A/N: Jeller porn. I really have no excuse for this, except that I was looking back over an old prompt/ask the other day and got re-inspired to finish the strip poker idea I started there. Please enjoy this, and join me in wishing Blindspot aired on Cinemax or HBO instead of NBC. :)

They have been drinking. She'll be the first to admit it (mostly because she started it) that, yes, they have been drinking. They've been drinking a little more than usual and a little later than usual and a lot more alone than usual. But Kurt hasn't commented on any of that yet, though, and Jane hasn't bothered to bring it up. Certainly his obliviousness—or acceptance?—is a step in the right direction.

Jane eyes him as they sit on adjacent sides of his kitchen table, one light on above them and the rest of the apartment dark around them, empty. His sister and Sawyer are out for the weekend, on some trip to visit Sawyer's grandfather, a topic Jane knew to steer clear of the moment Kurt mentioned it. His relationship with his father has not been anything close to healthy in twenty-five years, and the last couple of months have done nothing to improve it. Jane knows that's part of the reason why he's letting tonight slip through his fingers like this. And she knows she shouldn't be, but she's grateful for his preoccupied mind. It will make her end goal easier.

Well, at least, she hopes it will.

She goes over the plan again in her head, courageous from the booze but still shaky on the details. Not that there had ever really been details. There had just been Tasha, loudly commenting in the middle of a crowded bar last Saturday that she could think of a way to ease up the tension that had taken root in Jane's shoulders these past few weeks. Then she'd grinned at her own coincidence—I mean, the answer's right there! It's literally tattooed in between your shoulderblades!—and then she'd shouted an order at the top of her lungs that made Jane blush furiously, using an expletive Jane herself had never said aloud, but which caused a group of rowdy men a few stools down to cheer drunkenly and slap their hands against the bartop in encouragement. Tasha had turned to them, waving coquettishly, appreciating the support, but when she turned back to Jane, she had frowned at the tattooed woman's red face.

Ah, come on, Jane! Don't be a prude. I'm sure Borden tells you the same thing—well, without using 'fuck,' but still, the message is the same: Just jump Weller's bones already, okay? Put us all out of our misery. If I have to watch him watch you walk away one more time… Tasha had lifted her right hand and mimicked hanging herself with an invisible noose, complete with her tongue falling out of her mouth. I'll do it, she had warned. I will. You two need to settle your hormones, so help me God. I really don't care to be back in high school, all right?

Jane had nodded, mostly just to shut Tasha up, and then they turned back to their drinks and finished them. Tasha ordered another round without even asking Jane, but at that point, Jane hadn't minded much. As usual, Tasha's words had burrowed themselves into her brain, and she couldn't stop thinking about them. Two drinks later, she didn't stop at just thinking.

I don't even know what I'd do, she had confessed finally, burying her face in her bent arms, after finishing the last of—what number drink was it? I… I don't know how to seduce someone!

Tasha had snorted. Please. Like Weller needs seducing from you. Just show up at his door, you know, do your Doe thing… Tasha had danced in her seat a little bit—she wasn't as drunk as Jane, but she was getting there. He'll be on the same page in no time. He'll be on you in no time.

What Doe thing? Jane had demanded, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious than usual, but Tasha hadn't seemed to hear; she was too busy laughing at her own joke.

Just, you know, mention you have a tattoo you want him to take a closer look at or something. Tell him you've got this funny crick in your back you can't reach. Or, I don't know, challenge him to game of strip poker! Tasha had laughed maniacally at her own suggestions, perhaps picturing them in all their ludicrousness, but Jane had frowned at the last option, momentarily confused. She repeated the phrase in her head, letting the syllables run together and wondering if "strip poker" was some sort of vulgar play on words.

But… I don't even know how to play regular poker, Jane had frowned once Tasha had explained the concept.

Tasha had just grinned at her uncertainty. All the better! She glanced at Jane's ensemble—the usual: a gray tank top, a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, boots, and nothing more—and she smiled a smile the devil would've been proud to call his own. Take off your coat when you walk in, then and all you'll have to do is lose one round to be shirtless. Or pantless. She paused a moment, propping her chin up with a fist as she considered the options as seriously as only Tasha Zapata after too many drinks could. You know, I don't know which is better with him, actually. He stares at your ass as often as he does your chest.

