by B. Cavis

by B. Cavis

I will make her more, he thinks, repeating it over and over again, and it becomes his new mantra without a conscious decision.

All in all, it works well for him. It spills off his tongue with ease and strength, and he has learned to trust in it to catch him when he stumbles and nearly falls. He relies on it to save him from himself and her, and no matter how many times he uses it, how many times he whispers those words to himself and God as his witness... It always does.

I will make her more. Simple. Powerful. Truthful.

A vast improvement over his last mantra-- Red Heads Are Evil.

He repeats it under his breath at weak moments; at periods of doubt and distress (which are two emotions that he is so not allowed to feel). It has become the unconscious grumble of his throat when he sits at rest, the calm hum of his breathing when he thinks through a case and examines the blood that may or may not be on his hands. It has kept him moving, kept his sorry ass going when the days come (and they do come) that all he wants to do is roll back over in bed and not come out until they come and get him.

It's a powerful desire. And the mantra beats its ugly ass down every time.

I will make her more. It keeps his hands off of where they shouldn't be and his mind on what's important according to the rules he's tried to live his post ex-wife number three life by.

Whenever she looks at him with the barely restrained tears of exhaustion lurking in the corner of her mouth, he hardens his spine and slaughters the weakness within him. He whispers his private reassurance to himself and crushes the foolish, sentimental part of him that wants nothing more than to take her and make her not sad anymore. No matter what the means, he aches to make her not sad anymore.

Instead, he'll work on turning her into the woman that he knows she can be. The agent that he knows she can be.

He'll look at her, kill his male impulse, and push forward with her next lesson.

Never let them see you cry.

Never let the demons catch up to you.

Never try and catch up to the demons.

She'll look at him like she needs to be held-- held by him-- and he'll tap those five words against his side with his fingers, while he teaches her what she needs to know.

And he promises himself-- just a few more years.

Self-denial is painful. Self-denial... burns.

So... just a few more years. And then he can let his mantra evaporate. Let it fail him and fail her with its simplicity. Its black and white definition of the world he lives in will go colorblind, and he'll be free to say "Basta."


In a few more years, she'll carry four weapons on her person at all times. A knife in her boot (which will have replaced her heels as every day shoes a long time ago), a gun in the small of her back, a gun in the holster wrapped like tefillin around her well defined calf, and brass knuckles with a switchblade in her inner pocket, pressed against her heart. She will be a walking killing machine, and know how to do so in three moves or less.

He won't be able to make her jump any more, and he won't try to. Her nerves will have settled in by then, and every time he comes up behind her, he runs the risk of being thrown over her shoulder.

In a few more years, a few more lessons, she will take her coffee any way she can get it, and that means black. She'll live on the stuff, and everyone around her will make sure she gets it on time every morning. Every day.

She will be a presence. A force that everyone recognizes instantly. And he will have the pride in himself that comes from knowing he's the one who made her that way.

In a few more years, she won't need anyone to tell her how good she's doing. Because she'll know, in her own heart and in her stomach, that she is one of the best. The best. She won't look up at him, searching his face for guidance and approval-- she'll have it in her own hands, and she'll be able to dip into it at will.

When Gibbs is through teaching Kate how to be what she needs to be, she will understand who signs the checks, but she'll know who runs things.

He can help her come into her own; he can make her into a player and a half, and he will.

With the right amount of time, with the right amount of dedication-- Gibbs can make people whisper her name with just the right mix of reverence, fear, and awe.

And in a few more years, he promises himself, he won't have to keep his hands by his side anymore. He won't have to go to bed alone each night, when he sleeps at all, and he won't wake up the next morning with damp sheets. He'll be able to put his arm around her shoulders, his hand in her back pocket, his mouth against hers.

Just a few more years.

Until then, however, he clings to the mantra. He clings to his image of her; to the raw potential that he saw in her from day one. The woman who had his focus, who had glowed quietly and brightly-- who had make him say "please" for Christ sakes-- remains lurking in the forefront of his mind. A "BEFORE" photo of sorts.

Periodically, he'll take that photo out of it's box and examine it in relation to what he sees now. And he likes what he finds. A lot.

Kate has ability. She did then, and now that he's set out to make her a perfect influence on the game, it shines out with even more luster.

She will be great, he promises himself, and until she is-- hands off.

Hands off.

And he knows it's necessary-- knows it's only sensible and certainly only right. An older man, divorced three times, dependent on his work, and gruff till the end does not a good match make with his younger, beautiful, charming, just as dependent (but still in denial) co-worker. In his current position, at this current time, all he can offer her in damaged goods and a severely injured career.

He won't do that to her-- he refuses to do that to her. When he comes, he'll bring dedication, and warmth, and maybe just a hint of that emotion that always eluded him when he was with his exes, but not the ruin. Not this tainted thing that follows him around from relationship to relationship like a mangy dog begging for scrap of love nd meat. He won't make her number four. He refuses.

So he waits. He will sit and look forward to the day when the little kid in her eyes is grown up and the naivete in her smile is killed by soft happiness and the worn kindness that this job can instill upon the best of them. He looks in her eyes every day, and the day that he sees the new woman he's looking for is the day that he goes to her and asks her to have some Chinese with him.

The woman who she is becoming will be in her eyes someday. And until that day, he won't touch her. He won't be with (court, marry, love) a woman who still has the emotional marks of a pigtailed little girl on her skin.

Let her learn, he reasons. Let her learn and grown and strengthen; and let me be the lucky sonavabitch to teach her some of what she needs to know.

I will make her more.

And Gibbs waits.

Kate doesn't get it.

She doesn't understand, she doesn't comprehend-- she just doesn't get it.

