Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.

By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com

Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.

ATTENTION: Rating has changed! This is now R rated.

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Chapter 10

HEATHER

I'm worried about Jim. Really worried. While I've managed to get through most of this week on autopilot, it's been an effort not to let my fears show, and even Pauline is aware of how distracted I've been. She's urged me to move my vacation schedule up, take some time off and I'm considering it—

But not until Jim comes back from New Jersey.

He called once, to ask me to put his garbage can at the curb on trash day; although he said all the right things I could hear the strain in his voice and didn't push. No definite return time yet.

Work is the best therapy for me right now, and if I seem particularly bitchy, the clients are actually grateful. Sometimes I'm glad my line of work allows me to channel my frustrations into win-win situations.

I've kept my cell phone with me at all times, something I don't normally do, and at home, Zoë's calls have been a comfort to me. It's odd to be on the other side of the questions, though, and I sense my daughter is delighted to get back her own after my years of inquisitiveness into HER love life. Zoë is sharp and compassionate and merciless at the tease, which is just what I need sometimes. She tells me I'm quite the priss, for a Dominatrix.

"Honestly mom, have you even gotten to third base with this honey of yours?"

"Zoë Mariah is that any sort of question to ask your mother?"

"So that means no, huh? Boy, there's slow and then there's SLOW, mom. You and Jim are on like, continental drift mode. Saving yourselves for Social Security?" she laughs to take the sting out of it. I feel myself wince a fraction, and wonder if maybe she's a little right.

"I practice what I preach, child of mine."

"Think maybe he's got trouble in the hydraulics department? He IS over fifty, right?"

I shake my head vigorously; if there's one thing I know from very prominent moments in the recent past, it's that Jim Brass is no candidate for Viagra. Just remembering a few of our more involved kisses is enough to make me shift my thighs and I growl into the phone when I realize my daughter can't see my emphatic denial.

"He's a tiny bit over fifty but he's just fine, physically, Zoë, and that's ALL I'm going to say about that."

"Okay, okay," I can hear her smile, and then her tone shifts to something more serious. "So—have you heard from him yet?"

"Briefly. I worry for him."

"If he's a cop then he's probably a much better visual and kinesthetic communicator, mom. Auditory would be a lesser process for him, and his verbal would be heavily influenced by direct presentation."

My Zoë, the brilliant young psychology major. She's not only got Jim pegged to a certain degree, she's managed to reassure me as well. I grin into the receiver.

"Did you just say he's not as good with phone calls as he is face to face?"

"Bingo. As a police officer he's going to cue on body language and expression as his primary source of information. Since he can't see you over the phone it's not as easy for him to pick up conversational cues, so he's not as comfortable as he would be in your physical presence. I bet he prefers to look at you when either of you speak."

I make a small affirmative sound; Jim is definitely a watcher, alert for things I take for granted. He stopped me from accidentally roasting a potholder once, just the sort of little thing that he catches and I don't. Zoë can hear my sigh and adds,

"Speaking of watching, Noah asked me to the movies, so I have to run, mom. But let me know when you hear from Jim, and let him know I'm thinking of him too, 'kay?"

We exchange 'love yous" and hang up. I wander restlessly from room to room, too tense to do anything productive, and in fact there's nothing left here to fill my time. My laundry is done; my dishes washed; even the yard has been mowed and trimmed. My glance falls on the house key sitting on the counter and I scoop it up determinedly.

I'm certain Jim's house could use some tidying.

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The front door rattles, then creaks; I slide out of bed, alert but already feeling the rush of adrenaline charging through me. Jim is home. Only he would be coming in this late in the afternoon, fighting with the stiff locks before getting the door open. Quickly I pull on the first thing at hand; one of his button-down shirts. I fight down the disappointment that he didn't call, and pad my way out to the hall to hang back a moment in the doorway, suddenly aware of so many things in one rush of impressions.

Although it's only been six days he's thinner and slightly haggard, with a shadow of beard on his cheeks and under his nose. He's in slacks, shirt and windbreaker, all looking extremely wrinkled, and as he drops his bag by the front door I can practically hear his exhaustion.

