A/N: I need to issue a little warning with this chapter, everyone: it's a cross between very strong T and very mild M, so just keep that in mind. This one isn't very explicit, but let's just say I haven't left very much to the imagination. Also, the first section might sound a bit angst-ridden at first, but it's not meant to be that way. I just wanted to write a little something about the way Cal handled willpower in order to move onto section number two. Hope you all enjoy! And as always, many heartfelt thanks for reading & reviewing!

When his only response was yet another groan, she repeated the action of her hips for the second time. And right then and there, as Cal decided that surely this was heaven on earth, and that he'd do whatever it took to spend the rest of his life with Gillian… she dropped an all-too-brief kiss to the shell of his ear and whispered…

"Decided to go commando, I see. Much as I appreciate the authenticity, Cal, you might want to rethink that one. As impressive a sight as it is – and trust me, it definitely is – I'm not sure that a tented kilt is the conversation piece you want our staff to focus on while we're dancing tonight."

Self-control. Restraint. Discipline. Willpower.

Most people who knew the professional side of Cal Lightman would probably argue that he was total shit at adhering to the parameters of any of those four terms. They'd probably describe him as a gruff workaholic – the type of man who saw 'networking' as a type of modern day torture, rather than an opportunity to sell his science to the highest bidder. And then they'd also tell you that he wasn't afraid to get dirty… that he saw rules as suggestions, rather than guidelines… and that he didn't shy away from using unconventional business practices, so long as the end justified the means.

Throw himself in front of a loaded gun and voluntarily become a hostage?

Survive waterboarding, then be ballsy enough to antagonize a psychopath while being forced to dig his own grave?

Improvise a sexual assault, just to trigger the appearance of someone's alternate personality, which, in turn, provided the clues to solving a case?

Yes, he'd done all that and more, somehow still managing to look his own reflection in the eye most mornings. Hey – he'd never claimed to be perfect, and sometimes the old demons that lived inside him needed something tangible with which to do battle.

But.

The people who truly knew his personal struggles would've likely told a very different story. Because on the flip side of that anti-social, rule-bending, narcissistic coin, lived a man who'd thrown himself headlong into his science as a way to apologize for the sins in his past – and even if he saved ten, fifty, even five hundred innocent lives in the process… it would likely never make up for the one life he hadn't been able to save, years ago.

Those closest to Cal would probably describe his emotions as "disciplined." They'd explain that because he'd grown so accustomed to hiding the depth of his feelings, he didn't tend to share them voluntarily… and then they'd tell you that he often used his infamous Lightman 'bravado' as a way to disguise his own secret pain. Those aforementioned demons could be bloody insatiable, it seemed.

Risk life and limb in a desert war zone, while trying to save one American man who'd been used as a pawn?

Use his body as a human shield, in hopes of saving his best friend from the fiery grip of a devastating bomb?

Willingly descend into the depths of a volatile mine shaft to play human canary, while his partner – the woman he'd loved for years – was left behind to clean up his mess, and drown her emotions in the contents of his liquor cabinet?

All of those things were certainly pieces of the puzzle. Jagged-edged and colorful, they each told some of his story – showed the world a glimpse into the mind of a man who'd spent his entire adult life searching for truth, only to wind up hiding from it in his own life.

Gillian, though, would have been able to cut to the heart of the matter in a few simple words. Because regardless of what Cal thought he was hiding – and regardless of how many times she'd watched him play the martyr under the guise of not being 'good enough' – she'd known one irrefutable truth: he'd always been stronger than his demons.

Restraint, willpower, and self-control had served him well for years. They'd written the rulebook that told him how to act, how to think, and how to fantasize. They'd built barriers around his heart, to try and protect it from too much exposure… too much risk… too much loss. But those walls had crumbled into dust, and he'd finally battled enough of his past to face the future with optimism rather than fear. And now when he stood face to face with Gillian – close enough to taste the promise of forever, and feel the cadence of her heartbeat, strong and steady beneath his palm – Cal Lightman felt like a new man. One who was worthy of loving her with his whole heart, scar tissue and all.

He was breathing heavily in a matter of seconds, no longer aware of where they were standing, or what they were wearing, or much of anything, really. He watched his own hand dart out to trace the bodice of her costume, as she rocked her hips into again and let out tiny little moan. Oh, she looked positively edible – better than any of the fantasies he'd ever entertained.

