A/N: I wanted to give another massive thank you for the feedback! You guys are great! Also, this chapter came out a bit closer to the M rating than I'd expected - there's quite a lot of innuendo at the end, and some scattered throughout the whole thing. I don't imagine any of you are surprised by that, but still... thought I'd mention it.

Enjoy!


And she was warm, and sweet, and so bloody perfect with the way her hands gripped his body, and the way her lips glided against his over and over again in a complimentary rhythm that made his head spin and his groin begin to ache in bittersweet neglect. And when they finally broke apart… when he finally found the strength to pull himself away from her mouth and look up into her eyes… he would not have cared if every telephone, doorbell, siren, fire alarm, car horn, or air horn in the city went off simultaneously right there in the kitchen with them. Because it was their moment – finally – and there was no way in bloody hell he was going to let it slip through his fingers.


Intense.

That was the only way to describe it, really. The feel of Cal's fingertips on the soft skin of her neck and throat… the warmth of his body bleeding through two layers of clothing and straight into hers… the rasp of his unshaven jaw, as it nuzzled against her cheek for a moment that was almost aching in its brevity. All of it – every touch, every sigh, and every second – circled back to that one, deceptively simple term: intense.

His breath was shallow, coming in soft waves as she leaned into him just a bit more. Physically, they were so very, very close but it still wasn't enough to satisfy her completely. No, she wanted to pull him in – literally. She wanted to feel his body surrounded by hers, in every possible way, and it was frustratingly bittersweet to realize that they simply could not do that yet: that they could not have sex against his kitchen wall first thing on a Wednesday morning, when she knew damn well that pressing appointments covered both of their schedules all day.

The responsible part of her brain already knew what would happen; she'd tease and taunt herself with fantasies of what they could be doing, but in the end… she'd march right up the stairs, take a quick shower (alone), and head off to her first meeting without knowing what it felt like to have him between her thighs.

But

But the impetuous part of her brain didn't care about appointments, because it was too busy focusing on Cal's hands. That's right: his hands. His strong, skilled, confident hands, and the way they moved across her body like they'd been custom made to roam it. And just as she felt one of them slide from the nape of her neck, down past her ribcage, and back up again – creating gooseflesh in its wake and leaving her unable to hide the shiver that shook her from head to toe – her inner bad girl (the Queen of Impetuosity, herself) began tapping her on the shoulder and insisting that oh yes, they could very easily have sex against his kitchen wall. All systems were set to "go," so to speak. Her body was practically on fire, and so was his.

She could feel it.

And, she could see it.

And oh, hell… she wanted it.

Trust those same skilled fingers, though, to be the voice of reason that snapped her out of her lascivious daydreams and back into reality. It was… well, it was uncanny how he did it, really. One second she'd been ready to go for his belt, and the next he'd taken his left hand and reached for her left hand. Then he'd laced their fingers together and squeezed, so that all she could feel was skin against skin and not – as the case had always been before – skin against a gold ring against skin.

"See Gill?" he breathed. And then while she stood slack-jawed and slightly stunned, he raised their entwined hands high enough for her to see them, so that his knuckles faced her, and her knuckles faced him. "It's just like I told you last night. We match."

The movement was a bit awkward and the words were overly simple… but the gesture behind them was overwhelmingly sweet. She knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what he meant; she understood that he was showing her how new everything was now – in using his own unique, "Cal-esque" way to do it.

She had every intention of answering him verbally –something about patience being a virtue, or good things coming to those who wait, or something else mildly generic – but then he pressed his lips against those knuckles, covering every square inch of exposed skin with soft, warm kisses, and she was just… gone. She couldn't have spoken if she'd tried, because words just felt like such a damned inferior way to describe her emotions. They felt limited and vague; as if all the letters in the alphabet could never be combined or reconfigured in any way that would even come close to filling the void she needed them to fill.

So when her only response was a soft, genuine smile and a low, breathy moan that made him grip her hand noticeably tighter, she knew she'd just given him exactly what he wanted. And he looked positively ravenous to see the level of raw emotion she hadn't bothered to hide. Arousal, love, excitement, resolve, and just the tiniest bit of nervous tension – it was all there. His for the taking.

And so… he did. He took it.

(Just not in the way she expected.)

