13. Always Be Prepared
Tim McGee likes sex, a lot. He doesn't get to have nearly as
much of it as he'd like, at least, with other people, but the fact that he's
not hitting on every woman nearby doesn't mean he's not interested.
But he's also not DiNozzo. Plain, vanilla sex doesn't
precisely bore him, but it's not what he's after, either. And, when it comes
down to it, an unending string of one-night stands doesn't allow enough time to
learn your partner well enough to get into the more interesting variations of
sex.
Abby likes sex too. And his guess is that she's gotten a lot
more of it over the years than he has. But, still, the whole first few dates
thing tends not to lead up to particularly interesting play. And he doesn't
think she's gotten much beyond the first few dates in the last nine years
either.
But when you've known someone, basically, forever, and you
got those first few dates out the way a decade ago, then it's not a big deal
if, say, you like being able to stretch your partner out on the bed, tie their
hands and feet down, write poems on them with black ink and a Japanese
calligraphy brush, pillow book style.
Or, if say, one of you has a slight necrophilia kink, then laying
perfectly still becomes a very interesting challenge in submitting your own
desire to move to her desire for motionlessness. And, if say, both of you
happen to enjoy certain costumes, and say, maybe, knot play, and possibly a
little D/s, and occasionally all of those things wrapped up in a role-playing
encounter, then life is awfully good.
But for right now, all of that is in the future. Right now
is a flavor of sex Tim sort of, vaguely remembers from his grad school days.
It's true he hasn't been celibate the last nine years, but it's also true that
he hasn't been in love with anyone he's slept with, either.
Right now, there's a delicious sense of teasing and
anticipation. They finished the milkshake, and even spent a good twenty minutes
lingering over it, exchanging soft words and quick, or not so quick, Abby's
fingers kept drawing obscure patterns on the inside of his thigh as they sat
next to each other, touches and kisses.
He dropped her off at her car—going out together is one
thing, coming back to work together the next morning is an entirely different
story—getting out, walking her the five steps to her door, keeping his
distance, because they both know there are cameras in the NCIS parking lot. But
the camera can't pick up words, so it misses her saying, "I'll see you
back at my place. Bring a condom..." she pauses and thinks about that for
a second. "Bring a pack."
He breaks into a massive grin and says. "See you
there."
Being able to focus on traffic is proving to be something of
an issue. He's having a difficult time keeping his mind clear enough of the
erotic images filling it to even see the oncoming cars. Lucky for him he
doesn't have to try to remember where the nearest drug store is. The GPS on his
phone takes care of that.
He spends almost a minute standing in front of the condom
display, debating between a three pack and a six pack and what exactly each may
say about his intentions before he realizes that this is just slowing things
down, and that he certainly hopes to have sex with her on a regular basis, so
he grabs a twelve pack of assorted styles, a bottle of lube, because everything
works better with lube, and is out of there in a one more minute.
The drive to Abby's is long enough to wilt his erection,
which he appreciates because he doesn't enjoy wandering about with that
visible. Even if the bag from the drugstore is translucent, and the box is too
damn big to fit into his pocket, so pretty much there's no way to do this
subtly.
He thinks about that as the car slides across the miles to
Abby's home. He can just about drive it on automatic.
At one stop light, he tears open the box, tossing the ribbed,
flavored, regular, and glow in the dark condoms aside. They may all be fun, but
they're not for tonight. He snags the two ultra-thin condoms and sticks them in
his trouser pocket. He tucks one of the extra-sensitive ones in his sock, after
all, his pants might not be within easy reach by the time he wants a condom, so
making sure he's got at least one stashed elsewhere is a good idea.
At the next stoplight, he tucks the rest of them into his
jacket pocket.
One more stoplight, a long one, gives him time to get the
lube out of the box, open—Why would anyone put one of those heat sealed plastic
wrappers around the lid of something, and then stick a tamper evident seal
under the lid? Let alone on an insanely small bottle likely to be fumbled
around with by someone half-mad with horniness? Lucky for him, rule number nine
means he's well equipped to take care of that.—and tucked into the opposite
pants pocket.
He's as ready as ready can be. It occurs to him that this is
probably not what his Scout Master meant by always be prepared.
Tim's also less than a minute from Abby's place. He pulls into the parking garage, circling
around. This late anyone who doesn't have a reserved place, namely him, and
other visitors like him, end up exiled to the very top level. Oh well, nothing
for it. He passes Abby's car as he heads up, and sees she's still in it. She
smiles and waves, and he continues up, looking for a space to park.
Tim just about jogs down to her, erection returning as he
watches her across the expanse of gray concrete and parked cars.
