up onto her head with a few strands curling on her shoulders.
"Just felt like having someone to talk to."
"You want me to wash you back?" His eyes flickered over her body as she slid forward – tightening at the sight of the water and bubbles slipping off the smooth, pale expanse of her back. It was impossible not to want to touch her.
He rubbed the sponge up and down – making an attempt at washing her back, but really just lost in the sensation. The tension ebbed out of her and he kept his movements slow and steady, smiling when she sighed and arched her back.
She hadn't been touched enough. Her body was soaking up his attentions – begging for more. She tilted her face to the side, watching his intent expression, deciding that he seemed to be enjoying this as much as she was. The lines around his eyes were creased in relaxation and as she admired the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, the curve of his lips - she knew she could spend a lot of time just looking at him.
He leant over and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, "you about ready to get out?" When she nodded he reached for a towel, wrapping her in it as she stepped out of the bath. She should have felt exposed; she was naked after all and he wasn't looking away; but she knew this was different, she was different. She stood in his arms as he ran his hands over her – somewhere between drying her and touching her. She didn't care; she just didn't want him to stop.
But he pulled back, drawing her into the other room, sitting her on the bed, settling beside her. He unfastened her hair, letting it fall onto her shoulders, running his hands through it as she turned her head to catch his lips with hers, for a kiss that felt far more intimate than her nudity.
She lay on her side, still wrapped in the towel – watching him as he undressed. His body was lean, the muscles defined and he wore his years well; without trying to pretend they hadn't happened. She wanted to ask him about the scars – but wasn't sure he would answer. While she was still wondering he crawled back onto the bed, as naked as she was when his careful hands loosened her towel and pushed it away.
He did nothing more, stretching out beside her – watching, waiting. Then he took her hand and laid it gently on his hip, pressing down – moving it slowly up towards his waist. She rubbed her thumb over his skin and looked up at him, questioningly, as he lay back.
She knew he had basically just given her permission to touch him wherever and however she liked and for a moment the power of the gesture made her falter. But then she looked up; the desire in his eyes making her realise that this was as much about giving him pleasure as it was about giving her confidence.
Her hands drifted over his chest, a fingertip running over the most prominent scar; the question must have been in her eyes because he said quietly, "what I do can be dangerous." He knew it wasn't much of an answer, that she still had questions – but she nodded solemnly as though he'd told her enough and moved over him, pressing her lips, not to the scar as he'd half expected, but to a spot just above his heart.
His hands curled into the sheets as he groaned softly – not touching her was proving to be surprisingly difficult, exacerbated by the thoroughness of her exploration of his body. He gritted his teeth as she trailed a tentative hand along his length – the touch altogether too much and at the same time not nearly enough. Through almost closed eyes he looked over at her, seeing the flicker of uncertainty but also the need.
"Show me," she said quietly, "I want to know how to touch you."
He was more than happy to oblige, taking her hand in his, moving it up and down in long steady strokes, pressure and pace just right. It took her about 10 seconds to get it and just a little longer to work out that varying the stroke or the pace, keeping him guessing was going to drive him crazy. He groaned some more, squirming against her as she touched him, kissing him at the same time and then nibbling her way down his neck.
Somehow amidst all the touching and the kissing it seemed the most natural thing in the world to roll on top of him, although she didn't quite realise what she'd done until he thrust his hips up at her in a silent plea. His eyes were fixed on her body and the way she was touching him.
"You like this," she told him – leaning forward, arching her back. He didn't reply – unless you counted his hands squeezing her breasts and the urgent way his mouth plundered sat back – steadying herself against him as his hands caressed her thighs and hips.
"You said you liked being the one in control," he told her as he reached for the condoms.
She felt everything as she slipped onto him – the friction, the fullness, the feeling of being the one setting the pace that had her biting her lip to make it last. His hand was at her waist and he squeezed her lightly but otherwise left it up to her, far too busy enjoying the visual. Her hips shifted, his moved in counterpoint and her eyes drifted shut as they found a slow rhythm. She leant over him again; breasts pressing into his chest and his hand at the base of her spine kept her there through a long kiss. But she sat up again – picking up the pace again; watching the way he twisted with her – knowing he was forcing his eyes to stay open to watch her.
She rose fast and hard and almost without realising how close she was until her insides fluttered and her muscles clamped around him. Her head fell back as skilled fingers, his, pinched her clit and the flutters took her over – the orgasm slamming into her as she moved more urgently on him.
He hung on – knowing he wasn't there yet, though watching her had him so perilously close he could have let go; but he moved with her, slowing his movements a little as she came down. A lazy smile flitted across her face, her eyes were still glazed and the pleasure flush across her chest made him want to kiss her there. He was still thinking about that when she balanced both of her hands on his chest and started moving again.
This time was for him – she wanted to see him come apart, just for her. She was determined – reading his face and his body for clues now she knew that he liked this position because he could see her and touch her. And he had been right; she did like being in control, especially if it meant she got to make him lose his.
It was more arousing than she expected – she could feel herself building again as she watched his head thrashing back and forth on the pillows, his hands twisting in the sheets. But she didn't question it, moving a little faster, a little harder; loving it when his hands curved around her hips – guiding her movements. "God, Jen. Don't stop." His voice was hoarse, broken, there was sweat beading on his brow and she knew he was close because he could scarcely keep his eyes open.
He desperately tried to suck in oxygen – his heart hammering in his chest as she rocked her hips back and forth, grinding against him. The low gutteral groan escaped him as his body surged upwards into hers – the climax ripping through him. He knew he was gripping her hips – would probably leave bruises but didn't let go until she slumped forward onto him, mouth lapping at the salty skin of his throat.
He pulled her onto her side, both of them wincing as he slid out of her. She reached for him, slipping the condom away and he buried his fingers between her legs – knowing she hadn't come that time. It didn't take much - she gasped his name and buried her head in his shoulder, panting against him as her muscles clenched and released around him and her body begged for more.
She had no idea how long had passed; it could have been hours, or minutes. Neither of them had fallen asleep, instead they lay together, face to face, barely talking – as though words weren't really important at this point. Except that she knew time was running out, the day she'd promised herself was almost over.
"Are we leaving in the morning?" He didn't say anything, but he cupped her cheek with his hand, his touch gentle, careful and she read what he couldn't say in his eyes. "It's OK Jethro, I know it will be different when we go back."
"Nothing is going to happen to you," he said – the promise he hadn't been able to give her days before, falling from his lips easily now. His heart twisted at the thought of other people he had made that promise to – of all those other failures.
But he couldn't tear his eyes away from hers and when she whispered, "I'm not scared anymore," he knew she had seen more than he had meant her to. That somehow she had caught a glimpse of those losses and was giving him comfort, when he should have been the one comforting her.
TBC