Truth be told, what she'd expected was for Cal to pull her closer… to crash his mouth against hers in a frenzied, frantic tangle of lips and tongue until he told her with action, rather than word, exactly how he felt. She expected him to grip her hips, her bottom, her shoulders – everywhere and anywhere – with purpose and possession, until she was a puddle beneath his touch. And while she did not expect them to have sex (and yes, her brain used the term "sex" and not "make love" since she knew they'd only have a few minutes to enjoy themselves), she did expect something… erotic.

This was Cal, after all. As far as she was concerned, eroticism was one of his natural talents.

So, when he began to stroke his very talented fingertips away from her throat, down over the slope of her shoulders, and then along the curve of her spine, she thought she'd made an accurate prediction. And now that his hands were in her southern hemisphere, every square inch of her skin was attuned to their presence – ready and willing to guide him to all the hotspots (pun intended) at the first possible opportunity.

But then he edged backwards to allow a tiny bit of space to creep between their bodies and she realized she'd gotten it wrong. She felt his fingers tighten against her hips as his breathing began to change, and when she finally focused on his face – rather than the proximity of his body to hers – then her breathing changed, too. It caught in her throat with a whimper, as she creaked out his name and brought her own hands to the small of his back.

Despite the fact that he was trying like hell to hide it, Gillian knew that Cal had suddenly gotten very nervous. That much was obvious. What she didn't know, however, was why.

Not quite yet.

"Gillian, I… I can't promise that things will always be easy for us," he started. "And I can't promise that I'll always know the right things to say or do or think, to make you understand just exactly how much you mean to me – here, in my heart."

Trust two short sentences to simultaneously answer the question of "why," and make her breath catch in her throat. Cal was… oh, he was raising their hands again, and clasping hers against his chest – right over his heart, as if to emphasize that word. And that's when she knew that the moment was about so much more than sex. It was bigger; stronger, somehow. She could see the emotion on his face, hear the raw honesty in his voice – hell, it was wrapped around every letter and every syllable in a tone she didn't remember hearing even once before. It sounded like pure, unadulterated enthusiasm mixed with a tiny bit of fear, and bolstered by the happiness that was practically shining from his eyes.

He looked so damned handsome.

And she wanted to tell him that she didn't need the words. That she knew he loved her, and that was enough. But in the next breath, his mouth opened and closed again, and he started to repeat bits and pieces of his first two sentences, only this time – this time – she saw something shift. All the nervousness dropped away, leaving only happiness in its wake.

Yes, he looked handsome, strong, brilliant, and entirely hers.

"My heart, Gillian," he said proudly. "It's yours. I'm yours. And I love you, darling. So very much. And as long as you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my years trying to make you understand just how lucky I feel to have you in my life at all… much less to hold you in my arms, and kiss your lips, and tell you every day – every single, bloody day – how beautiful you are. And how deeply I'm in love with you. Because I am, Gillian. Head over heels, happily ever after, for as long as we both shall live."

At heart, Gillian was a romantic. She always had been, and she always would be. And hearing those words come out of Cal's mouth was something she'd fantasized about countless times. Yes, she'd imagined at least a hundred different versions of the "scene" in her mind – everything from a casual encounter at the office that always led to more… or a passionate exchange in bed… or a romantic, wine-and-roses dinner at her favorite restaurant.

Not once out of all those times had she ever pictured this: standing in the middle of his kitchen, in the middle of the work week, in the middle of two divorces, as she looked up at his face and found everything she'd ever wanted. Honesty, friendship, commitment, love, respect, permanence. It was perfect. Absolutely, overwhelmingly perfect.

And so… she cried.

Not a lot of tears, mind you. But some. Big, fat, heavy tears that fell from both eyes before she could catch them. It was all fast and slow, and she couldn't figure out how she'd gone from thinking about having sex against his kitchen wall one minute, to crying tears of joy the next because Cal – her Cal – just told her that he was in love with her.

He was in love with her.

He was in love with her, and she was in love with him, and suddenly it also struck her that she'd been so busy crying and getting lost inside her own head that she hadn't actually said anything back to him yet. Not a single word. No, she just stood there wiping her eyes with the back of one hand, while the other squeezed his fingers so tightly that he actually started to giggle.

