The Aftermath:
Gibbs entered his home, tossed his keys in their usual place, and headed straight towards the shower. The crud that Abby put in his hair and on his face makes him feel dirtier than he has in a long, long time. In fact, he’s not quite sure if he’s more eager to get into the shower tonight, or the night they investigated the exploding mausoleum.
He is sure that he has never, ever been more ready to get out of a pair of pants. Well, at least, he’s never been more ready to get out of a pair of pants for the relief of getting the damn things off, he’s had other reasons to get out of his pants quickly, and some of them were probably more pressing at the time.
As soon as he’s closed the door to the bathroom he finds himself pulling off the damn things. The fly came down easily enough, but the rest of the pants are showing a stubborn level of resistance more appropriate to a Marine than a piece of clothing. He is seriously contemplating cutting them off (Which Abby had already told him not to do, unless he was willing to pay her the eight hundred dollars to replace them.) when his left leg comes free. The right quickly follows suit.
His sigh of relief is deep and heartfelt. Another one follows it as the warm water in his shower washes the goop off of him. This is the best he’s felt in hours.
Almost. Freed from its leather prison his cock is asking for some attention. Free from the presence of anyone else he’s willing to allow it. After all, there is no rule that states you can’t screw yourself while thinking of a co-worker. (And even if there was, he’d have broken it about a thousand times by now.)
His mind wanders back to the club and the point where Ziva straddled him. Her motions and clothing stayed the same, but his mind let her hair fall free of the stark dominatrix bun Abby had her wear, and the oodles of black make-up vanished.
This time, when she leaned back against the table, it was to undo his fly, and let him free from those damn pants. Her hands are warm and soft, with just a hint of rasp from a callus on her trigger finger. He finds the reminder that this is a fighting woman deeply erotic. He finds the quick glimpse of a black thong, pushed to one side, as she slides onto him even more so.
This time, he allows himself to relish the feel of her ass in his hands. This time his hands are under her skirt, his fingers splayed against her warm smooth skin.
This time, instead of resting his head against her shoulder, he leans back so he can see her move. He watches the flush spread on her chest and face. He yanks the bustier down so he can palm her breasts. Their soft weight is beautiful to his hands.
He lets his eyes drift closed. He feels her bend close to him. Her hair brushes his face and neck. Her lips slide wetly against his, and then move to his ear. She’s whispering in his ear, telling him how good he feels in her, how long she’s wanted to do this, how close she is. Then her voice looses words and switches to moans.
He moves faster, harder, wanting to come with her. He grabs the nape of her neck and moves in for a deep, wet kiss. She is sucking his tongue, and clenching around him. And he is wrapped in the searing, pulsing sensation of a blazing orgasm.
And eventually, he is once more in his shower. The water is getting cold. He quickly soaps, shampoos and rinses. He’s out of the shower and dried off in a matter of minutes. He replaces the towel on its rack and goes to brush his teeth. Getting into bed and slipping into sleep sounds wonderful just about now.
And, it is with thoughts of drifting off that he stops dead in his tracks two steps from the door of his bathroom upon seeing Ziva sitting on his bed.
He realizes he has three options. He can jump back into the bathroom. He can cover his privates and tell her to get the hell out of his room. Or he can walk to his dresser and grab his usual sleeping clothes, a pair of boxers and t-shirt. He’s fairly sure that both he and she would see options one and two as signs of weakness. So he walks to the dresser, grabs a pair of boxers from the top shelf, puts them on, and then turns to her.
“Ziva?” He’s pretty happy that that question came out as smoothly as it did. He’s not sure he could live with it if his voice broke like some sort of teenager, or worse, a flustered McGee.
She’s still wearing the same outfit. Her hair is still in the bun, but at least the make-up is gone. She’s looking at him carefully, and for once he’s not quite sure what her expression means. Part of him wants to turn back to the dresser and grab a t-shirt. Part of him is sure that breaking eye contact right now is a very bad idea.
“In the last ten years I have simulated sex with fifteen different partners in different undercover operations. And, until tonight, each and every single one has had the courtesy to get an erection.”
Well, of all the things she could have said, that was the last he was expecting. His face showed his surprise.
“How do you think it feels? I am in good shape. I was wearing this tiny little outfit.” She gestured at the outfit Abby had picked for her. “I was squirming in your lap, your face inches from my breasts, nibbling on your ears, and nothing. What does it take? Red hair?”
He smiled dryly. “No, just enough room in my pants for the blood to flow.”
“You are saying you were too constricted?” A smile was beginning to form on her face as well.
“Did you see those pants?” He sat next to her on the bed, careful not to touch her.
“Yes, Abby and I had been rather enjoying the view.”
“Wonderful.” There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
“And now?” She looked expectantly at him, and licked her lips.
“Now?” He was desperately trying to come up with a way to get her out of his home before he broke every rule he had concerning female co-workers including the few he was writing this second concerning subordinate employees.
She gestured delicately to his current lack of erection. “I’m in the same outfit, in your room, and could very easily be in your lap again.”
“How long have you been here?”
Ziva looked confused. She glanced at his clock. “Half an hour.”
“How many Marines do you know who take thirty minute showers just to get clean?” He hoped the look he was giving her got his message across.
Thankfully, it worked. “Oh.” She looked relieved, and happy. Gibbs found himself wondering once again about how women decided if male interest was a compliment or an insult.
“Do you know Rule Number One?”
“I am not your partner.”
“You were on this op.”
She stood up, her face less than an inch from his. “Aren’t rules made to be broken?”
She smelled good. His hands were itching to reach up and let her hair down. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her until she began to whimper. He took a step back, inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Not this one.”
She nodded and walked to the door of his room. At the door frame she stopped, turned and said, “I will not always be working for you.”
“I know.”
“Until then?” Her question was filled with promise. He nodded back at her. Part of him hoping for that day, part of him dreading it.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Gibbs gets home, things get interesting.