Chapter 37. The Hinky Thing
"You know, I kind of miss the coffin," Tim said as they got ready for bed.
"You miss the coffin?" Abby didn't look like she ever expected him to say that.
So, the hinky thing... Okay, now, if you were to ask him, Tim would totally blame the hinky thing on the booze. It was maybe two months after they started dating the first time, and it was also right after one of Tim's more intimidating first cases. He was pretty convinced that Gibbs was going to kill him, or worse, get him fired. So anyway, after work, looking to burn off some serious nervous tension, he got some sushi and sake, and went back to her place.
The thing about sake is that it tastes a lot milder than it actually is. By the time your brain has realized you've ingested something with some real alcohol in it, you're pretty much soused.
And kicking a three-quarters full bottle of riesling after the sake ran out didn't help.
Yeah, so, he was pretty drunk. At least by Tim standards. And Abby has an even lower alcohol tolerance than he does, so she was completely gone.
Anyway, hard day at work, lots of alcohol, and sex was in the offing. They had gotten to the coffin (Box sofa she had called it, and he went along with it, but come on, he's not blind, and sure, the first time the lights were off, but he woke up in it the next morning, so the gig was kind of up at that point. But if she wanted to call it a box sofa, well, he wanted to have sex, so a box sofa it was.) and she said, "Do you want to play a game?"
Tim was always willing to play Abby's games, so he said yes.
"Okay, here, put on your jacket, get in, and stay really still."
That sounded like an odd request to Tim, but, sure, he did it. He lay in the coffin, dressed in a suit, because back then he still wore suits to work, and stayed still. Abby followed him in, also fully dressed, and he remembers this pretty clearly, she was wearing a plaid skirt, thigh high socks, no shoes, a black t-shirt with a skull on it, and a choker, but not one of the spikey ones.
It wasn't until she folded his hands over his chest that he figured out what was going on. Honestly, he was a little freaked out by it. But she unzipped him, took him in her mouth, and he decided he could deal with a little freaked out if it meant he was going to get a blow job.
It was good. It was insanely good. Maybe because he was a little freaked out. Maybe because he was still dealing with the emotions from the case. Maybe because it was only the third he'd ever had in his life. Anyway, he was insanely turned on when she put the condom on him, leaned up, pulled her panties to the side and slid down on him.
He kept his eyes open, which was probably out of character, but there was no way he wasn't going to watch her do him.
Now, there's pretty much one thing all guys want to do when they have sex, and that's move. It's not necessarily all about deeper, harder, faster, but still, thrusting, increasing the friction, that's the goal. Sure spinning things out is interesting and makes for a more intense climax, but spinning things out, and entirely surrendering to your partner are different things.
He got into it as a submission game. The struggle of doing exactly what your partner wants and trusting in her to make it worth his while.
And it was so worth his while. Not moving at all took a tremendous amount of concentration. He'd continually keep tensing up, getting closer and closer, feeling himself all but begging her to move faster or harder, and then he'd have to force himself to relax again.
Abby kept a steady, slow pace. The sort of stroke that gets her wet and ready, but can't get either of them off.
Each minute passed by, his tension increasing with each thrust, constantly forcing himself to relax again and again. She flipped the skirt up, so he could watch her finger herself, and, God, that was so hot, so impossibly hot. And it was the first time he'd ever seen a girl do that, which made it more intense. She kept moving slowly, up-down, back-forth, her body growing tighter on his as she got closer and closer.
It was the tightness that did it, that eased him over the edge. It was like falling slowly into an orgasm, or being eaten alive by one. It crept over his whole body, like, because he couldn't move, that every single muscle in his body decided to get in on the release.
And it was, at that time, the single most intense orgasm of his life.
And after it happened, they cleaned up, and never talked about it again.
Abby sits next to Tim on the bed. "The hinky thing? Which hinky thing?"
"The hinky thing."
"You want to do that again?"
"If you do. I mean, maybe not exactly the same way. I'd love it if you were naked and I could see all of you, but yeah, I really liked it."
