It's late, the first time, late enough that it could be called early, instead.

He is alone, sleep eluding him as it often does, working his way through a bottle of Scotch and staring out at the night.

Brooding and absorbed in his thoughts, he doesn't hear her, doesn't know she's there until she's right in front of him, saying his name.

"Lizzie," he acknowledges, trying to keep the surprise from his voice. Since her indictment and release, she has been distant, angry, antagonistic, even, and he cannot imagine what would bring her to him now, in the wee hours.

"I thought the door was locked," he continues, looking carefully at her, curious but wary.

She just raises an eyebrow, with a shadow of a smile, and he laughs.

"Where's Dembe?" she asks, her voice quiet in the still room.

"Sleeping," he answers honestly. "It's very late, Elizabeth."

Her smile disappears, but her eyes stay on his face, direct and unapologetic. "I need you to do something for me."

He blinks. "Of course, Lizzie, anything." You should know that by now, he wants to add, but doesn't.

She takes the tumbler from his hand abruptly and gulps the remainder of the liquid.

"I'm also going to need you to remember that you said that," she says.

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't say anything, just waits, watching her. But her expression is closed, her face set in a manner he doesn't recognize. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, licks her lips as if she is nervous.

Then, a flash of movement, and her weight is settling over his thighs, and those wet lips are on his, her hands cold on his face. She carries the earthy flavour of his Scotch, and something else, wilder and sweet. He's shocked enough that it takes a few warm, enticing moments to pull back, searching her face for answers, his hands coming up to grip hers and pull them down between them.

"Elizabeth, what…"

"You said anything," she interrupts, talking fast. "Didn't you mean it?"

His eyes narrow slightly and he reevaluates quickly. "What is it that you're asking for?" he says, needing the words, the affirmation.

"I need…" she starts, then stops. She shifts a little closer, tightens her fingers against his. "I'm hungry," she says softly, watching him intently. "It makes me restless, edgy, off my game. I can't focus on work; I'm starting to take risks in the field."

He says nothing, just looks at her, waiting. Waiting to see if she is in earnest.

She tugs a hand free and slips it under his open collar, sliding across his collarbone with a sigh. "Touch," she says, a little dreamily, "is so important, don't you think? It's been so long since…Wouldn't you like to touch me, too?"

"Elizabeth," he says, grasping for reason, trying to remember why he shouldn't just go right ahead and strip her bare.

"I didn't come here to talk," she returns, pulling her remaining hand out of his grasp and going to work on the buttons of his shirt. "I'd much rather have your hands on me."

The heat that had been slowly unfurling inside flashes over him in a wave. He grips her waist to yank her the rest on the way onto his lap, smothering her startled laugh with a hard kiss. She opens to him easily, eagerly, and he feels a thrill at the tug of her hand fisting into his shirtfront, the press of her knees against his hips.

And since she's right, and he would like to touch her, he runs his hands under her shirt to play over the skin of her back, silken and warm. She shifts restlessly over him, finishing his buttons and pulling his shirt over his shoulders. She leaves it crinkled at his elbows; wraps one hand around his neck to strengthen her kiss, letting the other discover him, using her nails, none too gently, to trace his ribcage and scratch through his chest hair.

Nervy tendrils of desire flare in the wake of her fingers, and he's already hard enough that he aches. He thinks now that he knows what she's looking for, and he is more than happy to oblige. He breaks their kiss and looks at her — she's a vision, now, eyes gone bright and brilliant, cheeks flushed, her dark hair tumbling at her shoulders. She flexes her fingers at his neck, and he smiles.

"Strip," he says, almost casually, and she blinks but doesn't move.

"I know you heard me," he says, his voice deepening. "Strip. Take off your clothes. Let me see you, Elizabeth."

She's shaking a little as she stands, and he knows he was right. She makes quick work of it, peeling off her top, pulling off her boots and socks, and shimmying out of her jeans, kicking it all aside impatiently. She's left in scraps of bold red lace that hide nothing at all, and he makes a noise of appreciation deep in his throat.

