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?"
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?"
"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."
"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."
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.