"It didn't freak you out? 'Cause you never said anything about it again."
He gives her a telling look. "You didn't, either. I was a little freaked out at first, but... when it happened that was the best orgasm of my life, so I got over being freaked out."
Abby laughs at that. "You are such a guy."
Tim shrugs. "Not much I can do about that. So... ummmm... do you want to do that again?"
She smiles, stands up, and begins to brush her hair. "You're just feeling lazy today and want me to do all the work."
"Lazy? Do you have any idea how hard it is to not move at all?"
"I could find out." She's smiling again, and now it's his turn to think.
"That could be interesting." He'll admit that's not pressing any special buttons for him, but if she likes it, he's game.
He pats the bed next to him, and she lays down. He's nuzzling against her neck, enjoying the way she smells, and thinks about how if this isn't fun, if it does turn out that her playing dead is freaky, he can just tell her that, and they'll do something else.
He leans up on his arm, looking at her face. Her eyes are closed, and she's got a little smile on her lips.
"Abigail." That's his safe word. If he ever calls her that, play stops and they're out of the game. Most of the time something like that gets used to indicate too much pain or freaking out. But right now he wants to indicate something else. Because any game like this, anytime when they're actively playing, anything he says is in character, which means he's free to say anything, everything he wants. It's fun, but not real, and he wants this to be real.
She opens her eyes and looks at him.
"McGee?" She's worried; he's almost never used his safeword. The last time it happened she was accidently grinding one of his toes into a bloody pulp under her boot and couldn't feel it through the platform heels.
He smiles, letting her know nothing bad is happening. "Just, I love you, so much. I love that this is fun. That it's not some sort of if-it-isn't-perfect-egos-get-shattered-and-we-walk-around-on-eggshells-pretending-we're-okay-so-we-don't-hurt-each-other sort of thing." He kisses her sweetly.
She kisses back, her fingers trailing down his arm, and he jerks back.
"Case in point. Ouch!" He shakes his right arm, hoping that'll ease the itching burn her fingers on his new tattoo just started.
"Sorry. It's easy to forget it's there." The tats are healing up nicely, but they're only four days old, so healing up is not nearly the same thing as healed.
He straddles her, taking both of her hands in his, stretches her arms up, over her head, and pins them to the bed. Then gently, slowly, keeping up eye contact, leans down, and blows on her new tattoo.
Abby squirms and shrieks. "Tim! You son of a bitch! That itches."
He lets her hands free and kneels back on his feet, laughing. She sits up, her legs still between his, smiling, very lightly rubbing the tat, trying to ease the itch.
"Distraction is good for itching." He leans in, kissing her. She kisses back, squirming in a much more encouraging sort of way.
"I like it when you do that," she says as she breaks the kiss.
"Pin my hands like that."
"Why?" He knows why. It's part of any submission game they play where he's the dominant one, but he still loves hearing her say it.
"Because it makes me feel small, and safe, and completely in your hands. Because it's so male, and... I don't know... I just like that. Because of how your arms, and back, and thighs look when you do that. These," this time her one hand trails down his left arm, and while the other skips over the new tattoo on his right, "bunch up and look very strong, and my wrists both fit in one of your hands. And when you do it, a lot of your weight is on your legs or back, so they look incredible, too. When my legs are on the outside," because he's the one straddling her right now, "I like to hitch them up and just feel that strength and hardness against my inner thighs."
It's possible McGee made a small growling sound at that point, but he'd likely deny it if asked. It's also probably worth mentioning that at this point in their pre-bedtime routine he's wearing his boxers, and she's in a chemise and boyshorts panties.
What is certain is that within about two tenths of a second Abby was flat on her back again, with her hands pinned above her head and McGee kissing the absolute daylights out of her.
He's kissing her, supporting his weight on his legs and right arm, realizing that they're both awfully dressed right now for where he'd like this to be going, and there's not a good way to keep holding her hands down and get them undressed.
It's time to get creative.