(And trust him, it was not a short list.)

Gillian ran her fingers up the length of his arm and traced the contours of his bicep with a torturously slow touch. He could smell the sweet, inviting scent of vanilla and spices lingering in the air, and he longed to lap greedily at the smooth expanse of her neck – to mark her in a visible way. She was his, and he was hers, and no other truth had ever made him happier.

When her grip tightened around his muscle and he felt those dangerous hips of hers press forward twice more, Cal lost his breath. He groaned her name between tightly gritted teeth and forced a bit of distance between their bodies. Those willpower-enforced walls he'd assumed had long been crumbled into dust? Turns out they'd managed to rebuild themselves from the ground up, and were now squeezing like a vice around all of his baser instincts. Meaning that he could fantasize… but not experience. And he could speak, but he couldn't engage his mouth in any more imaginative uses until after the party.

Squeeze, squeeze.

Having little trouble reading his… discomfort, Gillian's lips pulled into a smirk as she eyed him up and down. For as much as his fantasies had always labeled her as passive, she was doing quite the fantastic job on the aggressive front as well. And oh, he'd never been so thankful for that aforementioned willpower in his entire life – because if not for the fear of ruining her costume with his rough, male enthusiasm, then he likely would've flung her onto his bed and had them both coming apart at the seams in a matter of minutes.

She smirked again and inched toward him, careful to counter every last bit of his retreat with an advance of her own. Cal was running out of options, and with every whisper-soft touch of her skin against his, he struggled to maintain some semblance of control. After all, they weren't exactly the quietest couple (nudge, nudge), and he wasn't looking to provide their guests with a copy of their sexual soundtrack.

So he took a few deep breaths, then grasped tightly to her waist while he locked his gaze to hers. He wanted to even out the stakes, just a bit. To let her know that he did want her – badly – and that if she could wait just a few more hours, then he'd make damn sure the end result was worthwhile. After all… self-control wasn't such a terrible thing, so long as one knew how to use it properly.

"Always knew roulette could be a dangerous game," Cal said gruffly. His accent was thick, and her smile was devilish, and it was nearly impossible to ignore his body's instinct to press roughly into hers. "But you're taking 'dangerous' to a whole new level here, love."

He was watching her from beneath heavy lids, having dropped his hands down to her hips to squeeze against the contours he found there, and trying not to watch the path her tongue took as she rather deliberately began to moisten her own lips. And either she hadn't heard a single word he said, or she didn't much care to listen. Which simultaneously make him the luckiest and most disciplined man in all of North America, because… well… let's just say that right about then, he probably could've gotten away with asking her for anything.

Instead of giving into his arousal and making requests, though, he tried to appeal to her responsible side. "Any minute now, we'll have a house full of people downstairs – stupid costumes and inane chatter included. I'd rather not let them know that upstairs… you've raised the stakes so bloody high that it'll be a miracle if my circulatory system is still fully functional by the end of the evening."

Three… two… one…

The silence that followed his comment should've been Cal's first clue that something was a bit… off. And he should've realized that by taking his focus off of Gillian's arousal long enough to try and manage his own, he'd actually wound up playing right into her hands. But he was distracted and frustrated – barely able to hear himself think over the pounding, pulsing ache between his thighs – and he didn't see the moment when everything changed.

Approximately three seconds after his quip about circulation, Gillian let out a low, breathy chuckle. Then her right hand dropped to his groin, and she slowly dragged her fingernails back and forth against the evidence of his arousal. "Shame you look so grumpy then, when obviously… the 'stakes' aren't the only thing I've raised."

(Never let it be said that she let a golden opportunity go to waste, yeah? The woman was brilliant at sexual innuendo, and apparently no longer shy about making her talents known.)

She stroked against him, leaving only the fabric of the kilt as a barrier between her hand and his overheated skin as she refused to break eye contact. How he managed to stand upright, Cal had no idea. But within a few short moments, his fingers had gone from squeezing against the contours of her hips, to grasping desperately at her shoulders as he struggled to form a coherent sentence. There were words were in his head – something about how good everything felt, and how he really hoped she dipped her hand beneath the hemline – but they couldn't shake themselves past his gritted teeth and out into the heated air. Sexual frustration and an over-abundance of willpower had led to lockjaw, apparently.

