He holds me. Doesn't ask me things. Well--he does. But only

because he wants to make it better. I...think...I do admire that.

He's damn good at it. Some case, back when Megan was boss, he had to

question some nine, ten year old kid about a shooting. The one thing

I just couldn't accept with Megan was that she couldn't ever

understand what was going on in the witnesses heads, their hearts.

What they saw and how it hurt them. H? He's got this weird gift, I

don't know, some kind of talent. Maybe it's experience. But he can

talk to any witness and make them feel safe even standing eight feet

away from them with his badge glinting in the lights.

My mom, she had something like that. When I was seven, I think

seven, I saw her talk a suicidal kid down from the bureau of his room

at the state hospital. Saw her draw the knife out of his hands with

words. I was just a little kid, but I knew then how important it

was.

And then I see H do that same thing with that scared kid, just coax

what she saw out of her. Took him hours and hours to do it and

pissed Megan off to no end. But he got it.

He doesn't really ask things. Just kind of suggests them and leaves

them out there, kind of like fishing except less pain and no blood.

And when he's holding me, like now, like now when I'm remembering

what Calleigh said about Megan, about me, and I know how those

witnesses feel.

Safe.

I trust him. That's a new realization. Fairly new. I trust him not

to hurt me, not to lie to me.

Not...to...

leave me.

Jason. Manda. Megan. People leave me all the time. Why should

this be any different?

Well, tough, it is.

He's stroking my hair now and waiting for me to answer him. What was

I going to say? I want to ask him, I want to be sure

of...something. Anything. I'm sure as hell *not* sure right now,

I'm scared and I'm safe at once. I know he won't let me get hurt.

He just won't do that. It's not in him. So that's ok. But what

else could happen?

"You won't leave, will you?"

That takes him aback. He's stumbling for an answer. Please, please,

please say no, please say you won't leave me, please, I don't wanna...

Jesus. Jesus fucking christ, I really don't want to be alone, do I?

I always was thinking this was different than things have ever been,

and not just because he's Horatio.

Please let it be different.

He starts kissing me, hard, no little bit rough. Not a bad answer,

all things considered.

Shoves me back onto the couch. Um, eep.

A pause, looking down at me, interested, maybe hungry, something like

that. From half a vaguely predatory smile, "Do you want me to leave?"

Now there's H. Answering a question with a question. Some things

are never different. "N-no." His weight presses down on me,

comforting, stable, *real*.

"Then I won't."

//I love you// my mind mumbles, dazed with happy, horny lust. I bite

it back, desperate not to fuck this one thing up. I will do anything

not to screw up. Anything.

His kisses are rougher, harder than they've been before. Scrabbling

for him, scrambling to be touched, stroked, *fucked*.

Oh, *god* but he's good at this. What, is there some required course

at U Miami?

Never been this rough before. Don't know if I like it, if I should

like it, if I ought to lie back and take it or ask him, wait, what's

going on?

The arm of the couch digs into the base of my neck.

H, stop, please, wait a minute--

Because he's never *been* like this. Never been rough like he's

angry at me, never been--

Not--

When he lips find the edge of my mouth again and I grasp at him, dig

and thrust into him, then I speak, croaking out pathetic--

"Wait--"

He stops then. He stops, and I lie there for a moment, panting, eyes

closed, his body, him, his touch, on me. Lick my lips and open my

eyes.

He looks--

Worried? Afraid? No, worried. Concerned. He touches my face, hand

shaking a little and breathing hard. Might be fear or lust or

wanting him...might be...

"Speed?"

Wrap my arms tight around him and press my face into his shoulder.

He touches my back. Strokes the edge of my shoulderblade and down

and rubs my back gently.

"Speed? What's wrong?"

//I was scared. I was scared you were fucking pissed at me for

asking you not to leave me. I was scared you were going to. H, oh,

jesus, I was fucking *scared*, god, don't leave me, please...// But

all that comes out is a meek, "Scared."

