She comes to his shop once a week to check up on his progress. Each time, he finds himself looking forward to her calls. It's usually during the lunch hour, when his one employee is out. It's the time he likes the most…
Today just feels different. He hears her before he sees her. He's on his back, underneath the car, when the click of heels on concrete announce her arrival.
He rolls out from under the car and is greeted by almond-shaped brown eyes staring down from above him. His eyes wander from her face, to her neck, to her breasts and quickly back up again. He hopes she didn't notice that.
"Greetings, Mr. Ross." She smiles when she speaks, and her voice is low and throaty. He stands up, and wipes his grease-smeared hands on his jeans, splotched with oil.
Today, Isobel has on a white tank top, and army green shorts that display her long, curvy legs beautifully, and a black belt. The belt, innocuous by itself, is low around her hips. Barney is trying really hard to pretend he doesn't notice those hips.
Instead, he clears his throat and they fall into their now-familiar routine. He shows her the work done so far, how he's buffed out the rusted spots, filled them in with putty. He shows her what's going on with the engine—wide open, various coils and hoses bursting out, holes where pistons should be—over the last two months, he's explained what part does what—acting as automotive instructor, and by now, she knows what he's talking about.
They compare and shop for parts he finds online, in junk yards. Some are easier than others.
Right now, the Charger is nothing but a metal frame on tires. It's hard to see what the end result will be, but it's getting there.
She's standing right next to him as he points down into the engine. She's so close he feels the heat from her body on his skin. Her arm brushes his.
He can tell she doesn't quite see where he's pointing so he places his arms gently on her shoulders, and moves her to stand in front of him. He takes her hand, moves it to the particular place he wants her to see. But now her back is to his chest, and he's behind her, and he and the other him become acutely aware of just how close she is when, she bends over, and her rear end presses right up to his groin.
It's completely accidental. But fate always has its own agenda.
He wants her. His body knows it. Now, she knows it too. But she doesn't pull away.
Instead, they stay like that—both holding their breath, waiting for the other to pull away. She breaks first, and turns to face him. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her arms are around his neck and the first time he kisses her is like getting high for the first time. It's intense and searing and…
Thank GOD he lives just upstairs. Because it's happening and he's going with it.
He picks her up and carries her. After years of lifting heavy artillery and enduring backbreaking assignments—she weights fairly little in comparison.
It's the smile of welcome he loves, the invitation, the pleading and acceptance of yes that he's craving. He takes her through and lays her gently on the bed. The kisses get harder, the clothes remove themselves, and soon he's on top, and her legs part to let him in.
It dawns on both of them that this…is new. Neither are virgins, but this…feeling, the intensity, is new.
He slides between her legs, getting closer to her entrance and then—she winces.
He tenses.
"I'm sorry, it's just—um…"
She's a bit flustered, and then – he gets it.
"It's been a while for me too," he says, before lowering his head to her neck and kissing her there, as she wraps her arms around his neck and shoulders and he pushes in.
She gasps, closes her eyes, and he lets out an involuntary groan as he eases inside, his girth and length, filling her.
Isobel bites her lip and tries not to cry out. It's been a long, time, too long, and he isn't small by any measure. It hurts, and he seems to get that. So he eases out gently, and waits for her to breathe again.
Slowly, they set their own pace—awkward at first, then quickly synching as she adjusts—he adjusts—each moan, grunt, whimper—its own directive, a road map.
He's truthful about it to her. It's been more like five years since he'd last been with a woman. Missions consumed him, his energies focused on other things…like his job. His cars, his bikes, his plane. His guns. Any and everything to distract himself from the cold fact that he had been alone for a long time.
The apartment is cool, but the room is hot—fueled by sex, and passion and the beginnings of something a lot deeper. The walls are soundproof, the floor is solid, but the bed itself is crying out, echoing the call-and-response of lovers.
He's climaxing fast and then—too fast, and her thighs are quaking, her fingers raking down his back, feeling the muscle ripple beneath the skin. The sensation finally sends him over the edge and he comes. Hard.
She follows suit. He's not sure who yelled out, maybe they did together, but when he comes down from his post-coitus induced high, she's still breathing hard, and damn, he is too.
She curls against him, clutching at the sword charm that dangles from his neck, her fingers curled around it, her face buried against his arm, her legs between his.
He pulls her close and kisses her forehead, and they fall into a light sleep. He hasn't slept like this in years.