Deeks is begining to have second thoughts...

I need to start thinking before I speak, I really do. Mrs Johnson – who was my English teacher back in high school kept telling me that. Usually after she'd said something along the lines of, 'Would you like to share that with the class, Martin?' I always took that as an invitation to share my witty repartee with my less-verbally gifted classmates, but now I get it. She was telling to shut the fuck up. Wise woman, Mrs Johnson. I just wish I'd listened to her, but you see I have this sort of automatic hatred for anybody who calls me 'Martin'. Which is only natural, really. What the hell were my parents thinking of when they called me that? Apart from 'we really don't much like this kid, so let's give him a really dumb name. That'll serve him right.' I know what you're thinking – as names go, 'Deeks' really isn't a whole lot better. And you know what? You're probably right. Only I wasn't Deeks back in those days, I was Brandel. Only that's a long story, and probably better left for another time. Like never. Mind you, I wish I'd thought of changing both my names while I was at it. Or gone for the Callen option, and just plumped for an initial. Ah well, I'll know better next time. If I ever have a kid, it's going to get at least three names, so at least there's a choice.

Anyway, if only I'd listened to Mrs Johnson, I would never have ended up in this situation. I would have just told Kensi that trying to keeping our 'thing' a secret was a really crazy idea and we'd never manage to pull it off. Consider the circumstances: first of all, I'm head over heels in love with Kensi, plus she can barely keep her hands off me, so it's going to be blindingly obvious to everyone who doesn't have a seeing-eye dog and then there's the small matter of our colleagues having certain observational skills, after all. Especially Hetty, who either has eyes in the back of her head or she's got the whole Mission bugged and under close-circuit surveillance. I wouldn't put it past Hetty to have my apartment bugged too, and with infra-red cameras in all the rooms so that she doesn't miss a thing. But the thing is, at the time Kensi suggested we just keep everything low key and under wraps, I remembered that stupid magazine article, and how it said I was supposed to be supportive. Plus, Kensi caught me at kind of a weak moment. So it's my fault for agreeing without thinking the whole thing through.

The following morning, I unearthed the magazine, just so I could check to see what else I was supposed to be doing. And guess what the next handy tip said?

9. Be honest.
Don't sugar coat things just to keep your significant other happy. If something is bothering you, share it. If you are upset at the world, let her know why. If you don't want to go to a party, just tell her. You will find that not only will you be happier, but your relationship will benefit because you are communicating.

Really? Excuse me? Am I the only person who sees a slight contradiction with the previous instruction, which was basically to do what you were told, whether you liked it or not - only of course it was couched in more touchy-feely terms. And now this. Do they think we're stupid or something? Okay, don't answer that, because clearly I am. Can I just say in my defense that I hit my head really hard when I was shot? I think I might have some residual brain damage, which is why I was dumb enough to fall for that article in the first place. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And it makes a hell of a lot more sense than that stupid magazine, with all its dumb ideas about 'How To Be A Better Partner'. If I hadn't already known that piece was written by a woman, I would have guessed by now. The clues were all there, if only I'd looked. Let's be honest, it's laying down the rules of relationships, as women see it. And I know these already: do what she wants and do as you're told. And then talk about things – a lot. Maybe I should write the male version of those rules, which would start off with lingerie, move on through beer to sports, as well as covering essential topics like 'men do not talk about their feelings' and then finish up with sex. That pretty much covers everything a man looks for in a relationship, doesn't it? This article is blatantly biased and it only covers one point of view. I was trying to be considerate and thoughtful and now I've landed up in this ludicrous situation. The only thing is, I've been following the rules and it actually seems to have been working so far. Go figure.

Great. I've got myself into this situation, and actually, I'm really happy about it. Me and Kensi. Kensi and me. Whichever way you look at it, it's pretty great. No, it's better than that – it's the best thing that's happened to me, ever. And that's the truth. I never knew just how happy being with someone could make you. So I feel great, Kensi definitely feels great and everything's great. Other than the small matter of keeping how great this all is a complete secret. Which is definitely never going to work. So what exactly am I meant to do now? Answers on a postcard to M Deeks, care of the Home For Confused Cops, California. No matter which way I look at it, it's bad and I'm a dead man, whatever I do. Either the rest of the team will kill me when they eventually find out (and they will find out, I know that) or I tell them now, at which point Kensi will kill me. Given the choice, I guess I'd rather have Sam kill me, because at least that way it would be quick. He could basically just sit on me and that would be it. Either way, I'm going to have to work something out. Anything. Because right now I'm a dead man walking.

It's been over a week now, and Kensi's only gone back to her place to pick up clean clothes. I'm just amazed we've managed to keep it a secret for so long, but our luck can't last much longer. There's no time like the present, so I just dive on in there, before I lose courage. Either that or before Kensi catches me at a weak moment, like when we're about to make love, or when we've just made love. That pretty much covers most of the time we spend together right now, given that she's working. I find I'm having an awful lot of weak moments since Kensi virtually moved in, funnily enough. Not that I'm objecting, in fact I'm positively encouraging it.