"Oh, Speed. Oh, god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry Speed."

Just breathe him in. Listen to his heartbeat. Think about how much

I want him still, how I'm still fucking hard, still on overdrive and

wanting his touch.

Think about him apologizing, soothing, loving and gentle.

Know and cling to the certainty that this is different and he won't

leave me, now or ever.

So I kiss him again, leading him on to touch me, want to see that

look on his face when he makes me come. Kiss his face and lips and

whisper, "It's ok. Just...go slow?"

"Like I said," and he smoothes my hair down, "whatever you want."

Whatever *I* want? He wants to give me that, meaning he wants me. I

want to wake up with him, over and over and over, because I'll never

get tired of it, and I want his arms around me and his mouth on my

skin, and his voice soothing in my ear when he fucks me. Oh, yes,

and I want him to fuck me.

Kisses languid like Miami in midsummer, like dreams but lasting.

We don't make it to the bed, but the couch just isn't comfortable for

two people to fuck, and the floor is a good enough compromise, lying

there with him, just going slow. His hands slide up my shirt, like

that first night, rough palms and soft fingertips brushing my ribs

and scribbling on my back. I lie on my back for him, still clothed

and breathing hard because it feels so damn good, aches and makes me

writhe and grasp his shirt and shoulder and *anything*...

I lie on my back and let his hand roam along my chest, stroke and

thumb my nipple and his mouth is locked on mine still, and his shirt

has come untucked, so what will he do...?

He gasps and grips, gah-oh, god, that hurt and then just as suddenly

burns with pleasure.

His eyes are so dark now, his skin warm. He blinks.

"Like that?" I ask him, trying to smile like he does with half his

mouth, failing, but just brushing his nipple again to make him make

that *noise*, wow, I can *do* that?

He kisses, and nuzzles and mumbles something against my throat.

"Hmm?"

A kiss, another kiss, while he just runs his hand up and down my

chest, "You're beautiful," he tells me, with perfect honesty, which

has that nipple-tweaking sensation to it, pain and then the textured,

velvety, scalding wash of it, pleasure and happiness. "You are."

I'm beautiful?

He wouldn't lie to me.

I'm beautiful...

I push back and trace his lips with my fingers, like I'm blind and

drawing his face with my hands. The way his eyebrows curve and arch

in confusion, in contenment, this muscle or that, the course texture

of his hair falling over my skin, orangy-red to my own dark.

I can feel everything, one hand warm and rough on my stomach, the

other wrapped behind my head, the softness of skin and the tight pull

of muscle beneath, the way my sweaty fingers stick to sleek fabric,

bristle of carpet and ghost of breath.

My shirt feels hot and close.

Horatio leans over me, keeps up the tickle of light kisses on my

face, here and there licking and nipping, never any real pain.

Eyes flicker open now and then, try not to close them, because I want

to see how pleased he looks, how good I am to him, for him...

Grasp at buttons, impatient for all the touch I can gather, wanting

to hold it, tangle it on my fingers, listen to his voice and the

skate of his hands on my body, counting ribs.

//"I shouldn't of done that."

"Why not?"

"Because--I mean...'cause...well, I...I mean I...it's not...I..."

"Come here."

"Huh?"

"Come here, Speed, and do it again."//

Something rises, like a bird inside my chest, gasping, fluttering.

Quick blue-shadowed darkness when he helps me off with my tee-shirt,

and with him it's never just one piece that makes the puzzle, but all

of them.

Edge,

His heartbeat on my shoulder and his breath on my collarbone.

Corner,

As my nails dig deep into his back under his shirt and his tongue

finds my nipple and drives me crazy,

Inside,

The pain makes him bite reflexively.

The picture,

Coloring my voice and yelping, sparks of lust run from my nerves to

my dick, thrust against him, trusting his arms, his mouth, his

voice.

His apartment shrinks down to me and him and the floor, itching

carpet and warm skin and wet mouth, with time frozen,

//"Like I said, whatever you want."//

I want him.