A/N: Thank you once again for all the great reviews. You are all too kind and generous, and I am very flattered and humbled. This chapter is on the long side (hope you don't mind) and definitely rated M toward the end, so please be advised.

Chapter 5: Universal Ramifications

After Lisbon had sent her text to the president, she noticed she had about twenty texts and voice mails that she'd missed while her phone had been off. She sat back against the car seat while her White House driver maneuvered through DC traffic, the windshield wipers swishing off the light snow that was falling. Lisbon's face contorted with concern; having a lot of messages generally wasn't a good sign when you're a CBI agent.

The first text was from Van Pelt.

OMG, Boss! You look beautiful!

She'd attached a picture of a newspaper, the front page of which displayed the image of the president and her dancing at the ball.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, echoing the message. She cringed at the headline, her face warming as she still felt the tingle of his lips on hers.

She scrolled through the other messages—more of the same from other coworkers and friends who had seen the picture, or kindly passed it on to her. The voice mails were from her brothers, wondering what the hell was going on, and was she dating "the fucking President of the United States?"

How the hell had she missed seeing this herself? she wondered.

She quickly went over her day in her mind. Her phone had been off for several hours this evening, out of respect for being in the president's company, which explained why she'd missed her messages. This morning, she hadn't even watched the news, let alone taken the time to read the paper. She'd gone jogging around the National Mall in the crisp morning air, come back to the hotel and showered, then spent the rest of the day wandering through several of the Smithsonian museums, while mentally preparing herself to see the president in his private rooms that night. Reading and going online had been the last things on her mind. She'd been floating on a cloud of romance from the ball, reliving their dances over and over again like Cinderella, remembering how he'd looked at her, said her name.

As they pulled up to her hotel, reality came crashing down on her. The press, who had been lying in wait for her return, immediately surrounded the car. They'd found out where she was staying. Cameras flashed and questions were already being yelled at her through the windows.

The driver, a burly man named Teddy, turned around to look at her in the back seat.

"I'll escort you in, Miss," he said kindly. "Stay close to me."

"Holy shit," she muttered.

After the Red John case, the press had been on her and her team briefly, seeking additional comments for the ten o'clock news, but they'd been generally polite, and had only questioned her in front of the CBI building; they had not gone to her home. This, she thought, as Teddy got out of the car, was something else entirely.

She was inordinately grateful for her driver's large size as he propelled her before him through the paparazzi, but the few yards between the car and the entrance to the hotel seemed more like miles. Cameras continued to flash, nearly blinding her at times, and she knew now why movie stars wore sunglasses, even at night. Every step of the way, the reporters were hurling questions like stones, which she wisely refused to answer, though some of them made her want to sink into the ground in embarrassment.

"Did you just come from the White House?"
"Will you be seeing him again?"

"What's it like to dance with the president?"

"Are you sleeping with him?"

The doorman of the hotel, used to the press who tended to follow famous guests, held the door open quickly for her, ushering her inside and closing the door firmly against the fray.

"Are you all right, Miss?" Teddy asked politely, once they were safe in the lobby.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." She looked back at the crowd still milling at a legal distance from the entrance of the hotel. "Sorry," she felt compelled to say.

"Part of the job, Miss."

He tipped his driver's cap and wished her a good night, then ventured outside again, the reporters parting like the Red Sea so the big man could return to the car.

Teddy hadn't seemed too surprised by the presence of the paparazzi, she realized on the way up in the elevator. Which meant that the president must have been aware of the newspaper photo, aware that reporters might be surrounding her hotel, and maybe even the White House.

Now she knew what Jane had meant when he'd had the Secret Service agent take her out the "sneaky way."

Why the hell hadn't he told her?

"Because he assumed I'd know," she said to herself.

The elevator stopped on her floor and she got out, fishing the keycard from her pocket as she walked. She passed a couple going out for the evening. Their eyes widened at the sight of her.

"Hey, you're dating the president, right?" asked the woman

"Sorry. You're mistaking me for someone else," she replied, before hastily letting herself into her room. She drew the bolt behind her, leaning her back heavily against the door.

What had she gotten herself into?