She's out of her car now, leaning against it, waiting for
him. The ever present security conscious part of his mind wants to scold her
for doing something so dangerous. The part that really, really wants to have
sex decides that maybe now isn't the best time for that conversation. And the
little bit of his mind that's aware of the fact that he's actually a fairly
dangerous guy reminds him of the facts that A: He's armed, and B: She's less
than two hundred feet away from a guy who loves her dearly and can get six out
of six head shots at fifty meters, with a handgun, anytime he's at the range.
He stops less than a foot away from her. She's looking into
his eyes, smiling, and he appreciates how she's almost as tall as he is.
"How many did you get?"
"Twelve."
She smiles with approval. "Ambitious."
"I wasn't plan—" He realizes she's teasing, so he
pulls her close, kisses her deeply, his hands cupping her rear, rubbing against
her, letting her feel exactly how hard he is. "And we're trying a
different position to go with each one."
*****************************
The first time was fast. He knows they kissed and petted all
the way to her door, and he was entirely wrapped around her as she got her key
into the lock. A very long half minute later the door banged open and they just
about fell into her apartment.
"Oh, God, Abby!" was the last thing he remembered
saying when she landed on top of him. Panting moans, shivered groans, and soft
breathy sounds replaced words and punctuated soft, rhythmic slap-squish sounds.
Later, it amazed him how fuzzy the details were. He wasn't
drinking, so he should be able to remember everything, but whose hand was where
when, let alone in any coherent chronology, just isn't in his memory.
Instead he remembers feelings and almost snap-shot quality
images:
Pulling the collar of her shirt to the side so he could
nuzzle and kiss her neck. Her hair in his fist, and the silky thinness of the
underside against his palm and the almost-crunchy overly hair-sprayed curls of
the top between his fingers. Abby naked above him, head back, hair wild, her
fingers clenching on his shoulders. The snug slip and impossible hotness of her
body sliding onto his. Sitting up, her in his lap, holding her close so they
could look into each other's eyes and kiss.
He can remember the feel of her heartbeat and breath, and
the incredible, almost bubbly joy that arced through him as they made love. He
wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, and might have been doing both, but
until that moment, he'd never been happier to be with or in another person.
**********************
Later, he's aware of the fact that they've dozed off on the
floor, spooned together. He looks up, and sees they're less than seven feet
from the front door. It makes him
giggle. The fact that she's naked, and he's still got his pants on, well, on
the one leg, makes him laugh, too.
He has no idea where his shirt is. Hers is currently doing
pillow duty for Abby. He sees one half of her bra to their left, and the other
to the right. He doesn't remember ripping it, but he's never been good with
bras, and he really doubts she ripped it off herself.
He's on his side, head on his right arm, the left arm
wrapped around her. The floor is a bit on the cold side, but he's got no
interest in getting up to grab a blanket.
Tim toes off his left shoe, still on his foot, and, frankly,
a bit uncomfortable there, and kicks off his pants.
He tries to figure out the time, but that's hard to do where
they are. Abby keeps her blinds closed, so there's no light from outside to
give him a clue. From his location on the floor, he can't see into the
kitchenette, where one clock lives, or the living room, where there's another.
Oh well, as long as it isn't eight yet, the time he normally
gets to work, it's all good. And he doesn't think it's anywhere near eight, not
yet. With that, he rests his face against her shoulder, enjoying softness of
her skin and that uniquely Abby scent, and falls back to sleep.
**********************
He's feeling surprisingly awake and alert when Abby jogs his
shoulder, saying, "McGee, time to get up."
Her hair's lopsided, half of the curls have either fallen
out or been crushed by her sleeping on them, the other half still held in
perfect frozen loops by whatever product she had used. And last night wasn't
precisely kind to her makeup; it's coloring parts of her face it was never
intended to go near, and not a bit of it matters because she's still the most
beautiful woman he's ever seen.
"You're beautiful." She smiles at him, even more
beautiful yet. He flexes and stretches, his back, neck, and shoulder less than
thrilled at sleeping on the floor. "What time is it?"
"Bit after five."
He nods and sits up. That's early for him, but not
horrendously so.
"Wanna get a shower?"
He stands. "Yeah, that'd be great." Tim follows
Abby into her room, toward the bathroom when he sees something that stops him
dead.
"You got a bed!" It's a huge bed. And he's not
sure where she found a lace trimmed black comforter decorated with tiny skulls,
but it's very her, and very cool.
"Yeah. I'm tired of being alone. And you know what?
Coffins are one to a customer."
Tim isn't sure how to process all of that, so he turns and
kisses her. "I'd have shared a
coffin with you."
"You're sweet. But how about you try sharing a bed with
me?"
"I'd like that. It's nice to have room to stretch
out."
"Yeah. It's pretty comfortable, too. I kept falling out
of it the first two days. It took a while to get used to something that didn't
have sides. But once I had sleeping in the middle of it down, it's been
great."