"I was at the doctor today."

Kensi is lying sprawled on the sofa, having just come in after work and she's flicking though the channels on TV. I'm not quite sure why she's bothering to do that, as she knows perfectly well there's a game on at 9 tonight. Anyway, she jerks upright when I mention the word 'doctor'. It's almost a Pavlovian response. "What's wrong? Do you feel okay?"

Do you know, I'd really rather Kensi discovers how I feel for herself. She can take as long as she wants over that, as long as she's finished before the game starts, of course. We should have plenty of time, because it's not on for another couple of hours, if you don't mind skipping the pre-match build-up. I can do that. Don't ever say I'm not prepared to make sacrifices in order for this jrelationship to work, because that hust isn't true.

"I feel fine. So fine that the doctor says I can go back in to work on Monday. Desk duties only, to start off with." And even better, I've been able to ditch those stupid crutches. Mind you, they have given me the most amazing definition on my pecs. Or so Kensi says.

"Are you sure that's what he said? Honestly?"

"Really and truly. Would I lie to you?" See what I mean about opening my mouth before I think? I just never learn, do I? I just open my big mouth and stick my foot right in it.

"You've got to take things slowly," Kensi says, clearly not liking the idea one little bit.

"I can do slowly," I assure her, and try to keep the wolfish grin off my face. I'm not entirely successful, because Kensi picks me up on that immediately.

"Tell me about it." There's a certain tone in her voice and a definite look in her eyes that I've come to recognize. Basically, it's an invitation.

Last night (or maybe it was early this morning: I wasn't exactly looking at the clock after all) Kensi was begging me to let her come, and I was teasing her, taking things so far, and then pulling back just a bit, so that she was being driven wild and driving me crazy in the process. Have you any idea what that feels like? Well, let me tell you this: it feels amazing. It feels like you are on top of the world and there is nothing you can't do and that everything is stretching out in front of you, golden and true and with so many possibilities, all of them incredible you just don't know what to do next. And if that sounds kind of romantic, then so what? Fair enough, I'm a guy but I do actually have feelings, no matter how much I might try to deny it or even try hide them. Pretty much I'm successful, but not always. Like now.

"How slow do you want? Are we talking about slow as in kisses that go on all night or are we talking slow as in butterscotch sauce?"

That confuses her. "Butterscotch sauce?"

Sometimes I think that Kensi has led a very sheltered life. And that therefore it is my duty to introduce her to some of the more esoteric pleasures; namely that there is more to butterscotch sauce than just pouring it over your ice cream. "I could show you – only it might get kind of messy." Actually, it's going to get very messy indeed. As well as hot and sweaty and completely out of control.

The penny drops and her eyes light up, as indeed they should. "I think I need to know."

Ten minutes later, and Kensi is lying naked on the bed and I'm squeezing an elaborate curlicue of sauce around her right nipple.

"That's cold. And it tickles." She gives this little squirm of delight as I finish of my masterpiece and survey it critically before starting on the other side. Once that's completed to my satisfaction (I'm a good deal of a perfectionist) I can start to fill in the rest of my canvas. Only first things first, so I lean over and kiss her, being careful not to disturb my artistic endeavours.

"Where do you get your ideas from?" Kensi asks breathlessly.

"I'm just naturally talented." I'm also incredibly modest. Okay, on to the main act, because all this was just the warm-up. And it is getting rather warm in here, or is that just me?

"And very inventive. I guess you could use chocolate sauce too," she muses, as I slowly dribble a line of sauce down her stomach in a zig-zag pattern.

"Or whipped cream." The possibilities are endless, when you think about it. Not maple syrup though, because that's too runny. And if it goes into your belly button, you're left with this sticky sensation for days afterwards. You can believe me on this, because I speak from experience. But you'd already guessed that, hadn't you?

"And sprinkles, or even cherries." She's really getting into this, God bless her. Just like I knew she would. "No, you can't do that! Not there." Except she's not really protesting – it's just kind of a token resistance, more for the sake of it than anything else.

"Can't I? Just watch me."

When I look up briefly, just to check she really is okay with this, Kensi's got this huge big grin on her face, only she's biting her bottom lip at the same time. "Please tell me I get to do the same to you?"

That's my girl. "Of course you do. That's the whole point of this." If she was smiling a second ago, that's nothing compared with what she's going to be doing soon, as I put down the sauce bottle and start to discover just how sweet Kensi really is.

Anyway, what with one thing and another (mostly the other) we miss the game. But you kind of knew that was going to happen anyway, didn't you? Not that I was complaining. I had it set up to record on Tivo, just in case. I'm getting the hang of this whole relationship thing. But I've still no idea how on earth I'm going to manage not to let on to the team at work that Kensi and I are involved. Especially when I want to shout it from the rooftops. I'll figure something out, I'm sure I will. I usually do after all.

"You owe me."

We're lying in a sticky huddle in the soporific aftermath of a pretty epic encounter, and I'm sucking the ends of my moustache in an attempt to get the remains of the butterscotch sauce out and thinking I might have to trim it tomorrow.

