Sexy chapter alert.
Normally, Jane wears her hair down to work, and only ties it back in a ponytail for crime scenes, or to go out in the field with Frost and Korsak.
But the other day, you mentioned that you think she looks sexy in her ponytail and sunglasses. And since then you have not seen her in anything but a ponytail.
It's dusk when you arrive together at your house, her sunglasses are still perched on top of her head as if she might need them at any moment.
"Think you'll be needing those anymore today?" you ask, smiling with a glance up at them as you switch on the lights in your kitchen and living room. "Now that we're indoors, after sundown?"
"I think so, actually, because it's just so darn bright in here," she replies, flipping them down onto her face. They pull several errant tendrils of hair along with them, trapping them between her face and the lenses, but she completely ignores this and flashes you a cocky smile through the mess. You laugh. "Yeah, you like that?"
"It's a good look for you. Wine?"
She leans on your kitchen island and drums her thumbs thoughtfully.
"Mm. No thanks."
She watches you pour yourself a glass.
"I saw you looking at work today."
Your eyes dart to hers, and you can tell by her expression - what you can see of it - that this is not a complaint.
Indeed, the deceased was not the only body you examined thoroughly at this morning's crime scene. The detective is wearing her charcoal suit today - probably her best fitted one - and a crisp white button-down shirt. You like that combination, especially when she pushes up the sleeves of her blazer so you also get to see a taste of her forearms.
She's leaning on your island in a rather commanding pose, which you also like. The comedic edge of the mess of hair trapped in front of her face is the only thing preventing it from being sexy.
"I didn't mean for it to be that obvious." The two of you may have reached an understanding that it's alright for you to entertain certain thoughts about her, but that doesn't mean it's something that ought to be outwardly noticeable.
"You weren't obvious. I'm just good at detecting things."
Unable to bear it any longer, you set down your glass and move closer to her, sliding the sunglasses from her face.
"Got too sexy for ya?" she jokes smugly, allowing you to brush the hair out of her face.
"It's very distracting," you smile. You cannot fit these loose hairs back into her ponytail, but you can at least sweep them back. Deciding you've had your fun, you fold her sunglasses on the counter instead of putting them back on her face.
You appraise your work. Much better.
"Now," you resume both your prior topic and your wine, "what exactly did you detect?"
"I think..." she squints, "that you have kind of a cop thing you never told me about."
"No I don't. What makes you think that?"
"You like it when I flash my badge," she states matter-of-factly. And she steps back and pulls open one side of her blazer, revealing the badge on her hip, to which your eyes immediately dart. "See, watch. Sha-bow! See? You look every single time."
"I do like when you do that," you grin.
"And that's not a cop thing?" she crosses her arms, looking smug. "So what, you just like shiny objects like a parakeet?"
"I work in a building full of police officers with badges, and I'm not attracted to any of them," you answer thoughtfully. "It's not the badge, per se. It's not that you're a cop.. it has more to do with your strength and physicality and how you carry yourself."
"Hm. So you don't want me to arrest you for being bad."
Cop roleplay? You hadn't expected her to like that.
"That's not really among my fantasies," you admit with a raised eyebrow, going to the refrigerator. "But if you wan-"
"Oh, thank God," her shoulders relax a little. "I thought maybe this was heading for some naughty cop handcuffs shit."
"Oh," you smile. "Me too. I was going to be a little surprised if you were into that kind of roleplay."
"I'm not. It's too close to a lot of.. really unsexy stuff."
You nod in understanding, bringing out a carton of blueberries to quiet your growling stomach, because you aren't about to derail this conversation with talk of dinner.
Truth be told, you would not be totally opposed to the handcuffs part.. although that has nothing to do with the cop theme.
You try on the idea of cold metal clicking around your wrists, but you try to conjure up a Detective Rizzoli who wants to restrain you, and you think about the scars on her hands and what restraint must mean to her, and it loses its appeal.
"What is among your fantasies?"
"Involving you?"
"Mm-hm."
The corners of her mouth are curled confidently, and her eyes are trained on you with playful interest. This is the first time she's initiated a directly sexual conversation outside of either of your darkened bedrooms. It pleasantly surprises you.
But when you search your mental files, you find your brand new Jane Rizzoli sex fantasy folder empty.
"Well, I don't really have a staple fantasy involving you because I haven't been open to thinking about you that way until very recently," you admit, pulling a little too hard on the stubborn plastic lid of the carton and causing a couple of berries to bounce out onto your kitchen floor. "Oops. Don't move, it's right by your foot."
You get on your knees to retrieve the fugitive berries, and when you straighten up, whatever you were about to say flies out of your mind.
You freeze, looking directly at the seam of her slacks. Your eyes trace it up to her circular, heavy steel buckle. And suddenly you are aware of your own heartbeat.
Perhaps you do have one fantasy to add to that folder. To lean forward just a little bit and to skim your lips along the warm seam of those gray slacks.
