A/N: This has been running through my head since I saw this episode. That almost-kiss was heart-stopping and intense, and very much inspired my writer's brain. So, this is kind of a drabble/kind of a one-shot/kind of a character study, very much an M rating, involves M. Allison Hart, tags the episode 'Masquerade', and is very much angsty sex, down and dirty. There is no happy ending.
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or its characters.
The air between them was thick with unresolved tension-most of it sexual.
Her eyes bored into his; her lips were slightly parted as her head tilted, her breath spilling over his lips. She waited.
He struck, his lips falling on hers. She sighed against his lips, her arms wrapping around his waist.
He shouldn't do it; it could never work out. But he needed to feel something, anything, because he just felt so damn numb all the time.
Since Jen's death he'd been nothing but a shell; he hadn't been the same, he couldn't be. Everyone he cared about was slipping away, slowly but surely.
Hart's lips were soft, supple. Her curves, underneath her clothes, were warm and firm, her breasts pliable underneath his fingertips.
"Bedroom."
Her words were faint against his lips, but he heard them. Too bad he disagreed with them.
Instead he pulled her over to the couch, sinking down onto it and pulling her down him, making her straddle his lap. Her skirt stretched, showcasing her nylons against her pale thighs, and his hands followed the path.
Her breathing was erratic as his hands caressed her inner thighs; they moved up to her back, unzippering her skirt. She stood to shimmy it off before straddling him again, in only lacy black panties that barely covered her and her dark nylons. Her top was still in-his hands made quick work of her suit jacket and blouse, leaving her in a matching black lace bra.
His hands cupped her breasts, kneading them, making her tilt her head back and moan. Her hips ground against him, and he grit his teeth.
"Take me."
Her voice was breathy, desperate, low. He fought against it; he still wasn't feeling.
Her hands touched his chest through his shirt, her nails sinking into the skin through the cotton fabric, and he finally felt something. He wanted it to stay that way.
His hands became rough on her hips and her breasts, and she was turned on even more.
She liked her men rough.
She clawed at his belt, desperate to feel him inside her. With much work, she finally got it undone and was shoving at his pants. It took forever for him to raise his hips so she could get both the pants and his boxers off.
His hands ripped off her excuse of underwear and threw them aside, and he barely even tested her before he plunged into her.
She cried out, pain exploding through her lower body as she was invaded. But then a pleasure she'd never quite experienced filled her and she moaned, moving her hips, needing more of him.
He hadn't been in this position since before Jen had left for California. That last night-she'd come to his house the last night of her leave, and something about her had been different. She'd been resolute, been statuesque, almost, as she'd sat in his basement. Then, she'd asked him for one more night-one more time at that sliver of happiness. And he'd said yes, because he'd wanted it too.
She'd been killed two days later.
His teeth sank into his lip as Hart moved atop him-if he closed his eyes it was Jen again.
He was holding back, she could feel it. She pressed down more firmly on him, waited for his eyes to pop open.
They didn't.
Then the right move and it was over, almost before she could blink. She couldn't breathe, she was so in over her head, she-
He stood up, pulled out of her, brought his pants back up and zipper them, then tossed her skirt in her face.
"You know where the door is."
She struggled to find the resolve to pick her jaw off the floor. They had just had sex, hadn't they? Or had she imagined it?
But she moved and felt that ache and knew it had happened.
"Bastard."
She was out the door less than thirty seconds later.
Only the night would see her tears.