That's right: he giggled, while she cried, and then he said – with the biggest, most genuine smile she'd ever seen – "Careful with those fingers, love. Might make our sex life a bit more interesting if I'm able to use them too, yeah?"

Oh. Dear. God.

The man was just… he was incorrigible, and arousing, and he was being so damned open with his emotions that it made her want to haul him straight to the floor, rip off every single stitch of his clothing, and revisit that whole "It's not like I can ride him," analogy that popped into her brain the night before.

In the end, though, she settled for an even tighter grip on his shirt as she used the element of surprise to pull him towards her just a bit – just enough to erase what little distance he'd created between them. Then she leaned her forehead against his, snaked both hands up behind his neck, so that her fingertips could dance on the soft, warm skin at the top of his spine, and she said, "I'm the lucky one, Cal. Far too many women live their entire lives and never know the joy of unconditional love. But I've touched it twice: once with your friendship, and now… with this. With us. My heart is yours. And as long as you'll let me, then I'll spend the rest of my days making sure you know just exactly how wonderful you are. And exactly how much I am in love with you. As long as we both shall live - that's what you said? Well, as far as I'm concerned, even that isn't long enough."

It took less than half a second – at most – for her fingertips that were still stroking the skin at the nape of his neck to change course and pull, rather than caress, so that he tumbled forward against her. His mouth crashed into hers with a sigh, and she felt him speak her name on a whimper just as her tongue sneaked past his lower lip and began to trace the contours inside. He loved her, and she loved him, and they could say it now – aloud – for the entire world to hear. It was perfect and lovely, and the only thing that could've made it better, would've been if they had the time to relocate things to the sofa or the spare bedroom or even the shower, and emphasize those words with actions.

Lots and lots of actions.

For the time being, though, she was content to savor the taste of his mouth against hers… to feel the strength of his lean muscles pressed against her torso, and memorize the way his fingers began to inch around to the front of her body, toward the buttons at her waist.

'Stupid responsibilities,' Gillian mused. She wanted to let her inner bad girl out to play for a while and start helping Cal's hands win their all-too brief battle against denim and lace. Because if his mouth and tongue were this talented when they stayed tangled with hers, then she was extremely anxious to find out what they could do… elsewhere.

"Just you wait, darling," he suddenly groaned between kisses, making her realize that she'd just made that last comment aloud, rather than keeping it in her head. "I fully intend to show you exactly what this mouth can do. In fact…"

Hindsight alone should have told her to expect it. Because they hadn't gotten through a single encounter so far without being interrupted by something, and of course she should've known that it would happen again. But his words sounded so promising… so sensual… that it took her a minute to actually hear the incessant noise in the background, and realize that it was actually her phone. Again. The damn thing was ringing like crazy, and within a matter of seconds, Cal's phone chimed in, too.

A real comedy of errors, it was – right there in his kitchen. Honestly, Gillian didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or thrown caution to the wind and shove both phones down Cal's garbage disposal, turn it on, and then use a cooking torch to melt the mangled remains.

As his hands closed around both electronic mood-killers, Cal's expression looked much the same as hers did: sexual frustration, mixed with one part annoyance, and two parts "this better be good." In fact, that's actually what he said when he answered. He used one hand to toss Gillian's phone to her, used the other to answer his, and said – verbatim – "Whoever the bloody hell this is, it better be good. Yeah?"

And as Gillian stifled a laugh, she couldn't help but think he was right: they'd taken care of the rings already. But next time? When she desperately hoped to let eager kisses lead to a slow, sensual exploration of everything physical (along with the fulfillment of Cal's promise about all the things his mouth could do), one thing was certain: they'd leave their phones turned off. Or hidden.

Or hidden and turned off.

Better safe than sorry, right?


Ten minutes later, after Cal confirmed to his very apologetic attorney that yes, he was more-than-willing to accept Zoe's revised offer of joint custody (fifty-fifty with a flexible holiday schedule, thank-you-very-much) and after Gillian confirmed to her attorney that no, she did not want any claim to the house (the words "Alec can burn it to the ground for all I care," took him very much by surprise) the two sat on their side-by-side stools once again, watching the clock and sipping lukewarm caffeine as they tried to rouse the energy to actually leave the kitchen.