She thinks of herself as a reasonably intelligent woman, and a marginally less attractive woman (her self-image could use a little work though, she acknowledges). She knows that when she bends over, there are those who look long and hard at her. She has the knowledge that she can and has seduced men on more than one occasion, and that gives her a little more sway to her step than those who have never had that experience.

She knows that she is desirable. And she knows that often, the men she desires want her right back. Which usually, always, leads to consummation. Kate was raised a good little doubting, questioning Catholic girl by parents who had money enough to give her the best education possible, and brains enough to teach her not to feel bad about anything that could make her smile.

Why would anyone turn down pleasure, she wonders. If it makes you happy, then why would anyone say no?

Or, more importantly, why would Gibbs say no?

It's been three years since he pulled her from her career as a secret service agent and gave her purpose in the form of a eclectic group of agents who all want justice and good to be done. Three long years of training, of working, of proving herself a worthy addition to their little family. No one calls her agent anymore. No one looks at her like she's a foolish little girl who has been put in this job because of her legs and her eyes.

The Director knows her by name. When she's on the phone for him, he takes her calls. She never sits on hold, and she's never been told that he's too busy to talk to her right now.

She gets what she wants because she's a force. A power. And everyone knows it. Everyone has felt it and given her the proper acknowledgment for it.

Except the one person she wants it from most of all.

I will never understand Gibbs, she tells the ceiling tile she's currently staring up at. Never.

For all her smarts, for all the inches of her legs, she is currently in a worse off position, personally, than she was before she started this job. She has just enough in the bank to go shopping once every other week for a cloth indulgence. She has no man in her bed that she will ever admit too. And she has a guy in her life who looks at her like he wants to swallow her whole with a champagne chaser, while never actually moving to do anything about it.

Gibbs wants her, and she knows it, and she has absolutely nothing to show for it.

Very frustrating. Very... frustrating.

Somethings remain the same, of course. The redhead still picks him up and plants the same platonic kisses on him, and Kate still feels the little green ball of envy bounce around her ribcage. She still looks at that woman in that car and wants her dead for some reason she can't put her finger on.

She still thinks he's all bark and no bite. She still looks at him as some strange mix of friend, boss, and lover. And she still hates the idea that three women she knows of got to have him before she ever will, and she still hates the uncertainty of that "will" in her own mind.

And of course, some parts of their "relationship" have evolved beyond their status just a few months ago. They would have had too-- she would have quit if he continued to treat her as a slightly aloof, slightly naive woman who knows her stuff, but not nearly as well as he knew his.

If he had kept cracking silent, all knowing jokes about her tattoo, she would have put her resignation on his desk years ago.

But things are different now.

He brings her coffee when he remembers to, and since she takes it the way he does now, he ends up taking huge gulps of whatever she brings herself.

He'll toss her something without warning, and she'll catch it without looking.

When he thinks of a lead, she's already with him, and when she drops her head to the desk to think, he makes sure everyone stays quiet.

She's grown; grown up and grown into her gun, and a lot of it has to do with him and the silent tutoring he's been giving her. He's helped her grow, and she's glad for it and for him.

But she still hates him, just a little.

Every touch, every look, every almost moment-- they play in a continuing loop in the romance deprived section of her brain that hasn't had any other kind of fodder in years. She looks over their time together, examines the looks her gives her when he's certain she's not looking, and knows that she's had successful, year plus long relationships based on much less.

She's forgotten Dwayne, Mark, Tom, and the eight other men who followed them. She keeps a man on the side-- Dave-- and they meet up every time she's feeling hot with something other than rage and fuck up against her door. Last time she did it, he groaned out a testimonial of love. She'll be dumping him, she knows, within the next few weeks. Just long enough to line someone else up.

It would be so easy to stay with Dave-- to stay with him and let him love her and let herself try and love him in return. It would be simple and pleasurable, and she would go to sleep at night with Bulgari necklaces falling out of her jewelry box carelessly.

She would sleep with hickeys on her body, her hand under her pillow, and she would never be able to look Gibbs in the eyes again.

Damn his eyes. Damn those beautiful, crystal blue eyes that make her want to spread herself out just to be looked at by him and those calm orbs of light that glitter in his worn face.

She's grown up, and she's glad for it, but she's tired of growing now. Sick from it. Sick from the lack of him.


Kate slowly lets her head fall down and forward to her desk, head on a sweaty fist and teeth clenched under pursed lips. The bullpen gets quieter out of habit-- even without Gibbs around, she's noticed, they seem to treat her as though she has his power constantly wrapped around her. The first couple of times she did this, he snapped at everyone to be quiet. Now they just do it because she moves.

It's recognized as her "thought" posture, and everyone stays pointedly away from her. They've seen one too many "eureka" solutions drip from that posture over the past two years to interrupt what could be a possible breakthrough.

Tony, of course, doesn't adhere. She wouldn't really want him too either-- she needs the white noise of banter to focus on the important main stream of how the hell she has gotten to this place.

In love, loved, and alone.

It's like a Lifetime movie without the commercials for Monistat and Tampax.

"Sleeping on the job?" His voice is humorous and soft. He flirts, but it's the same way he flirts with everything that walks, mixed in with a little bit more care.

He would kill for her, and she would do the same for him, and that leaves marks in every action they do.

"How can I sleep with all the noise-- I mean, you talking?" The fact that she can't come up with anything better lays her exhaustion open to his eyes, and he examines the curve of her back for a moment with a wry smile.

Damn Gibbs, he thinks softly. Damn him for loving this woman enough to make her suffer like this.