The fact is, Abby's less than three inches shorter than he is, so if he's holding her hands at full extension, he's not got a lot length to maneuver with, at least, that's true if they've gotten to the point where they're actually having sex. But right now he's straddling her, and they're both still dressed, so he can move up her body and keep her hands in his.
He does, nuzzling and kissing her arms, being careful to avoid the new tat. He switches holding her hands to his right hand, gently nibbling her fingers, and furiously searches his bedside table with his left.
Because, as per rule number nine, he always has a knife, though, granted when he's in bed, the knife in question is in his nightstand. His hand closes around it. It's just a simple folding knife. Short blade, about two and a half inches long, and to date the only thing he's ever used this one for is cutting off those obnoxious little plastic tie things that keep the tags on clothing.
Still, it's sharp, and he's never done anything like this, but he thinks she'll go for it.
And if not, they'll play a new game.
He shifts again, still pinning her hands, most of his body lying next to hers. He drops the knife to the pillow above and behind her head, where she can't see it.
"You know I love those panties, right?" he asks, using his free hand to stroke over them, white boyshorts, little black skulls wearing pink hair bows printed on the cotton, and tiny black ribbons on the hips. He traces the crest of her hipbones, and warms her pussy with his palm, pressing gently against her mound with the heel of his hand.
She hummed something that could have been a yes and arched into his touch.
"But right now," he tugs at them, demonstrating the fact that he doesn't have enough reach to get them much past her hips unless he lets go of her hands, "they're in the way."
He picks up the knife and holds it where she can see it. Abby looks intrigued.
She grins, anticipating where this is going. "Absolutely."
He flicks the knife open, and very carefully slips the blade, sharp side facing away from her skin, under the side seam of the shorts, pulling upwards quickly and slitting the one side of the panties, and then doing it again on the other. He closes the knife and tosses it away from the bed, wanting no chance of either of them accidentally cutting themselves, and then yanks the panties off.
"That's better. Those little shorts might be hot, but your naked skin is so much better."
His free hand settles back onto her mound and begins to tease, fingers slipping on hot, wet skin. He presses against her side, mouth on her breast, kissing and nipping gently around her nipple through her chemise while his fingers play.
She's rippling under him, hips undulating in a beautiful wave arc pattern. He's rubbing against her hip, well aware of the fact that if you're going to have sex without taking off your underwear, boxers with a fly is the best possible option. He's already sticking out of the fly, hot, hard flesh rubbing against her suede silk skin on one side and the somewhat nubby flannel cotton of his undies on the other.
He knows that nine out of ten times, he can't get Abby off with sex alone. Just penetration won't do it. And he also knows that stretched out like this he just doesn't have the manual dexterity to get her off while fucking. But the other thing that he knows is that if he times this right, he can get her almost off the edge, slip into her, and then grind with his pelvis while he goes full out and get both of them off in a matter of a minute or two.
He can feel her getting close. Her body is tight and wet and she's making a soft, high-pitched breathy sound that indicated oncoming orgasm.
He sucks on the nipple in his mouth, hard, knowing she feels what he does to her nipples in her clit as well and moves his hand to her side, to take his weight while he shifts from her side to between her legs.
He uses his hand for a little help on the angle and then thrust in, hard, setting a breakneck pace. Her legs wrap around his hips, and she arching against him, a steady stream "God, Tim, yes, like that, fuck! Don't stop! FUCK!" ringing in his ears.
He finds her nipple with his free hand, rolling it between his fingers, pulling gently on it, working it like a less sensitive clit, while he kisses her feverishly.
All he can focus on is how she feels on him. Hot skin, wet sliding flesh, tight, soft grip, and then she starts to ripple and pulse around him and he's gone, orgasm ripping through him.
Several minutes later, when they were both breathing normally again, and he had let go of her arms, but not pulled away yet, Abby said, "I can't believe you cut them off me."
"No, that was amazing." Her fingers trace over his arm, back, and thigh. She yawns, sniffing his skin, kissing his neck lightly. "Strong, very male, yes, I liked that a lot."
He smiles, kisses her forehead. "Good."