Ok, a number of you asked for more detail. I have no problem with that since this story is about their intimacy & sexual relationship and I meant for there to be heat, as long as it's meaningful heat. I hope I do ok in finding a sexy-tasteful balance.

"Alibi's solid," Frost declares.

Jane makes a sulking noise and drops her head back.

You double-take. This is far from the first time she's done this in front of you, but somehow at this moment, her throat is the most tantalizing thing you've ever seen. Your eyes feast on her jawline, her thyroid and cricoid cartilage and jugular notch and the beautiful color of her skin. You want to trace a line all the way from her chin dimple to the bottom of her V-neck.

Knowing she doesn't like her throat touched is the only thing that keeps you from rushing closer and pressing your lips against it. Is that what's giving you such a desire for it - knowing you can't?

Oh, is that something you'd love to see from above her one day. If she might tilt her head back in pleasure and expose that beautif-

"Is it, Doc?"

"I'm sorry?" you snap out of it, cheeks warming. Everyone's looking at you. You might have just licked your lips.

"Is that amount of cyanide lethal?" Frost repeats, jutting his chin at the report that you forgot was in your hands.

"Oh. N-no. Not nearly," you hope you recover quickly, glancing at the numbers. "In fact, you could expect higher concentrations as a result of ingesting the cyanogenic glycosides found in a few servings' worth of almonds, apple seeds or fruit pits, which would still be harmless."

"Who's eating fruit pits," Jane frowns, grabbing her phone from her desk.

Yours buzzes in your pocket.

It's a text from her.

{ Keep it together for a couple more hours :)

You look up and she finds a private enough moment in the midst of Frost and Korsak's discussion to shoot you a look. Both of you share a faint smirk at the knowledge of what you're going to do when you get home.

Every phase of your relationship with Jane has been genuinely enjoyable, but you're really, really enjoying this phase.

Because you've waited unusually long, and because of the newness of it, you can barely get enough of her. You promised this is temporary and you really have a very average libido. She just laughed. She has yet to turn you away.

Fortunately for you, she's approached this step the same way as all the others: after taking a long time to dip a toe in the water, she's cannonballed in.

You have never known Jane to be so eager a student.

What little instruction you give, she takes well. She's very attentive to your body language; quick to build on what you like, and abandon what you don't. She learns when you like your anticipation to be drawn out just a little, but never teases you, and never denies or delays when you ask for something. You have not had to request anything twice.

The best quality, though, is simple and one that could never be taught: her touch always makes you feel loved. You've had some very talented lovers in your life, but none who could boast of that one.

The end of the workday can't come soon enough, because you have something you want to investigate much more than stomach contents. It's a pattern you've noticed.

With goodnight and morning sex she's quite soft and sweet with you; after work sex is a bit hotter and bolder. Maybe it involves the time of day, or her mindset, energy or hormone levels, even her attire. You could simply ask, but it sounds much more fun to run some experiments and try to figure it out yourself.

The end of the workday can't come soon enough.

You walk sideways and backwards kissing though your entryway and are already taking your blouse off as you start up the stairs.

In your bedroom she reaches for her belt.

"Leave it," you request, eyeing her badge and gun.

This is the variable you wanted to test today. You think it might subconsciously give her confidence. (Also.. you like it.)

She arches a brow. It's so sexy when she does that.

"We're gonna talk about this later."

"Good." You plop back onto your bed, already in just your underwear. Making it easy.

She stands at the foot of your bed gathering her hair into a quick bun, looking down at you approvingly with a sly grin that makes you shiver.

And she climbs on top of you, just like she has automatically every time since the first time you pulled her onto you. She loves being on top. You think it makes her feel in control.

But before she does what you've wanted for hours now, even though it couldn't be clearer that you're ready, she still pauses to check your eyes for permission. She does that every time, and you've decided not to say anything about it. You know she has to do that and maybe always will.

You nod.

And then you're living the scene that's been threatening to sidetrack your work all day.

You, nude, beneath her. Her, still in her work clothes. Sleeves rolled, arm working hard between you. Your legs sliding against her slacks and hands gripping at the back of her shirt. Defiant hair already starting to fall out of her bun and tickle your face.

Detective Rizzoli, but Jane. Cocky grin but heartfelt kisses. Strong hands but deep soft honey voice.

Soft lips make their way down your chest. It's always a surprise hot her mouth is.

"That feel pretty good?" she chuckles, looking up from your nipple. The noise you just made must have been funny. You pull her mouth back where you want it.

She's using her thumb like you taught her. It's too good.

And that's when you say it. You had every intention of saying it at some point, but you meant to plan it better. You didn't mean for your first "fuck me" to just leak out of your mouth.

