March 25
"What does not kill me makes me stronger." - Frederich Nietzsche
The last time Leroy Jethro Gibbs had drunk too much bourbon, it hadn't ended well.
A man entirely capable of handling his liquor, he enjoyed the taste of the liquid against his tongue – the fact it lingered on his lips if he licked them.
Even better, Jenny's lips.
He watched her sanding the boat, dressed in a pair of his boxers and his infamous red hoodie. His eyes trailed the length of her body, drinking her in.
The way her hair moved as she did. The smell of the shampoo and soap drifting across to him, mixed with that of the wood shavings. Her shoulders – strong and determined. Her thighs...
"Is there a reason you're staring at me?" She teased, leaning back against the spine of the boat. Crossing her legs at the ankle, she licked her lips. Gibbs continued to stare, bringing the mason jar to finish the last mouthful. "You're drunk." She noted, watching as he shrugged his shoulders and made his way, slowly, to stand in front of her.
Pressing his body along the length of hers, he pushed her back so her body curved, exposing her neck for him to trail a line of kisses along her skin. Jenny rested her hands on his hips, digging her fingers into his skin as he moved his hips against hers.
She tasted like she smelt – soap, wood and bourbon. It was familiar.
"You taste like soap." He commented, feeling her laugh under him.
"You're definitely drunk."
"So are you." He argued, letting his tongue trail along her lips before her mouth captured his. Working his hands inside the hoodie she wore, he brushed his fingers over her breasts, hearing the breath catch in her throat. He smiled, pulling away so he could remove the layers separating them.
Sometimes, patience was overrated.