Jane's face had already been so red from all the drinks, and all of Tasha's other overpersonal comments, that it couldn't get much worse.

Weller doesn't back down from a fight, Tasha had said, eyes alight, lipsticked mouth grinning with possibility as she surveyed her friend. You shove a challenge in his face, he won't be able to ignore it.

But… Jane hadn't been able to avoid pointing out the obvious: It's me.

Please, Tasha had snorted at that, waving a hand as she swallowed the last of her drink. She surprised Jane by not spilling any on herself. As if the fact that it's you is a detriment. Come on. I see the way he looks at you. He's waiting for an excuse, for a sign. Why not give him one? Give the both of you one; I see the way you look at him too.

Now, sitting across from Kurt alone in his apartment, Jane barely holds back a smile as she remembers her conversation with Tasha from the other week. Just last weekend they'd talked and drank and schemed together about how to get her to this place, to this moment, with him. And now here she is, faced with it… Tasha wouldn't hesitate, she thinks, doing her best to pretend she is her headstrong, fearless coworker. She would just jump right in, and not be embarrassed or uncertain for a second.

"So… I feel like we should play a game," Jane says, rather abruptly, just as Kurt's finishing the last of his latest drink.

"Oh?" Kurt smiles a little, lowering his glass back to the table after he finishes. "What game are you thinking of? Has Patterson been teaching you all about Dungeons and Dragons?"

Jane laughs along with Kurt at the question, but really only to cover her own confusion; she has no idea what Dungeons and Dragons is, but that hardly matters. It isn't what she came here for, anyway. She eyes the deck of cards, so conveniently placed between them in the small bowl of knickknacks on Kurt's kitchen table that Jane has to wonder if Tasha broke in here, and set things up for her. She wouldn't put it past Zapata.

"I was thinking of another game, actually," Jane says, her eyes still drawn to the deck of cards, gaining confidence from their presence, but aware of his gaze on her as well. She sucks in a breath. "Have you ever played strip poker?"

There's a beat of silence after she asks. Of shock. She finally looks up, having waited long enough, and is supremely amused to find him still staring dumbly at her, as if she'd suggested they play a game of Russian roulette. She has to bite her lip so she won't laugh in his face. The sight of Kurt Weller dumbstruck… It is so unknown, so hilarious, so priceless, she almost wants to take a picture.

"Well?" she presses, unable to hold in a smile as she goads him. God, all the drinks they had really helped her confidence level. "Have you played or not?"

"Jane, no. We're not doing that." Kurt's answer is swift, and immediately authoritative, despite the more-than-a-few drinks they've both consumed, alone here in his apartment these past couple hours. He shakes his head as he adds, "That's the dumbest idea I've ever heard." And then, incredulous: "Do you even know how to play regular poker?"

"I know how to do a lot of things," Jane replies, eyeing him across the table, avoiding the real question, the alcohol giving her a kind of courage with him she's never felt before and never wants to stop feeling. She thinks that maybe if she can get one more drink into him, or maybe just one more sip, her idea won't seem so dumb anymore. Silently, she draws the pack of playing cards from the bowl of knickknacks between them, and slips the fifty-two essential pieces from their paper nest and into her hands. For a moment, she shuffles them loosely between deft fingers. She can feel him watching her, can feel his gaze traveling over her face, her chest, her arms: cataloguing what little is exposed to him and—perhaps—filling in the rest with his imagination. Well, she did say strip poker, after all; she hopes his mind is going somewhere. She'd be more than a little disappointed if it weren't.

"Jane, you wear about two layers of clothing, tops, on any given day. The game would be over in about ten minutes."

Keeping her eyes on the cards, Jane has to bite her tongue so she doesn't mention that that's kind of the point. She and Tasha had planned for as much. Instead of speaking, she lets silence fall between them for a couple seconds and then, after executing a perfect bridge shuffle, she raises her head to meet his eyes, finding them already locked on hers. A smile spreads across her face as she raises her eyebrows daringly.

"So what? Are you telling me you're scared you'll lose, Weller?"