Two more steps had them in her bathroom. She turned on the
water, and while they waited for it to heat up, they brushed their teeth. Tim
decided not to ask why she's got an extra toothbrush. He doesn't really want to
know.
Abby finished and stuck her hand in the shower, testing the
water. Tim leaned against the sink, watching her body, and the way it moved,
appreciating the glorious long expanse of naked skin in front of him.
"You coming?" Abby asked, half in the shower.
"I certainly hope so." Tim grinned, then realized he still had his socks on, so
he pulled the condom out of the one, and then took them off.
"You had a condom in your sock?"
"I thought there was a decent possibility I'd want one,
and my pants would be nowhere nearby." He took a step closer to her, his
erection brushing her hip. "And, look, here I am, no pants, and definitely
hoping for sex."
She laughed, took the condom from him, and stepped fully into
the shower. He followed a heartbeat later.
Abby's bathroom has one of those combination tub/shower things. It's true Tim isn't much for baths, it's also
true that he appreciates the fact that there's more than enough room for both
of them in there. But more than that, he's appreciating that it's well lit, and
with Abby's scrubby in hand, he's got a good excuse to look at, and touch, all
of her.
He likes looking. She's standing under the spray, her head
back, eyes closed, the water dancing down her skin. It's a fabulous image, and
the sort of thing he often dreams of. It's good to see it live again.
Most of her skin is familiar. But she's had some new work
done over the years. The cross on her hip is new. It's about six inches long,
ornate, and he can easily imagine it being made of cast iron. He looks at it
more closely and notices the letters CT twined amid the roses at the center of
the cross.
"Is this for Kate?"
"Yeah. I got it right after she died." He thinks
about that for a moment, while squeezing out the sponge, watching the suds
slither down her leg.
"Is the one on your back for your parents?"
"Yes."
"Are they all memorials?" he asks, standing behind
her, fingers and scrubby lightly tracing over the cross on her lower back.
"Just the crosses." She turns to face him, her
hands on his neck. She glides them down his skin. Her lips ghost over his
deltoid, caressing his tattoo. Then her fingers skim his scar, still red after
five months.
"I was really angry at you when you got hurt. I was
sitting on the sidewalk, with an EMT checking me out, and then I saw them run
you to an ambulance on a gurney. Gibbs told me you were going to be fine, but
he looked really worried, and I was just so mad at the idea that you stayed in
that building and got hurt."
"I'm sorry. It was really stupid. I know that now. Next
time, if there ever is, someone says evacuate, and I'm getting the hell out.
There's nothing on my computer worth dying for."
"Good."
"You were the first thing I thought of when I realized
I was hurt." He touches her face, kissing her gently. "I was thinking
that I hadn't told you I loved you, not properly. And I was wondering if you were
okay, but decided you had to be because there was no way Gibbs would just be
walking through if you weren't. Then I kind of passed out. Somehow I ended up
in the ambulance, and from there things were pretty foggy until I woke up at my
place and you were sitting next to me in my bed." He's staring into her
eyes, holding her gently. "I love you. I really do."
She dips her forehead to his shoulder, and spends a long
minute holding him, her hands meeting each other at the small of his back. He
rests his chin on the crown of her head and enjoys the closeness.
Eventually she says, "No new ink for you?"
"I had thought about putting the first line of Deep Six
on my shoulder..." He steps back and touches his left shoulder blade, and
then begins to rub the scrubby along her neck and breasts, enjoying the play of
suds on her skin, the way they trickled down her flesh, between her breasts,
and along the hollow of her stomach. It occurs to Tim he's staring, and hasn't
finished the sentence. "...When it made the New York Time's Bestseller's
list, but that just seemed too self-congratulatory."
"'L.J. Tibbs never used words when an action would do,
so, as he leveled the barrel of his gun at Avi Wazari, words were supremely
unnecessary.' It's a good first line, McGee."
"You remember?" He pulls his eyes away from the
suds to look in her eyes.
"I've read all of your books. Even the two you've
written as T. M. Gee."
His eyes went wide. Those books were a cross between The Dresden
Files and Laurel K. Hamilton and starred a not very modified version of Abby.
She looked at him as the water streamed over them, her
fingers caressing his face. "McGee, are you blushing?"
"Ummm... probably. No one was ever supposed to know I
wrote those. My picture isn't on the cover. I went through a different agent,
and a different publisher. Hell, T.M. Gee has a fake biography and is
technically a woman. How did you find out?"
She smiles. "I have my ways... But you shouldn't be
embarrassed about them. They're beautifully written and scorching hot."
"Well, um... yeah... thanks."
"You should have told me you were using me as a main
character, though."
He smiles, looking chagrinned. "I wasn't sure if you'd
like being the main character in a series of urban fantasy-mystery-lesbian
erotica books."
"I like lesbians." Tim groans at that, blood
rushing toward his dick.
"That might be the single hottest thing you've ever
said."
