A/N: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review, follow, and favorite this crazy little story. I really, really appreciate it, and keep it up! And to Guests who have left nice reviews, I wish I could PM you and thank you in person. I can't, so I"m thanking you here.

And speaking of thanks...LadyFey, my editor and friend, I owe you so much.

Regarding what some might consider the OOC nature of this story: I'm having fun playing with the "what if's"of certain aspects of Brenda and Fritz's characters. Don't let that worry you. If you have read any of my stuff, you know I always have a happy ending-but I really make Brenda and Fritz work for it, often slogging through a lot of angst before they get to the good stuff (see my story "Five Days in he Life of Cupid" as a perfect example of this). So don't worry about it. Everything is going to work out fine...after I have a little more fun with them.

Flashbacks are in italics.

There is an M-rated version of this story posted on this site.

Chapter 3

Back to present day in the Murder Room…

Fritz was jerked back into the present by deliberately heavy footsteps which usually heralded the arrival of the self-important. Brenda paused her briefing as Captain Taylor and Will Pope made their way through the maze of desks to the front of the room. As usual, neither one of them acknowledged his presence.

"Sorry we're late," Pope said, waving a blasé hand, not looking sorry at all. "We've got a big investigation in Robbery/Homicide we had to review. Chief Johnson, can you catch me up on what you have discovered so far on this case? And has the FBI been of any assistance so far?"

Fritz opened his mouth to protest Will's assumption that the FBI was an impediment when he noticed what Brenda was doing. She put down the Dry Erase marker and pulled her hair to one side. She moved her hands to her midriff, and started unbuttoning…no. She was not going to take off the blazer. She was not going to let Will Pope see her in the full glory of The Dress. She wouldn't do that to him, would she?

She took off the blazer.

She muttered something about it being hot, and slung it over a nearby chair. When she turned back to face the squad, Pope, Taylor, and Fritz, he could practically feel the blood being drained from the men's' brains and into their nether regions. The rise in testosterone was tangible in the atmosphere.

Of all people, it was Gabriel was the first one to make a comment. He whistled soft and low, and Fritz had to clench his fists to stop himself from going over to his desk and punching him. "Whoa Chief," he said slowly, "what a dress. You going out tonight or what?"

She smiled, her evil little smile Fritz knew so well. "I do believe so," she murmured.

She's going out tonight? With whom? Now Fritz was tapping into his own jealousy. What was she playing at?

Brenda turned around again and began to write on the board as she presented recent evidence, but Fritz could tell was no one in the Murder room was paying attention. He didn't want to do it, he didn't want to know, but he couldn't stop himself. He looked over at Will Pope. Sure enough, Will's eyes were focused nowhere near the pictures of the victim or on the words Brenda was writing on the white board. They were glued to Brenda's ass. Will didn't have the decency to even try and pretend he wasn't checking Brenda out. I want to shoot him, Fritz thought. I wonder if I can shoot him. Would I get off? Would the jury accept the "he stared at my wife's ass" defense? I'm really, really close to finding out.

Fritz had to give Taylor a little credit. He was trying to look somewhere, anywhere, but at Brenda. He stared at the crime scene photos for awhile, then at Provenza's bobblehead, then at the floor. Fritz thought his reluctance to give into his basic male instinct and check her out was because Taylor didn't want to find anything, even a delicious thigh or a great rack, about Brenda he would have to like.

After an indeterminable amount of time where every second felt like an awkward, anger-soaked hour, the briefing was over, and Pope declared that the matter could wait until morning. He was late for his son's baseball game, he groused, and Major Crimes had racked up too much overtime. "Wrap it up, everybody," he said impatiently, finally tearing his eyes away from Brenda. Fritz could have been imagining things, but when Pope glanced his way, he was sure he saw a glint of jealousy in his eyes. It was the only thing that day that made him remotely happy.

Brenda flounced to her office, ignoring Fritz and practically shutting the door in his face. He took a deep, calming breath before walking in, not wanting to make a scene in front of her squad. Brenda didn't look up from the compact she was squinting at as she reapplied a heavy coat of red lipstick. After combing her unruly blonde hair with her fingers, she put her cosmetics away in her oversized purse and shut down her computer, all the while acting as if Fritz was invisible.

"Are you done torturing me for the day, Brenda?" Fritz said, giving up hope of being acknowledged.

Brenda looked him like he was a specimen of something unpleasant Dr. Morales pulled from a dead body. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," she said coolly.

"Come on, Brenda, you made your point," Fritz said, a bit too sharply. Remember, in her mind, you are still in the doghouse. He knew he had to control his temper and grovel a little to get things back on track. He softened his voice. "Listen, I know I was a jackass last night, and I'm really sorry. Let's just go home and spend a quiet evening together, okay? I'll cook whatever you want for dinner." There, that should be sufficient. His ire tasted thick and bitter in his mouth, but he had no choice but to choke on it. If he let loose with his own tirade, who knows how long this fight would last. He was used to swallowing his own feelings for the sake of peace.

Brenda slung her black bag over her purse. "No, don't think so, Fritz." The chilly tone of her voice told Fritz she wasn't done torturing him yet.

