A/N: An NC-17 version of this chapter can be found at my LJ; link is in my profile. An edited PG-13 version follows this author's note.

Chapter 12: Calleigh

You're not sure why you had asked Eric to turn toward his apartment, even though at the back of your mind, you're pretty sure you have a vague notion. And that terrifies you, which is why you had imposed those stupid rules. If you hadn't been so busy freaking out inside, you would've laughed at your own silly self.

He's fiddling with his lock now, the bottle of red wine clutched in his free hand, his jacket draped over his arm. His dress shirt is still open at the collar, his tie dangling loosely around his neck, and you fight the urge to unbutton it the rest of the way and…

He clears his throat, and your cheeks flush, because he's caught you staring. If he's disapproving (probably not), it'd be kind of hypocritical, because he's been staring at you all night, but you don't mention that. He smiles and pushes his door open, then makes a small bowing motion, gesturing for you to go first.

You enter and immediately, a rush of nostalgia hits you, and you hadn't really realized just how much you really missed this place until now. His apartment, or as much as you can see of it, anyway, has remained stagnant. Nothing has changed, except, you note with a small pang, your pictures, your magazines that had always littered his coffee table, all gone. To be expected, you suppose, but it still clenches your chest.

Leaning down to unstrap Valera's shoes, you remark, "You cleaned up."

He nods, looking like he didn't want to push the issue. He studies you for a moment, then kicks off his shoes and moves to the kitchen. When he returns, he is without the bottle of wine, and you're glad he's put that away, because you know you'd be tempted to down the rest of the bottle, despite the fact that you've already had a little more than you usually allowed yourself.

You clear your throat. "I never got the grand tour," you say, looking at him expectantly.

He smiles slightly, tosses his jacket onto the couch and chuckles nervously. "Uh, well, this is my living room," he replies, waving his arms awkwardly in the air around him. He stops, gives you a knowing look, and the tour ends there.

"You make a terrible guide," you admonish jokingly, taking a few steps toward him.

He smiles, touches your elbow and pushes you gently toward his couch.

"My rule's still in effect, you know," you say softly, watching his fingers brush against your arm, cursing the effect skin-on-skin contact with him has on you.

"I don't see you reaching for your gun," he teases, keeping a wary eye on your purse, which is where he's figured out your gun must be.

You move one hand toward your purse immediately, wanting a reaction from him, and you get one; he flinches, almost imperceptibly, but there's definitely twitching, so you grin and drop your purse on his coffee table. "For a cop, you're not very good at hiding your fear of guns."

"I'm not scared of guns," he protests, moving to sit down on his couch. "Do you want anything?" he asks, and your eyes flit to his, your heart skips. He chuckles. "To drink," he clarifies, but his voice is low, and you're pretty sure there's only one thing on his mind.

And it's not drinks.

"I'm okay," you reply, and you hesitate a moment before joining him on the couch. Without really meaning to, your right hip lands inches from his left, and there's so much heat.

From the corner of your eye, you can tell that he's watching you, and that's unnerving; you just hope he doesn't notice your unease. Your mind keeps wandering to the last time you were here, what you had said that night that had turned his world upside down. What had happened before you left, before he knew…

And that memory brings a quick flush to your cheeks, so you try to concentrate on something else:

Valera. Valera and Ryan? Ryan. OCD. Repetition. Multiple. Three times, he took you to your peak that night.

Try again:

Miami. The beach. The ocean. The pier. The way you felt tonight, cradled in his arms, his lips breezing across your skin, his fingertips drawing indistinguishable patterns along your—

Damn it.

"Do you want to talk about what happened with your dad?" he asks suddenly, taking you from your thoughts.

You heart makes a quick skip. Earlier, at dinner, when you had mentioned your father, he hadn't noticed your discomfort, and for that, you are thankful. Still, you didn't come here to talk about that, aren't ready yet, so you frown and make a brisk, dismissive reply.

"I said not today."

"Okay," he nods, and another silence impregnates the space between his body and yours. He leans back, squirming a little. "I really do have movies. We can—"

But you cut him off, press a hand against his mouth to shut him up, because you hate that he's making small talk. He looks surprised, and his hand instinctively snaps to yours, pulls it away from his lips.

