by B. Cavis

by B. Cavis

The touch that comes, threatening and rough on the small of her back, jerks her out of sleep with more speed than any alarm clock in the world. A word is half out of her mouth when a hand clamps over her lips, tight and firm, and she swallows. Fear, no matter how well trained you are, is instinctual. Kate hasn’t gotten hers completely under control just yet.

The bed dips, and a knee appears on either side of her. The hand doesn’t move.

“Don’t scream.”

She swallows, and some (but not nearly enough) of the fear subsides. She knows that voice. She knows this man.

But not really enough. Not nearly enough. She may know the voice well enough to identify the man, but she doesn’t know the man well enough to identify the tone. He is unclassified. And that is more frightening than anything else.

Dangerous, whispers the touch of his hand on the bare skin of her back. Very, very dangerous. Her fight or flight instincts raise their heads, flutter their tails, and suddenly the adrenaline in her body is strong and rushing and violent, and she is fighting against him harder than she knew she could.

She thrashes, throwing herself back and forth underneath the vice of his legs and his hands, feeling his hand slip from over her mouth for a brief second. He replaces it before she can do so much as squeak. Her hips rise and fall, pushing her up and down on the bed, but weight is weight and mass is mass.

She is trained. But he is bigger than she could ever hope to be. And he has much more experience in fighting dirty.

He waits until she has thoroughly exhausted herself, spent her energy for the time being, before settling down fully on her lower back with a small grunt. She fumes, blowing her frustration out of her nose and making low noises of anger in the back of her throat. He grins quietly into the darkness. The caged lioness.


“You’re looking well,” comes the voice again, and somewhere in his words there is amusement at some joke she hasn’t heard. She opens her mouth behind the hand and nips hard at the palm. He curses, laughs, and takes it away entirely.

“Fucking bastard,” she hisses, and the laugh grows deeper. “Quit laughing. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Straddling your back,” he remarks, and the warmth resting just above the swell of her ass suddenly becomes a great deal… warmer. She tells herself that the fact that her breath just quickened means nothing; that she is just short of breath from struggling against him, and that the pressure he is putting on her body isn’t letting her get enough air.

She wonders, idly, when she started breathing through her lower back, and hates the fact that she can’t lie to herself about anything, even when it really would help things.

“I am going to shoot you,” she announces low and clear, and she twists her head from side to side to try and get the most of him in her eyesight. She sees his smirk no matter which cheek rests on the bed. It’s infuriating.

“That may be true,” he purrs gently. “But not today.” His voice dies off slowly and softly, and when she breathes in again, trying to calm her nerves, she feels something against her back that wasn’t there a moment ago. Something she has absolutely no problem identifying.

“You’re perverted,” she grunts, pressing her thighs together tightly. “You’re getting hard from holding me down on a bed in the middle of the night.” She swallows thickly. “But then again, I suppose this is the best you can hope for, after all. The Hamas females probably see your circumcision and run screaming to their daddies, don’t they?”

The smirk doesn’t vanish. She keeps her legs pressed tight together, trying not the think about what exactly might be causing that disturbing, traitorous wet slick against her panties. Because if she thinks about it, and actually considers answering the question, that stupid honesty thing is going to happen again, and she’ll have to admit a few very uncomfortable, very bad things to herself.

And possibly to him, and that scares her more than she thought possible.

“It’s not that scary,” he soothes with a grin, and when he grinds himself slowly, hard and unrelenting against her, she doesn’t bother to tell herself that she didn’t just groan with him and that her thighs didn’t just unclench.

Losing battles suck.

“See?” he breathes, and apparently she isn’t the only one who lost a bit of her composure with that last move. “Not scary at all.”

She sounds breathy. Whispy. She doesn’t know if she can sound any other way right now. “What are you doing here? Answer my question.”

His hips start moving again, grinding slow and rhythmically. One hand presses up between her shoulder blades, taking stock of the skin that the thin strapped tank top exposes, and she pushes herself down against the mattress forcefully, because if she doesn’t than she is going to push in the only other direction-- up at him. And that is frankly unacceptable.

Bad, she tells herself. Bad, bad badbabdbad…

“I came to see you,” he rumbles against the curve of her ear, and she would jump if it wasn’t a sign of weakness. God, when did he get so close? “To perhaps talk with you.” His breath is hot and rough and directly exactly into the shell of her ear. She squirms slightly, and the movement draws a quick intake of breath from him. “Caitlin…”

She swallows thickly and closes her eyes to try and regain some of her composure. His teeth on the tip of her ear force them back open and she aborts the mission quickly.