But as luck would have it… while his inner "Good Boy" was off hunting for a white towel to wave, Gillian just-so happened to manage a few choice words of her own.

"Tell me, Doctor Lightman," she breathed, "is that a caber under your kilt, or are you just really happy to see me?"

Now… if Cal could've written a fantasy that paired a Roulette-inspired Gillian with one of the most erotic things he'd ever imagined her asking, then what he'd just heard would most certainly have topped it. As would the look on her face, and the scent of her skin, and the way she moaned ever-so slightly as her hand finally – oh, bloody hell, finally! – slipped beneath that heavy, pleated fabric and wrapped eagerly around his length with a firm squeeze. The entire scene felt as though she'd peeked inside his imagination and brought everything to life.

Technicolor bursts of light exploded behind his heavy lids as she began to move with purpose, and he realized there likely wasn't anything in the world strong enough to keep his willpower in check much longer. His body was weak, and her hands were brilliant, and he was already approaching the point of no return faster than he ever would've expected. It took him only a matter of seconds to decide that self-control was, in fact, the devil, and he'd been a stupid, stupid man for trying to deny himself what she was all-too willing to offer.

Gillian worked him with a steady rhythm, while he groaned her name through his dry lips. And a beat later, when his hands automatically squeezed against her shoulders even more firmly and then pressed down on them, she let out a low chuckle. When he repeated that action for a second time (involuntarily, mind you – he wasn't trying to force her) she shifted her weight and took a half step backwards, careful to let him keep control of her upper body while she kept control of his groin.

The room was hot, and his head was spinning, and he was slightly embarrassed that she'd caught him so completely off guard. But, since this particular activity didn't generate much noise… he hadn't yet come up with a reason to stop her.

(Not that he was trying very hard.)

He did, however find his voice. She said something about wanting to make him feel good, and then something else about kicking everyone out on their arses if they weren't gone before midnight, and as her pace increased… as every nerve ending in his body snapped to attention and stared at his manhood with jealousy… Cal spoke three rather stupid words: "Best. Party. Ever."

It wasn't his proudest moment, but hey – lack of blood flow to the brain did have its consequences. Gillian, though, didn't seem to mind his stupidity. Instead, her smirk widened; she was enjoying their little game just as much as he was. His fingers gripped against her skin, and his breathing kept time with her movements as he pressed down on her shoulders for a third time. The movement was instinctual rather than deliberate, because she was far too talented, and he was far too aroused to pay attention to details. Desire had completely overridden conscious thought.

"I take it that you're trying to tell me something," Gillian chuckled, as she shifted her weight again and changed her grip. And he startled, then – heavy lids quickly flying open as awareness hit – but she dropped to her knees before he could backpedal, and she smiled up at him with something akin to palpable lust written all over her face. Oh, if this was the kind of reaction a few visible tattoos and a kilt caused in her, then he'd likely start wearing them as a goddamn uniform.

In no time at all, she'd gathered the hem of his kilt and lifted it up, shoving he extra material into his palm so that both of her hands had full access to his body. Why in hell he tried to stop her, he'd never know. Call it chivalry… call it feeling like a selfish wanker because he knew he wouldn't get to return the favor until after everyone had gone home… but whatever the reason, the phrase "Listen, Gill, are you sure you really want…" shot out of his mouth of its own accord and landed near his feet with a proverbial thud.

The comment was so ridiculous that even the letters forming those words started laughing at him, because there wasn't even a hint of doubt written on anything Gillian Foster was doing. She knew what she wanted, and she was bloody well going to take it.

And as everything around them suddenly took on a new level of urgency – as he felt her breath tickle the most sensitive parts of his body, while her lips finally wrapped around their target – Cal closed his eyes and let every single sensation wash over him. Whatever he'd done to deserve having her in his life like this – open, and honest, and passionate, and perfect – one thing was clear: every ounce of discipline and self-control he'd ever endured had all been one thousand percent worthwhile, simply because they'd led him to a life lived with her.

Barely able to stand upright, Cal was slumped against the wall and smiling like a Cheshire cat. His face was flushed, and his breathing was erratic, and his entire body was tingling with the warm, languid haze of afterglow. He felt damn near invincible. Gillian had fine-tuned everything about that little interlude so perfectly that his head was still spinning – and the fact that he was head-over-heels in love with her only heightened every sensation.

