Title: Fresh Paint
Words: 1025
Summary: She's like fresh paint. He shouldn't touch her but he doesn't have the willpower necessary to do so.
Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA or any of its recognizable characters. I just use them to keep my boredom away.

Author's note: This is a bit different from what I'm used to write. I'm not used to write Deeks like this but I woke up in a somewhat dark mood today and this just happened to pop up. I hope you give it a shot, though.

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Do you know what they say about fresh paint? I've heard a thing or two about it.

According to someone whose name I can't remember at the moment, if someone tells you that there are billions of stars in the universe you believe it but if the same someone tells you that there's fresh paint on the wall you have to touch it to know for sure. I know, totally random quote.

But it somewhat connects with my emotions at the moment.

Kensi Marie Blye is like fresh paint. I know I shouldn't touch her, know that I should stay away from her, but I simply don't have the willpower needed for such actions.

That's why I find myself at her door, one night. It's past midnight and it's past what's considered to be an appropriate hour to knock on someone's door.

But that doesn't stop me.

It never stopped me before so why should it start now?

Kensi only takes two minutes to answer the door, a clear indication that she wasn't asleep.

I walk inside and it kind of goes downhill from there. She knows why I'm here, knows what I want at this hour. She should stop me, should tell me to leave.

But she doesn't. The part of my brain that is still capable of forming coherent thoughts makes me wonder if I would do that if she asked me to.

Would I leave if she asked, without putting up a fight? Would I be able to walk away from the best thing I have in my life?

I try not to think about it too much. We don't talk about this because there's not much to talk about.

It's kind of like routine, by now. We are already experts when it comes to this. It's quite simple, if you give it some thought.

I show up at her doorstep. She knows what I want. She leads me to the nearest flat surface and we go from there. We never go to her bed because that's an unspoken agreement between us. That would make what we have more real. Then, we would have to talk about it.

And we don't want that.

Some nights, she simply allows me to do as I please with her body, allows me to control her and our activities. Other nights she fights to stay on top (no pun intended). And I'm not sure which one I prefer because, in the end, they both lead to the same mind-blowing result.

When we're done, I put my clothes on and leave without a word. We both know it's better if we don't talk about it, if we simply try to believe that this is nothing but a quick fuck.

Yes, I'm not even going to call it sex.

Sex is not this.

Sex is intimate and this feels anything but.

Sure, I admire her body and it's not easy to ignore the way my heart flutters when she's around. But this is a release, a way to get rid of the sexual tension we spend the day surrounded by. It's not sex because sex is more than this. I can't explain it, or at least I don't think I do.

I can tell you what sex means to me and what I do to make it special. Sex is about two people connecting in a very special way. It involves foreplay, play time and maybe a bit of cuddling afterwards.

We don't do that.

We just get down to business. We don't even kiss because that would make this a lot more intimate than what it has to be. I know I seem cold but there's an invisible line I'm not ready to cross and neither is she.

I know she's ready for me when I get on top of her, on the couch, so I don't waste any time. I turn off the lights because it's easier to treat her like an object if I don't see her. She doesn't complain and spreads her legs for me. After making sure I have the condom in place, I enter her and make sure that she enjoys this.

I might seem like a jerk but I'm still a gentleman. Ladies first, that's my motto. After she comes, I allow myself to do the same.

I leave afterwards, without even looking into her eyes.

I know I should stay away from her, know that I should just forget about the way her body feels beneath me and never show up at her door again. But that's the problem. Her body feels too damn perfect beneath mine.

She doesn't moan much, tries to hold them back as much as much as possible (for my benefit or hers, perhaps). But, when she moans, I feel that moan with every fiber of my being.

I feel every sound, every movement, every flutter of her walls.

Somehow, I don't think anything will ever feel this good in my life.

As I lie on my bed, I promise myself this was the last time. I need it to be the last time because the line that separates the physical from the emotional is starting to get blurry for me and I'm afraid she will push me back if she realizes that.

My head is a mess, my thoughts are all over the place and the only thing I want right now is to fall asleep.

Tomorrow, I will think about this again. I will try to convince myself that the only reason why I don't kiss her, why I don't show her this is more than fucking to me, is because she's not ready for such a commitment.

Maybe that's true.

Maybe I need to see a green-light from her before I can even think about this.

And, while she doesn't give me that green-light, I will keep coming home and promising myself that was the last time and, in the end, I will just keep going back for more of her.

Because she's like fresh paint and I'm the idiot that has to touch it, just to make sure he's not being fooled.

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Seeing as I'm currently on freaking bed-rest (thanks to a knee injury that lead to a knee-surgery), I have a lot of free time on my hands to write. I try to focus my attention on my television because it's easier to watch it than to write. But my computer keeps calling my name so I call someone to just hand it over to me. I'm working on a few things at the moment and I will post them all as soon as I'm satisfied with them.

Do I deserve a review?
Love,
Sarah