He was losing the battle with his temper. "Give me a break. You punished me enough."

"Not punishin' you, Fritz. I'm goin' out is all, and you aren't invited." She fished her car keys out of her purse and headed toward the door.

Fritz was glad Pope announced that he was rushing to his kid's baseball game, or he would be suspicious Brenda was spending the evening with him out of spite. "Going out where, Brenda? With whom? And may I remind you I don't have my car, and so far I've paid almost $100 in taxis in the past 24 hours because you've been mad at me. This has gone far enough." Brenda moved reached out to open her office door, and Fritz reflexively grabbed her arm to stop her.

Brenda looked down at Fritz's hand on her in an exaggerated manner and then glared at him, rage curling like smoke around her face. "I suggest," she said, in a forced calm metal-cold voice, "that you remove your hand before I do it for you, because I just might accidently break a few fingers in the process." Ice crystals formed in his blood from her tone, and he quickly moved out of her way. "And may I remind you, Fritz, that I might be your wife, but I am not your property. I will go anywhere I damn well please. I don't owe you any explanations. " She yanked her office door open. "Why don't you go back to the restaurant and see if you can find that sleazy redhead you were so fascinated by last night. Maybe she can give you a ride home." And with that, Brenda was gone, the clicking of her high heels like exclamation points to her harsh words.

Fritz slumped into a chair, frustration and fury competing for dominance in his head, both given an run for their money by self-recrimination. I'm such an idiot. I drool over another woman in front of her last night, and then I go all caveman over her tonight. I did everything to guarantee Brenda would pull one of her stunts. Crap. He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to clear his mind and think, trying to chase away images of crystal blue eyes and red hair and tight red dresses and soft curves of beautiful women. Think, Howard, think, where would Brenda go to make you jealous? He knitted his brow together. Brenda wasn't big on going out on her own, nor did she have a cadre of girlfriends she went out with either. Maybe she was just going to go grocery shopping in The Dress. Only she never grocery shopped either. Brenda was a creature of habit, so what did that mean? Fritz smiled when realization hit him. Of course.

One of Brenda's favorite places to go, when the two of them were celebrating the close of a big case or Brenda was just in the mood to feel a little spoiled, was the Gallery Bar at the Biltmore. The Gallery Bar had a relaxing elegance sorely lacking in loud, brightly decorated, trendy lounges in LA. Fritz enjoyed watching his beautiful wife sip a cocktail or two in a setting worthy of a vintage Hollywood actress, then treating her to dinner at one of the hotel's nice restaurants. If he were a betting man, he'd put down his inheritance that this is where Brenda was headed.

But how was he going to get there? He was damn tired of paying taxi fare.

Fritz pulled out his iPhone and opened Google Maps and found out that The Biltmore was two and a half miles away. He stood up and sighed. He didn't go running that morning, so he needed the exercise anyways. He figured that he could walk the distance in about an hour. How much trouble could Brenda get into on an hour, anyways?

The evening was warm and welcoming, and it felt good to be outside and breathing the spring air after a day seeped with frustration. With each block he felt a little bit of the day's tension retract it's claws and release him, and the muscles of his back slowly relaxed with each city block he walked. Enjoy it now, Fritz thought. Round two is coming up.

He looked at the couples passing him by, dressed up for Friday night and ready to enjoy LA's active night life. The women wore short dresses and high heels, and the handsome men with them were attentive to their lovely dates, hands on the small of their backs or arms draped around delicate shoulders. Fritz felt a stab of jealousy. If Brenda weren't so mad at him, they could be spending their evening going out somewhere fun, smiling and happy and in love like the couples he shared the sidewalk with.

He loved going out with Brenda, and treasured the evenings that were uninterrupted by a phone call that dragged her out to a crime scene. He smiled to himself as the memory of his birthday six months prior floated through his mind. To pass the time on his long walk, he replayed the details of the evening over and over, enjoying the really good parts in slow motion:

Brenda saved The Dress for special occasions, saying it wouldn't be so attractive to him if she wore it all the time. He disagreed—she could wear it every single day and he wouldn't even begin to get tired of staring at her curves in it—but he took what he could get. When his birthday rolled around, he pled his case that he deserved to see Brenda in The Dress for his present, and Brenda agreed. Her parents had just left after a 10 day visit, and, since she didn't like to make love when they were in the house, Brenda was sexually revved and in a playful mood. She had bought red shoes to match the dress, and the diamond pendant Fritz gave her the previous Christmas drew the eye toward that adorable keyhole and the hint of bosom he couldn't wait to get his hands all over. She was just adorable, and seeing her looking so delicious, and knowing that she was as hot for him as she was for her, he knew he was in for some wonderful birthday presents.

