McGee-centric character study/romance. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.
Chapter 323: The Metaphorical Something Black and Lacy
"So, successful trip?" Abby asks, looking up from her laptop as he and Kelly head in. He had told her what he was off to do. And before he can answer, she inhales deeply and says, "Oh, yes!"
She's up, draped around him, purring in a very content sort of way, sniffing along his jaw and throat. "What is that?"
"Apparently, exactly what I asked for." He hands over Kelly, who's fussing a bit, wanting some lunch right that second, as he smiles at her and takes his jacket and hers off.
"Hello to you, too." Abby says to her daughter once she's out of her cold weather gear, taking her into the kitchen, putting her in the highchair. Lunchtime is a cereal and formula meal. "Lunch'll be ready soon, little girl."
Kelly smiles.
"You think she understood that, or does she just know that highchair time means food soon?" Abby notices she's drifting closer to Tim as she asks, wanting to strip him down and rub all over him.
"No idea." He takes two steps closer to her, kissing her gently, and put his collection of tiny vials and the list on the table, next to Abby's seat. She presses against him, and his hands are in the process of wandering away from putting the scents on the table, looking to find some soft, warm, curvy Abby bits to cup, when Kelly interjects with some definitive, 'Feed Me Now' sounds.
They break apart with another quick kiss, and Tim starts to get some lunch for them, as well.
Being a parent is a balancing act. For example, right now, if this was a year ago, and Kelly was still on the inside, Abby knows that the absolute last thing they'd be doing right now is making lunch.
But Kelly is hungry, and she's fussing. When it was clear that being set in the highchair would not make food immediately appear, her smile fell and the little wa wa wa cry of 'Hey, food, now! C'mon, hurry up! I'm starving here!' came back out again.
But, as Abby's moving around the kitchen, mixing up formula and getting the cereal, Tim's also in there, moving around, grabbing sandwich stuff for them, and he's close and smells amazing, and looking like walking sex and just...
God...
Not pinning him to the counter and just getting to it is killing her.
And if she's got to be this turned on and distracted while baby wrangling, she thinks he should be, too.
Saturday morning, laying around the house. She's in jammy pants, t-shirt, and a bra. She gets the formula into the bottle, adds the water, and caps it, shaking the mix up, while slipping off the pants.
She knows Tim loves her ass, and the t-shirt is just long enough to almost, but not quite, cover it. And yes, she's smiling as she heads to Kelly, mixed-bottle in hand, well aware of the fact that he's staring at her, eyes glued to the little glimpses of her rear as she walks toward their daughter, lunch utterly forgotten.
And it's also true, that usually, if they're feeding Kelly in the highchair, that whoever's doing the feeding sits in one of the chairs next to her, so, the fact that she's standing next to the chair, leaning a little, bent just a bit, so that the shirt rides up just another inch higher, is not in any way shape or form an accident.
She looks over her shoulder to him, once Kelly's got the bottle in her mouth, and smiles, happy, wicked, come and get me on her face.
His eyes are hot, devouring her, and sending back a very clear, oh yes, I am definitely coming to get you! message as he bites his lips and adjusts himself in his jeans.
He picks up the cereal, mixes it with water, and then brings that over to her at the table. Tim presses right up behind her, rubbing against her back, nuzzling her neck, as he sets the bowl on the table.
Abby wants to melt into him, strong arms around her, that delicious scent wrapping into her skin. He's still wearing his shoes, and she's barefoot, so he's enough taller than she is that she's feeling small and very femme. She turns her face to kiss him, and he kisses back, teasing, flicking her lip with his tongue, and then steps away, quickly. "Gotta get a spoon for her."
She sighs, that's right. "And a bib." One thing they have both noticed in the week since they started feeding it to her, is that cereal meals are a hell of a lot messier than formula or nursing.
He comes back a second later, putting the spoon on the high chair, and wrapping the bib around Kelly's neck. Then leaves again, gently stroking Abby's rear as he heads back over to the counter to make them some lunch.
