In That One Moment

AN: Set after 2x13, "Sucker Punch."

The silence of the night is her enemy.

The images come, unbidden and loud, unstoppable, an amalgamation of reality and horror movie. The blood coating her hands suddenly feels like his, and it's his body on the ground, his life seeping out of him, the pressure of her hands incapable of pushing it back in, of keeping him with her. Another life lost to her and the panic flutters in her stomach, nausea climbing up her throat.

She paces in the hallway, her patience lost to the demons of the darkness.

The door swings open.

She leaps.

Her palms against his face, fingers in his hair as she pulls him close, slants her mouth across his lips.

He is hot and willing, throbbing with life and she pushes her tongue inside, delves into the mysterious cavern of his mouth. He grunts, its vibrations shimmying a tight pattern along her skin and he wraps his hands around her waist, pushes her backwards, shutting the front door with the combined press of their bodies.

He feels big against her, everything about him broad, safe, alive and she arches her hips into him, need curling within her, dark and aching and desperate, seeking to fill the yearning emptiness of her life.

His lips are soft, softer than she'd imagined when he is pressed against her mouth, his tongue deep inside, tangling with hers, drawing more from her than she ever thought she'd be capable of giving and she whimpers, her knees shaky, fingers clawed into his neck.

He pulls away, his breathing harsh in her ears as he seeks her eyes, looks at her with the mix of tenderness and concern that has haunted her all evening, seeking answers she's not sure she knows and she can't, she can't, no questions, please no questions. She needs to not think, needs to forget, to feel; she needs this, needs… him.

She trails her fingertips along his jaw, across his cheek, watches his throat work as he swallows and then he captures her mouth once more, fast and hard and yes, this, this, his hands pressed underneath her loose t-shirt, hot on her stomach, his hips thrumming a staccato pattern against her middle.

This is what she needs, mouth and hands and touches like fire on her skin, this curling desire, this man who drives her crazy in every possible way. She claws her fingers into his chest, tries to rip away the shirt, desperately needs to feel his skin under her palms, taut and burning from the pump of his blood.

He whirls her around, her front to the door; she slaps her palms against the wood on each side of her head, drops her forehead against it, holding on, heat pulsing through her lower body. She feels him press into her backside, thick and throbbing and insistent and she groans, sobs his name as his fingers slide down her stomach, pop open the button of her jeans, lower the zipper.

His teeth graze along her jaw line, nip the cords of her neck. "God, you smell good, Beckett," he murmurs close to her ear and the rasp of his voice pops and fizzles through her blood, leaving her core weeping with emptiness.

"Bet you feel good, too," he groans and then his hands move, one lifting up her bra, cradling the rounded flesh, his fingertips quick to roll her nipple just as the other hand dips into her panties, his index finger sliding over her tight nerves. She moans at the double assault to her senses, her stomach clenching.

"You're so wet," he whispers, his voice thready, astounded and pleased before he sucks her earlobe between his teeth.

She can't stop the whimpers that fall from her lips, his fingers so talented, playing her, leaving her skin flushed, her blood singing. He slithers along her folds, his movements fast as he circles, tweaks, kneads a simultaneous rhythm between her breast and her clit. Her knees buckle but he holds her up with the force of his hips, a tight pounding pressure against her ass and it's fast, so fast, her vision blurry, her blood rushing in her ears.

"I want to hear you," he urges her, dark pleasure in his voice while he presses his fingers against her nerves, hard and unrelenting and she splits apart, her muscles clenching, shivering and his name bleeding roughly from her lips.

Tears run down her face, hard sobbing hiccups through her chest, the aching sadness shaken loose from the intensity of her release. He gathers her up, sits her down on the closest end table, his touch soft and tender, too soft when all she wants is to feel him, to just feel.

She curves her palm around his neck, pulls his face closer, finding his mouth. She licks along the shape of his lips, watches as his eyes flutter closed and then she kisses him, draws him against her, her fingers making quick work of the buttons of his fly while her tongue teases the inside of his mouth.

He shucks off her pants, presses between her thighs and she shifts, rubs into him, her core yearning, weeping but he leans over her instead, and slowly kisses the tears off her cheeks.

"We'll find the bastards," he trails the promise onto her skin, his soft touch in stark contrast to the harshness of his words, the insistent pressure of his length against her folds.

"We'll find them." And then he enters her swiftly, pushes deep inside. She cries out, the intensity almost overwhelming and she digs her fingers into his butt cheeks, drawing him closer, deeper, nudging her hips for him to just move, move.

It is fast then, raw, almost harsh in its intensity but she revels in it, the complete abandon of his body; the blood pounds in her veins, her skin flushed, her muscles tight, clenching as he takes her body, cleanses her soul. She sobs unintelligible sounds as she comes, feels purged and free as she soars through the stars, revels in the jerks of him inside her, the urgency of his release.

Her arms are limp but she manages to lift them, laces them around his shoulders and nudges her face into his neck, still has trouble catching her breath but she soaks in his scent, his broad, intense, secure presence.

"Thank you."

fin