Then he looks up and sees me. I feel it then, the hot jolt of surprise, the flicker of hope that dies away as he tries to smile.

"Heather . . ." he trails off, not exactly enthusiastic, peeling off his jacket. I try not to let that hurt; he's had a terrible week and probably a rough flight back. I don't need to make things harder on the man when what he needs is a hot shower and about ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. I start to turn towards the bathroom, but he strides over to me and catches my shoulders, looking into my face searchingly. I don't know what he expects to see, but I know what I'm looking at, and it hurts so much that I gasp at the depth of the pain in those bleak blue eyes.

I grab him, hugging him to me fiercely, as hard as I can, blinking back my own tears as I drink in the scent of him, the almighty wonderful FEEL of Jim right where he needs to be. His arms come up around me in a crushing bear hug, tight and hungry, locking me against him in a full body press of desperate gratitude.

"Jim, sweetheart," I choke, determined not to let him go until my body's had a good long cling to him. In one overwhelming moment I suddenly realize what this man means to me and fear washes through my body, chased by a greater sense of truth.

I've needed someone. A someone who needs me back.

The joy and terror of that epiphany makes me swoon a little, but Jim's grip is secure and real around me; his hot breath against my ear makes me shiver.

"God, babe, I missed you . . ." he whispers brokenly to me in a voice that makes the tears finally fall for both of us. Jim half stumbles against the wall of the hallway, never letting go of me and we're both shaking, hanging on to each other no less fiercely, but with a sudden sense of body heat. The friction of Jim's khakis and shirt rub against me, and I'm aware of how little I'm wearing but it's far too late to change anything now. His hands are sliding down, riding the curve of my bottom and cupping it; I fight to stop a little moan from escaping my lips at the feel of those big palms on me.

"Ohhhmmmmm . . ." I gasp.

God, suddenly I can't think as Jim's mouth presses to mine, drinking me in, the sweet flavor of his tongue filling my mouth. His tears blend with the ones on my cheeks as we kiss and kiss again, recklessly, breathing in gasps and surging together again in silky deep passion.

So good, it's been so long since this sort of wildness fired my Magyar blood. Jim is yielding a bit now, kissing his way along my jaw line as his hands tighten against my ass. I grind, I simply cannot stop myself, and in that sultry rub I suddenly realize that Jim Brass is . . .

Oh. God. Yes---

But now he's pulling away; the flare of guilt in his eyes as he tries to let me go, and I know it's remorse that divides the mind from the body, the living from the dead. Jim's heart wants my love, but his body wants my body, right here, right now. Death drives us to seek life, and I know from past experience that this urge to meld with someone is both emotional and biological. It's not quite how I ever envisioned our consummation, but in a way this is more intimate than any candlelit dinner Jim and I could ever have.

This loving need, sweet desire borne on wings of shared pain IS what we are all about.

So I grab his face, cup it, kiss him once again, my words muffled on his mouth as I tell him so.

"Need you, want you, Jim, please!" I plead, wrapping a leg around him and pushing myself against him. Jim sways, still torn between lust and loss, his eyes locked on mine. My jaw trembles; pride won't let me beg twice.

He nods, then takes my wrist, kissing it before he holds it in his fingers and leads me to the bedroom.

BRASS

God.

I'm taking Heather to bed.

My bed. I'm actually doing it, pulling open the shirt she's wearing, MY shirt, carefully, deliberately undressing her for the sole purpose of lying on her warm naked body and losing myself deep within her.

The moralist in me is hissing that this is utterly wrong, and only a real bastard would take advantage of a loving woman like Heather this way. The rest of my body is clamoring for him to shut up while we take in the sight of her in the faint blue twilight. She's lying there, sleek, lean; I'm finding it hard to breathe as I flick the shirt off her shoulders and look down on the rounded line of her neck, the shadowy hollows of her collarbones and Jesus! The proud swell of her breasts.

Utterly gorgeous.

