She knew he was hurting, and she'd done nothing to soothe it, only made it worse. Continuing her web search had turned up more photos and another brief story about Bela's suicide from her hometown paper. Tony's name had been mentioned a few times, mostly by friends interviewed for their reactions. The police report said Bela had slit her wrists, cut her own throat, and Tony had been the one to find her. He had been suspected of killing her at first, until the note turned up.

And Abby had thrown it in his face. The picture had startled her, she never would have imagined Tony with a girl like that. A girl like her, with black, black hair wrapped into white girl dreads, tattoos on her arms, and wearing a pair of black angel wings with a velvet shirt in the most recent picture, the last picture. Abby had looked at her face for a long time, trying to understand. Bela didn't smile in the photo, didn't look at the camera, but she was lovely. Abby thought they could have been friends if things were different.

Abby woke up to a knock at the door and pushed herself out of bed with a groan. Her head ached from crying and the fifteen dollar margarita probably hadn't helped matters. She looked through the peephole to see a bedraggled-looking Tony on the other side and hurried to open the door.

"Did you know it rains in the desert?" he said, leaning against the door frame.

"Yeah, I did. I'll get you a towel," she gathered several from the bathroom and found him peeling off his shirt in the middle of the room.

"I forgot my key. Were you asleep?" he said slowly.

"Yeah. Where have you been?" she watched him run the towel over his face and wipe most of the water from his arms and chest. His jeans were soaked through to the knee and his hair dripped down over his neck. She hadn't heard the rain before, but now there were crashes of thunder outside the window.

"Walked for a while. Got lost. Caught a bus. Walked some more," he said. His hands were shaking, all of him was shaking as he unbuttoned his jeans. Abby looked away, opening the drawer to find him a dry tee shirt and sweat pants. "Cold out there."

"I can see that," she said softly, laying his clothes on the bed. She took his hands in hers, holding them flat between her palms. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, meaning I'm going to lie to you until it's true," he said, and there is was, that look again, his eyes closing.

"You don't have to lie to me. Especially not when I'm undressing you," she unzipped his pants and tugged them down slowly, pulling them away when he stepped out of them. She'd imagined doing this, more than a few times, but he'd always been warm and kind of sweaty in her daydreams, not squeezing his eyes closed with his chin trembling. "Let's get you dressed and under the blankets, then I'll order another pizza and some beer and we'll find a bad movie to make fun of."
*

Tony let her order him around, helping him slip the shirt over his head, tucking him into bed. He felt like he was six, except when he was six, he slept on satin sheets and under an ornate canopy. No one tucked him in, no one really noticed when he went to bed except the housekeeper, and it was only because he wasn't there to chase out of the kitchen.

He listened as she called room service, speaking with Javier, and laughing at something he said. She crossed her legs and tapped her foot, still in those tall boots, as she talked, ordering a pizza with extra pepperoni and triple cheese, a couple of bottles of Natty Boh and cheesecake. He knew better than to question why this hotel, in New Mexico, would have his favorite Baltimore beer, not usually available outside of Maryland, or how Abby knew that's what he wanted. He would just accept it. Questioning her wisdom led to tangents and lectures and he was in no mood for it.

"Fifteen minutes," she said, replacing the phone in its cradle. "Listen, Tony, I owe you an apology."

"Not now, Abs," he groaned. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm just going to lie here and pretend this whole trip has been a figment of my imagination. Let me enjoy that for a minute before you start babbling at me, will you?" he knew he was being a dick and didn't care. It was hard to be angry with her, she was just so damned forgiving and he didn't feel like being forgiven, or forgiving her just yet.

"Crankypants," she muttered. He closed his eyes again, but could hear her moving around the room, the sound of her boots unzipping, the skirt jangling with all it's hooks and hoops and attachments. The garters being unclipped, the smooth sound as she rolled down her stockings. All woman noises, and he pulled the pillow over his head. Still didn't silence the sound of her movements, or keep him from feeling the bed dip just a little as she crawled in next to him. "You can be a bastard all you want, but I still love you, Tony. Besides, you'll never out-bastard the Bossman."

"You don't even know me," he said, letting her tug the pillow out his hands.

"I know what's here," her hands were warm against his forehead. "And here," her hands moved to his chest. "And no, I don't know all of it, and I might never know it, but I want to. You can't scare me away, and I won't let you push me away. I'm not as strong as you, but we both know I'm smarter, DiNozzo."

"Isn't that the door?" he said, his heart pounding in his ears. She sighed and climbed out of bed. They were the right words, she knew the right thing to say. How had she known when he hadn't even known he wanted to hear them until after she'd said them? She came back, bearing boxes and a six pack of bottles, and he noticed that she'd changed into some sort of floaty looking black pants and a tank top.

"Find us a movie while I crack these open?" she set the pizza on the bed, the dessert on the dresser, and rooted around in her bag. "Fuck. My knife... Mind if I use your belt?"