She was a vixen that night. She flirted nonstop, and took every opportunity to get him going. She was constantly running her foot up Fritz's ankle during dinner when she thought no one was looking. Every bite of food was used as a reminder of her formidable skills in the bedroom. Fritz almost had a heart attack when dessert came and, rather unladylike, she picked up the cannoli and treated it in the most unladylike manner, closing her eyes in ecstasy and saying "mmmm" while she placed the defiled dessert back on the plate. He just stared at her, mouth agape, as she opened her eyes and stared at him. "What's wrong, Fritz?" she said innocently. "Don't you like your dessert?" She then smiled at him sweetly and, being the lady she was, picked up her dessert fork and broke off a small piece of the cannoli and raised it to her bright red lips, licking them delicately, like a kitten, after she was done chewing. Fritz was sure he was going to melt into a puddle.

Waiting for the valet, Brenda pressed him against the wall, kissing him hard, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and nipping on it. "I can't wait to give you your birthday present," she whispered huskily.

"And I can't wait to make love to you in that dress," he answered, his body responding to her aggressiveness, wanting her so badly he wondered how he was going to be able to concentrate on the road safely. The valet cleared his throat and they separated, but Fritz used Brenda as a human shield to hide his arousal.

Brenda didn't make getting home any easier. She kept running her hand up and down his thigh, coming dangerously close to where he wanted it the most but not quite getting there, never giving him any relief but just building him up more and more. "Brenda, you are killing me here," he groaned.

"You can handle it, tough FBI man," she answered with a smirk.

When they finally made it home without getting into an accident, Brenda bolted from the car and was at the front door before Fritz had even undone his seatbelt. He reached her just as she had unlocked the door. She turned around, grabbed him by the tie, and dragged him into the duplex. She pushed him against the wall and smashed her body against his. Fritz could feel her hot body through the dress, and he was more than excited by her aggressiveness. He swooped down and captured her mouth in his, and a hot, wet battle of tongues ensued.

Abruptly, she pulled back and stepped away from the wall, tilting her chin and giving him what Fritz thought of as her "sex kitten" look.

"What?" he said, exasperated. He was turned on and he wasn't in the mood for games.

"I know what you want," she said slowly, her Southern accent grown thicker with her arousal. "So why not be a man and take it?"

Challenging his manhood. Now she was getting to him. "And what it is that I want, Brenda?" he said, breathing, heavily.

She leaned closer to him as if to whisper a secret, but never broke eye contact. "You love me in this dress. You can't take your eyes of my ass when I wear it, can you? You want to drag me into the bedroom and lose control. Let yourself go for once and take what you want. Be a caveman. I know you want to. So why don't you be a real man and do it." Brenda was panting too, and they both stared at each other for a second, sexual energy radiating off both of them.

Then Fritz moved. He reached out and grabbed Brenda and pulled her close to him, again kissing her, forcing his tongue into her mouth, which she eagerly accepted. He had one hand on the back of her head and the other slid down her back and over her backside, which he squeezed with considerable force, and Brenda yelped from surprise. He took his hand off the back of her head, grabbed her other cheek, and lifted her off the ground, forcing her legs around his waist. He carried her to the bedroom while she sucked on his earlobe and breathed, "yeeeessss." He deposited her none to gently on the bed and said, "Is this what you want, Brenda?" as he leaned over her and slid his hands upwards underneath the dress along her silk stocking-clad thighs.

"Question is, is this what you want, Birthday Boy? I don't think cavemen ask for permission. They just take what they want." Her voice was low and gravelly, dark and dangerous, and she had a feral edge about her that drove him wild.

So he took. And Brenda took. The night was a blur of sweat and pleasure, dominance and surrender, demanding and offering, and the next morning when Fritz woke and saw The Dress crumpled on the floor begging to be taken to the Dry Cleaners, he felt so incredible was sure that his birthday night had magically made him five years younger.

A blister forming on Fritz's heel from walking so far in his new Oxfords pulled him out of his head and into reality, much to his displeasure. He looked around, unware how far he had walked, and was pleased to see that he was only a few blocks away from the Biltmore. He ducked into a drug store and bought a trial size package of bandages for his raw flesh and limped the last block to the hotel, the tranquility he felt from disappearing into a fantasy draining as fast as the weak sunlight from the evening sky.

After ducking into the bathroom and fixing up his wounded foot, gently swearing to himself and vowing never to walk for an hour wearing anything but Asics, he went to the side of the hotel with the bar. If I'm wrong about this, I'm going to be really mad at myself, he thought. Stranded at the Biltmore with no Brenda and no car, what a fun Friday night. His days of spending hours in bars by himself were long gone, and he didn't relish the idea of reliving that part of his past.

The Gallery bar was dark, and it took Fritz's eyes a few minutes to adjust. It was moderately crowded for a Friday night, but then again, it was on the early side for the truly hip to have started their evenings. After scanning the plush seats scattered throughout, he finally spotted Brenda at the bar, perched on a stool at the end farthest from him. He started over toward her then stopped when he saw she was talking to someone.

A man, probably ten years Brenda's junior, sat in the seat next to her, his body twisted in his seat and facing Brenda, who was turned slightly toward him, her legs crossed and showing quite a bit a thigh. A loud, insincere laugh from her and the man she was talking to smiled as if god himself had come down and blessed him. He reached out and, just for a split second, touched Brenda on the exposed flesh of her knee.

And Fritz, rooted in one spot near the entrance of the bar, his pulse racing, saw red.

End Chapter 3

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