He reacts almost exactly as Tasha had predicted. Jane watches with a thrill of victory as his eyes narrow and the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. A darker form of his usual scowl takes up residence on his lips.

"Give me the cards."

He holds out a hand for the deck, and she eagerly gives in, passing him the pile with a smile. Better for him to deal the game, anyway. Tasha had given her a crash-course in the basics of poker last week at the bar, but between that drunken stupor and this one, Jane has forgotten most of it.

She watches Kurt deal the cards, trying to remember what few lessons she'd learned, but she hardly has to struggle with her memory long. Once he's dealt them their piles, and placed the deck on the table between them, he sketches out a few quick rules, pointing out what cards might be good to have and which might be bad. Despite her subversive agenda, Jane can't help but smile as he talks. He is always looking out for her, even when she's trying to undermine him for her own purposes. She feels a flicker of guilt—she's cornering him into this against his will, isn't she?—but then he asks if she's ready to start, and the eager look he's trying so hard to conceal says there's nothing to be guilty for. Maybe there's even something to be thanked for. But she'll wait until the end of the night for that.

She loses the first round, of course—not on purpose, but just because he apparently knows how to play and she still can't remember the names of all the suits. There's hearts and diamonds, sure, those are easy enough, but the other two… Clovers and something? She can't remember. But it doesn't really matter, because Tasha was right. The moment she reaches down to pull off her tank top, he's gone. His eyes aren't on her face anymore; it doesn't even feel like they're on her chest. His gaze is so close and intense it's almost like he's seeing inside of her, like he's rolling around in her veins, and making her bones shake. His stare is so steady and fierce that if she didn't know him, didn't know them, she might say he looked angry.

But he's not. This much she knows, for she can feel his want fueling her own, and when he whispers her name, somewhere between a plea and a groan, she has to shift in her seat to disguise the chills his voice sends shivers down her now bare back. She thinks of his name branded there, between her shoulderblades, and she can't help but wonder if the earlier her ever thought about this moment. Surely she knew something like this would happen, when she erased her memory and tattooed his name in huge letters on her body and sent herself to him, all but gift-wrapped. Had she imagined what it would be like? Had she looked forward to it?

"Another round?" Jane asks, nodding towards the pile of cards between them.

Kurt's gaze falls slowly from her back to the table, as if he's coming back to consciousness and isn't sure where he is. Then, in a flash of action, he scoops up the cards and begins shuffling them in what can only be described as a near-fury. Jane tries and fails to hide a smile. She's never seen him so thrown off his game before, and she has to admit, it feels good to be the one who affects him so much. It feels really good. She hadn't exactly believed everything Tasha had said the other night at the bar, about him being so enamored with her, but now, seeing the evidence for herself...

"Something distracting you?" she wonders, channeling her best Tasha, unable to stop her smile from flourish into a smug grin.

Kurt doesn't deign to meet her question with an answer, but the dark look he gives her is enough of a response. Involuntarily, she feels her thighs squeeze together. She crosses her legs tightly to quell the desire sparking there, and wonders what she should take off next. Tasha had mentioned something about him liking watching her walk away… Would he prefer her bare save for her underwear and bra, or completely naked from the waist up? She almost laughs aloud; a week ago—four hours ago, even—she never would've even thought such thoughts, let alone contemplated them seriously.

But apparently tonight's the night for doing all the things she never thought she'd do.

He deals a second hand, and she actually tries this time, to remember the rules he and Tasha had laid out for her, and to do well. Pairs are good, she remembers. Face cards are good. Consecutive numbers, those are good too. It helps to have everything in the same suit, but that's not always necessary to win. She focuses, finding it easier to do, somehow, with his eyes on her. With him distracted like this, she might have a shot at winning a round—maybe. And she hadn't thought about it before—the goal had always been to get her naked as fast as possible—but she thinks she'd like to see him shed a few layers, too. He's wearing a nice navy button-down right now, and dark pants. She'd like to see what's underneath.

They go around a few times, abandoning or keeping their cards, shifting their hands around, until finally they lay them flat, and, despite her original goal, Jane can't help but cheer when she realizes she's won. She actually beat him, and no matter what else she wants to happen tonight, nothing feels better than getting a leg-up on him.