"You'd manage," he says. He can look at her back and know that she's not thinking-- she's wallowing. "Kate..." But there's really nothing he can say to make anything any better, so he shrugs and does the next best thing. He walks around to her side of the desk, gently places his hands on her shoulders, and starts rubbing.

She lets out a little sighing moan, but doesn't protest. He uses his thumbs to battle the rocks under her flesh, and she groans eagerly.

He could have fallen in love with this woman. He knows it and so does she. If there hadn't been the stink of a claim upon her from day one, it would have been easy and it would have been completely.

If Gibbs wasn't Gibbs, they would be sharing a bathroom right now, but that's all nothing in the face of reality.

Screw it, he thinks to himself, and presses harder on her back.

"You're tense. You're working too hard."

"Wow. Observant today, Tony."

"Yeah, well, I'm good at knowing what women want." He smirks characteristically, and knows she can see it from the little giggling shake of her shoulders underneath his hands. "You need to relax more. You're not meant to work four nights in a row without a break."

"Tell that to our suspect," she sighs tiredly. He winces sympathetically and digs particularly hard into a solid block under her left shoulder blade. Her entire body arches, head coming up off the desk in a panting moan of pleasure, and he grin.

"See?" She moans in response. She sounds like she just had a particularly good orgasm.

And the big man comes around the corner.

Gibbs takes one look at Tony's hands, at Kate's face, and the current position of Tony's legs (spread wide apart to hide the fact that touching this woman-- touching any woman, has a slight effect on his cock), and his jaw clenches. Tight.

Excellent, thinks Tony, and leans down to purr in Kate's ear without letting Gibbs know he's seen him. "Told you I knew how to make you feel good."

And the big man's fists clench for a bare moment before he regains control over himself and swallows down his rage. Tony presses a brotherly kiss to the top of Kate's head. You owe me, Katie gal, he thinks cheerfully, and wonders if her neck will be sporting one of the hickeys she hasn't worn in so long the next time he sees her.

She lets out a long, shuddering gasp of breath in relief, and opens her eyes. "Thank you, Tony."

"Was it good for you too?"

She grins slyly and raises an eyebrow that's full of enough chill to remind his body that this woman is more his sister than a potential girlfriend.

"If you could stop being snarky enough to do that on a regular basis, I would let you come and live in my closet, Tony."

"Could I go through your lingerie?"

"You mean you haven't already?"

She looks at him, smiling and happy, and the unease that would have been in her eyes years ago is gone.

Grown up, Tony thinks to himself. She's grown up.

"Tony, check up on the records from Holton's physical and his last commanding officer-- check for any signs that he was showing his illness. Kate, you're with me." And just like that, the moment is gone.

Tony sighs, and moves away, and she smiles at him thankfully. Her coat comes quickly to hand and she walks out of the office with Gibbs by her side. She doesn't have to rush to keep up anymore-- her stride has long since grown to mimic his, and his own has shortened to allow her to keep the pace.

Tony watches them go, smiles, and sits down at his laptop to start to work.

They get out of the elevator and she tries to ask a question, and takes the silence without complaint. It's not personal anymore-- his mood swings. She's stopped treating them like a personal assault; sometimes he just gets quiet. That's all she needs to know, and she doesn't give herself the luxury of questioning why sometimes a smile is so easy to get from him, and other times he growls at the very sight of her.

Besides, she thinks sourly as her previous mindset comes back to take her over, holding herself responsible for his mood swings implies that he would ever allow himself to give a damn about her.

A gross assumption, she thinks angrily, and tosses her hair back to punctuate the turn her own thoughts have taken.

She misses the eyes that trace the wave of auburn brown as it pours over her shoulders, but she wouldn't know how to respond even if she had seen it.

She's so grown up, and she feels like pulling a temper tantrum on him, throwing herself down on the pavement and beating at the world with tightly clenched fists and feet. "Isnofayr," grumbles the child on her shoulder petulantly. And she has to agree. It's no fair, it's no fun, and it's all his God damned fault.

God damn him, and God damn his lessons.

"Where are we going?" She asks when they get in the car.

"Talk to a witness," he answers gruffly, and she doesn't ask again. Mood Swing Gibbs is about as fun as a root canal without the anesthesia. He jerks the emergency brake up and grates the gears, but she doesn't say anything. Let him be pissed, she thinks. As long as I don't have to deal with it, let him do whatever the hell he wants.

They've been driving for close to an hour and a half when she hears him clear his throat. She looks away from a (painfully familiar) tree, sighs, and straightens her shoulders.

Squares herself for battle.

"Are you going to tell me why we're driving in circles now? Or should I practice being 'quiet and still' some more?"

He doesn't meet her eyes, and he doesn't soften his voice the way he usually does when they're alone. She looks over to watch his face, but he gives no sign of sensing her.

"Stop seeing Tony."

The world tilts off it's axis, and she thinks she just fell off into space. The heartbeat in her ears that she can hear when it's really quiet is now suddenly pounding all over her body in time with the red flush of anger that colors her gaze.

Stop seeing Tony.

He can't get up the balls to look her in the face when he tells her. He just can't. It's wrong to tell her this, even wronger to do it in his car on a deserted piece of scenic back road, but this is all he has.

An image of her wrapped up in the younger man's arms and legs and lap comes to him unbidden and uninvited and loud. She's crying out to God and the Devil while the fool owns her and her body. Her eyes are closed (seeing someone else?), her throat tilted back, and she's pleading for release as he pushes the cock that's known one too many women in and out of her. She's sobbing and panting and her face is twisted up in pleasure, because it feels too damn good to keep it straight and calm.

Gibbs hates her for it. Hates himself more. God damned self imposed rules. God damned self imposed order.