The fabric is dark and you wonder if your lipstick would show on it. You imagine pressing one firm kiss at the very apex of her legs, and sending her back to work in the bullpen with one bright, perfect lip print there, on fabric light enough to show it. A thrill runs through you that is electric at the top and wet at the end. You glance up, and she's looking down at you with confused amusement.
"Everything okay?"
"Uh-huh," you nod, absentmindedly raising a blueberry to your mouth. She reaches forward and stills your hand, two of her fingertips grazing your lips momentarily. Why? You don't know. You like it.
"Floor berries.."
What? Oh. That was not supposed to be erotic. She was just stopping you from eating that blueberry off the floor. You imagine her having left her fingers by your mouth a moment longer, and you having parted your lips around one of them.
What if you had? On your knees in front of her, looking up into her eyes, sucking softly on her fingertip. What would she have done?
You take a deep breath, pulling yourself out of this tailspin.
Due to many nights with Jane keeping your mind elsewhere, you realize that you've neglected to actually have sex in a while - not to mention your libido just happens to be at its peak. You make a mental note to remedy that soon, but right now you need to get a hold of yourself.
She extends both hands down to you and you accept her help getting to your feet.
"Thank you." You drain the rest of your wine, take a few non-floor berries in your hand and bring them over to the sofa. You need to sit down.
She follows you.
"Do I get to know what that was about?"
"Pardon me. I'm a little.. distracted today," you slip a berry into your mouth. "You uh, look particularly good in this suit."
She stands next to the arm of the couch where you're sitting, and you wonder if she's deliberately giving you another clear view of the area you were just staring at.
You like the smooth plane of her abdomen encased in a crisp button-down shirt, disappearing behind that simple, thick leather belt. You like that area of her body especially, and all the articles attached to her belt. It draws your eye to her hips and makes you think of power.
Powerful hips.
"This suit? I wear this all the time."
"I know," you reply, placing another berry delicately into your mouth. You press it against the roof of your mouth with your tongue until it bursts with juice.
Your eyes return to her belt buckle and you try to remember if you've ever seen her in a different belt. If not, you don't care. You like it. The metal is likely warm from her body heat. You would like to unbuckle it and... or maybe you'd just like to feel it pressed up against you. Very firmly. Yes, that's what you'd like.
She had described herself as a confident lover. You can certainly picture that. Strong and confident.
Strong hips rolling hard against you.
She glances down curiously at her own pants.
"Do I have a mustard stain or something?"
"No," you reply innocently.
"Are you horny?" she asks, amused.
"I am experiencing a spike in estrogen and testosterone at this point in my hormonal cycle, and it does tend to make me a bit.. easily aroused," you explain.
She steps past you and sits on the other end of the couch.
"Penny for your thoughts."
You look over at her.
"Are you sure?"
"We always talk about what I'd want to do. I'm curious what you want to do."
"What I want to do... with you?"
"If that's what you're thinking about."
"It is."
So. Here you are with not only a license to fantasize about her, but with an audience as well. And you're overwhelmed by the open-endedness of it, and the limitless possibilities.
Start simple. Start in reality.
You imagine the two of you back at this morning's crime scene. What would you have done if you didn't have to keep your eyes and your mind off of her? Or your hands? Or your mouth?
You shift slightly in your seat and your eyes shut hard when you feel yourself move slickly against your underwear.
Already.
Are you going to tell her that you want her to touch you? Fill you?
She misunderstands your silence as hesitation.
"Sorry, not if you'd feel weird," she adds. "I just thought since we said-"
"I don't know if you'd like it," you blurt.
"Why, is it kinky?"
"No. It just wouldn't be... like what we've discussed before."
Compared to the sorts of things she tells you for her fantasies, you'd almost be ashamed to tell her what you're thinking - and you don't even know what you're thinking yet. Not that it would be anything filthy or uncaring, but your urges are certainly not limited to gentle petting and kissing. You want her to make you come.
"I wouldn't expect it to be."
"I just don't want to overwhelm you."
"Try me. What's got you going right now?"
You give in.
"The way you look in your suit."
She smirks faintly.
"So what do you want to do with me and my suit?"
You close your eyes for a moment.
"I'd like you to take me somewhere.. I don't know where exactly, I don't like the idea of a public restroom or anything. In theory the urgency of it is arousing, but it'd be so unprofessional, not to mention the bacterial-"
"It's a fantasy, Maura..."
"Yes. Well, let's say you know someplace private to take me in a hurry."
"My cruiser?"
Something about car sex has always been a little distasteful to you.
"No, that won't work for this."
"Ok. A private.. room, somewhere. What happens when we get there?"
You bite your lip.
"It isn't soft, Jane."
"I don't care."
Maybe she won't be scandalized that your fantasy isn't slow and chaste. Maybe she doesn't want that. Maybe she's hoping yours will be more like what hers used to be. Maybe she would like to hear about herself as a confident lover.
"You press me against the wall the instant we get in there. And we're kissing and our hands are everywhere."
"And?"
"And you're in control, and you're strong, and... my head rolls back when you kiss at my neck and push your hand up under my bra."