"Leave them," he says, as her hands move to unclasp her bra, "for now."

He tugs his own shirt the rest of the way off and reaches out a hand. She comes willingly, straddling his lap again; he can smell her arousal as she moves. He cups her breasts in his hands, lush and lovely, his touch firm and sure, and rubs his thumbs over her pebbled nipples, making her gasp.

He can't resist; he bends his head to her left breast and puts his mouth on her, sucking through the lace and scraping with his teeth so she whimpers. His hand stays at the right, pulling and teasing and pinching at her nipple; his other follows the curve of her body to slip under the edge of her thong. She moans as he strokes her; she's drenched and swollen under his fingers and he lifts his head to look at her again.

The image of her burns into his mind — head tipped back and eyes closed; lips parted as she breathes, short and fast; her back arched to fill his hands.

"God, you're beautiful," he says, his voice rough and deep. "And so ready, aren't you, sweetheart?"

He thrusts two fingers inside her as he speaks, hard, and she cries out, her fingers digging into his skin. She is hot and wet and soft, clutching at his fingers as he pushes in and out. She leans into him, her mouth moving over his jaw, his neck, sucking hard. Her arms are wrapped around him for balance as her hips move with his hand.

"Please," she says into his skin, raspy with need, "please."

Because he wants to, because he wants to see her fall, feel her ecstasy and hold it close, he presses his thumb against her clit; rubs in tight circles as his fingers continue to move. She moans again, her legs tightening against his thighs, her face pressed to his shoulder. Every time he puts his teeth to her, she gets wetter and more responsive. Everything is slick and warm and she's making soft little noises interspersed with broken words — yes, there and more and harder and Red, please.

He slides in a third finger and she breaks, one high cry escaping her, then choking off as if it is too much to bear. She pulses against his hand, her body quivering against him; he drops his head to nuzzle at her neck with a row of biting kisses. She tastes of salt and lemons and summer, and he needs to be inside her more than he's ever needed anything.

She comes back to herself as he's sliding off her excuse for a bra, and twists her legs obligingly so he can peel away her sodden thong. Then her hands are on him, unbuckling his belt and fumbling with his zipper, slipping a hot hand into his boxers to free him, thick and hard and eager. She bites her lip as she looks at him, then raises her face to his and smiles.

She locks her eyes on his and braces herself with one hand on his shoulder, rising up and over him. She grips his cock with her other hand, dips down enough to drag the tip through her folds, the contact making him draw in a harsh breath.

Her face is intent as she sets him against her, then slides over him, inch by agonizing inch, until he wants to howl. Her eyes finally close as she comes flush against him, her sighing moan of pleasure everything he needs. He waits as long as he can, exulting in the feel of her surrounding him; when he can't stand it any longer, he grasps her hips and urges her up, then pulls her back down hard, hard enough that she yelps in surprise.

It's like a spark has been lit, then — their hands gripping, panting breaths mingling as she rides him, fast and forceful. The sounds they make together drive him to thrust into her, taking his turn to gasp words into her hair — yes, like that and faster and so good. She cries out again, Red, and her nails dig into his skin as she comes. His own orgasm burns at the base of his spine and he pushes deep, as far as he can, then releases insider her in long, hot pulses.

He slides his arms up and around her, pulling her close so that her heart beats against his, so he can breathe in their mingled scents. It seems like hours, and also like no time at all, that they sit, locked together, breathless.

Not nearly long enough, when she turns her face to his neck to lick at the scar she gave him, to follow it with a sucking, open-mouth kiss. She pushes herself up to sitting with a sigh and clambers to her feet with a slight wince as he slides out of her. She dresses efficiently, while he sits, spent and bemused.

"Well," she says, "that was…well. Thanks. I expect I'll see you tomorrow." She leans over and gives him a friendly kiss on the mouth, with one last nip at his bottom lip.

He doesn't move or speak as he watches her leave. Only when he hears the door shut quietly does he manage to move, tucking himself away and standing to zip up his pants and head to bed, though the thought of sleep has never been more ridiculous.

He takes a step, then bends over to pick up the red lace she left behind.