She sits in the chair, facing Kelly. That makes holding the bottle she's eagerly sucking down a bit easier. (Not that it's difficult, but it's easy to kind of miss Kelly's mouth if she's not paying enough attention.)
"So, which one of these are you wearing?" Abby asks, pulling the vials towards her. "Whip?"
He shakes his head. "That's a present for you. Janice, the perfume lady, told me it's yours, for when I'm wearing my collar."
"You told her you've got one?" Abby's pretty surprised by that. It's not the sort of thing that tends to come up in general conversation.
"We were talking about leather scents and if I liked real leather or the idea of it, and she wanted to know what color the leather I owned was, so I told her what I had and what color it was."
"Uh huh." She can't open the little vials one handed, and Kelly does not look like she wants to take a break. "This'll be easier when you can hold up your own bottle," she says to her daughter, who keeps contentedly sucking away. She does pick it up, and sniff, hoping to get an idea through the cap, and she does get a hint of roses and leather. That makes her smile.
She does keep picking up the vials, sniffing the caps, getting a hint as to what is what. "Vicomte De Valmont?"
"I think that's what I've got on. Kind of fluffy name."
"You don't know who is he, do you?"
He looks up from laying pieces of bread on the counter. "Not a clue. Real guy? Character?" He's making up corned beef on rye for both of them.
"Character. Dangerous Liaisons."
Tim shakes his head. "Never saw it or read it."
She nods, expecting that.
"He one of the good guys?"
"I think it's fair to say that story doesn't have good guys. He's a protagonist, but not, by any stretch, a good guy."
"Okay, what sort of bad guy is he? Am I wearing eau de murdering-psycho?"
"Would you stop wearing it if it was?"
He thinks about that for a moment, eyes skimming over her legs, thinking about how much she seems to approve of this. "How much do you like it?"
She licks her lips, staring him straight in the eye, and then lets her eyes travel slowly down his body, settling on his erection, and dragging back up again after a long, deep breath. "I really like it."
"Then I don't care what it's called," he says, shaking his head. "So, what'd he do?"
"He's a sadist. Seduces women and breaks their hearts for amusement."
"Lovely. This is a movie millions of women thought was achingly romantic?"
"He eventually falls in love with one of them, and then screws it up, ends up fighting a duel with this other guy, and dies, but not before the woman he falls for dies, too, and... actually, everyone dies."
She didn't sound very certain about that. "You weren't really paying attention when you saw it, were you?"
"More like I was supposed to read it for a French class, but I never got good enough at French to get the nuances."
"Ah." He finishes up their sandwiches and places them in front of her, and then takes her free hand, lifting gently, letting her know he wants her to stand. He sits on the chair, and tugs her into his lap. She settles in, wriggling in a very pleasant sort of way, leans in closer to his neck, and inhales deeply. "I really like this."
"Thanks. I do, too." He nips gently at her shoulder, before lifting his sandwich and taking a bite. He's thinking that getting done lunch as soon as possible, and Kelly in bed as soon as possible after that is an exceptionally good plan.
She continues sniffing at the vials, and then looks at the bigger one. "You bought a bottle of something called Jolly Roger?"
He put his sandwich down, and opened it for her. "For Gibbs. One Christmas present down, all the rest to go."
Her eyes went wide as she inhaled. "That's... God, that's a boat, a handmade wood boat, at sea, and the guy on it is drinking rum."
"And now you know why I thought of him when I smelled it."
"Rum?"
"It's close enough to bourbon."
She sniffs it again. "Might want to smell this on you, too."
"Not really a boat guy."
"Exactly. Unless it's in dry dock, this is the closest I'm getting to you on a boat voluntarily."
He laughs at that. "Wanna play pirate?"
She grins and rocks against him. "I might."
He gently strokes the tip of his index finger from her ear to the collar of the shirt, and then much less gently squeezes her breast. "Arrgh." He bites her ear lightly, and she laughs. "I've got a wishlist set up on her site. You can add it for me, or anything you want for you."
"Good." She picks up another vial, sniffs at the lid, and winces. "Ulgh! What on earth made you buy this?"