For two people who'd been so relaxed and happy (not to mention horny) mere moments earlier, it was amazing how abruptly everything had changed. He'd gotten good news – finally – and while Gillian's hadn't exactly been bad, it was a not-so-subtle reminder that she was at the beginning of her journey, while he was nearing the end of his. Yes, she was anxious and irritable, and he remembered that feeling very bloody well.

Still had a hole in his living room wall that served as its reminder, too.

"Tell me something, Cal," she said between sips. "Why is it that everyone always complains about bureaucratic bullshit and how selfish attorneys are, and yet you and I somehow manage to hire two honest ones, who are so dedicated that they call at the crack of dawn on a Wednesday, and interrupt everything just as you and I are about to… to…"

By some utter miracle, Cal managed to hide his knowing smirk behind his tea mug and keep it away from Gillian's prying eyes. Because oh yes, that was the very same attitude he'd had during the early stages of his divorce, and he got the sense that unless he redirected her… enthusiasm… then he'd likely wind up with a second hole in his wall.

So, he did what came naturally. He touched her.

That's not to say it was sexual, of course. This time, it wasn't. It was just the simple touch of his hand against her shoulder, but it was enough to calm her. To snap her out of her torrent of aggressive words and force her to focus on his face. On his eyes. And on the fact that he loved her.

It worked like a charm. A beat later, she sighed and he felt her lean sideways as she pressed into his touch even further.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I really didn't mean to get so… crazy… about this whole thing, but Mr. Rayburn – Sam – he asked me about all these details, you know? About the house, and the appliances, and the stupid furniture. And yes, he's just doing his job, and yes, I appreciate everything he's doing to help get this whole thing settled as quickly as possible. But it's just… well, honestly… I don't care, you know? I don't care about the house or the appliances or the furniture. That's all just "stuff." Hell, what Alec should do is sell everything in that house and use the money to check himself into rehab. Now there's an idea. He'd be doing all of Washington a favor, and saving me a hell of a lot of packing in the process, right? Two birds. One stone. Sounds like the perfect compromise to me."

Gillian was on a roll. She was animated and agitated, and she was squeezing the handle of her coffee mug so bloody tightly that Cal wouldn't have been a bit surprised to watch it snap off and shatter into a dozen pieces beneath her grip. He knew that she was still talking – he could hear her words, and he could see the disgust cross her face every single time she mentioned Alec – but somewhere along the line his mind had gotten hung up on one specific comment she'd made, and the wheels had already begun to turn.

The translation? Cal's whole "Friday" plan – Operation No Interruptions, as he'd come to call it – had been in place for a while. Hearing her use a phrase like "sell everything in that house" just added a new… dynamic… to how he intended to put it in motion.

And he could not wait to see her reaction.

So, with a quiet, controlled smile, Cal gently took Gillian's coffee mug out of her hand and placed it on the counter next to his tea. Then before she could say another word – Alec related or otherwise – he leaned over and kissed her. Hard and fast and thoroughly, so that she was left with a physical reminder of his verbal promise: 'I intend to show you exactly what this mouth can do.'

When he pulled away, her face was flushed and her eyes were freshly darkened. "Promise you'll show me?" she said weakly, between breaths that were shallow and just the slightest bit forced. "Because I'm serious, Cal… if that last phone call was any indication of what the next few days have in store for us, then the thought of your mouth on my body may just very well be the only thing that gets me through the rest of this week. I just hope when the moment finally comes, there aren't any more… interruptions."

Trust him, Cal wanted to smirk. He wanted to jump up from his stool, pump his fists in the air and give himself a pat on the back while he ran circles around the kitchen in an awkwardly fidgety victory dance. Because those were his thoughts exactly – No Interruptions, indeed.

So while he wanted to smirk… he couldn't. Not in front of Gillian. Because she'd take on look at the absolute joy on his face – at the unbridled anticipation of what he was about to pull off come Friday night – and Operation No Interruptions would unravel right in his face. She'd weasel the details right out of him, using every ounce of sexual leverage at her disposal and he'd be helpless to stop it. Hell, even worse than that, he'd be bloody eager to see what she could do. No, no… it was best to wait. To school his features and temporarily re-wear at least part of his "mask," just to avoid arousing any suspicion on her part.