Just a few more years, echoes in his head, but the mantra has lost it's strength right now.

Fuck years. If he doesn't do something now, she won't be around with him in a few more years.

"It's not appropriate," he mutters, and his voice isn't quite steady enough for his liking, but it'll do. "It's starting to interfere-"

"What did you just tell me to do?" She asks, and her voice is so quiet that he looks over at her in shock. Her shoulders and chin are up, her eyes focused on the road ahead, her teeth working her tongue in her mouth. There's no emotion on her face. No doubt, no anger-- nothing. She is slick and cool as glass, and the emotions slide off her no matter how hard he tries to pin them on her in his mind.

She puts the syllables together quietly and calmly and firmly, because she needs him to understand that he has just crossed a line by involving himself. A line in the sand that he himself drew. He just pushed himself over the edge of what was defined as appropriate, professional-- he just inserted himself into her personal life.

There's no going back. There's no closing this door.

"I said stop seeing Tony," he repeats, steady now, fueled by the image of Kate alone in bed as opposed to with Tony. He feels an insane rush of pleasure at the idea that she won't be in the younger agent's bed.

Never again. No more.

He glances over at her, looking for the quiet pout, the disappointed glint in her eyes or the bow of the shoulders that acknowledges her own wrong doing and his authority.

And sees none of it.

Her knuckles are white on her knees. He can hear her swallowing repeatedly-- breathing heavy and thick beside him. Is she going to cry, he wonders desperately. God he hopes she doesn't cry-- crying females make him feel helpless and stupid. Like he can't-

"Stop the car right now," her voice shakes, "or I'm going to punch you in the face and break your nose."

He pulls over. Quickly.

She opens the door up, but doesn't get out. He can see her chest moving rapidly up and down in his peripheral vision-- like she's trying not to hyperventilate, and he wonders if he has anything in the back seat as helpful as a brown paper bag.

She takes a deep breath in the seat next to him, her whole body shaking, and her hand comes down hard enough to make a lesser man wince on his cheek, grabbing him around the nose and under his eyes in one hand and jerking his head around to force him to look her in the face.

Her nose is shaking. Her lips are bent back in a snarl and her eyes are narrowed. He can see the murder in them, and it shocks him. Crying he expected, even the silent treatment.

But anger?

"Listen to me Jethro Gibbs and hear me now. HEAR ME." Her eyes narrow, and she takes her hand off his face because the pressure is increasing to a point that she really might break something on him.

"I am not fucking Dinozzo," she whispers, and the words are breaths of salvation against his face. The image of her and his other young agent suddenly evaporates into the nightmare of a terrified, desperately in love man.


Her face is twisted up tight and angry, and her nails are biting into her palms. "I AM NOT FUCKING TONY!" She screams. He winces and looks away. "I am not fucking Tony. I am not fucking anyone anymore, and even if I was, it is so far beyond the scope of your business that I could have your badge on my desk within the hour for even asking."

He swallows, not at the threat, but at the indignation behind it. That doesn't look faked. "You look at him-"

"Like I look at a friend," she seethes. "Like I look at a guy who I know and appreciate as a person." Her boots press indents into the floor of the car, marking the mat with the designer's name. "How dare you?" She feels the urge to break him come back and she knows she has to get out now.

He sits behind the front seat and watches her as she walks back and forth in front of the car, panting and growling at the sky, nails tearing at her skirt, pulling at her dark denim coated thighs in fury.

The woods that surround them watch quietly as she sits on the hood of the car, her back to his gently shocked face. Her knees are too weak to keep her up anymore, her back is spineless and thin, and she sits there with her anger pooling her her hands and the shock sour in her cheeks.

He thought I was fucking Tony, she tells the pavement without moving her lips. All that time I thought he had an interest in me as a person-- that he loved me-- and all it was was his invested interest in the team.

His team. His work. His life.

The bastard was trying to keep her from fucking up team dynamics, she moans, and her head drops down to her knees as she breaths deep to try and soothe the agony of the flame in her chest.

She feels the car lift under his exit, and hunches up her shoulders protectively. His feet make soft scuffing nosies on the road as he walks up to her. She can feel his warmth by her side, and she hates him for being warm.

She's crying with her soul, not her eyes, and though there are no tears on her face, she can feel them dripping down the inside of her body in pain.

"I'm sorry," he says, and she can hear the tight regret in his voice. She doesn't pick her head up off her knee.

"Why would you think that?" she asks. "Why would you even consider it?" Her throat clogs tightly, but she clears it resolutely. "Why didn't you ask-"

"Because I thought I knew," he tells her softly. He's angry now-- angry and himself and no longer at two of the people in his life that he would kill, die, and lie for. "I was sure of it."

"Why?" She picks her head up, and the little child that he can see in his mental BEFORE photo has been completely buried now. He wonders how long ago that happened.

When did she grow up without him noticing?

He swallows, and finds that he can't look away from her face. "It was the way you looked at him. I was sure of how you looked at him." He kicks the ground and they both watch the piece of torn up black top go skidding across the road.

"That's how I look at men," she says, and he hunches up the shoulder nearest to her in defense. "It is, Gibbs."

He looks over at her, a little bit of a blue desperate fear in his eyes. "You never look at me that way," he whispers, and her forehead smooths. "You never look at me the way you do Tony, and I'm a-"

"You're not Tony to me," she whispers back. "You're not like him, and I treat you differently because you are different." She reaches over to touch the marks her her nails on his temples. "You mean different things to me, Gibbs."

He closes his eyes under her touch, bows his head down to her level, and she takes the silently begged for opportunity to touch him. His skin is soft and powdered, and she can feel where time has been good to him and where it hasn't. Her cool fingers trace the line of his mouth, his eyes. She touches his forehead with her thumb and all the anger goes out of them both in one large "whoosh" of air.