"Go ahead," he watched her pop the top off one bottle with his belt buckle and took it when she held it toward him. She opened one for herself and settled back against the head board, balancing the pizza on her lap. "Most girls don't know how to do that."

"You might have noticed, Mr. DiNozzo, I'm not most girls," she talked with her mouth full, strands of cheese sticking to her chin. No, she wasn't most girls, but she was the one in his bed. The only sound for a while was chewing and drinking and the chuckle track on an episode of M*A*S*H. Tony finished his second beer, setting the empty on the nightstand, and moved the pizza box to the floor.

"Ready for dessert?" Abby asked, sitting up. He slipped his arm around her, pulling her back toward him.

"Not yet. Just...let's..." he couldn't say the words. He was Tony DiNozzo, and Tony DiNozzo did not ask for a cuddle. "You said you love me."

"I did, I do," she said, rubbing her nose against his cheek. "But I bet women say it to you all the time."

"They do. Usually, they're naked and calling me a god."

"Well, I'm fully dressed, and pretty sure you're just a man, and that's enough for me."
*

Jesus. Tony really was all muscle and so many of those muscles were full of knots. Abby pressed the heel of her palm just below his shoulder, rocking gently back and forth with her whole body. He moaned below her, and she echoed the sound, shifting over his hips. She knew this was a bad idea, but she was in full on pamper mode and backrubs were good things. Especially when she was straddling a beautiful man with strong shoulders. While her brain screamed this path led to Trouble, her body could find no real objection.

"You know, Tony, if this spot's giving you trouble, sometimes it's really a bundle of nerves in your pecs. Roll over for me and I'll work on them," she said.

"Later," he mumbled.

"Now," she eased off of him and smacked his ass.

"Abby, we're friends, right?"

"Of course."

"And you want us to stay friends?"

"Tony, just move," she pouted at the back of his head and poked his side.

"If I do that, I can promise our friendship will end."

"Why?" she asked. Surely he wasn't... oh, god. "You aren't...? Tell me you don't have..."

"A problem. A big one, in fact," he turned his head and looked at her out of one eye.

"I've heard it's not that big," she was fighting not to laugh. Laughing would be bad. Very bad.

"I don't know what you've heard, but it's big enough," he arched the eyebrow she could see, clearly defensive.

"Yeah, but you drove that ‘Vette. You had to be compensating for something."

"I was. A small paycheck."

"So you're really...? Huh," she could make matters worse or let it go. Ah, who the hell was she kidding? There was only one clear answer. She ran her hands down his back as she climbed back on top, leaning forward to press her breasts against his back.

"Abby, you really don't want to do this," he tensed beneath her. She smoothed his hair, running the tip of her tongue along his ear, making him moan again. "Damn it, Abby."

"If you really want me to stop, I will," she said and meant it. If he said no, she would absolutely back off, no matter how much she didn't want to.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," he said, but it sounded more like he was speaking to himself than to her.

"Is that a yes or a no, Tony?" she lay still, her arms stretched out along his, fingers curling over his hands.

"I'm usually the one asking that question."

"You're stalling, which means you aren't sure, and if you aren't, we stop," she rolled carefully off of him onto her back, turning her head to meet his eyes. "We've got time if you change your mind."
*

Tony's mind was reeling. When the hell did he become a woman? If his dick hadn't been making its presence quite well known, he'd have sworn it had disappeared along with every ounce of testosterone in his body. He had Abby practically throwing herself at him and he'd turned her down not once but twice today. He, Anthony DiNozzo, had refused sex.

Not only that, but he was refusing what promised to be amazing, mind blowing, kinky, do-it-all-night-wake-up-the-neighbors sex with the only woman he knew who could probably teach him a thing or twelve about the various acts involved. He had no doubt that she'd be great, none whatsoever. Her energy, her enthusiasm for everything not vanilla, her passion for life in general, her balance of tender and wild, everything that was Abby screamed of barely controlled sexuality and he had turned her down. Gibbs was right, he just might be the dumbest SOB on the planet sometimes.

Abby had taken it in stride, rolling out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom, wearing that impish smile and swinging her hips. He could hear her singing softly over the sound of water filling the tub.

He repositioned himself on the bed, grabbed the remote and clicked through the channels without really seeing what was on the screen. Tomb Raider was on channel fifty one, and he allowed himself to be seduced by the almost inhumanly lush lips of Angelina Jolie. He dated a woman who looked like her once, blue eyed, hair a couple shades lighter. She'd been disappointing though. What good was a mouth like that when you were afraid to use it? He couldn't remember her name, but he did remember her throwing a vase full of water and three day old lilies at his head when he'd said they might want to cool things off.

He grimaced at the memory, reached for another beer, changed the channel. Food Network was showing Iron Chef, and that was a show he could never get into, but the chef from Britain was a cute little blonde with powerful looking hands and a huge grin even as the clock ran down to seconds.