Her hand itched to call the president, and she held up her phone to do so, surprised to see it was still clutched tightly in her hand. There were three texts from him in reply to her good-night message, but she suddenly didn't know what to say to him. She wanted to be angry with him for not discussing the photo or the press, but she really should have known better. She only need look to history to know that any women (wives or mistresses) involved with the President of the United States held endless fascination for the public, which was what sold newspapers and TV advertising. She supposed she'd been too humble, too naive to ever believe they'd take an interest in her.

It had all been so overwhelming, so much like a fairy tale that she'd been helplessly caught up by the excitement of the situation. But if she were totally honest with herself, it was mostly Jane's overpowering charisma that had drawn her in, blinding her to everything but him. His hot kisses had only sealed her fate—she was completely and utterly smitten, and she already knew she wouldn't be getting over him anytime soon. How do you top the President of the United States?

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she walked zombielike to her bed, throwing herself down upon it as it occurred to her what she must do. She had to leave DC, first thing in the morning. She couldn't handle this, didn't want to be the subject of late-night talk show monologues. Didn't want her name and face plastered all over the tabloids for all the world to see and scoff at. She wanted to go back to her challenging and interesting and private job, where she was taken seriously and well-respected. She'd even appreciate her boring, quiet life outside of work, despite her occasional loneliness or the shame of one-night stands.

Yes, leaving now would be the safe and sane thing to do. The Teresa Lisbon thing to do. But it already tore at her heart to think that she would never see him again—at least not in person. And how would that feel, watching him on television, knowing how close she had been to him, how she'd kissed that sexy mouth, run her fingers through his soft curls? Their mutual attraction would have had the potential to become something real, something beautiful, something permanent—had he just been an average Joe. She'd been so stupid to think that the distance between their homes would be their biggest obstacle.

She let herself cry there, alone in her beautiful hotel room, one night of which would pay for a month's rent on her apartment at home. She wept for what had happened, for what might have been, for the loss she was already feeling with his absence. She allowed her fingers to touch her lips, to remember his warm, seeking mouth there, to relive the anticipation she'd felt as his hands had settled just below her aching breasts. She gave herself twenty minutes of self-pity, then she retrieved her laptop from her luggage and pulled up the airline website.

The reason why Teresa Lisbon was so good at her job was because she was able to make the hard decisions, and to make them quickly. This, she told herself as she booked the first available flight the next morning, could be no exception.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon awoke to the news that a foot of snow had fallen overnight; her flight indefinitely delayed. She rolled over in bed, burying her face in the pillow in frustration. She was angry with the goddamn snow, angry that she'd been caught up in this impossible situation of her own making, angry that she'd had hot, erotic dreams of him half the night—and lain awake and thought about him the other half.

She knew he would be calling her soon, setting up their meeting for the day. So, in a childish effort to take back some control of her life, she reached for her cell phone. It was only six a.m., but she figured it was a good bet that the president was already awake. She punched in her text almost violently.

Why didn't you tell me about the photo?

Less than a minute later, her phone rang.

"I'm sorry," said the president. "I thought you knew."

The sound of his voice instantly calmed her, and she sighed heavily, closing her eyes at the futility of being angry with him.

"No," she said. "I had no idea until I checked my messages last night."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Are you all right? Teddy told me there was quite a crowd outside the hotel last night. I'll send a couple of Secret Service agents with him today—"

"No," she said sadly. "Don't bother. I'm staying in until my flight can leave."

There was silence on the other end, his disappointment almost palpable.

"Is that what you want, Teresa?" he asked finally, his voice throaty with regret.

"No," she whispered, feeling the tears welling once more.

"Then don't go," he said. "Please. I should have warned you this could happen, but I wasn't thinking straight. You keep me from thinking straight."

His words were causing her heart to race, but as gratifying as they were to her as a woman, she knew this was dangerous ground for him.

"That's not a good thing for a president," she said. "It's probably better I go—for both of us—hell, for the entire country!"

Jane winced at her sound logic, but then decided to change tactics. He had successfully negotiated with both sides of the aisle to get the crime bill passed—he could convince Teresa Lisbon to stay in DC a little longer.