But then she stops cheering, because he's getting to his feet and starting to unbutton his shirt, and all she can do is stare. He's standing there, half-naked, less than five feet from her, and all she can think about is that she wants to touch him. Oh, she wants to touch him really badly. She wants to touch him now more than she ever has before—which is saying something, considering what her dreams have been turning into recently. She wants to touch him and kiss him and do a lot of other things besides…

She wants to yell and curse at him too, because how is it possible that she's worked side by side with him for over half a year now and yet she's never seen him shirtless? She thinks back to all their encounters in the locker room as she watches him sit back down; he always had his undershirt on; she always had a tank top on. Too late, she realizes this is the first time they'd been this naked together—this naked together alone. She very much wants to discover what the rest of him looks like. And, from the way he can't seem to keep his eyes from her chest for any extended length of time, she thinks he's feeling the same way.

She watches him sit back down again at the table and as he picks up the cards and starts to shuffle again, she almost tells him to stop. Why continue with the pretense any longer, she wonders, physically feeling like she won't ever calm down until he touches her. Why bother, when they both clearly want the same thing? But, she figures a moment later, if he wants to continue using their stupid game as an excuse, then fine. It isn't as if they won't end up both getting what they want soon enough—it'll just be a matter of time. She feels a jolt of want, a pull of need, at the thought. Even though she can't remember sex—nothing except flickers here and there, and the feel of that ache deep behind her stomach that has only grown more and more familiar these past few months—she knows enough of it to know she wants it. And she knows enough of herself now to know that she wants to discover the rest of what she doesn't know with him. No one else. Just him.

"Jane?" Kurt has to repeat her name twice before she hears him.

"Huh?"

He's grinning across the table from her now, leaning forward a bit as he tilts his head to the side to survey her. "I asked if you were ready for the next round. You know, if you're not distracted."

She can hardly believe it, after everything they've done so far and are hopefully about to do, but her cheeks flame up at his teasing. They burn, and she has to look down, as if that will hide her embarrassment from him.

She listens to his resounding laugh, and she can't even hate him for it, for she can count on two fingers all the times she's heard him laugh. His mirth is worth her discomfort, she decides. Anything, really, is worth making him happy.

Though she does her best, she can hardly pay attention to her cards anymore. Again and again, her focus is stolen by the sight of him before her, half-naked and close enough to touch, if only she were to lean over the table and stretch her arm out. She stares at him for minutes at a time, neither able nor willing to look away. He, for his part, stares resolutely at his cards. Every few moments, he reorganizes them, or discards and redraws. He rarely meets her eyes, choosing instead to do nothing more than play the game she'd proposed. It takes her a few turns to realize he's doing it on purpose, to pay her back for this.

Damn him, she thinks, wanting her slam her fists onto the table. Damn him for taking this seriously and not ending the game here and now. She's watched enough bad rom-coms with Patterson to know what should be happening right now—he should be shoving the cards aside and taking her in his arms and laying her out on the table—and she wonders why in the world he isn't playing to the script. He grew up with a sister; he even lives with her now. He has to have seen all the movies; he has to know all the moves.

Why aren't you playing your part? she longs to ask, but his eyes have finally risen from the cards and are meeting hers again, and she can hardly breathe, let alone speak. She swallows hard at the look there, trying to steady herself against the onslaught of his want that is now, somehow, more raw than ever. He holds her eyes a few seconds more before he clears his throat, and she remembers that, apparently, they're still playing the game.

She forces her gaze back down to her cards, but hardly sees them. At random, she chooses a couple to get rid of, and draws more, not caring anymore if she's winning or losing. All she knows is that she needs this game to end, now, before things spiral even further out of control.

He toys with her during his turn, taking his time organizing his cards and making up his mind, and she watches him, wondering if this is one of the skills they taught at the FBI academy. If he were interrogating her right now, she would give him whatever information she had, whatever information he wanted, just so they could stop pretending to play this game and move onto other things.

