Quick Note: Very short chapter here, sorry 'bout that. But on the plus side I just ordered my Profiler DVDs, so that should be sufficient inspiration. I'm going to crawl very far out on a limb here, and say something I hope I won't regret later: I actually think this story'll be finished before the year ends. Yeah, I know. But I really, REALLY believe it. :) Hopefully I won't have to take that back later. And hope you like this little tiny mini-chapter. :)
Chapter Eight
Everything faded away from Sam's mind. The thoughts that had been troubling her a minute ago disappeared, and all she could feel was the warm body pressing against hers as their mouths connected. She felt like a teenager in summer as she rose to the tips of her toes to meet his inquiring tongue. The cold that surrounded them seemed to stop at the point where their lips met, as if it knew that winter weather was no match for the heat between them.
A lifetime ago, John had gently warned her that in two seconds he was going to put his arms around her, and he was going to kiss her. There had been no warning this time. None had been needed.
Moments later the icy air was once again invading her as he stopped the kiss. He made no move to step back, however, and there was still less than an inch of space between his mouth and hers. "I didn't mean to do that," John whispered, blue eyes locked with hers.
"Didn't mean to?" Sam asked, a chill running up her spine even as tears inexplicably burned her eyes. "Or didn't want to?"
John just stared back at her. "You know the answer to that."
And she did.
Sam gave a half laugh, and took the step backwards that needed so desperately to be taken. "What are we doing?" she asked, and looked up at him, begging him with her eyes and expression to just go along with it, shrug off this moment and let both of them pretend it had never happened. It was too much, and too soon, and too *immediate* to be anything but ignored.
John graced her with a small half smile, one that could easily be interpreted as flippant and dismissive, if she chose to do so. "Going inside," he suggested, reaching out to take her shoulder and lead her away from the car. She followed obediently, keeping her eyes trained to the ground so she wouldn't have to look up and see his face. Of course, they were going inside a hotel room, which did cause her mind to continue its transgressions into places she didn't want it to go. But it was ignorable. His body pressed against hers, the heat of it… that wasn't ignorable. But that was done now.
And hopefully would never, ever happen again.
Half of her hoped that, anyway, the half that stepped inside the hotel room as John held the door open and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing for something to separate them. Even something as insubstantial as a piece of wood. She shut the door behind her, locked it, then leaned against it, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. What the hell was she doing?
Because the other half of her, the half she was trying so desperately to ignore, wanted nothing more than to step back, open the door between them, and kiss him again.
That couldn't happen.
It just couldn't.
Shaking her head, she pushed herself back away from the door and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, her eyes red rimmed and shadowed in black. Hardly the picture of beauty. Not that she cared. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. And she knew how this had happened, that moment. She was a psychologist, of course she knew. They were trapped together in close quarters, dealing with an extremely stressful situation. He was on the run for *murder* for crying out loud. Of *course* emotions were going to be running high. And the stress of the situation was manifesting itself, for him, in an ill-conceived attraction. One that would be quickly forgotten once they resolved the matter causing the stress.
As she stared at herself in the mirror she knew that did nothing to explain *her* actions, but she dismissed those as yet another symptom of the bored mother she'd become over the past two years. There was no reason to look into it any further.
No reason at all.
Chapter Eight
Everything faded away from Sam's mind. The thoughts that had been troubling her a minute ago disappeared, and all she could feel was the warm body pressing against hers as their mouths connected. She felt like a teenager in summer as she rose to the tips of her toes to meet his inquiring tongue. The cold that surrounded them seemed to stop at the point where their lips met, as if it knew that winter weather was no match for the heat between them.
A lifetime ago, John had gently warned her that in two seconds he was going to put his arms around her, and he was going to kiss her. There had been no warning this time. None had been needed.
Moments later the icy air was once again invading her as he stopped the kiss. He made no move to step back, however, and there was still less than an inch of space between his mouth and hers. "I didn't mean to do that," John whispered, blue eyes locked with hers.
"Didn't mean to?" Sam asked, a chill running up her spine even as tears inexplicably burned her eyes. "Or didn't want to?"
John just stared back at her. "You know the answer to that."
And she did.
Sam gave a half laugh, and took the step backwards that needed so desperately to be taken. "What are we doing?" she asked, and looked up at him, begging him with her eyes and expression to just go along with it, shrug off this moment and let both of them pretend it had never happened. It was too much, and too soon, and too *immediate* to be anything but ignored.
John graced her with a small half smile, one that could easily be interpreted as flippant and dismissive, if she chose to do so. "Going inside," he suggested, reaching out to take her shoulder and lead her away from the car. She followed obediently, keeping her eyes trained to the ground so she wouldn't have to look up and see his face. Of course, they were going inside a hotel room, which did cause her mind to continue its transgressions into places she didn't want it to go. But it was ignorable. His body pressed against hers, the heat of it… that wasn't ignorable. But that was done now.
And hopefully would never, ever happen again.
Half of her hoped that, anyway, the half that stepped inside the hotel room as John held the door open and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing for something to separate them. Even something as insubstantial as a piece of wood. She shut the door behind her, locked it, then leaned against it, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. What the hell was she doing?
Because the other half of her, the half she was trying so desperately to ignore, wanted nothing more than to step back, open the door between them, and kiss him again.
That couldn't happen.
It just couldn't.
Shaking her head, she pushed herself back away from the door and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, her eyes red rimmed and shadowed in black. Hardly the picture of beauty. Not that she cared. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. And she knew how this had happened, that moment. She was a psychologist, of course she knew. They were trapped together in close quarters, dealing with an extremely stressful situation. He was on the run for *murder* for crying out loud. Of *course* emotions were going to be running high. And the stress of the situation was manifesting itself, for him, in an ill-conceived attraction. One that would be quickly forgotten once they resolved the matter causing the stress.
As she stared at herself in the mirror she knew that did nothing to explain *her* actions, but she dismissed those as yet another symptom of the bored mother she'd become over the past two years. There was no reason to look into it any further.
No reason at all.