"Charlotte really likes you," he said. "She's missed having a close female influence in her life. I heard that you lost your mother at an early age, so I'm sure you can empathize. I know she would at least want to say good-bye."

Lisbon felt the twinge of guilt and pity, but knew immediately what he was doing.

"That's dirty pool, Jane."

"Jane is it now? Well, that's a step closer to Patrick."

What? She was starting to get whiplash from his quick changes of topic.

"Sorry. That sounded disrespectful. But people generally refer to presidents by their last names. You know, Obama, Bush, Clinton…Nixon."

The last name of the notorious president made him grin.

"Not to mention," she continued, "that's what we do in the CBI. It's been a long time since anyone called me Teresa instead of Lisbon. And you're changing the subject…"

"Yes, you're right. The subject is your staying in DC. You know, I could call your boss, have him order you to stay."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"I'm pretty sure that would constitute an abuse of power."

"So impeach me," he quipped. "Hey, are we having our first fight?"

She could hear the smile in his voice, and despite her annoyance, his good humor was contagious.

"You're impossible."

"You will find, Teresa, that when I want something, I don't give up very easily."

The implication being, of course, that he wanted her. She blushed.

"You will find, Mr. President," she countered mockingly, "that I am equally stubborn."

"One of the myriad things I like about you, Agent Lisbon. But you're forgetting the task force. You're going to run away now, with our discussions only halfway complete?"

"I will be happy to help implement that back in California. We can continue discussing any task force business via e-mail."

"Meh. E-mail. I like to see the face of the person I'm negotiating with."

"Just look at my picture as you read my e-mail," she said sarcastically.

"Like I am right now," he said, his voice lowering suggestively. She heard the rustling of a newspaper, and she could imagine his staring at yesterdays' morning edition, their dance captured for the ages. "That's not nearly good enough."

"Jane," she said, responding to the longing in his voice, the memory of their kisses coming so vividly to mind that her heart skipped a beat.

"Stay," he said. "Let me at least say good-bye in person, tie up some…loose ends."

"I don't think that's a very good idea," she said, willing her voice not to shake.

"On the contrary, it's the best idea I've had all day."

If just speaking to him made her tremble, she knew there was no way she could resist the man in person. She sighed in exasperation, desperate now to be the one to change this dangerous subject. She glanced at the bedside clock, noting they'd been on the phone for several minutes.

"Don't you have a country to run?"

"I'm between meetings," he said, but that was sort of a lie. In truth, the Prime Minister of Canada was waiting for him in the Yellow Oval Room, and Mashburn was chomping at the bit right outside the door. They could both wait, he thought. The whole damn world could wait. He almost had her now; he could taste it.

"Please, Teresa," he said softly, pouring on his notorious charm. "I have to see you one more time."

He could feel her hesitation, sensed that he was on the verge of closing the deal. But he'd underestimated her force of will.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but this has to be good-bye. Thank you for the wonderful time. For inviting me to the ball, and into your home. For introducing me to Charlotte. She's a lovely girl—I'll send her a note with my regrets, I promise. I had a great time with you, but all good things…Good…good-bye."

And she hung up on him, though not before he heard the tears clogging her throat. He stared at his phone in shock, then moved to call her back. Mashburn, despite his orders, chose that moment to peep inside the Oval Office.

"Mr. President, your guest is waiting."

He barely resisted throwing the phone at him. Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to focus on his presidential duties, though since the moment he'd met Teresa Lisbon, that prospect had become increasingly difficult. He pocketed his phone.

This isn't over, Teresa, he thought to himself. Not even close.

She'd figured she'd had the last word, but she'd grossly underestimated him if she thought he'd give up that easily.

"Fine. I'm coming," he said to Mashburn.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He'd requested regular updates of the weather and the airport situation, and so far, all flights were still delayed, the airport basically shut down, while the snow kept piling up. By early afternoon, the Prime Minister of Canada had returned to rest with his wife in the Lincoln Bedroom, and Jane had an unexpected block of free time. Charlotte was still at school, so there was nothing standing in his way of seeing Teresa privately.

Except that he was the most recognizable man in America.

Shit. He thought in annoyance, pacing a little in his office. There had to be a way.