I am not worthy, but since I'm already beyond redemption at this point I slide my hands around her waist and pull her to me just to feel that velvety bare skin, her heat seeping through my clothes, warming me. I didn't realize I was cold, that I've been cold a long time. Years. Heather molds to me, moaning a soft little needy sound that makes me throb, hard and I know damn well I'm not going to last; it's been too long and I need her too much. I kiss, lingering on my way over satiny skin across her shoulder, down over the intimate curve of her pretty throat. My hands can't get enough of Heather; I'm stroking, touching, memorizing the lush velvet of her hip, the hollows at the small of her spine as she reaches for my shirt buttons. The ones on the shirt I'm wearing, not her, not that she's wearing a shirt at the moment.

Ah hell. It's hard to figure out what's going on, but a lot of it is good, moving through great, right into incredible. The minute her hand rubs across my chest under my shirt I let go of the breath I've been holding, shuddering a little. Her hands on me do this, let me let go of all the pain and tension and anger and sorrow I've been carrying around in there for the past week. Lithe fingers rake through my fur, glide over a nipple and yeah, I feel that all right. No higher brain function available at the moment, leave a message . . .

More kisses, slow long involved kisses. Our bodies are kissing as much as any other part of us. Heather's soft and silky, with a mouth I keep coming back to, and a way of moaning a little that's making me shiver. I'm going beyond want and into the need zone now, especially when she manages to unbuckle my belt and tug on my fly. After some fumbling, which never happens in the movies but always hangs up people in real life, Heather glances down and makes this great sound, a sort of gasp and purr at the same time.

I'm so glad she likes it.

God knows it likes her, and if we're not careful here—ohhh.

In desperation, I guide her hand lower, tighten my grip around hers to hold back impending disaster and Heather understands; she waits, patiently until I swallow hard and loosen up, back under shaky control. One of the advantages of my age is that I have some practice with pacing and I know myself pretty well by now, but Heather's so warm and alive that I'm going out of my mind, close to the end of limits.

I roll on my side and slide a hand onto the flat tautness of her stomach, learning the contour of her muscles there. Definitely plan to do some kissing here. Move my hand lower; Heather's hips lift to meet my touch, and my fingertips slip into the softest silkiest fur I've ever touched. Thick, curly and dark, but oh so fine, like a baby rabbit; Heather moans, arching her head back as I nuzzle her neck and I feel her pulse thrumming. By now I'm so damn aroused I could explode, but I know she's close too; God as my witness I'm gonna make sure she gets over the finish line first.

Carefully I kiss her, and let my fingers stroke through that incredible fur of hers. Slowly, carefully I find that little spot, that lightly throbbing bud, gently ease my thumb and forefinger around it, then every so lightly rub them in opposite directions. Heather's slick and I'm breathing hard but keeping my touch soft, soft, soft. She looks at me, those green blue eyes smoky and wild, long lashes fluttering as I feel her body tense up, arching against my palm--I gotta close my eyes or I'll be all over her, and not in a good way.

HEATHER

Ohhhhhh! I, I, I can't quite breathe right yet. The rush is still pounding through me, drugging my senses, leaving me limp and dazed. I came. Jim touched me, touched me in some amazingly magic way and I just . . . came.

That doesn't happen to me. I'm not that way, despite all the posturing required for my job. My own sexuality has always been private, and fairly mild in the scheme of things. But I'm lying here completely enthralled by the sensual strokes of a man I adore, feeling languid and grateful and shy. Jim leans down, brushing his lips across one of my nipples, making me shiver all over. In a flash of chagrin I remember this is as much about his pleasure as mine, so I reach for him.

Jim's face is half in and out of the shadows, his eyes dark and mysterious in the dim light. He braces one arm on the mattress over my head and I slide my arms around his ribs, guiding him with soothing sounds. I don't dare let any fear cross my face, even though I'm aware that this will probably hurt. Not only has it been a while for me, Jim's definitely--large. I'm sure if I showed the slightest reluctance at this moment it could be—

Oh dear God! I clutch him, gasping as he pushes forward into me, and the hot deep stroke of him rubs every nerve ending in me, reaches nerves I've never known I had. Glorious! He groans, low and hot in my ear while I let my legs slither around his hips. I pull him into me again and suddenly we find a sex rhythm between us that works; sweetly, deeply, powerfully. The fur on his chest strokes my breasts, the hard flex of his stomach on mine enflames me. I kiss him with a new hunger, savoring the way he makes my body yearn for his; the wild understanding that Jim is now my lover pushes me over the edge once again. Within moments, hot lovely shock waves roll through me, and I hear him softly cry out my name, feel him cover my face with kisses while deep within me, fresh heat boils in a sensual flood of fulfillment.