"Oh. That one." He took it in hand and twisted it around so he could see the name. Satyr. Fitting.
He explains why he brought that one home, and Abby does look intrigued, but exceptionally doubtful as well. "So, you're telling me this woman could sell ice to Eskimos?"
"I'm telling you she could sell ice perfume to Eskimos."
She sniffs him again. "Sexy ice perfume."
He kisses her shoulder, his fingers sliding up her inner thigh, just barely brushing her pubic hair, making her shiver. "Very sexy ice perfume. Wicked ice. Cold and sparkling, glittering on your skin, slowly melting with your heat into soft, full drops of water, quivering with each gasped breath and I lick them off your skin."
"Mmmm..." Abby squirms against him again, eyeballing Kelly's bottle. She's almost done. Then cereal. Then naptime. Then sex.
She pulls the highchair a bit closer, and then stands, handing the bottle to Tim. Kelly looks confused at this. "You hold on." And Tim does, quickly getting the bottle back in his daughter's mouth. Abby straddles his lap, facing him, unbuttoning his button down, pulling the collar of his t-shirt aside, and nibbling on his collar bone, rocking gently on his lap.
"Oh, god, baby, you're killing me!"
"You think you weren't fucking with me?"
He bites his lip, resisting rocking back against her. Then he nips hers, wanting to suck it between his lips, lick it, taste her slow and deep, but he's also feeding their child right now, so he pulls back and says, "Not that bad."
She shifts from rocking to an exceedingly slow roll of her hips, circling against him with exquisite pressure. "Better?"
His head falls to her shoulder. "God, yes." He puts the bottle down and grabs her hips, stilling them. "And no. Got a baby to feed here, don't need to be cumming in my pants to go with it."
"You're not that close," she says, knowing his sexual response cycle in and out.
And she's right, he's not. "Yet. I will be if you keep doing that!"
Kelly starts fussing again. Yes, the bottle is just about done, but she's not full, and she can see the bowl with the cereal in it in front of her, but though she's grabbing for it, she's not able to succeed in getting the food into her mouth.
Tim lets go of Abby's hips. Then he kisses her, hard, fast, deep. Too fast. That should have been a long, thorough, full-out making love kiss. Instead it was a promise of love to come.
"I want you upstairs, in our bed, naked, spread out and waiting for me. I'll feed her and get up there as soon as I can."
Abby grins at that. "Can I be looking at pictures, too?"
"As long as they're of us, yes."
She brushes his lips with one more kiss, and bounces (God, that's killing him, too, that soft, pert bounce of her ass as she heads out) out of the kitchen toward their room.
Tim closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, counts to five, and then opens them, grabs the bowl of cereal that Kelly's just about to flip over, gets the spoon into it, and starts to feed her.
Being a parent is about patience. There's the patience of allowing your child to learn to do whatever it is. Not jumping in and taking over because it's faster and easier if you do it.
But that's patience for parents of older children.
For parents of babies, the key to patience is accepting that babies move at their own speed, and that speed is slow.
So, even though Tim had time to eat his own sandwich, and get a drink, and mess around with the wishlist he set up, Kelly is still, slowly, munching her way through her cereal. In that she's only been eating "solid" (though how you could possibly consider something that is only marginally thicker than formula a solid boggles Tim's mind) food for a week, she's still in the this is really new part of eating, and hasn't quite gotten down the whole food goes in mouth, swallow thing.
She keeps trying to use her tongue to nurse it, which results in spitting a good deal of each spoonful out.
This morning, the fact that at least two thirds of all food gets pushed out of her mouth, then spooned back in, and then spit out again, and over and over until enough calories have been absorbed by her skin to do the job, did not bug him. That was just feeding a baby.
Right now, when there is something he'd much, much rather be doing, it's driving him buggy.
And this is the patience of a small baby. It's the balancing act of your needs and wants versus hers. It's knowing that if you rush and do a half-assed job she's going to fuss and cry and not properly nap.
So, as lunch is stretching out, and out, and the little pile of cereal in the bowl gets smaller in microscopic increments, Tim is being patient.