Both of you pause for just an instant. You find brows high with amusement, probably because you look surprised too, and because she doesn't know you ever say that word, because you don't use it as an interjection. Her grin tells you that little word is going to be taken excellent care of.

She leans down to whisper in your ear when she begins to move again.

And now that she's fine with that, you don't seem to be able to say much else.

You say it and she says it and she does it.

Why does it sound sweet instead of dirty? She is cayenne and sugar. It short circuits your brain in the most wonderful way.

You are so close and she is so.. ? Hot? Gorgeous? Perfect? Yes, but it's not even half about her appearance. There isn't a word how much you adore her, or for her being so familiar she feels like home. There isn't a word for her. She's just Jane. She's so so, so Jane.

You pull at strong shoulders and you beg Jane Jane Jane even though she's already doing exactly what you want. Firmer, faster like you need, even though her arm must burn. Slick and deep and good.

"You close?" she hums, kissing your throat. "You wanna come, beautiful?"

You nod, your throat too dry.

It's not like she's holding your release hostage until you say yes. It's not mindless talk. It's like she's actually checking for your consent even while you're writhing and begging. You mustn't think about why right now.

"Come on, baby," she urges lovingly.

Maybe she's classically conditioning you with that name, because you do immediately.

You fill your quiet bedroom with her name.

You love knowing she's feeling the whole thing with you, from the first crashing wave to the last, faintest ripple.

Looking proud, she drops herself at your side.

Now it's time for a first you actually did plan on.

You reach for her hand and bring it up, where both of you look at her fingers. Wide eyes flick from it to you, and you watch her remember what you once said.

You look at her for permission. She nods like she has to remember how.

Cursing quietly, she slams her eyes shut as soon as you kiss her fingertips.

Still warm.

Her other hand fumbles urgently at her belt buckle and buries itself urgently in her slacks. It looks like you're not the only one who likes this.

You grin, and slide her middle finger softly into your mouth.

She comes almost instantly.

.

You admire the form stretched out on the bed next to you. A little longer and leaner than you. A little darker, stronger, wilder than you. There's some majestic, lazy beauty in the way she's resting with one arm slung over you, like a panther napping on a tree limb.

She would snort if you said that. She would tell you all this sex is making your brain go soft.

You'd ask her to make it even softer and she would.

How did this happen?

This was your heterosexual best friend. You were the one attracted to her. You were the one who volunteered to attend to her sexual needs, with no reciprocation. You'd have dropped what you were doing, any time she asked. You still would.

Now, somehow, she's the one doing that for you instead.

Often, she sees to herself after you're taken care of. Sometimes not. When she does, you'll kiss her and encourage her, but that's it.

You want to touch her more than ever. Waiting for that is a little easier now in a way, but harder in another.

She sees you looking at her.

"Better?"

"Better," you sigh.

"You come so pretty." She brushes away the hair stuck to your forehead and kisses there.

"So do you," you smile, touching her lips. "Your voice sounds like honey."

She playfully bites your fingertip between her top teeth and bottom lip, very gently, then kisses it.

"So explain to me again how you don't have a cop thing?"

"I don't. I told you, I have a you thing. I can't help it if you're a cop."

"Good thing I didn't go into the family business or you'd be all hot and bothered about overalls and toilet plungers."

"You'd make it work," you laugh into her collar.

You go quiet for a while, liking the way her thumb is stroking back and forth on your side.

"Jane, I didn't..."

"Huh?"

"I didn't somehow trick you into this, did I?" you frown.

"Into what?"

"This," you gesture at your own naked body. "I mean, I was the one who..."

Her smile goes sideways and you know she knows what you mean.

"You aren't doing this because you feel like you have to keep me happy until you're ready for more, right?"

"I'm doing it 'cause I love you, genius. And it makes us both feel good."

"Does it? Does it make you feel good?"

"It makes me feel great."

It probably is helping to boost her confidence. And pleasing you does promise her a dose of oxytocin as well, although not one that quite compares to yours.

"Even if you don't get a turn?" you ask. "You don't always seem to want one."

You don't mind if she doesn't want to come. You just want to be sure that's the case.

"I don't always. Sometimes I'd rather just relax with you."

"Even if you're wet?"

"Mm-hm." She turns her face against your forehead, so that you feel her lips brush your skin when she speaks. "Sometimes it feels nice just to be wet for you."

You blink, wondering how it would feel to be content with that.

But, oh. Jane wet.

You wonder how wet she gets.

How warm she would feel, and if she would make a sound when you touched her.

How she would taste.