They sit and stare at the road. No one goes by.

Slowly, stubbornly, time reasserts itself. He thinks back on what has been said, picks apart the pieces to find the gold, and looks up at her with new eyes.

The image of her in Tony's lap has long since dissipated.

"You said that you looked at me differently than Tony. Differently than you do other men."

She closes her eyes, puts a finger to her mouth, and sighs.


"How do you look at me, Katie?"

She wishes a car would go by. Wishes her life wasn't like this.

Wishes she was grown up enough to let him go.

"I look at you like someone special, Gibbs. I look at you the way I thought you looked at me." She hunches her shoulders dismissively. "It doesn't matter, anymore Gibbs. I misread your signals." She laughs in what she hopes is a dismissive, calm manner, feeling his eyes on her and not wanting to look.

"The way I look at you?"

"The way I thought you looked at me," she clarifies, and he nods.

"I see." He swallows down the bile that's lurking in the back of his throat, having piggy backed it's way up to his mouth with his heart. He puts his hand on the back of her neck and she turns to look at him, her own fear lurking in every inch of the eyes that have changed so much in all the time he's known her.

"I look at you like I love you, Katie."

The shock comes up to claim her. She can feel her eyes going wide and her throat closing up in amazement. The disbelief is pooling in the crevices of her mouth, and she swallows thickly, quickly to try and keep from drowning in doubt.

"Okay," she tells him, and his eyes drop away from her face.


"Yeah. It's... It's nice to know we look at each other the same way." And his head would jerk back up except it hasn't got a chance, because a second after this is said, a very warm and very firm body is pressed up against his as a pair of lips that taste like peach lip gloss are pressed up against his own and suddenly his head has exploded.

Oh. Dear. God.

Her eyes are closed, her lips are parted, and there is a soft look about her that he never thought he'd get to witness. He can feel her pressed against his side, soft against his firm bicep, and he thinks that he will never forget this as long as he lives, because if he does than he is a moron.

A very stupid, very lucky moron.

"Katie," he grunts, and she pulls back, her eyes dark and soft. "I... Jesus, I can't believe I'm here."

She laughs in a tone that he's sure her lovers knew meant sex, and his own cock knows it now. "Gibbs, I love you dearly, but stop talking now."

"You don't like to hear me?" He asks, getting into the joking mood.

"Oh," she responds, "I love to hear you. I love to hear you say my name. Beg for mercy. Tell me you're going to fuck me..."

"I don't have a chance," he asks aloud, not really to her, "do I?"

"Absolutely not."

He grins and grabs her around the waist, pulling her off the car to stand in between his parted legs. "Okay then." She's smiling and soft and sweet, and he presses his lips against hers with more than a little restless lust. The image of Tony is disappearing, but the idea is still there-- the idea that someone else had her before he did.

Gibbs is never logical in his desires. It's what led him to his current thrice divorced status.

"I want you," he whispers against her throat, and she laughs softy.



Her lips part again as she presses forward to kiss him long and hard. His tongue rubs her, traces the teeth he can find, and makes a mental inventory of every taste he can find. Her nipples are getting hard against his chest, and her breath is coming out in little gasping pants for air and salvation. He grabs one and swears he'll never let go.

He has Kate Todd in between his legs, her tongue in his mouth, her moans on his lips, and her breasts in his hands. It doesn't get any better than this, and even if it does, he doesn't want it.

She breaks away first, panting and whimpering, and he pinches her nipple again, grinning. "You know Kate, I'm thinking 'good' too." He laves a tongue up her neck and she starts grinding against him.

"After all," he intones in just about the sexiest voice he can make, "It was going to be difficult to tie you to my bed and fuck you without permission. Gets messy."

And she pulls back, grins, and laughs right into his face with those dark eyes that scream of chocolate covered sex.

"Can I still have the tied to the bed part?"

It is officially the longest three hours of Kate's life.

The clock ticks by like it was just pumped full of Valium. The information on the case is running dry and useless. And the paperwork is starting to grow on it's own accord.

If she didn't know any better, Kate would swear that there was a black hole in the closet sucking at the seconds to prolong her lack of enjoyment.

She can feel every little moment ticking away, echoing in her head and driving her crazy with anticipation for the next one. When she sees the minute hand click, her teeth grate just a little bit harder, just a little bit more anxiously. She's begging time to speed up-- begging life to take the fast lane for once in her existence.

Kate is tired of taking her time on the little things. Gimme something bigger, she thinks with a wicked little grin.

Gimme something bigger, something badder, something longer. Preferably something that comes in gray and blue and looks just right wrapped around my waist. Size fourteen if you got it.


The clock on her computer dings. Another hour down. One more to go.

God damn it.

It's like the telltale heart, only this time the part of her body that's been stolen is a little bit different.

...Three hours goes a lot slower when your boss has your panties in his front pocket.

And he'd been deliciously naughty when he'd slipped them off her too. Taken her around the waist before they made the necessary trek back to the office and kissed her like she was the only thing keeping him standing. Her back arched and her legs shook, and he shoved his fingers down the back of her skirt to hold her in place.

"Tonight," he'd groaned, and she'd nodded limply. "I'll take you home and we'll pull the phone off the hook." And then teeth found her neck and she felt her world shrink down to the size of her clit as he squeezed her ass tightly and pulled her against him.

"I can make you scream," he whispered into her hair, and she looked up at him with darker eyes than she'd had a moment ago. "I can make you forget your own name, Katie girl, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. By this time tomorrow," and he'd run a hand down the front of her body, making sure to touch every hot spot that he somehow knew after only ten minutes, and she went... uhhhnnn. "You won't want anyone else in here but me." And he slid three thick dry fingers up into her panties and traced them around her clit.