She doubts it would work anyhow.

“And that’s what you call this? Talking?” Kate is aware, dimly, that one of his hands is unaccounted for and that, if she really tried hard, she could probably hit him with a quick draw of her elbow, catch him off guard, and get to the relative safety of her weapon, tucked under the corner of her mattress.

She doesn’t move. The other hand appears, curls around her throat, and pulls her up against him. She can feel his jaw against the back of her head, and God she really should head butt him and get away. Really, really should.

…Fuck should…

“I said ‘perhaps,’” he reminds her playfully, stubble scratching down the back of her neck as he bends his head to take a soft bite at crook of her neck. And the hand around her throat slips down the front of her top, tracing her collar bone with dangerous fingers. “I have rethought my plans.”

She plants her hands on the bed and pushes up against him, trying not to dismount him this time, but rather to increase the contact. He smells like worn leather, sweat, and some dark and earthy cologne or soap. Like a man; one she shouldn’t be doing this with, most likely.

She tries not to think about that fact. His hand is dark and rough against the soft pale flesh of her collarbone, and when he slides it to the other side, she relishes in the strength contained in it. In him. He could catch her if she fell and he could hold her down if she wanted to fly.

Hell, he’s doing a bang up job of it right now. She pushes further back against him, and as the hand that had been pressed against the small of her back wraps around her stomach and pulls her firm and tight to him, she is thankful that she has been doing yoga for over two decades and is capable of such positions.

Because this feels really good.

His breath is still in her ear, and when she pushes back at hard as she can against him, he swallows loudly. She grins. “So,” she begins softly, and there isn’t laughter in her voice, but there’s something close to it. Humored and maybe just a little bit dangerous. “If we aren’t going to talk, what else might we do to pass the time? Hm?”

His hands move so quickly she’s not quite sure what he does first, but one minute she’s pressed up against him, bend backwards, and the next she’s lying flat on her back on her bed, strong arms pressed into the mattress on either side of her. The face that looms over hers is serious and shadowed. She swallows and meets his eyes.

Best not to look away from the lion. Having both eyes on him gives her a better chance of seeing him as he comes for her.

And this is a good thing.

“I’ve admired you since I met you,” he admits candidly, and she flushes. He grins, amused. “I love to see your skin that particular shade of red.” He leans down, nose pressed against the pulse in her neck. Smelling her. Feeling her heart beat. “Tell me,” he prompts, “does it do that everywhere on you?” He peels the sheet and thin blanket down her legs, and grins wolfishly at the clean silk panties she wears. She rubs her bare legs together self consciously, and when his warm hands come down on them, she jumps.

Honest to god, jumps. No one has ever made her jump before.

“It does,” he notes happily, and spreads her thighs apart with firm, but not rough pressure from his palms. She swallows. “Well isn’t that something worth knowing.” The breeze from the open window goes straight to her damp panties, and she shivers with cold and something more urgent. He sees both, glances at the window, and nods. “Well, I could get up and close that,” he says, his tone telling her that this is not what he is going to do. “Or I could just get you out of your wet articles of clothing.”

He shifts down her body, half sitting up and half reclining on the bed, like she and everything else in the world is there to be used at his leisure and enjoyment. His hands keep her thighs spread apart, and a part of her is glad. If he keeps some aspect of threat-- some control over her right now, she doesn’t have to try and rationalize this to herself. And when she does, later on, it’ll make it easier on her and her overly developed sense of right and wrong.

She didn’t fuck the man with the blood in his eyes, he fucked her. And that makes all the difference.

He leans very close to her, nose open and chin down, closes his eyes, and breathes her in. She swallows, afraid for a moment that she is going to choke on her own tongue or the tangible, thick aura emanating from him, and closes her eyes because she is afraid to keep looking at him.

And then his mouth comes on her, through her panties, and she arches up at him even as he laughs and pushes her back down. Her eyes are open again. Wide. “Stay still,” he chides, and she looks down at the dark eyes that smirk at her from between her legs. His nose presses against the wet spot spreading across the purple silk, and she takes a shuddering breath in through her nose. “You like that?” he asks, and his voice has dropped down even lower than it usually is.