You imagine her hand palming your breast greedily. Oh, her palms. Her scars. It's the first time you've thought of that. Could you feel them on your breasts? Would it be in poor taste to hope so? Is it wrong that that thought made you wetter?
"Uh-huh," she murmurs.
"And my nipples are so hard and I'm so wet for you." Nothing about that sentence was fantasy.
You take a deep breath. Maybe this is a bit much.
"Uh-huh." You feel the couch cushion moving slightly and notice she's started bouncing one knee.
"And I want you to touch me so badly, and I know you're going to do it for me... and I wrap a leg around your waist. Oh, I forgot to specify I'm wearing a skirt in this."
"You're going to wrinkle a fancy skirt?"
"When you feel how badly I need you you understand why I would't even care if you tore it. And you don't make me wait... you sink your fingers inside me."
"How many?"
"Two. Then three, when I ask you. And it feels so good that I'm moaning out loud. And you hold me there, up against the wall, and you keep kissing me, partly to try to keep me quiet while you..." you were going to say while she fucks you, but you try to think of a less explicit alternative and you cannot, so you leave the sentence unfinished.
You have already communicated the crux of it, and describing it to her in further detail would be gratuitous anyway. This is already a lot to say for the first time you're sharing anything.
You don't tell her the part where maybe this is at work, and you don't care that the rest of the floor can probably hear you moaning her name. Or the part where she grinds her hips against you furiously, coming in her buckled slacks with a deep stoic grunt.
No, you would not really want to have sex at work. But it is a decent fantasy to keep on file.
"And I'm good at this?"
"You're so good. You're strong." You imagine holding onto her while she drives into you, fast and deep and hard. "Tireless."
You look over and she's staring straight ahead at the tv even though it's off, her face pink and her eyes wide. Clearly aroused. Knee bouncing rapidly.
"Do you come?"
The depth of her voice, and what you're going to reply, thrills you.
"So hard you have to hold me up."
You hear her inhale and exhale a slightly shaky breath.
"And aft-" Stop. It's gratuitous.
"What?"
"Never mind."
Tell her. Telling her would excite you so much. And maybe excite her.
Or disgust her. And you don't need to be more excited. There is no release waiting for you at the end of this.
"Tell me," she insists. "What happens after?"
Don't tell her.
You're going to tell her.
"You let me lick your fingers."
Voicing it sends a warm flush and a trickle through you.
Her bouncing knee freezes for a second and starts again.
"The ones I just...?"
"Yeah."
"You like that?"
"I like that a lot." Tasting yourself on your lover is a very reliable turn-on of yours.
You glance over at her fingers, resting on the thigh of her bouncing leg. Long and slender. You picture them fresh from pleasing you, glossed with-
Stop. You aren't doing yourself any favors here.
Your body is tense and aching for release. You forbid yourself to move your hips because with the slightest friction against your underwear you might climax right here on the couch in front of Jane and oh no, that's an exciting thought as well.
You're just going to have to excuse yourself, that's all. You're allowed to go to the bathroom in your own house. She'll know what you're really doing. You don't care. You're only embarrassed that you let your arousal get to that point.
Jane takes a deep breath, slaps her knees and gets up suddenly. You look up, afraid you've put her off.
"Time for my shower," she announces brightly, and without waiting for a reply, toddles off toward the stairs with a slightly unusual gait. You laugh as you watch her go.
You aren't one for jumping to conclusions, but it seems very unlikely that showering is really all she needs to do so urgently. She's beaten you to it.
Listening hard, you make absolutely certain she's really upstairs before you take advantage of the privacy. You don't have long. It doesn't take long.
Even though she's well out of earshot, you bite your lips together to stop yourself from making any noise. You fail.
When she returns to the living room, she finds you sitting prim and proper and relaxed with new underwear and hands smelling of lemon verbena soap.
She returns your knowing smile, and up close, you can tell that she has just cried. You don't comment.
Saturday you have the night to yourself, and an appetite for a woman.
You consider a few numbers in your contact list, and you settle on the only one you're sure won't ask you where you got this appetite. You wouldn't betray Jane's confidence even to someone who has no idea who she is.
It's been a long time since you've even spoken, but you've had an understanding for years, and when one of you calls the other, you know why.
Faye is what they call a good egg. Dignified and reserved in public, revealing no hint of the nature of your relationship in private. She feels like a character out of a Western, like you're old friends with the town's level-headed madam whose heart of gold is a vault of secrets, including what makes you moan.
You meet for drinks. You don't really want the drink and she wouldn't insist on it either, but making a booty call with no preamble at all would be too déclassé. She's intelligent, certainly not a bore to have a conversation with, but it's just not the part of the evening you're eager for.
Then finally, it is. And you drop yourself nude into her plush bedding that smells like cedar and sage.
You feel so overripe and her mouth is such a relief that you are unusually vocal. She pauses to look up at you, quizzically pleased, and you laugh.
Oh, is she talented.