The fantasy of finding out makes you flush all over again. You can't even imagine how it would happen. How she'd ask. How she'd open herself to you.

If the knowledge of what Jane tastes like was something that could be bought, you would tremble your signature onto a check for any amount right now. But you aren't sure how you tell a person that without them getting the wrong idea about your priorities.

"It feels nice to know you are," you reply, impressed at how calm you manage to sound.

The lips already against your forehead purse and relax again.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, and judging from her voice, she probably already has a good idea.

There's no reason to conceal the answer.

"I'm fantasizing about tasting you."

Silence, for long enough that you start to wonder if you should've said that.

"I think about that a lot," she replies finally.

"Me too."

"Remember the time you said... um, you'd do that for me any time I asked? I.. think about that a lot."

"Still true," you smile, kissing her jaw.

"I have no idea how I'd ask," she admits laughingly.

"What do you mean? You just ask."

"I don't know, it seems like a funny thing to just ask for. Takes some nerve. What am I, some dude," she deepens her voice, " 'hey hon, can I get a BJ and a sandwich?' "

"Firstly, I've never known you to be lacking in nerve, and secondly, you're not some dude, you're the woman I love. And thirdly, I would happily throw in a healthy snack provided you asked nicely."

She laughs, and plays with your fingers for a minute.

"I want you to someday," she says quietly. "I'm trying."

"Take your time. Honey." You're happy she doesn't miss it. "I'll be there when you're ready."

"Would.." she swallows. "Would you tell me about it again?" she asks. Like it's a bedtime story she's slightly embarrassed to enjoy so much. "Tell me how you'll do it?"

"See? Not so hard to ask," you grin.

And you move close to her ear, and you tell her.

"This is like a speed reading course, there's no time to see what's going- hey, you're not even watching! You chose this."

You open your eyes, smiling with your lips sealed. Honestly, you're enjoying Jane's affection much more than you're enjoying the movie.

"I've seen it before and I understand French," you reply contentedly, settling your head back against her shoulder.

A romantic relationship with a woman has its perks: nobody has ever taken care of you like this when you're on your period. It's not that you need care. You didn't ask for it. You don't even always tell her what day it is, but she's gotten it right every time so far.

Without fail, you receive a fresh glazed donut at your desk midday and a back rub after work. That's been standard for months now.

More recently, you've discovered that she'll consent to watching any movie of your choice, and that if you curl right up against her on the couch, she'll rub gentle, soothing circles low on your abdomen.

No one's ever done that for you, and you would never have asked them to. She must've just seen from your body language that you were uncomfortable, and started doing it. After a moment of surprise, you liked it.

Now you're torn. This is your best chance to get her to watch foreign films with minimal complaint, and you don't want to ruin it.

On the other hand, she's obviously vastly overestimating your pain level, and is it dishonest to let her continue? You didn't ask for this. You're suffering nothing more than a dull ache and never claimed otherwise.

But your itchy neck decides for you.

"I have a confession."

"Yeah?"

"I love the way you pamper me, but I'm not sure my symptoms warrant this treatment... I'm really feeling very little pain."

"Oh. I know," she replies without taking her eyes from the screen.

"How do you know that?"

"Your eyebrow would be doing that thing if you were seriously hurting."

Unconsciously you reach up to touch your brow, like you're going to find something out of place.

You frown. If you have a tell, and she knows better this time, then she's probably known better every time. So why does she still dote on you like a pregnant wife?

"Then why do you do all this for me?"

When she doesn't answer right away, you wonder if she's trying so hard to keep up with the subtitles that she didn't hear you. The movement of her hand stalls for just an instant.

"I don't like you being in a little pain."

You study her profile.

"You're sweet," you declare. "And for someone who doesn't suffer from dysmenorrhea, you certainly have uncanny instincts for how to..."

Wait, why have you had it in your mind that she doesn't - because she never said so? It's not that she isn't a complainer - she absolutely is, just not when it comes to pain. You've sutured wounds without her admitting it hurt.

This is the only woman in a division of men, with sexist ridicule awaiting her if she fails to appear the toughest of them all. And before that, the only girl growing up among her brothers. To admit to pain is to appear weak, and a female brand of pain is the last type she would ever have been in the habit of admitting to.

If she actually had it worse than you, would she tell you so? Probably, if you asked. She tells you things she's never told anyone.

Maybe you're wrong. Still, you can't shake the feeling that this might not be all about you, whether she realizes it or not.

She looks at you to see where the end of your sentence went.

"Hey, don't start bawling on me," she snorts, looking back toward the lovers on the screen. "They're gonna get back together by the end, right?"

You rest your head on her shoulder again, nodding and closing your eyes.