He decided to take a quick turn about the West Wing; his staff was used to seeing him wandering aimlessly through the halls of the great mansion when there was something on his mind. They all suspected that today it must be the pretty Agent Lisbon, though none of them would ever dare to mention these suspicions. They knew not to approach him, just smiled and greeted him politely in passing, while all of them were secretly happy that maybe the lonely president had found a mate at last.

When Jane caught sight of Jim, his most trusted Secret Service agent, the grain of a plan began to germinate in his rich imagination. He knew Jim to be loyal and discreet to a fault, having brought him to the White House with him from California. At the same time, Jim was highly competent and physically imposing, and Jane literally trusted the man with his life.

"May I help you, sir?"

Jane stood closer to the guard, who had been watching unobtrusively in the long hall near the Oval Office.

"Yes, you certainly may," said Jane, sotto voce. "Tell me, how difficult would it be to get me out of here for a little while, with no one else the wiser?"

The man considered the question a moment. "Difficult. But doable."

"It has to be now."

Jim nodded in understanding. "Do you have a hooded sweatshirt, sir?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon stared sightlessly at the television, which she'd turned on in vain attempt to focus on something else besides Patrick Jane. She picked up her phone, re-reading the texts he'd sent her, so very tempted to call him back, to tell him she'd changed her mind.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

She had a job back in California that she loved, coworkers who counted on her. And she couldn't let the people of the United States suffer further while she selfishly monopolized any more of the president's time. The weather report had offered dire news, however, and Lisbon suspected she might not get a flight out that day. Resigned to her fate, she ordered an expensive sandwich from room service, promising herself she'd trudge out into the snow later to buy fast food for dinner. Then she would fill the time by calling Cho in California, see if there were any new cases to investigate, and maybe utilize the hotel gym to work off some of her frustrations. Anything to keep her mind off a very tempting president who had kissed her and wanted her to stay.

The confident knock on the door and the expected announcement of room service made her careless, and she didn't peak through the peephole to check for certain the visitor's identity; otherwise, she might not have answered the door to the navy-blue hooded figure that stood before her in the hallway.

When she opened the door, her hand went automatically to her gun-less hip at the sight of the suspicious stranger, until amused sea green eyes met hers and she gasped aloud.

"Jane? How the hell-?"

"If I told you…I'd have to-well, you know the rest." He grinned in triumph at his daring accomplishment. Someday he would tell her everything that had gone in to a president leaving the White House unnoticed and recklessly chaperoned. It had been like a movie, and some of the best fun he'd had in ages.

Lisbon looked down the hall to where the Secret Service man from last night—Jim, was it?—stood vigilantly near the elevator.

"Mr. President—"

"Shhh," he said, mindful of her neighbors, and pushed his way inside, taking her arm and drawing her in after him before closing and locking the door.

He removed his sweatshirt hood, and she noticed he'd worn it over his suit slacks and expensive shoes. He looked around her room, at the unmade bed, the TV tuned ironically to the old Jimmy Stewart movie, "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," the packed suitcase near the door.

"You weren't kidding," he said. "You were just going to leave."

"Yes." Her heart was reacting in its usual crazy way to his nearness. She muted the movie to give her a moment to focus.

"What can I do to change your mind?" he asked, stepping closer to her.

"Well, I'm afraid Mother Nature took care of that for you, though actually, I wouldn't put it past you—"

He chuckled. "I can't take credit for the snow, but I had considered making a call to the airport."

Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't."

The twinkle in his eye was his only answer. She sighed, moving a safer distance away.

"So, can I get you anything? Mini bar liquor? Cattle prod?"

"It's a federal offense to threaten the president," he said wryly.

She threw up her hands in exasperation.

"What part of good-bye do you not understand? This has to stop, Jane, before things get too crazy, before we make an irreversible mistake that has universal ramifications."

His lips formed a straight, unhappy line. "Lots of ten-dollar words in that statement."

"I mean every penny."

Jane strolled to the window, lifting the curtain aside to look out at the distant Washington Monument, the white obelisk seemingly formed by the snowstorm itself.

"I understand why you're skittish about this," he said, his back still to her. "Frankly, I'm terrified, and it has nothing to do with the press or any universal ramifications."