Eventually, after three quarters of forever (real elapsed time: twenty-nine minutes) Kelly was fed, cleaned up, sung to, and sleeping.
And Tim is standing, at the door to his room, watching, feeling the blood cascade back into his dick.
She's naked, and spread out, sort of.
She's on her elbows and knees. Ass high, legs spread, glistening wet pussy on display. She's gently, slowly fingering herself. Just the tip of her middle finger circling lightly over her clit. He knows that move, that's the just staying on the edge of getting off stroke.
If there's a more deliberate fuck me now pose, he's got no idea what it would be.
He sees she's got her earbuds in, and just knows she's watching one of the videos of them. He doesn't know which, obviously, but they usually do still pictures, so there's only a few videos to pick from, and he knows all of them by heart.
Between what he's seeing, and the memories in his head that go with the different videos, his pants are frightfully tight.
And then they're on the floor, along with his boxers.
He doesn't know if she's got the volume up high enough she can't hear him, or if she's playing with him, pretending she doesn't know he's in their room. Either way, with that pose, he figures this is welcome.
He gets onto their bed fast, and she has to feel that, but she doesn't respond, other than to wiggle her ass at him. He gets that she's pretending to be so engrossed in the video she's lost to everything else. That's fine. She wants to pretend they're fucking and get "surprised," he's happy to play along and add the real thing. In a second, he's kneeling behind her, grabs his dick, squeezing and stroking himself just bit, (That feels too damn good right now, too.) lines up, and slips in, groaning at how good she feels.
She makes a surprised squeaking sound. He pulls her up, so she's kneeling too, back against his chest, then yanks the cord on the earbuds, so they jerk out of her ears.
"Good?"
"Fuck yes!" she moans, turning to kiss him. He feasts on her lips as one hand finds a breast, and the other one slips to her clit, replacing her barely touching caress with a firm, fast stroke.
She's close, a lot closer than he is. He can feel it in the tightness in her body, the panting of her breath, the way she's frantically sucking his tongue. And, God, by all that is or ever was good and holy, that feels good. Feels amazing.
He breaks the kiss, licking her jaw and throat. "Wanna feel you come, baby."
She's rocking against him, pressing herself into his fingers, grinding on his cock, and he rubs a little faster, little harder, and she goes just a hair tighter before her whole body ripples against him.
She's moaning, and he gentles his stroke. "That's it! So beautiful, Abby."
For a few seconds, she rests against him, cradled in his arms, his head resting on her shoulder as her body twitches and her breathing slows. Then she kisses him, long and slow and deep. The kiss they should have had downstairs.
She breaks the kiss, squeezing around him deliberately. "You're not done, are you?"
He shakes his head, grinning. "Not yet."
"Good." She drops onto her elbows and wiggles her hips in a very encouraging, very, very, insanely good sort of way, and he growls quietly. "Want you to go as hard and fast as you like."
He grunts, the pleasure of those words and the feel of doing it short-circuiting the part of his brain that comes up with words, stroking into her fast and hard.
"Ohhh... Just like that, Tim. Want your finger marks on my hips."
He grabs her hips, pulling her back as he thrusts. She meets him, arching back against him, hard and deep. She's rocking fast, and so is he, encouraging him with a steady stream of "Fuck/God, yes/So good/Fuck!/Please!" as he groans with each stroke.
He can see his fingers leaving little pink marks on her hips, and watch his body slipping into hers, high as a kite on the feel and sight of this. He doesn't go quite as fast as he can, he wants another minute here, hovering between the intense erotic pleasure of almost-there-but-still-in-control and the free fall of climax.
A minute's enough. He moves faster, savoring her half-moaned words, plunging over and over into her, reveling in the wet slide of her body on his and the bursting, pulsing ecstasy of climax.
Three days later, he's in the car with Gibbs, who's been looking at him all day, trying to figure out why he smells the way he does. At one of the stop lights, Gibbs looks over at him and says, "Did you start woodworking?"
Tim just grins.
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