"And I thought you loved me for my mind."
He kisses her hard, tongue stroking and slipping against her
lip, then kneels, tracing his lips from her knee to hip to belly, and standing,
her breasts, collar bone, neck and lips, hands tracing the path of his lips.
"God, Abby, I love your mind, I love your body, I love the fact that you
aren't freaked out about those books. I just love you."
"Good. You should love me." She smiles as she says
that, and he laughs, kissing her again.
Abby takes the scrubby from him, lathering him up. He's
definitely hoping this results in sex. Her fingers on his skin, the hot water,
the sight of her, kneeling in front of him, are all combining to make sure he's
hard as a rock.
She looks up from scrubbing his left foot, her face inches
from his erection.
"That looks like it wants some attention."
"Yes, please."
She stands up and reaches for the shower soap, lathering up
her hand. Then she steps so that she standing next to him, her full body
pressed against his left side. For a moment she stands there, kissing him, then
she takes him in hand. He rests his forehead against hers, groans deeply, and
then looks down to watch her fist him.
"God, that looks so good."
"Looks good? How does it feel?"
He cups his hand around the back of her neck, kissing her
deeply, mouth open, tongues dancing, and then says, "It feels amazing.
Feels so good it shouldn't be legal." His hand traced down her back, slips
along her butt, and settles between her legs, fingers slipping along wet, slick
skin. "It feels as good as that does, I hope."
Her eyes close, and she sags against him. "It's good
McGee, really good."
"And this?" He moves a little faster, a little
harder.
"Yeah. Just like that."
"Just like that?" He turns her so her back is to
the wall of the shower. "How about this?" He kneels in front of her,
lips and tongue replacing fingers.
"Better." Her fingers clench in his hair.
"That's... Oh... Fuck, Tim! Don't stop that!"
He almost says, "Never, baby." but he'd have to
stop to do that. So he doesn't. He wishes he could tell her how good she
tastes, and how beautiful she is, but well, he's got better things to do with
his tongue right now, so he does them.
Abby climaxing is one of the supreme joys of his life. In
this, like everything else, she's entirely her own. There's no pretense, no
hiding, no fear that a sound she's making might be undignified, or that the way
she's moving might look odd. She's supremely self-confident, and watching a
woman like that, knowing that he's giving her that sort of pleasure, rocks
Tim's world.
She comes down slowly, and for what feels like a long time,
he kneels before her, face resting against her thigh, fingers idly tracing
along the crest of her hip, water streaming down them.
He's just about gotten to the point where he's thinking that
she must have one hell of a high capacity hot water heater when she says,
"How did you get so good at that?"
He looks up at her, grins, and says, "Lots of
practice."
She kneels next to him, and gently tugs at him until he's
lying in the tub, back against the slanted back rest. "Really?" She's grinning as she
straddles him, and reaches up to the shelf where the shower gel, shampoo,
conditioner, and condom are.
He's immensely pleased to see she grabbed the condom.
"No, not really. Remember that scene in Revenge of the
Nerds, where the sorority girl asks how the nerd is so good at sex, and he says
nerds spend all their time thinking about sex?"
"Yeah." She laughs. "Thinking about that a
lot?"
He groans a little as she opens the wrapper. Tim is
intensely wired into certain sense memories, and his brain associates the sound
of a condom wrapper opening, along with that slightly manky smell of condoms
with very good things happening.
"Probably my third favorite fantasy." He groaned
again as she slipped the condom onto him. Sure, he knows most guys don't like
condoms, that they cut down on the sensations, but since he's never had sex
without one, he's got nothing to compare it to. And, since he loves to watch,
he also loves seeing her hands gently smoothing it onto him.
"What are the top two?"
She eases onto him, slowly inching down, wrapping him in
snug, slick, warmth.
He exhales a slow "ohhhh..." and holds her flush
against him, reveling in the feel of her on him. "God, that's both of
them. Sex in general, and sex in specific with you."
She smiles brightly, and begins to rock against him. He
meets her thrust for thrust. "So, all those years, when you're alone in
your shower, you've been thinking of me?"
He could quip, something like, 'How do you know I'm in the
shower when I do that?' But he's having a pretty hard time focusing on anything
besides the sensations she's producing and how much he loves them. So instead he says, "Yesss..." and
it kind of slurs into a groan as he pulls her tighter and closer to him.
From there things slide into a vivid awareness of the sight
of her body above his and the feeling of her slipping along him. He's not sure
if his time sense slowed down, or if they just took a very long time, but it
felt like it went on forever, like in some way he was trying to make up for all
the lost hours of making love to Abby in one long, exquisite fuck.
Or maybe that's just his writer sense trying to provide
meaning and context for what was happening.
Either way, when they were done, when he was lying blissed-out
and limp in her bathtub, he was happier than he had been in almost a decade.
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