Finally, perhaps sensing her desperation, he finishes his turn. They lay out their cards and, no surprise given her state of mind, she's the one that ends up losing the round. She catches a flicker of a smile on his face when he realizes, before he makes it disappear again. She almost smiles, too, before she remembers: you lose, you have to take off an article of clothing. She could take off her pants, she knows. Or she could be an idiot and choose to take off her shoes.

Or she could just take off her bra and, hopefully, end this game once and for all.

A second ago, the thought would've exhilarated her. But with the moment arrived, all she can think of is what he'll see when she removes it. For the most part, she doesn't mind the tattoos on her body. She's learned to cope with them, learned to recognize them in the mirror and not be frightened or angry anymore. The ones on her arms, her hands, her legs, her feet, even her stomach… Those are okay. Those can be lived with, explained away, if need be. But her chest… She swallows hard at the thought, closing her eyes for a moment to steady herself. She knows what he'll see when she takes off her bra, and it doesn't matter if he's seen the scans or studied the pictures. It's so different in person.

But it is necessary, if she is ever going to get what she wants from him, ever going to move them past the stalemate they're at now. This, she knows. So without allowing herself even a moment more of pity, she reaches back and undoes the clasp of her bra, quickly slipping the straps off her arms and tossing the thing to the side.

She knows she should've done it slow, sexily, but she doesn't know how to be sexy, and she can't think of anything except the fact that despite all the reproductions of her naked body Kurt has seen, he's never seen her like this. She must look so foreign to him; so unnatural. Ugly, probably. What woman has tattooed breasts, after all? What woman has taken a needle full of dark ink to her nipples, and turned them into black holes?

The questions fill her with worry, with shame, even though she knows, rationally, that she has nothing to be ashamed about. This was done to her. This is permanent. There is no taking it back, there is no erasing it, there is only living with it. She can do that. She has learned.

But him…

When she finally can't take the suspense anymore, she lifts her eyes and finds his across the table. She expects to see him shocked, scandalized. Visibly disgusted, at most. Noticeably turned-off, at the least.

But he doesn't look at her with disgust. He doesn't even look at her with surprise. Instead, somehow, he only ends up looking at her with even more want than before; she can actually feel it now, the fire and desire in his eyes; it's inflaming her too. She swallows, glancing down at herself, before looking back over the table at him. Stupidly, she suddenly feels like crying; she feels like hugging him. She feels like just breaking away for a moment from all this pent-up sexual tension between them and rushing over to him just to take his hands and say, Thank you for not flinching at the sight of me.

"Kurt," she starts to say, but she's interrupted by the sudden scrape of his chair against the floor. It's nearly deafening in the silence of his apartment, and she jumps in her seat at the sound of it. He pushes the chair back so fast and with so much force that it nearly knocks over, but he grabs the back of it at the last second, righting it.

He stands still for a second then, beside the chair, and just watches her as she watches him. For what feels like an eternity, they stare at one another. She can't breathe, can't speak, and from the look on his face, she doubts he's doing much better. She tries to form words, tries to piece together thoughts… But she doesn't even get that far, and it doesn't even matter, because suddenly there isn't a question anymore, there isn't even an option—she gets to her feet and launches herself into his arms, and he hoists her up, hugging her to him as if she were weightless. Their mouths finally meet, curious and desperate and starved for the imagined taste of one another. They sate one curiosity at once, only to light a hundred more.

The scrape of his stubble is harsh and rough against her face, but it's a perfect contrast to the softness of his lips, and Jane finds herself pushing her face closer to his, pushing her body closer to his, wanting more of every sensation he is giving her and never wanting any of it to stop. She can tell he feels the same way—not only from the ferociousness of his kisses, but the strength of his arms holding her up, holding her tight to him. She is trapped completely in his embrace, imprisoned between the steel bars of his arms, but she doesn't care, she doesn't mind, because this is all she's thought about for days, all she's dreamed about for weeks. Him and her and the two of them—as Tasha would so charmingly put it—finally fucking going at it.

Jane can't help but laugh at the thought, the memory of that night at the bar that started all this, and when she finally breaks the kiss with Kurt to get some much-needed air, she finds he's grinning at her. If he's smiling at her laughter or at their current circumstances, she can't tell. She doesn't care. God, he looks so handsome when he smiles.