And that was the point where she started drooling, panting, and generally agreeing to anything he wanted.

Which is how he ended up convincing her to slip out of the black strip of lace and Lycra, and hand them over to him. They'd disappeared into his front pocket, and the grin on his face got even wider.

"Just consider them a down payment," he grunted into her hair. "Tonight, the rest of it's mine."

Back in the office, Kate leans down to rest her head on the desk for a moment, and in the quiet that follows, she can hear him breathing off to her right and smell her own heat emanating from down in her lap. The idea of becoming his is ridiculously pleasing.

So Gibbs has a possessive streak. Who knew?

...I did, pipes up the very pleased voice in her head, and she grins before lifting her head back up. The noise level in the office resumes normal levels.

Gibbs glances over at her, grins, and looks her body over with the darkly pleased look of someone who knows what they're getting in another hour.

I'm going to eat you, little girl, she hears echoing across the air between them, and whoops, now her thighs are damp.

She looks around desperately-- is any one else seeing this? Exposure is not first on her list of things to do right now. But no one seems to be looking in their general direction, and she smiles in relief. Her eyes meet his again, and this time she takes her perfectly painted pointer finger, drags it up her throat in a mock scratch, and traces her lips for just a moment before taking the tip into her mouth and sucking until her cheeks hollow.

His eyes darken. Violently.

Kate takes her finger from her mouth and grins once again. It feels strange on her face, and she likes it.

...She is in so much trouble later tonight. And she is so going to enjoy every minute of it.

And with that thought, she focuses on forgetting about the fact that she still has an hour and change to go. And that when she gets out of here, he's coming with her, and when they get out of here, he's making her scream for God and salvation.

...This isn't working...

Kate shifts again, this time to the right, and Tony glances up at her. "Rough car ride?"

"Hm. Driving for hours in a car with Gibbs in a bad mood." She smiles brightly. "No, Tony. Why would that be hard?"

Gibbs picks his head up. "Any comment, Dinozzo?"

Tony shakes his head innocently and looks back down at his computer, typing away like he's doing something important. Kate can see he's playing with the arrow keys-- Super Mario again. "Of course not, Boss. Just making conversation. Kate looks a little flustered, and since I'm all the way over here, I figured something must be up..." He trails off in a way that for any one else would be meaningful, but for Tony just means that he's having a problem jumping on one of the walking little red toad stool things.

Kate grins quietly and looks back down at her work. Distracted indeed.

She can still feel Gibbs's mouth on her throat, can still feel that hint of teeth and force that traced her neck. The hands that held her between his legs were firm and worn, and old enough to know how to work a woman. The mouth that took over as soon as she got them started tasted like coffee and experience.

And sex.

He's not going to be gentle. And neither will she.

"Quitting time!" Tony yells, and jumps up with his coat already over his arm. Gibbs looks down at his wrist watch with practiced nonchalance, and raises his eyebrows.

"It is."

Tony is gleeful and ignorant. "Of course it is! Time to go out and have a life." He does a little cha-cha dance across the carpet and grins at everyone who will look. "I have a date."

Kate looks up from her file and cocks a brow. "With a woman? Like, a living breathing one?" She blows out an impressed whistle. "Damn, Tony. I was starting to get worried for Ducky's corpses."

He waggles a finger warningly. "That was only that one time, Kate. And you swore you would never speak of it again."

She laughs quietly and he dances his way to the elevator, stopping every few steps to hum "cha, cha, cha."

"Night boss!" He calls from the elevator. Gibbs nods and waves a hand dismissively, and the doors close to take him out of sight.

Alone at last.

Her clit is doing a happy dance right now.

Gibbs rises from his chair at the same time she does, and grabs both of their coats off the rack. She walks over to him, and his eyes are tracing and owning her even now, in the middle of the office.

He takes her coat and shakes it out, holding it out for her to slide into.

"Always the gentleman," she teases.

"Mama Gibbs taught me well," he shoots back with a grin, and she laughs before turning and presenting him her back.

He guides her arms into the sleeves and runs the collar up to rest properly on her back. She can feel the heat of his hands running through the fabric to touch her in places he can't, and she smiles.

He skims her neck with his fingers, grins, and sighs into her back softly. "I am going to fuck you into next week, Katie."

She turns around in time to see him slip his own coat on, eyes still locked onto hers, and she grins. Happily.

"As long as you're there when I wake up next Thursday, I have no problems with it, Gibbs." He settles his scarf around his neck and offers her the crook of his arm. She slips her own through it.

"I'll always be there, Katie," he says in a whisper that's far too sentimental for them to say it aloud, and she feels her eyes tear up for a brief moment before she blinks it away.

He means it. And she knows it, which makes it all the more sweet.

"Let's go home," she answers, and they make their way out of the building arm in arm. The night watchman nods good bye to them, smiles, and looks the other way.


Never sounded better.

The cold air fucks her quietly the entire way up his walk. The warm man who is keeping his very limited distance pointedly doesn't help much. She can feel him rubbing her body with his gaze, the way he has been all evening, and the knowledge that once she gets inside she gets to have him doesn't help her anticipation issues much.

She wants to be inside. She wants him inside. Now.

He gets to the door and takes the key out from his other hand, pauses, and looks at her. "You don't have to do this," he whispers, and she looks up at him. "I mean, we can take it-"

She steps into him, presses every inch of her body against his, and grabs his ass through his pants with practiced hands.

"Gibbs. Stop being a gentleman."

