Title: Cabin Fever

Author: MindyH

Chapter: Tease

Now, she's just teasing.

Kate told me yesterday morning that she was feeling a bit sore and she needed us to take a break so her body could recover. My immediate reaction was of intense guilt because on the night we went to the movies, after we came home, I made love to her as many times as I could summon up strength for and in as many ways and positions as I could possibly conceive of. I have never in my life seen a woman come so hard or so much. I worked her over so obsessively until she literally collapsed from satiated exhaustion.

And while Kate was by no means an unwilling participant in that night's marathon love-making session, she still has the fingertip bruises on her thighs to attest to the fact that I may have gotten a little carried away with her in the heat of passion. However, the last thing I ever want to do is hurt her.

It's not that I completely lack self-control. And it's not that we haven't gone a day or more without being together before. Very often, our work life does interfere with our love life and we will go through days without so much as a kiss.

But it's different up here. Up here, we've been making up for lost time. Up here, I don't have the distraction of work or the restriction of other people around us.

Instead, what I have is Kate sitting on my porch in flimsy sundresses and dark glasses, her feet propped up on the railing and dress falling down over her slender legs. I have Kate perching herself on my lap, in just a light pink robe, deliberately trying to distract me from the world news, as I sit at the breakfast table, harmlessly enjoying my coffee and paper.

And now, I've got her standing topless in my bedroom, in front of the dresser by the window, in full view of the trees and the sky and the wild reeds, calmly rubbing cream into her soft, smooth skin.

Teasing me.

I watch from the doorway as she creases her brow at her reflection, continuing her devious and oblique self-study. Continuing my torture.

She is fully aware of my scrutiny as I watch her sink her fingers in the cream and slather it gingerly over her left shoulder, the shoulder lifting to receive the treatment and her head stretching to one side to observe, displaying for me the elegant slant of her neck. Turning back to the mirror, she swipes up more cream and tips up her chin, smoothing it over her neck and chest, her fingers dipping enticingly below her neckline, over the tops of her breasts.

I hold my breath, waiting to see if she will take herself in hand and massage her own silky softness. But, with a wistful sigh, she removes her hands and starts on her other shoulder instead.

She knows exactly what she's doing, I muse knowingly, as I grind my teeth together from the threshold.

I finished restoring the boat and, yesterday, we took her out into the lake. Kate sat beside me as we each took an oar and rowed out into the middle on the water, dropping anchor. I threw a line overboard and sat back with the reel in my lap, as Kate reclined at the opposite end, reading from an old book she'd found on the bookshelf in the living room. It was my Dad's copy of "Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner" which I remember him quoting now and then. I don't why Kate thought I was the poetry-type. I'm not, but I didn't mind relaxing and listening to her voice for awhile. At one point, she stopped and asked in that oh-so-logical way she has:

"Are there even fish in this lake, Gibbs?"

"I dunno," I shrugged, looking about at the water: "Could be."

Fishing is not just about the catch, I'd told her. Kate had merely adjusted her sunglasses and read on.

I didn't catch anything, unless a slimy, old boot counts, but by the time we came in Kate had acquired a nasty case of sunburn. She treated it by slathering herself throughout the night with copious amounts of sweet-smelling cream so that, by the time we went to bed, all I could smell was her fragrant, feminine skin.

But we were taking a break. I wouldn't try anything until Kate told me it was okay to. It was a sweet sort of agony, holding her as she fell asleep and not being able to relieve the burning in my boxers. We were both aware of it, nestled hopefully between us, but there was no way that I was going to follow its urging and risk hurting her.

So I watched her face gradually soften into slumber, and enjoyed the glossy skin under my fingers and the simple closeness of lying with her beneath the covers. For me, it took some getting used to, sleeping beside another person in bed again; and I'm still not completely accustomed to it. I'm not really much of a snuggler either, but Kate likes it -- to her, it's essential. Gradually, I'm learning, starting to understand the appeal. It really isn't that difficult to grasp.

I lay awake for a long time, attempting to calm my natural impulses. I am not used to suppressing my desire when it comes to this woman. Not anymore, at least. I've quickly become used to her being so utterly available to me now, that only one night off felt like the harshest punishment.

So standing in the bedroom doorway, clenching my fists and darkly observing her playful teasing, I am more than aware that I have not made love to her in over twenty-four hours. I am about to start calculating the exact time, down to the millisecond, when she turns from the mirror, towards me, giving me a full-frontal view of her tantalizing breasts. The sight makes me want to fall to my knees in adulation.

She looks like some sort of illicit cherub, standing so serene and composed, in a bright patch of sunlight coming in the window that makes the sheer, white skirt she wears practically see-through. It's all she wears, aside from the moisturizing cream and a thin, gold necklace. I can even glimpse the outline of her legs and the dark curls at her apex, underneath the gossamer material.

"Do my back?" she asks, innocuously, holding out the tub of moisturizer and holding my eyes, despite their accusing flicker.

I run my gaze over the wet tendrils of dark hair, sticking to her neck and the tops of her breasts, over the one sleek arm, reaching out and offering me the chance to touch her, over her nipples, soft and plump from her shower and down over the white skirt to her sun-kissed feet, fair against the deep brown wood.

I step over to her, slowly, hearing the floorboards creak under my weight. I feel absolutely enormous approaching her, with my muddy boots and coarse clothing and the sweat already breaking out on my brow. I hold her eyes steadfastly, only dropping my gaze over her again when I stand before her, purposely invading her personal space.