Kissing. Kissing was a very good segue if he did say so himself, so he claimed her mouth once more – quick and rough again – and by the time he pulled back again, Gillian's eyes had gone glassy. Bloody hell, he could not wait for Friday night at all.

But… both of their schedules were full with new clients and various appointments – including one nasty-sounding insurance audit that was entirely in her wheelhouse and not, thank heavens, in his. So he turned his thoughts toward the cold shower that awaited upstairs, tried to remind himself that waiting two more days would not kill him, and then he kicked off the very first stages of his plan without a hitch.

"Tell you what, love?" he started. "You handle the insurance audit and that appointment with the Harris family, and I'll handle everything else. Embezzlement cases, employee negligence, and all of those pesky… interruptions. Deal?"

There it was: he'd managed to reveal just enough information to pique her interest, without giving the whole game away in the process. Perfect. Gillian's brows shot up and her cheeks instantly flushed with the faintest hint of red, but beyond that, she kept her reaction under control.

Again, it bore repeating: perfect.

"Should I be worried?" she quipped. "Because the way you just said the words "everything else," sounds a bit… off. Care to share?"

And this time, he really did smirk. He just couldn't help himself. "No," he said simply, as he felt his smirk growing larger by the second. "No, I would not care to share, and yes, you should quite possibly be worried."

Three… two… one…

Under his watchful eye, Gillian grinned – wide and full – and he could easily see that she thought she had him all figured out. Thought she knew exactly what he was trying to hide, and why he was trying to hide it. "Thought" being the key word there, because in actuality… she was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

Still, her grin was adorable.

And he bloody loved it.

"Plan to do any more nose breaking?" she suddenly prompted.

Alright, fine: that actually wasn't a bad guess. It was wrong, of course, but it wasn't bad. Credit to her for trying, and all that. And really, he did need some kind of cover – a way to let her think she was on the right path, just so he could surprise her even more when everything was finally set in motion. It was sneaky, yes… but a bit of a necessary evil.

"Depends, he said nonchalantly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked her up and down in a glance that was equal parts sexual attraction and predatory hunger. It was enough to make her shiver under the weight of his stare, and he wanted to pat himself on the back yet again at the knowledge that things were falling into place exactly as he had planned.

"Think dear old Alec plans to avoid Capitol Hill for the next few days while his face heals, and trade in his half of your house for something with a much better… view?"

That, of course, was clue number two: "better view." But Gillian missed it, because she was distracted by his accent (intentionally thickened, thank-you-very-much), and aroused by his overt glances, and she was too far gone to be hung up on details that she incorrectly deemed to be minor.

"Two points?" she said, still grinning wildly. "One: all of that sounds simultaneously ominous, yet somehow romantic. And even though I'm not sure why, something tells me whatever you've got brewing in that ridiculously big brain of yours just might blow my socks off. And two: I don't care what the man does, so long as he stays away from us. But if he doesn't, then feel free to break whatever part of him you'd like. Just don't wind up in a cell, okay? Conjugal visits are definitely not my scene."

Intuition told him that Gillian's had done it on purpose; that she'd deliberately used the words "big brain" just to toy with him. Just to illustrate her perception of his anatomy – brain or otherwise. And she looked so bloody smug… oh, it was half killing him to restrain himself yet again and be satisfied with just standing there in front of her, using words (not touch) to communicate. Still, he had to do something to up the ante. Something to let her know that he'd heard her, loud and clear.

So, squared his hips towards hers and then let his hands drop down to fidget with his belt just a bit – just so that her eyes were drawn there, too. He watched them darken and widen, as her tongue automatically shot out to trace her lower lip in a slow, wet trail.

Checkmate.

"Two points of my own, love?" he started. "One: While my mind automatically pictures you in some sort of naughty police girl uniform every single time the word "conjugal" shoots out of your mouth, don't worry. I promise I'll stay out of a cell. And two: I also promise that even though my brain is the only large part of my body with which you're currently familiar, I have no doubt that the... size... of the rest of my anatomy will not disappoint. So brace yourself, love. Because I intend to deliver until we're both completely satisfied."


Up next: Cal's plan gets underway, and Gillian's reaction to some new clients hits closer to home than she'd expected. We'll see Loker in action again, too. Stay tuned! :)