She was absolutely brilliant.

With impeccable timing – acting almost as though she'd read his mind – she let out a satisfied sigh as she straightened her skirt and eyed him with a mixture of pride and lust. "That was…," she started, letting the words trail away as her tone dripped with unspoken possibilities. "…The most fun I've ever had rendering you speechless. Think we can try it again sometime soon?"

A slight correction? The woman was brilliant and insatiable. Quite the marvelous combination, as far as he was concerned.

"Aye, aye," he panted, pushing himself away from the wall as he moved toward her. "Bit of a warning though: if we walk downstairs together – with you looking like a live-action version of my naughtiest fantasy, and me unable to wipe this bloody satisfied grin off my face – then everyone in this house is going to have a pretty good idea of what just happened up here. Sure you're ready for that, love?"

For just a moment, Gillian's eyes widened as the truth behind his statement became clear. But then she shrugged her shoulders and gave him a breathy little laugh, almost as if to say, "Challenge accepted." Rarely – if ever – was the woman afraid of anything. Lest of all what anyone else thought about her personal life.

She turned toward the mirror, smoothing her hair and reapplying a bit of lip-gloss as she searched for the appropriate reply. And while she grew pensive… his ears were trained on the noises that began drifting up the staircase as their guests began to arrive. They weren't exactly a subtle group, and the image of a dozen costume-clad bulls hit his imagination as soon as he heard Loker saying something about a limbo contest and a Frankenstein-shaped piñata. Bloody hell, that was just what they needed, yeah? Alcohol consumption and a game that involved smacking things with a giant stick. He could practically hear the premiums on his homeowner's policy being raised.

Oblivious to the arrival of the thundering herd downstairs, Gillian scoffed. Then she moved toward him with a slight gleam in her eyes and said, "Face it, Cal: our staff isn't stupid. And if Emily doesn't tell them about our relationship as soon as they walk through the door, then they'll figure it out themselves the first time someone works the word "caber" into the conversation, and you nearly swallow your tongue. So unless you plan to walk around with a frown on your face for the rest of the night…"

Of course he didn't give her the chance to finish that comment – the opportunity was a golden one, and he wasn't about to let it pass by. So, he stroked the back of his hand down the side of her face and said, "After what you just did for me? Not a chance, Gill. Bloody unlikely I'll ever frown again."

Point made, he inhaled the scent of her skin and brushed his lips against forehead. He pressed soft, gentle kisses there, once… twice… and on the third time, she let out a satisfied sigh. "Wear that costume again for me sometime," she said lazily, "and I'll be sure to treat you to a repeat performance."

Her breath hitched as his lips immediately found the shell of her ear, and he felt her muscles grow tense as she fought to keep control over her words. Hey – there might not have been enough time for total quid pro quo, but he couldn't resist the urge to give her a little preview.

Gillian giggled and squirmed, somehow managing to step out of his grasp faster than he'd expected. She looked happy and content – not to mention more than a little bit flirtatious – and she reached down to tweak his groin again, before pulling her had away with a triumphant smirk.

"Authenticity aside," she offered, "I still think it's probably for the best if you don't go commando. Radical honesty and lie detection make for a pretty strong powder keg all by themselves, right? Throw in a little bit of alcohol and a teenager who is probably looking for any excuse to embarrass us after our 'Sasquatch slippers and paper beak' prank, and we're about to walk right into a mine field."

Yes. Yes, that was all very bloody true, and she'd managed to put it in a context he hadn't quite considered yet. A houseful of people hell-bent on having a fun didn't exactly go hand in hand with a kilt-wearing boss who'd misplaced his underpants. Before he could actually agree with her, though, Gillian smirked again and made a beeline for the bedroom door.

She disengaged the lock and leaned out into the hallway, blushing slightly as the voices of their subordinates wafted up the staircase. "Come on, Cal – the fact that we're having sex was pretty much an inevitability, right? They've probably been making bets about it for years, and I highly doubt it'll come as a very big shock. So trust me – I don't care if everyone downstairs knows about our relationship. But if it's all the same to you… starting right now, I'd prefer it if I'm the only one who gets to see any tenting, anywhere. Deal?"

A/N: Up next: Cal's party finally gets underway, there are costumes galore, and everyone reacts to the change in his relationship with Gillian.