His eyes darken and widen, swallowing her whole in a wash of blue and black. And then suddenly the door is open.

And they're inside.

Her back hits the wall as soon as she hears the click behind her, and her coat is on the floor. He's holding her still and firm against the painted plaster, and her fingers are clenching and unclenching in his hair, and oh wow his mouth still tastes like sex.

His tongue is everywhere, choking her and loving her, and his hands are wrapped around her-- one on her waist, the other on her neck. The burn is there, firm and strong and hot and she can't feel anything but the pressure of him against her.

He's hard and heavy and insistent against her. She can feel his cock pressed into her stomach, and she groans as he flicks his tongue against her lips in a parting kiss.

Too good.

"I made you a promise," he says darkly. She looks up at him, dazed and panting, and he seizes her neck in a hot mouth before turning her loose. "I said that these," and here he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scrap of black that she barely recognizes anymore, "were a down payment. That tonight, everything on you would be mine."

He presses her back against the wall with his voice, pulling away to undo the buttons on her shirt with deceptively slow fingers.

"Stay still," he grumbles against her air, "and I won't have to break that promise." The words lock her hands in place against the wall, and her knees lock her upright in response. God. The man can control her body with the tone of his voice.

This is bad. This is so very good.



The snaps come open one by one, his eyes narrowing at each exposure of her flesh. She rolls her head back against the wall and whimpers. God this can't be this good. It just can't be.

He pulls back to look at her, and she lets the shirt fall down to the floor to join the coat. Her bra matches the panties. He grins. Darkly.

"I could watch you like this all night long, baby girl, but there are much more fun things I can think of to do with your body." He leaves the bra alone, and she is too intensely focused on this little dominance game he's playing to touch it. The skirt falls to join her other clothing, and suddenly she's naked except for her boots and the thin casing over her breasts.

God this was not at all how she imagined her day going.

No complaints.

He sinks to his knees. Slowly, building her anticipation. She can feel her whole body arching, pushing towards his heat, his body, his mouth.

He looks up at her, and in that moment, she knows why people keep marrying this man. He owns her. He loves her. He's worshiping her with every part of his body, and he's showing no signs of stopping.

"You're beautiful," he whispers. "I never thought you'd be this-- I could never imagine..." He shakes his head. Words aren't helping right now.

He doesn't really want to talk anyway.

She feels his breath on her for the barest of moments, a hint of heat and air, before she feels his five o'clock shadow on her inner thighs and his mouth against her cunt. His teeth lash out irrationally and furiously, sinking into her and pulling and nipping. Her clit has been declared someone's enemy number one, and it's bitten and sucked until it swells up to the size of an aroused woman.

She's on fire. She's burning.

Don't ever let it stop, she begs the top of his head.

"Jesus," she whispers, panting and desperate. "Sweet Jesus, oh, oh, oh..." And her words disintegrate and sink into nothingness-- she's crying and moaning and begging, and he's still fully clothed. She feels him lift up her right leg and hook it over his shoulder, exposing even more of her flesh, and it occurs to her that it can get better.

His fingers sink into her, thick and hard and rough, and she's begging now, screaming at the ceiling for release. He rubs his teeth across her clit, pulling at the inside of her body with his fingers, painting her with his stubble.

She can see the explosion lurking just over the next hill, and she grunt as she grinds herself further into his face. Have to come, have to come, have to come...

And Gibbs pulls his face away, looks up at her through heavy dark eyes, and says "I have wanted to do this to you since the moment I held you in that bathroom," before diving back in, seizing her clit between his teeth, and pulling.


And her entire world shrinks, then expands to swallow everything in this house. Her head falls off and out and she can feel herself slipping down to the floor, panting and crying and begging for something she's never had before.

And he watches the whole thing.

When time restarts itself, she picks her head up off her chest and finds him kneeling bare inches from her, curled into her indents and pressed against her air. His eyes are dark and wanting, and she pulls his mouth to hers to end the look.

She is never letting go of this man.

"I made you scream," he whispers against her lips, as she groans and tries to swallow him whole.

"Yes you did."

"I wanna do it again," he grunts, and she laughs softly, pulling back and grabbing his hand as she begins to stand. "Let me do it again."

"I intend on it."

His bedroom is one of those places that he rarely ever uses. More often than not, he'll fall asleep underneath his boat or on his sofa after a beer and the news. If he wanted to present a more correct picture of himself to her, he would take her down to the room that smells of sawdust and sweat and fuck her until she cries.

But he can't get the idea out of his head-- Kate on his bed. Kate in his sheets. Pale white skin against dark blue flannel.

Great image. Great fantasy.

His now.

He takes her by the wrist and leads her into the room, pushing her ahead of him long enough to undo his belt and kick off his shoes and socks. She watches his shirt fly by her head, and grins at the sight she sees over her shoulder.

This man shirtless is a work of someone's God. No doubt in her mind.

She snaps her bra off and throws it behind her carelessly, hitting him in the face, and she can hear his soft groan as he inhales the smell of her sweat and skin. She turns and laughs over her shoulder as she reaches the bed, and his jaw drops open as she unzips her boots, then slips up onto the queen sized mattress and slowly eases herself backwards to lie against his pillows.

She runs a hand down her stomach and traces the curls that are still wet from his saliva and her come, and wants him so badly.

He looks at her nipples, the ones he's felt more times today that he ever thought her could, and grins. Dark rose, just like he'd pictured. Her breasts are large enough to spill over his hands, her waist small enough for him to span it with his arms and have his hands come back around to grasp his own hips.

Her legs go on for ever, and her skin is soft enough for him to drown in.