She nods mutely, and when he presses a firm nip against her inner thigh, she feels his smirk of satisfaction.

A nip on the other thigh, followed by a suck and a lick. His tongue is taking over her skin. His teeth are doing nothing to hinder it. She feels his breath, hot and moist over her panties for a second, just a brief second, and his chin brushes against her as he changes sides yet again. She pushes up at him, and now the hands pressing her into the mattress and keeping her still are harder and rougher and meaner, and she stills with a whine.

“Fucking tease,” she grunts, and he nips on her inner thigh hard enough to make her flinch away from him.

“Language,” he remarks sharply, and she snarls at him as he grabs her panties in one hand and works them down her legs. She kicks them off her ankles, and both of his hands move to her calves, hooking under her knees and pressing them up and out, flat against the mattress. She bends easily, and he grins at the image of Special Agent Caitlin Todd spread open and wide on the bed.

His stubble cuts lines into her skin, and when she feels his chin trail over her clit (again) and still isn’t rewarded with his tongue and teeth following, she takes both of her hands and trails them down her body, playing with the tank top and the hardened cloth coated peaks of her nipples. He watches her fingers tighten around her own flesh and her stomach flex under her own touch, and when she whimpers “Eat me,” his eyes close for a moment, before he sets her knees on his shoulders, and spreads her open with his hands and dips his head to her pussy.

Her hands come down to grab at his hair, stabilizing herself in the short, dark strands she finds there. He is one giant sensation of wet tongue, hard teeth, and vicious, throbbing pressure between her legs, and she closes her eyes and keeps them closed because if she looks down at him, she is going to come apart all over them both.

And that would be bad.

One of his hands takes on the responsibility of keeping her open and spread, and she feels his finger tracing her opening delicately. Tauntingly.

Fuck-ing tease, she labels him again, and from the quick press of his tongue against the underside of her clit, he knows exactly what she is thinking about him and exactly what he is doing to her. In fact, she thinks, looking bitterly at her mental image of him, that’s probably the biggest turn on for him.

He gets off on torturing her.

And he seems to be getting better and better at it with each passing second, because for every press of his fingers against her, just barely there pressure, his tongue flattens and drags over her, long and thick and sweet, and she is so never letting him out of this bed. He is going to have to burn off his stored up body fat until he passes into exhaustion.

Or until she kills him for being “Such a fucking tease!” She thrusts herself into his face, grinds up against his chin, and for some strange, god blessed reason he decides not to be an even bigger bastard than he usually is-- not to pull away-- and he licks her clit with short little laps of his tongue as his fingers press all the way into her, one darting up to put that dangerous, teasing pressure on her asshole, and she throws her head back and squeezes her eyes tight as she comes, panting and gasping and riding the small, yet overwhelming satisfying orgasm to its end.

When she opens her eyes again, his mouth is wet and hot on hers, tongue lapping at the sharp tips of her teeth, and she sucks, open mouthed, at his bottom lip as he works that wonderfully skilled tongue up and down the side of her own. His knees are keeping her thighs parted, his face is screwed up tight, and he has one hand forced down between them.

He pushes inside of her and she arches up lazily at him, smiling in satisfaction as his tongue looses some of it’s finesse and his mouth goes lax for a moment. She pulls away from him slightly and finds his collarbone with her teeth and tongue. His smell surrounds her, fucks her nose, and leaves her feeling like she just ran for her life from some dangerous and unseen horror movie villain whose appearance could never be as scary as the anticipation. Her arms wrap around his neck, holding his throat within her reach, and he grunts softly when her nails rake through his scalp. She grins and does it again, firmer this time, the way she knows he likes it.

He loves it when she scratches him.

He pulls back, and looks down at her, grinning like a dog with a steak and a room full of bitches, and she thrusts her chest up at him, still trapped in the tank top. His strokes slow for a moment, hands pulling the neckline of the top down to frame and push her breasts up, and when he catches sight of her right nipple, his head ducks down to grab it between his lips. She pushes against his mouth, feeling the ripples of another crash and burn starting to curl their way around her clit.

She makes the noises of a woman who wants to come again, and he shifts his angle according to what his ears tell him she needs. Less force, more pressure, less speed, more angle. He moves, playing her body like he’s read her cliff notes, and she responds just the way he knows she will. Panting, head thrashing, hands clenching on his back and in his hair and everywhere she touches leaves a burn; an ache that needs to be repaired. To be filled with something else.