"Well, it should," she said, but he ignored her obstinacy.

He was quiet a moment, considering his next words carefully. She wondered if he would dare to voice what it was that was really frightening both of them.

"It's the way you make me feel," he said, turning from the window, his eyes warm and sincere, with only a hint of the fear he mentioned. "I know you can feel it too, Teresa. It's heady and consuming and scary as hell, especially to people like us who like to be in control of things."

She couldn't deny it.

She watched him as he moved closer to her again, his gait lithe as a cat's, and everything in her told her to back away, to run even. But she made herself stand her ground, hands going defiantly to her hips. This wasn't fun and games to her. This wasn't the kind of man you slept with one night and forgot about the next. No, Patrick Jane was the kind of man you never got over, the one by which you compared all men, who ruined your ever being happy with anyone else.

"Please," she said, when he stood before her and took both her cold hands in his. He could have rightly interpreted that one word as either a request to stop or a plea to take her in his arms.

Jane chose the latter.

He dipped his head and took her mouth, stealing her breath, making her instantly dizzy with desire. Jane was conscious of time ticking past, of the fact that he had responsibilities that made this assignation risky in so many ways, but for the first time in years, he forced himself to push it all out of his mind. He wanted this woman, and what's more, he knew she wanted him—not just for his power or money or prestige—for him. And there was the heartbreaking possibility that he was running out of time with her. If that was the case, he thought desperately, he would do whatever he could to hold onto her for as long as he could.

His hands went to her familiar white blouse, unbuttoning it as he devoured her lips, reveled in the wildness of her hands in his hair. She was making little noises that stirred his blood, aroused him to the brink of insanity. He stepped away from her to pull the hoodie over his head, but she drew him back to her immediately, smiling as she saw that his sweatshirt disguise had covered his usual vest and dress shirt beneath it.

There came a frenzy of unbuttoning and unzipping, of stepping out of shoes and pulling off of socks, until at last they stood in only their underwear, her bra and panties soft scraps of practical cotton, his boxers the silly plaid ones Charlotte had gotten him for Father's Day.

She was more beautiful than he had imagined, in top physical form for her job, her breasts high and firm, cleavage sexy and sweetly scented. He lowered his face to the warm valley, her fingers weaving through his hair as he inhaled, then kissed his way to one hard nipple straining against its cotton cover. He nipped it between his lips and she gasped with pleasure, while his hands moved lower, slipping inside her panties to cup her well-trimmed sex.

It had been ten years, but he was remembering quickly what a man could do to please a woman. He found her other breast, nuzzling aside her bra to suckle, as his fingers worked inside of her, teasing and circling while she writhed and clutched at his shoulders for support. When her legs were suitably trembling, he dropped to his knees before her, removing her panties before she could register what was happening. His mouth moved further south of her breasts, ardently kissing her slim torso, delighting in the firm muscles of her stomach. He pressed a hot kiss on her navel, and she inhaled sharply, then shivered as his soft curls brushed her bare skin.

He looked up at her, giving her a wicked smile that gave her some clue of his intentions. Still, she was completely taken off guard when he gently draped one of her smooth thighs over his shoulder, then pulled her closer, opening her legs wider to him before he found the heart of her with his tongue.

She cried out at the erotic sensation, her face and chest blooming with color, her fingernails digging into the bare skin of his shoulders as she struggled to keep her balance. She had the vague presence of mind to wonder how they'd gotten to this place so quickly. One moment she'd been berating him for coming over here against her wishes, the next he was giving her this amazingly intense pleasure that suffused her entire body.

It was almost embarrassing how fast she came, and he continued to soothe her with his tongue as she experienced wave after wave of her orgasm.

"Oh…God," she said with a final, quavering sigh. "That was…"

She lacked the words.

He chuckled quietly and kissed her inner thigh, then placed her unsteady foot back on the carpet. Rising to his feet again, he took her into his arms to kiss her mouth, reveling in the feel of bare skin against skin. He walked her backwards toward the bed, lowering her to the coverlet. He parted from her briefly to remove his boxers, the blood pumping mightily in his ears.

