As a warning, this chapter is rather M-ish. It also presents Jane in a way in which you may not wish to see him, but I can only suspend believability in Bruno Heller's universe so far, and I must draw the line somewhere and yield to base realities. I offer no apologies and can only hope you all understand.

18. . . . HOW QUICK AND FRESH ART THOU (Twelfth Night: Act I, Scene 1)

They bickered and bantered all the way back to her apartment over everything from what to listen to on the radio to which character in the play had been the silliest and which the slyest. When they reached her door, she unlocked it and pushed it partially open before she turned to him.

"Do you want to—"

"Most definitely."

Once inside, she dropped her purse and keys on the desk and started to head into the kitchen.

"Would you like—?"

He caught her and pulled her back to him, cupping the back of her head in his left hand to tilt her face up to him before he took her lips in a soft, hungry kiss. His free hand circled her waist and pulled her tight against him, and her hands moved up his chest to take hold of the ends of his bowtie and pull it undone, leaving it hanging loose around his neck. Her left hand slid up and around to thread through his hair, pulling him more deeply into the kiss while her right set about undoing the buttons of his shirt. He massaged the base of her neck before gliding his hand around to her front and down to that delectable, ivory swell that had pulled at his attention since she had opened the door to him.

His fingertips danced across her skin just above her neckline where it molded to her breasts then back again to where it dipped low in the center. Just as he began to tease his way into the top of her dress, she reached to take his straying hand in her own and turned, walking gracefully backwards to the couch, pulling him along with her. He vaguely realized that she had only unbuttoned his shirt halfway down. No matter. They would finish in good time.

The thought of those words in this moment made him hesitate for an instant, and a light he saw flicker through Lisbon's eyes told him she had seen it and understood. They both knew that for him, at least, it had been more than a while. He hoped all of that stuff he'd been spouting to the team for years about mind over matter and biorhythms was true.

When they reached their destination, she pulled him to her and kissed him hard, somehow pivoting him as she did so and leaning into him to let him know she wanted him to sit. As he did so, she broke off the kiss and lowered herself to straddle him. Once they were settled, she took his lips again then trailed kisses along his jaw and down his throat even as one hand moved to unhitch his trousers. He tried to pull her back to gain more access so that he could do more than just stroke her back while she effectively brought him nearer to the edge. She seemed to want to be the active partner, and he was content to let her for a while. Very content, but only for a while. He wanted—needed to slow things down. As his mouth was currently unoccupied, of course, he spoke.

"Did you take dance class as a girl?" His slow, deep, controlled breathing belied the casualness of the question.

"Hm?"

"Dance classes?"

"Mm . . . why?"

"Arriere, pivot and plié. Like an erotic ballerina."

She paused and raised herself so that she was slightly above him looking down at his face. Their bodies were so close that he had to lean his head back on the top edge of the couch to look up at her.

"What?"

"An erotic ballerina. The arriere, the pivot, the plié."

"You're talking about this now?"

"You have me at a disadvantage. Would you rather I just lie here like a piece of meat?"

"Yes."

"Lisb—"

"Teresa. When we're like this . . . Teresa."

His eyes and voice softened.

"Teresa." It came out on a sigh. "I don't do passive very well."

"Patrick, I know this isn't what you might've planned—if you planned, but—"

Either too embarrassed or too intent to continue speaking, she decided to simply act on her intentions. Gaze locked onto his, her left hand traced its way to his chest, and she pushed on him and held him in place as her right hand smoothly descended beneath his trousers to grasp his erection. He hissed as she began to stroke him, and his breathing deepened further still, only now in an erratic non-rhythm as he began to feel his control slip away. He raised one hand in an attempt to still hers.

"Teresa. I can't—"

"Sh-h, Patrick. Don't worry, I've got you."

"I know. Believe me, I . . . know."

He knew what she was doing, and while he was not especially keen on the idea of their first time being his first time, her grasping and stroking him combined with the swirl of her thumb over his tip to catch and disperse the fluid that had gathered there was already beginning to undo him. Unable to hold his eyes open anymore, he leaned back and let his thoughts center on the sensations she was causing. His hands traveled down her back, over her backside and around to grasp her thighs, left bare where her dress had ridden up. She leaned her upper body full against his so he could feel her weight on him as she gently bit her way up the side of his neck, scraping her teeth along the strained tendon there. His hands were squeezing her so tightly, she knew she would have bruises where his thumbs were boring into the front of her thighs. When her lips reached his ear, she bit the tender lobe then swept it with her tongue, and he groaned loud and deep. She whispered pleadingly to him.

"Let go, Patrick. Please just let go for me."

His ragged gasp tore through the quiet of the room, and his body caught and held the breath of it. His heartbeat seemed to pound through his whole being until its thrumming was all he could feel and hear. The furrow of his brow deepened, and he wanted to look at her, wanted her to look at him and see how good she had made him feel, but he knew if he could open his eyes right now he wouldn't be able to see, knew it from the explosions of light going off in his head just behind his eyelids. He felt her continue to stroke him while he pulsed in her hand. Finally, his body relinquished the breath it held, and he willed himself not to faint from euphoria and the almost unbearable sense of lightness and pleasure that suddenly enveloped him.

Her weight lifted off of him, and he felt cold and bereft. The water running in the kitchen registered, and he felt something warm and damp against the skin of his abdomen. He opened his eyes to see her straighten and walk toward the kitchen until she was close enough to lob the cloth she had used to clean him into the kitchen sink then turn and walk back to where he sat.

Lowering herself onto the couch beside him, she curled her legs beneath her and kissed his temple before she brushed back the damp curls that clung there. He looked down the length of himself, disheveled and thoroughly mussed, the bottom few buttons of his shirt still fastened.

"I am really, really glad this isn't a rental."

It took a moment for her to realize what he meant, and when she did, she burst into laughter—that musical, delighted, surprised laughter that he loved so much. He closed his eyes and his head fell back, and he tried to hold off the grin that threatened to spread across his face as her fingers traced lazy designs on the skin of his chest.

"So much for slow and easy."

"Well, at least you got one of them right."

He couldn't hold the grin back any longer, and when he realized he wasn't too embarrassed to actually look at her, he rolled his head toward her as his eyes opened.

"You are a very wise and generous woman, my little love."

"I'm afraid I was motivated in large part by selfishness."

"Sweetheart, only you would think that was in anyway selfish."

"Well, you can reward me later." She looked at him and pondered something, but only for a moment. "You want to go to bed now?"

"Are you inviting me to?"

"Yes, that's exactly when I'm doing."

"All right then."

"All right then."

"You'll have to help me up—I don't know if I can walk by myself."

She stood, taking his hand as she rose, and pulled him to his feet. When he was all the way up, his hand slid up her arm and around her shoulders. They headed for the stairs, and Jane stopped suddenly just in front of the first step. Teresa looked up at him questioningly, suddenly fearful of what might be in his mind.

"Am I right in assuming the 'no funny business' thing doesn't apply?"