It was always the hands that got him, more than breasts although those were important, and he couldn't forget the allure of a good firm ass, but the hands.... imagining how they'd feel digging into his shoulders, wrapped around his cock, how she'd look sliding them over herself, showing him exactly how she touched herself when he wasn't there. Yeah, hands were important.

The nails had to be just the right length, real or acrylic. If they were too long, it was a sign she'd hesitate to really let herself go. Too short, and she'd insist on being in control, always in control. Bitten? He'd meet a line of insecurities and a wall of defenses that would rival the Armed Forces. Painted was always better than bare, he preferred French manicures because they indicated a certain tasteful restraint and attention to detail. Certain shades of reds and pinks were good too, though.

Abby's nails were black, a color called "Midnight in Transylvania". He knew she painted them every other night, even though the enamel never seemed to chip during the day, no matter what she did in the lab. She kept them what he thought of as functionally short, the sort of nails you saw on WNBA players, just the right length to imagine doing a slow drag down your back but not long enough to interfere with work.

He looked up as Abby came back into the room, standing at the edge of the bed and staring down at him. "Yes?"

"Problem solved?" she smirked, looking pointedly at the pillow over his lap.

"I hate you," not the snappiest retort, not even close to the truth, but his mind wasn't exactly driving his thoughts.

"Yeah, yeah, all the boys say that at some point and you never mean it," she said. "If I promise not to look, laugh, touch, or point, will you accompany me into the bathroom?"
*

"Abby, I don't do bubble baths," he started to back away. She held her hands firm against his back, well hand, because the other one was still covering her eyes.

"You think I don't snoop through your bathroom cabinets every time I come over? I've seen the shelves full of bath oils and bubbles and all that fancy-schmancy shit and you cannot tell me that it's all for your dates," she said. "And can I look now? My arm is getting tired."

"There's only one way I'm getting in that tub," she felt him turning, then gently pulling her hand away from her face.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You come with me," and suddenly her feet were no longer on the floor and there was water and a bit of undignified flailing and shrieking. Then she was laughing, trying not to breathe in the dense bubbles, scooping water in her hands and splashing the front of his shirt.

"You so suck, DiNozzo," she was indignant and amused and he was laughing, too. "You know, the last guy to manhandle me like that walked funny for a week."

"Eh, I'll take my chances," he shrugged, stepping out of the way as she threw her dripping pants at him. Her shirt followed, and she sat with the water rising almost to her neck, covering her bra.

"Come on in, the water is fine," she leaned against the edge of the tub, folding her hands under her chin and giving him her best come hither look. He laughed again and stepped out of his sweat pants, folding them and his shirt neatly on the counter, then climbed into the tub behind her. "Do you normally bathe in your shorts?" her fingers traced the edge of the black boxer briefs along his thighs, his legs stretched out on either side of her.

"Do you wear your bra in the tub?" he opened the clasp before she could respond, lifting the straps from her shoulders and down her arms in a fluid motion.

"I take it you've made up your mind," she looked at him over her shoulder.

"Abby, I'm sitting in my underwear in a bubble bath with a topless woman. What do you think?" his hands cupped her breasts and he guided her back through the water to lean against his chest.

"I think I need to hear you say it," she wondered who it was sounding all breathy and Kathleen Turner because it couldn't be her.

"Then yes, and before you ask, I'm sure. I'm absolutely, one hundred percent certain, just as certain as I am that we're about to trade a perfectly good friendship for the best sex you'll ever have."

"Awfully cocky, aren't you, DiNozzo?" she said, emphasizing the second word as she rubbed against him, water sliding between their bodies. She swore she could hear his grin as he found her piercings and tugged lightly on them, making her squirm just a little more. "You don't have to be gentle."

"What if I want to?" he kissed the side of her neck, just over the spider in her web. "What if I want to play with you all night? Keep you on the edge until you think you can't take it any more?"

"Gonna make me beg, Tony?" she floated up in the water, just a little, and rolled over.

"Not the first time. Never the first time," he said, his voice husky, arms circling her waist.

"Tell me about the first time, then."

"Get turned on by talking, do you, Abby?" he wore that amused look and she leaned forward, letting her teeth graze his nipple just above the water.

"Get turned on by you, like this," she shifted her weight again, kneeling up to kiss him, thanking whomever it was who thought to design whirlpool tubs the size of Olympic swimming pools for economy hotels. God, he could kiss, soft lips, firm tongue, teeth tugging at her lower lip, knowing just when to suck gently and when to curl his tongue against hers. She was breathless and he was grinning when he pulled his head back, steam from the bath making them both sweat, cheeks flushed.

"I'm not going to make you beg, pretty girl. I'm going to make you moan," and he did, kissing her neck again as his hands massaged her hips. "And writhe, and pant, scream until your voice gives out. I'll make you wetter than you've ever been, hotter, tease you for hours. Lick you, suck you, touch you exactly the way you need to be. I'll make you come, but I won't make you beg. Not this time."

"I dare you," she whispered against his lips.