"I thought there was a rule," he murmurs, smiling slightly.

Ignoring him, you lift yourself up a little and press your body against his, half-straddling him. His eyes widen, and he gives you an almost questioning look, like he doesn't know what you're doing.

You're pretty sure he figures it out when you press your lips to his and dart your tongue between them. His hands find your cheeks, strokes, runs down your neck but stops before he reaches your breasts. He gives you a gentle push, and you stand up, pulling him up with you.

"Calleigh…"

"Shut up," you say, rather roughly, your voice low in your throat, and he gives you a longing look and complies.

He follows you to his bedroom, and you have to push down wave after wave of guilt and nostalgia, but you manage, and though he may not realize it, his proximity helps.

At the doorway, his hand reaches for the light switch, but you swat it away. There's a glow of the street lamp outside casting a long beam along one wall, and that's enough, you decide.

Your lips find his again, and it's a little more urgent, a little more insistent, and he fulfills into your demand willingly, gives back everything he takes, because that's just who he is.

Your hands move to the bottom of his shirt and slip underneath. You run your fingers roughly along the skin on his side and his back, pulling him as close as he will come.

When you break away, he rests his forehead on yours, his eyes closed. His hands are gripping your hips, but you feel him loosen his fingers. "This—" He swallows, and you feel it against your forehead. "—is too soon."

And maybe he's right, but fuck, you don't want to think about this right now. You only want to remind yourself of what it had felt like to be like this with him again, and even the possibility that this could ruin things is not enough to stop you.

"Don't overanalyze this, Eric," you manage, running your hands loosely down his chest, relearning the shape of a body that you had been so intimately familiar with.

His breathing deepens, but he takes hold of your elbows and gently pulls your arms out from under his shirt. "We need to take this slow."

"You don't believe that," you say pointedly, your breathing jagged. You want to scream at him for his rationality.

Your work demands this type of rationality, but he's never brought that rationality into his personal life, so it becomes excruciatingly maddening that he would stop you like this when you know there's probably nothing else he wants more. He has made you feel needy, and you despise dependence.

He pulls his head off your forehead and opens his eyes to look at you. The room is dark, but for the first time in too long, you are close enough to really see his eyes. They are exactly how you remember them: chocolate brown, yet so clear you can see your own reflection in them, always revealing.

"We need to take this slow," he repeats wryly, his hands still on your elbows.

"I want this." You sigh. "Don't think about this now," you admonish, reaching for his shirt again.

But he stops you again, holding on to your arms. "Calleigh, if we do this, we can't undo this." You give him an obvious, pointed look. He sighs in frustration, apparently upset that his words are so useless with you in such close proximity.

"We've done this before," you remind him, reaching out a third time.

His eyes tell you that this is different, but he lets you take hold of the bottom of his shirt this time. He doesn't protest when you start to pull the shirt over his head; you can't be bothered with the buttons, and you've already unbuttoned enough to pull, so you do, and his tie comes off as well. Tossing shirt and tie aside, you run your fingertips down his chest again, leaning in to place soft kisses anywhere your lips can reach. His hand finds your chin and pulls your face up to his own lips again. He presses his lips against yours softly, testing the feel of your lips against his, almost like the first time you did this. He reaches around you for your zipper, but you're moving too much, and the his fingers are clumsy against your back, so he groans into your mouth. Your hands abandon his chest for a moment to help him with the zipper. He increases the intensity of the kiss, adding the tip of his tongue, but still toying, just the way he knows you used to like it. His lips remind you that you still do…

-/-/-

Curving your body into him, your head finds the crook of his neck, and you breathe in the scent of his aftershave mixed with a hint of perspiration. Intimacy has lulled you into a temporary sense of invincibility, and you'll revel in the feeling for as long as you possibly can. There's an inexplicable comfort there, and his naked body pressed against yours eases your conscience, erases your guilt.

Tomorrow, you'll talk. About your move to Miami, about your father, about tonight.

But tonight, tonight you sleep soundly in his arms.