His weight on me is wonderful. Lying here under him, feeling his breath on my neck and shoulder is all I need for the moment. My hands slide along his broad warm back, enjoying the feel of his muscles, the long shallow trench of his bare spine. I'm humming, I'm happy. He tries to shift off of me but I'm not having it, and cling to him.

Jim is mine.

"I'm crushing you—"he protests, but I shake my head and let my palms continue their exploration down his ribs to his hips, finally sliding to cup his backside, appreciating the nice muscularity of it. Lovely man.

I giggle. He grunts a little and shakes his head. Determinedly he shifts to one side, but since we're still joined I merely roll with him, keeping my upper thigh wrapped around his as I look up in to his eyes. There's not a lot of light now, but I can see his expression, and it's a twisted blend of tender circumspection. I smile, and his face softens.

I know him now.

"It's what we both needed, Jim. And it was . . . magnificent," I whisper reassuringly. The words are on his lips, and I know what he's going to blurt, but I kiss him before he can say anything, stop him from saying out loud what I know is all over his face at the moment.

I won't let him say anything now that he'll regret in the morning.

Instead, I reach for his hand and bring it to my chest, holding it there, letting him feel my heartbeat instead.

BRASS

Statistically speaking, there's no scale for what just happened. Guys speak of things from one to five or one to ten to categorize a woman's beauty or their sexual experiences, but in all honesty nothing on planet Earth is quantitative enough to cover this.

I made love to Heather, and I haven't got the capacity to put a description to it. The heat, the scent, the feel of her body giving into mine, her slick tightness, those little throbs, her moaning, all of it driving me right through to orgasm central, no stops, full throttle, baby.

I should be embarrassed as hell to put it like that, but it's the closest thing I can think of, and I mean it in the nicest way. Heather is not only a wonderful person, a brilliant woman and a worthy friend, she's also magnificent in bed. Wild, passionate, generous—Jesus.

I love her.

Old news. Just not something I've really honestly admitted to myself, much less her. But I'd be lying if I thought I could get up and walk away from what's just happened here between us. More than the sex, I'm talking about the astounding rightness of it all. The pain of losing Ellie isn't gone, but I can shift my focus off of it for a little while, find a sort of emotional harbor here with Heather in my arms. Ah, the warm luscious weight of her next to me is the best sort of nurturing comfort. I hold her, relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever.

I can't get over how little parts of her are. Delicate nose, petite ears; and that mouth . . . pursed or smiling, it doesn't matter, Heather's mouth was made for kissing, no doubt about it. The dimples are back at the corners of her mouth, deep and cute.

Gotta love that smile. It makes me feel alive again, sets off little points of heat all through me, but fatigue is catching up, and I'm already starting to drift off. Before I do, though, I kiss her again, and whisper against her lips.

HEATHER

It's been a very long time since I actually slept with someone; not only sexually, but physically. Fortunately it turns out that Jim is perfect to sleep with: warm, cuddly and only a light snorer. As it was, we were out for about five hours and I could have slept much longer if I hadn't had a sugar level check and an injection to do. I slipped out, and by the time I carefully got back into bed he was awake, rolling towards me, his expression warm and amused.

I wanted to laugh myself, well aware my hair was probably in a messy tangle, and I didn't have a single bit of makeup on. So much for the glamorous Lady Heather and her exotic charisma. But Jim tugged me into his arms and it didn't matter, not at all. Those big hands came up along my spine, and just like that he pulled me on top of him, making me squeal a bit.

Someone was definitely awake.