He loves this woman at this moment and so many others. And he knows that given half a shot, he'll take her and commit himself to her wholly and fully, and that frightens him just a little, but much less than it should given the circumstances.

Her fingers dip down to her own cunt, dragging across her clit and coming up with a handful of moisture. He watches as she slowly drags it up her body, parts those lips of hers, and takes the fingers in one at a time. Slowly.

Fuck being sentimental and fuck being afraid.

"I am going to own you in every way I can," he grunts as he slowly undoes his zipper and lets his pants fall to the floor. Her eyes are half lidded, and the smile on her face goes a little bit fuzzier at the words. He kicks the pants away and takes his boxers in hand. "You're never going to forget the feel of me inside you, Katie, because I'll never let you." And drops them.

...She really likes Gibbs. Really. He's...


His cock bobs hard and red up against his stomach, and when he crawls up onto the bed beside her, it bounces with the movement. He comes up to grab her hands in one of his and pin them up above her head.

"You're mine."

"No argument."

He laughs, soft and rough, and leans down to taste her nipples. She arches up, giggling in pure joy and happiness, and he bites down just a little bit to make her take his seduction seriously.

She grabs him by the hair and yanks him up, and he looks into her eyes with everything he never thought he'd be able to show her.

"I love you," she whispers.

"Good," he answers back. "I'd hate to be alone in this."

Her teeth trace a line of pain and pleasure across his collarbone, and her hand snakes down between them to grasp his cock at the base and squeeze.

"Have you really wanted me since that day?" She asks, and he tries to focus on her voice and not thrust into her hand wildly to try and gain completion.

"Yesssss..." He blinks rapidly and heavily, trying to clear the wet blanket that seems to have wrapped around his head, and looks down at her with a slightly dazed expression on his face. "I wanted you so badly I had to get the hell out of there."

"Why did you hire me, then? You could have had me without making it messy." She traces the thick vein that runs up the side of his cock with her thumb and forefinger, and he drops his head to her neck and sucks hard and fast to keep focused.

"Because," he grunts through clenched teeth, "I could make you more on my team than anyone else could make you as a government tool." He grabs a thigh in each hand and pushes them apart and up. She pulls him towards her, and he sighs against her neck before lifting his head up.

His forehead presses against hers and their eyes meet and lock.

"I could make you more," he tells her.

"You have," she answers back, and pulls him into her body.

...Uhhhh, one or both of them grunts...

He was looking at her, but now her head has tilted back and her eyes have closed, and God damn it this angle hurts his neck so just forget it. He pushes himself to a half sitting up position and gain leverage by rolling his feet a little and planting his toes in the bedspread.

Her chest is flushed and red as he begins to move. He can see the places that he sucked her and he can see the places that he bit her just a little bit too hard. He can see the marks from the past three years on her flesh, and loves each and every one of them.

Knife wounds. Bullet graze. Bull whip (that one was a doozie). He plants his hands on either side of her and leans down to kiss each white line he can find, all the while his hips keep up their pace.

Thrust. Rub. Retreat. Her head is thrashing from side to side, and his own breathing is heavy in his ears.

"Gibbs," she's panting, begging, and it's so good and it's so much better than his dreams were.

"Come on Katie," he pants right back, "You want it again? Huh?"

Her fingers are clenching against his back, and he can feel her grab his ass and try and force him to make more contact. "Puh... Please..."

She lifts her head back up to look at him, and the want and need that paints her eyes dark makes him feel like the biggest stud, the biggest man in the world. He grins and leans down to kiss her with the mouth that knows her now, and never plans on forgetting.

"I told you I would make you beg," he grates into her mouth, and reaches down with one hand for a brief second to pinch her clit between his pointer and middle fingers.

And she screams.

He can feel her tighten and release and come around his cock as her whole body arches and flushes and pulses, and he has never in his life felt anything quite this good.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh God Katie, Katie, Katie..." And he's hammering her now, bouncing her against the mattress and pushing her for his own release now. She looks up at him through still fuzzy eyes, grins, and reaches down his body to scratch her nails across his balls.

"Come on, Gibbs. Your turn."

He feels himself tighten, coil, and every muscle in his body is suddenly beyond his control and beyond his understanding. His hips move faster than he thought he could do it, his arms are veined and tight with the tension to keep him from falling onto her, and his eyes are squeezed shut tightly to keep from popping out of his head.

He's in her, he's out of her, he is her, and there is nothing else in the world but this woman underneath him and his body's interaction with her.

He's coming, and it's hard...

He comes back to his right mind to find himself lying on top of her, and knows he must be crushing her, but her arms and legs are wrapped tight around him anyway. When he goes to roll over, she follows him to lie on top of him now, and he looks up at the pleased woman on top of him.

Kate traces her fingers over his chest, grinning softly. "If I had known you were that good at that, Gibbs, I would have jumped your bones years ago."

He traces one relaxed nipple, and smiles as she purrs under the touch. "And I probably would have let you, but I'm glad we waited until today." He wraps his arms around her waist and (he was right) feels the tips of his fingers rubbing his opposite hips gently.

She fits his body's curves perfectly. She drops her head down to give him one final good night kiss, and she tastes of all those things that he never dreamed he be allowed to experience.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I know," she giggles back, and he pinches her ass for the remark, which only causes her to giggle harder.


"I could go for that," she yawns.

They pull the blankets down, and she sighs at the feel of flannel against her naked and over sensitized skin. He pulls her to lie half on top of him, and she nuzzles her head into the indent his shoulder and neck form.

He can feel sleep pulling at him, and from the look of peace on her face, she's already half way there.

"You're mine," he whispers softly, and her arms tighten around his chest.

"Yeah," she whispers back, "but I own your punk ass."


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