With her.

She is pleading now, moving her hips and legs and shifting and pulling at him. Her chest is flushed red and when he pulls away from her breasts, there are tiny bite marks and even smaller hickeys coating her skin. She tilts her head back, stretching her neck out until he can see every muscle, every cord in her throat, and he drags his cheek over her jugular before grabbing her earlobe in between his teeth and snarling, “Come, Caitlin!”

And because he’s been reading her, because he’s gotten the right signals at the right times, because, hell, she can never resist him when he uses that voice on her, she does. Her mouth opens wide, eyes squinted up at him as she lets out the low keening moan of surrender that he loves to hear, and he grins down at her with so much satisfaction in his face that when her eyes close (because this is just too good to keep them open) she is almost afraid that he is going to start crowing his victory.

He’s moving faster now, finished with her pleasure and only having to concern himself with his own now. She is hot and wet around him, relaxed from her orgasms but still tight enough around him to make him moan and shake at the mere thought of where he is right now. Inside Agent Caitlin Todd, inside Agent Caitlin Todd…

A low moan, part agony, part desperate need, seeps from his skin and his throat and pours out onto her and the bed, and when his arms give way, his back fails him, and he breaks apart in her body, she catches him. He falls into her, and she keeps him from drowning in the sweet smell of her and their sweat on the sheets and pillow.

Her heart beat is rough and hurried underneath his ear, uneven but strong, and he lets out an open mouthed groan against the curve of the breast his mouth is pressed again. God, he has just lost all of his bones and all of his brain cells in one fell swoop. He is just… flop.

And because she’s Caitlin, and is therefore above all of his deep and serious and lovey dovey moments, when her chest starts shaking underneath his cheek, he knows that it’s not her crying tears of happiness or shivering at his presence and the magnitude of them.

She’s laughing. At him.

He lifts his head up off of her, hair plastered with sweat, and she is cackling even as she smoothes the hair away from his face and off of his forehead.

“Shein,” he chides weakly, “you know how bad that is for my self-esteem.”

And, of course, she laughs harder. He groans and rolls off of her, but there is no rest for the wicked in this bed or anywhere else in the world. She rolls after him, throws an arm over his stomach, and curls one hand over his rapidly deflating cock. Her hair spreads over his chest and tickles his chin.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” she asks, laughter still in her voice, and he raises an eyebrow. “You sick little puppy, you’ve wanted to seduce the slightly unwilling Kate Todd for years, haven’t you?” She rolls her neck and grins.

Her hair trails along his chest and he squirms at the tickle. “You knew that when you married me,” he points out. She snorts.

“The amazing sex made me light headed. Didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Oh don’t give me that look-- how long have you wanted to sneak into Special Agent Todd’s apartment in the middle of the night, climb into bed with her, and fuck her despite the fact that you are technically not supposed to have any contact with each other?”

He shrugs, looking away with a half-pout on his lips. “I may have… fantasized.”


“About you… and I… before it was technically acceptable behavior…”

“Acceptable behavior.”

He glares. “Are you going to keep repeating everything I say?”

“Depends. Are you going to keep avoiding my question?” She smiles peacefully at him, and he sighs, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her tighter against his side.

“For a long time.”

“How many years after I met you?”

He shrugs. “I… After the farmhouse, my dreams turned from replaying the scene in the morgue, without the bloodshed,” he hastens to add, “to more… explicit things. So a while. A… long while.” She grins quietly into the darkness, and he blinks down at her. “That makes you happy?”

“Everyone likes to know they are wanted, Ari,” she says gently, and traces a figure eight on his stomach. He relaxes under the touch. “And it’s not like you were the only one with… explicit things in their dreams… before it was technically acceptable behavior.”

He lifts his head up to look at her. “Really?”

She grins. “You’re oblivious some times, you know that, ba’al?” She presses a soft kiss against the hollow of his jaw. “You wore me out,” she complains, and lays her head down on the pillow next to his head, arms still tossed carelessly about his body. He doesn’t move away, and he doesn’t remove his hand from her body.

The smell of sex is wonderful on the skin of his wife, and the smell of his wife is amazing on his skin.


Feed me. It stops the voices and soothes the hunger. Really... Okay, not really. But it helps.

Feedback to B. Cavis