It was slower this time, and sweeter. Looking down at Jim, his eyes so dark and passionate, hit me hard right in the pit of my stomach. I've never been loved so . . . reverently, so sensually. He touched me as if I was made of Lalique glass, and every kiss was delicious. My body thrummed along on some wild current of desire, and it dawned on me that even while I was supposed to be the expert about most things sexual, Jim Brass knows a hell of a lot himself. Certainly enough to far outlast me this time, although I have to confess that collapsing on his chest gasping and sweaty as he groaned and filled me through and through still makes me shiver pleasurably.

And now I ache, but in a pleasing way, the sort of satisfying sensation unlike any other. Jim is asleep again, curled up at my side, head resting on my ribcage. I don't mind. I get to stroke his hair, which is short and brushy-tickly, and think about all sorts of things: I wonder about the scar across his shoulder and how he got it; whether or not I can call Pauline to open this evening; if Jim and I might even have a third encounter of the erotic kind before we get up--

This lovely night is an interlude of sorts; cathartic for Jim and his pain, wonderfully nurturing for me, but will it last? He and I have gotten this far by being vulnerable to each other, open and relaxed in a very private intimacy. I'm afraid of the morning, of that moment when he'll draw back and pull into his shell again because he feels too exposed to me. It would be so easy for both of us to dismiss tonight as the product of too little sleep and too much grief.

If it comes to that, I'll deal with it. I'll let him go, give him his dignity and regroup if I must. We Marezeks understand duty as well as love, and I'll never ever hold him to something he regrets even if it hurts . . .

No. That sounds far too noble for me, like something out of a TV movie of the week. No, I think the best plan is to go back to sleep. After all, I might need my rest.

BRASS

Not a dream. For one thing, I'm sleeping on the wet spot, which is pretty much a definite indicator of activities pleasurable. For another, I've got naked Heather in my arms. If this is a dream, and just a dream, I'm gonna cry when I actually wake up. Slowly, carefully I check out my security blanket and man, is she gorgeous. Heather doesn't need makeup to be a knockout. She doesn't need clothes, either, that I can swear to, but I don't think she'll let me talk her into running around naked too often.

How the hell did I get so lucky? Not through my good looks. Has to be the cooking. I lured her in with marinara and let fine dining win her over, landing me a sweetheart of a woman. Speaking of which, I seem to have an appetite again. Well, a few, but I need some food first, judging by the rumble of my stomach. I'm pretty sure I've got all the fixings for some waffles, and Heather deserves the best breakfast I can make, so I'll let her sleep in while I slip on some sweats, go pull the iron down from the cupboard over the fridge and heat it up.

In luck. Eggs, flour, milk, vanilla extract, salt, sugar and oil, blend it up in the right proportions, pour it out, set the bacon on, pour the orange juice . . . it's all in the timing. Some men prefer pancakes, but I go with waffles every time. I never burn them, unlike pancakes.

A pang hits me as I remember once making Ellie pancakes and forgetting the oil, having them weld themselves to the bottom of an old pre-Teflon pan until it was just easier to throw the whole thing away than scrub it out.

Ellie.

I look up just as Heather comes wandering in, yawning, her dark hair in a wild tangle around her shoulders. She's back in my shirt, with only two of the buttons done up, so a lot of sweet pale skin's showing, from long bare legs to the sexy hollows of her collarbones. Oh baby, talk about a wake up call. It's embarrassing how quickly parts of me are with the program here. Heather saunters over and she's fighting a grin since my situation's pretty damn obvious.

"Up early?"

"I was up late too."

"Poor man. Maybe you ought to sleep . . . in." she purrs, slipping her arms around me. I kiss her nose, then her mouth. This is Heather, warm, sweet and utterly grounded in the here and now.

"Six words for you, Sweetheart," I tell her. Heather looks up at me with those unforgettable eyes. "First three—Blood sugar fix."

"I bet I can guess the last three—bring the syrup?"

I shake my head, and oh so carefully drop my mouth to her ear, whispering what I know to be true, what I've felt and fought and found so perfectly now, over the last half a year.

"You're the one."

See Chapter 11