"What? Twice wasn't enough for you?" To be honest, I'm not altogether sure I'm capable of anything else right now, far less making love to Kensi in the way she deserves to me made love to. I need at least another ten minutes recovery time.

"I can't get enough of you. Don't you know that?"

Well, that makes me feel absurdly good, a real sort of warm and fuzzy feeling, only of course real men don't admit to having these, do they? So let's just say that I felt kind of happy. Luckily, Kensi doesn't wait for my reply, which is just as well, because what can I possibly say in response? I want to tell her that while making love is amazing, what I'm feeling is something more and I want something more: I want her, body and soul and I want everyone to know about us. Don't ask me why, I just do. Maybe because it just won't seem real until we're out there? That's probably stupid, but I'm just not comfortable with this whole business of having to keep it a secret. What's the big deal after all? We're two adults, we're both free and single and it's not like we're hurting anybody. The rest of the team might be shocked, but they'll get over it.

"Lingerie," Kensi says firmly, dragging me back to reality. It's quite incredible how one word can do that, isn't it? "You owe me lingerie."

She's right. There's the small matter of those panties, isn't there? And they were small, mere wisps of lace and silk in a deep orange. Which just goes to prove that the best things come in small packages.

"So I do." There wasn't much left of those panties by the time I was finished. Lingerie is good. Ask any man that. Lingerie is sensual and erotic and I haven't got a bad word to say about it. So I can do lingerie. I can do lingerie any day of the week. And at the weekends too. "We could go shopping tomorrow."

"No way. Someone would be bound to see us."

There's no use telling her LA's a huge place and we could go somewhere small and out of the way and I could maybe sit in one of those velvet chairs and watch as Kensi models a few outfits, before we make out final selection. You might think that I've done this once or twice before, but I couldn't possibly comment. Anyway, I know that there is no point in arguing with Kensi about this for two reasons: the first is that she will win, because she's Kensi. And the second is that I don't want her pissed with me, because I'm kind of thinking that the ideal way to get rid of all the sticky residue from the sauce is to have a long hot bath together, rather than a cold shower by myself

"So what do you suggest?"

I really hope Kensi doesn't want me to go by myself. There's nothing sadder than seeing some furtive-looking guy in a lingerie shop, fingering the merchandise with an expectant gleam in his eye. Some things have to be done together after all. We're both going to enjoy the results, so we should both get to choose. Me, I'm kind of thinking along the lines of a basque, maybe in lime-green. But I'd really need to see how it looks before I can make that final decision. That colour could make Kensi look kind of dead, and I've never been into necrophilia. In fact, it's a complete turn off for me. Which is why I could never buy the idea of those kids in Twilight being 'hot', when clearly not only were they as cold as the grave, but the thought of having sex with a dead person is enough to turn any sane person right off. And that's without even considering the pouting and petulance they indulge in at every turn. Anyway, my point is that it's important we make this a joint endeavour.

Kensi thinks about this and for a moment I'm hopeful that she might see how mad all this secrecy business is and say that we should just let people find out, as and when. And that we should definitely go shopping tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I've still got a list of the best lingerie shops tucked away somewhere. There's a couple that even give me a discount, on account of the fact I've been such a good customer.

"Maybe we could look online?" she suggests, and my heart sinks again. If anything, that's even sadder that the lone male in the lingerie shop. Especially when you see the sizes some of those internet companies specialise in. Just put it this way, there is a whole market out there that you really don't want to think about. All I'm going to say is that corsets should be worn by women.

"Sure. If that's what you want."

I try to sound upbeat, but that's taking half the fun out of it: you go shopping and there's the whole business of selecting exactly the right things, and then they're all wrapped up in tissue paper and then you go out for lunch, in some little place that's out of the way, and all the while that bag is just sitting there, mutely inviting you to think about what's inside. And of course you can't stop thinking about what you've just bought, and about how good she's going to look. It's the anticipation, you see. And when your eyes meet across the table, and you know she's thinking about putting the lingerie on, and about you taking the lingerie off, because that's what you're thinking too that's when you can feel the expectation building up. And maybe your knee nudges hers underneath the table and an electric shock flies between you. That's when the realisation hits and you ask for the bill and then you drive just as fast as you can to get home… You see, it's all about doing this in public and thinking about the private moments you're going to have. It's all about the experience. Buying over the internet just isn't the same. It's like having hamburger when what you really want is a juicy steak – it's essentially the same, but at the same time it's completely different. There's no soul and there's no fun.

Clearly I'm not as good an actor as I think, because Kensi senses my disappointment. "I'm just not ready for anyone else to know. Not just yet."

Brilliant. Now I've made her feel bad too. And this should be such a positive thing. We should be getting really excited about it. We've been together for over a week now – how much longer is it going to be before Kensi finally acknowledges that? Is she ashamed, or something? That's the question, and I know I'm not going to get an answer anytime soon, so there's no point in going there.

"I know, baby girl. And it's fine. Everything's fine." Or it will be. I hope. As long as I can manage to put on a good show on Monday.

I wonder what other handy tips that article contains that might help Deeks out of his predicament?