Her eyes widened at the fullness of his arousal, then she looked up at him in embarrassment at her reaction. He held her gaze, his smile almost shy now. He'd taken care of her pleasure first, uncertain how long he'd be able to hold out after so many years of abstinence.

"It's been awhile for me," he told her. "And you might have certain…expectations that might fall, well, short—"

She smiled gently at him, wondering if the tabloid rumors about him had been true: had he really lived a celibate life since his wife's death?

"Come here, Mr. President," she said, and with the mischief in her eyes, his confidence was fully restored. No matter how long he lasted, he had the feeling it was going to be okay with her. She scooted farther toward the middle of the bed, then lay back, her hands drawing him down with her. He knelt beside her on the mattress, bent to kiss her lips, then her right breast, before moving to cover her body with his own. She reached between them, found his erection and gripped it tightly with one small hand.

He swore, squeezing his eyes shut at the almost painful pleasure of it.

She stroked him from the base to the wet tip, massaging the moisture there with her thumb until he stilled her hand with his. He definitely wouldn't be in this long if she continued doing more of that. Together, they guided him to her slick entrance and he hovered there, breathing so shallowly things were beginning to go black around the edges.

"It's okay," she whispered, and she raised her hips to meet him. Taking a deep breath to clear his head a little, he slid inside of her body, pushing to the hilt while they both moaned their approval. He pulled slowly back out, his muscles quivering with restraint before he slowly pushed inside again.

"Please," she said impatiently, "Patrick…"

His name on her lips was like a catalyst, and all semblance of self-control vanished in his desire to fully possess her. His initial movements were erratic, jerky, until finally he found a smooth rhythm that pleased them both. She met each thrust wholeheartedly, her heels pressing into his buttocks, taking him deeper still.

Just when she was on the verge of another soul shattering orgasm, she felt him shutter within her, a harsh cry ripping from his throat as he found his own release. Sensing her frustration, he continued to plunge into her as hard as he could until she too hurdled over the edge once more. Exhausted and blissfully sated, he let his entire weight fall upon her, his arms slipping beneath her back as if he were adjusting a pillow to his comfort. He lay his head on her heaving breasts and listened to the sound of her pounding heart beneath his ear.

After a moment, he turned his head into her damp neck, kissing her tenderly.

She smiled, though her eyes were still closed. She lay bonelessly beneath him, trying to ignore the beginnings of regret for what she'd let him do, for what she'd done, for those universal ramifications to set in. It wouldn't be long before she would have to share him with the world, so for now, she would try to enjoy this unexpected gift. Not that she could move even if she wanted to.

"I wish I'd known that's all it would take to get you to say my name," she said.

"It was involuntary, I assure you."

"Hmmm. Still stubborn, I see."

He kissed her mouth languidly, and her hands came up to his hair again. She wondered how many women had imagined what it felt like, had dreamed of being right where she was right now. She smiled as he lay his head back down on her breasts with a sigh of contentment.

"This doesn't change anything, you know," she said, and he frowned at her serious tone.

He lifted his to look at her. "On the contrary, I believe this changes everything."

"You're still the president."

"True, though after Walter finds out how I snuck out, Madeline might be up for a hasty promotion."

She smiled in spite of herself. "I can't stay here, Jane. I have a job. You have a pretty important one too, by the way."

"Yes. I haven't forgotten, but it was nice not to think about it for ten minutes."

She raised a teasing eyebrow.

"Okay, five minutes," he amended sheepishly. "I'll make it up to you next time, I promise."

She tried to ignore his assumption that there would be a next time. When her plane was cleared to leave, she'd be on it.

"There's nothing for you to make up for," she told him. "You definitely haven't lost your touch."

"Thank you," he said. "I'm sure you're just as much relieved by that as I am."

"How long has it been?" she asked, then regretted it instantly. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

"Ten years," he admitted. "I'd like to think I was waiting for you."

She stared at him, wondering at his sincerity.

"I mean that," he whispered, reading her doubt.

"But this is happening so fast between us," she said. "Why me? Why now?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I've never believed in fate before. All I do know is, the minute I saw you, I couldn't get you out of my mind. I was drawn to you, and not just physically. And then I saw you with Charlotte, and I guess the clinched it for me. I told a friend recently that I hadn't been ready to move on, but you made me change my mind—about a great many things."