I've never seen a more tempting sight in my whole life. If Kate wants to take time out from sex, this is not the way to go about it. The scent of the lotion is rising into my nostrils again as they flare indignantly.

What is she trying to do to me?

The fact is she barely needs to try. Without so much as a kiss or a touch, I'm already hard as a rock. Not that she seems to notice or care. She offers the tub to me again as if she's offering me coffee with my breakfast – something she knows I'll always want.

Instead of obeying, playing her game, I step behind her, facing the mirror of the dresser. I'm about to turn her by her shoulders, but I don't want to injure the redness there that has deepened overnight. So, I move my hands to her waist, my thumbs moving along the waistband of her skirt as I turn her to face the mirror also.

I can still see her from the waist up and she can see me over her shoulder, watching her reflection closely. She places the tub on the corner of the dresser and I lean in slowly to dip my fingers in it and gather some of the ointment. It feels cool and thick. Kate's eyes drop to the ground, her eyelashes lowered demurely as her chest inflates deeply, her whole body anticipating my touch.

"You think it's fun," I ask her huskily, my fingers pausing and hovering just above the curve of her shoulder: "teasing me like that?"

Her eyes flick up to mine in the mirror and she looks like a child who has been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. She swallows and licks her lips but doesn't answer.

"Hmm?" I prompt, quietly ominous, as I lower my gaze to her skin and let my fingers touch her. My whole body seems to sigh with relief. "You think two years of torture wasn't enough?" I ask, thickly, her flesh tingling under my barely perceptible touch.

I trace the distinct line between red and white where yesterday her clothes protected her and didn't from the harsh sun. Her skin feels hot and tender and her muscles writhe very slightly as I glide my palm unhurriedly over her upper back.

I withdraw my hand and look her over in the mirror: "You think it wasn't torture," I continue implacably: "seeing you everyday, looking at your mouth and your beautiful breasts and your legs, watching you walk and sit and smile and sleep…" I gather up her heavy, damp hair from off her back and shoulders and draw it all into my fist: "-- being able to look, but never touch?"

I tug gently at her hair, making her head pull back so she meets my eyes more fully.

Her breath is heavy and uneven as she gazes down her nose at me with wary, wide eyes. My gaze dips over her breasts again, arched gracefully toward the mirror, remembering how I could never help entertaining inappropriate thoughts about her whenever she wore those tight sweaters that practically burst with the plump, warm weight of her. How I used to secretly imagine her texture and shape and the exact color of her nipples-- the ruby nipples now gradually stiffening under my scrutiny.

"You think it wasn't torture for me," I tell her ruddy breasts, my voice breaking slightly with the tension: "smelling your hair and your perfume…?" I give her hair another little tug, careful not to hurt her, and stick my nose into the perfumed bundle of freshly-washed brunette hair, breathing in the shampoo I now know so well. She lets out a barely audible whimper and the sound along with the sweet smell sends another rush of blood directly to my groin.

"You think," I sigh, pulling my hand down out of her hair and watching the resultant droplets of water fall onto the small of her back and the wooden floorboards: "I didn't go through agony watching you go out with other men?"

I meet her eyes once more, placing her hair over her shoulder, so it curls like a black snake about her neck. I gather more of the cream and concentrate on treating the skin of her back I haven't yet touched. "Seeing you take their calls and dress up for them," I brood, distantly as my hand polishes her shoulder-blades deftly: "Imagine them kissing you and touching you…."

I'm imagining that horrible feeling right now. It was not so long ago that I don't remember that it was this divine torture, the constant tease, my insane envy that lead me to finally confronting myself and Kate about what I truly wanted, how I really felt.

"Imagine you kissing them….touching them…" I murmur, stroking further down her back with the cream where the sunburn has not afflicted her at all. I look up and in her eyes I see a gentle flicker of regret, of uncertainty. I withdraw my touch altogether, standing behind her with my hands on my hips and my clothes grazing her nakedness.

"You think," I state, a little louder, a little harsher: "I wouldn't have crawled across broken glass back then to be able to see you like this? Stand with you naked and be allowed to touch?"

Her face is colored with a flush of both arousal and shame. I know she was only teasing; I know she never meant to incite this sort of reaction from me. She stands motionless, speechless in front of me for a moment, our eyes locked in the mirror.

Then she leans back just a little, just enough for our bodies to come into contact, and God, I hope she's not teasing me anymore. I hope she's going to allow me to take her over to that big bed and lay her out on it so I can make love to her for as long as we can both stand it.

"Kate…" I sigh coarsely, anchoring my arms at my sides.

I close my eyes briefly as she pushes her ass back into the cradle of my pelvis and her head into the groove of my shoulder which was made for her. It's almost permission enough, and thankfully a moment later, she gives me the green light.

"You can touch…" she whispers, pulling one of my hands around her body: "I'm all yours now," she adds softly, wiggling against me irresistibly.

I wrap my arms around her instantly and nuzzle her neck insistently. I still can't believe it sometimes, how she continually gives herself to me. I cannot comprehend that this body, this woman, this love is mine, after so long. I never want to be without her or it again --and I never have to be. The torture of not having her for my own is long over. Now I have to deal with the tease of having her, belonging to her, owning her for the rest of my insane life.

"What did I do to deserve you?" I mumble into her hair. I swear she will, one day, be the death of me. She is Torment incarnate -- but absolutely worth every exquisite affliction.

"Don't know, Gibbs," she murmurs, taking my hand with creamy fingers and leading me to the bed: "Guess you're just lucky."

I grin and capture her bright eyes over her shoulder, as I follow: "Don't I know it."