He kissed her softly between her breasts, and already he felt the renewal of his desire for her. Apparently he had a long time to make up for.

"But I'm not sure I can handle all this. I mean, just you alone—the kind of man you are—that's difficult. But add the fact of who you are—relationships are tough enough without that little complication."

He regarded her quietly a moment.

"What do you mean the kind of man I am?"

She blushed. "You know what I mean. Quit fishing for complements."

He grinned at her. "Humor me."

She rolled her eyes.

"Well, you have to know how unbelievably handsome you are. And there have been entire treatises analyzing your charisma and the power you have over people."

"Hmm. And you're no exception?"

"Look where we are, Jane."

He frowned. "What happened to Patrick?"

"That's only for special occasions," she said softly, and he found himself kissing her again, the need for her building with every swipe of her tongue against his.

Of course, it didn't take long for Jane's actions to catch up with him. There came a soft knock on the door at the same time the phone in his pants pocket began to ring demandingly.

"Sir," said Jim from the other side of the door. "We've been made."

"Shit," he muttered, rising reluctantly from the warmth of Lisbon's body.

"I hear you, Jim," he called through the door.

He squatted down and rifled through his pants pockets to find his phone.

"Walter."

"I bet I can guess where you are in one," Walter said angrily, without preamble.

"I'm a big boy, Dad," he replied sarcastically.

"What if there had been a national emergency?"

"Was there?"

"No."

"Well, no harm done then, right? I'm on my way back now, so cool your jets. I'm sure you can hold down the fort until I travel three blocks. Good-bye, Walter."

He hung up in annoyance.

He reached for his boxers and pulled them on, aware of Lisbon's eyes traveling over his body. He was still hard for her, and physical as well as emotional frustration was setting in. He watched as she moved to get off the bed, but he paused in his dressing and held up his hand.

"Please, don't get up. I want to remember you just like this."

She flushed. "Jane, I really should-"

"Please," he repeated. He returned to the bed, his chest still bare but his pants now zipped and fastened. He bent and pressed a light kiss on her mouth.

She settled back on the bed, but slipped beneath the covers. "Okay." She could give him this, at least.

He put on the rest of his clothes in record time, sitting on the bed to slip on his socks and shoes. She moved to her knees, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

"I'm glad you came," she whispered.

He grinned, "Oh, me too," he said, his voice laden with innuendo.

She kissed his cheek, hugging him tightly as if it were the last time, because in her mind, despite what they had just shared, it was.

"You're still leaving, aren't you?" he asked with his famous perception. He turned slightly to look at her straight on, his hands resting atop hers.

"Yes," she said solemnly. "You know why."

He nodded in understanding, but Lisbon had the feeling that, despite her intentions, this wasn't the end. She didn't know exactly how to feel about that, but she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that part of her was excited to think that he wasn't going to give up on her.

He kissed her passionately then, trying to instill in it all the longing and sadness he could in a last-ditch effort to change her mind. When his hand cupped her naked breast, she almost gave in.

Jim's knock sounded a little more urgent this time. He touched Lisbon's cheek, then chucked her bittersweetly on the chin.

"We'll always have Washington," he quipped with a wink.

And then he went to the door. He unlocked the bolt and opened the door, moving aside suddenly as Jim wheeled in a room service tray.

"This was delivered a while ago," he said apologetically. He had assumed correctly that they wouldn't have wanted the interruption.

Lisbon pulled the blankets up to her chin in embarrassment. "Thank you."

The agent nodded and looked at the president, who was pulling on his sweatshirt one more time.

"Good bye, Teresa," he said with a smile, adjusting the hood over the curls she'd already mussed up with her hands.

He left her then without looking back, and Lisbon numbly ate her expensive sandwich before the muted TV, her teardrops seasoning the cold French fries.

A/N: Yes, this was fast for them, but if you saw "The American President," it happened between them rather quickly as well. But the course of true love, etcetera, etcetera…I've been on a writing roll lately, so hopefully I'll have another chapter for you soon. Thanks again for reading.