Before she even has her breath back, she's leaning forward and kissing him again, already addicted to the taste of his lips, the scrape of his short beard, the way she doesn't need to think or do anything else when his lips are on hers except kiss him back. His mouth is bolder against hers this time, more forceful in a way that only excites her, only makes her want to push closer to him, to see how far he'll go. She moans, her mouth falling open instinctually when she feels his tongue tease her lips, and then slip into her willing mouth. She reciprocates at once, learning from him, learning from herself. She wraps her arms tighter around him, clutching at his bare back and his shoulders, wanting him as close as possible.

When he shifts her weight in his arms, she can feel him hard beneath her, and the firm touch of him exhilarates and worries her all at once. While she knows her body's done this before—her memories have told her so—she hasn't done it. Not her, not Jane. She hasn't climbed into bed with a man and spread her legs and welcomed him inside her body. Just the thought sends a shiver through her—of anticipation, of apprehension.

Perhaps he senses her trepidation, or realizes the reality of their situation along with her, for he pulls away slowly from the kiss, and sets her weight down on the table. He stands between her legs but doesn't touch her, and as she looks up at him, she can see it in his eyes—he's nervous, too. He takes a second to gather his breath before he reaches for her hand, and clasps it tight in his.

"I know, um, I know you don't remember anything from your old life, Jane. So if… If you don't want to do this, or if you're unsure or scared…" Jane swallows hard, watching him. Why does his earnestness put that lump back in her throat? Why does it make her want him all the more? "You just tell me," he whispers finally, squeezing her hand, a little clumsy with too much liquor, too much excitement. His breath is still coming fast, and so is hers. "You tell me and we'll stop. You can say it at any point, okay? I'll listen. I swear I'll listen, Jane. Just say the word."

Jane nods, squeezing his hand back, and reaching out for his other one. She tilts her head back, to look up at him, to kiss him, but she can still see the flash of worry in his eyes as she does so. It makes her smile, a little, despite her own nervousness. He is forever looking out for her, truly, no matter the situation, or the stakes. She tugs on his hands, pulling him to her until she can feel the bare skin of his chest against hers again, and then she reaches up to take his face in her hands.

He closes his eyes when she cups his cheeks, splaying her fingers out across the bristly field of his beard, brushing her thumbs against the sides of his nose. She listens to him whisper her name softly, his voice much more tender now than before, and she closes her eyes too.

"I trust you, Kurt," she whispers. "With my life, and with everything else."

She leans forward blindly until their foreheads meet, and then their noses, their lips.

The next kiss is slow, drawn-out, and Jane sighs into it, sinking into him, knowing exactly what he's trying to tell her as he parts her mouth gently with his, and brushes his tongue languidly against hers. She can feel the promise in it, that this will be all right, that this will feel good, and she believes him. When he finally picks her back up, she wraps her legs around him eagerly, no longer anxious at the feel of him, hard and ready against her. She's ready too.

He doesn't stop kissing her as he walks them back through the darkened hallways of his apartment towards his bedroom. He keeps one hand beneath her ass, holding her tight to him while the other cups the back of her neck as they half-walk, half-stumble towards his bedroom. They end up literally falling into the bed together; he loses his balance tripping over something in the dark room, giving off a sharp Fucking hell!, and then they are both careening towards the mattress, eventually laughing at the soft impact.

"Sorry," Kurt chuckles, trying to lift his weight off of her, but she hugs onto his sides, keeping him in place.

"I don't mind," she whispers, and then he's smiling down at her, seeing her, and she thinks she could spend every night like this: him lying on top of her, staring down at her with that unbelievably kind look in his blue eyes. She wonders again why it has taken them so long to get to this point, why she had to create a drunken ruse to get them here.

He lowers his lips to hers slowly, delicately, and she smiles at the care he takes. She doubts it's necessary—she isn't a literal virgin—but she doesn't tell him to stop. She has no memories of anyone taking care of her, sexually or otherwise, ever. If he wants to…

Well, she will lie here beneath him and endure it blissfully.

She is just getting used to kissing him, used to the slippery touch of his tongue against hers, when he pulls away, and chooses to trail his kisses down her neck instead. She sighs softly in quiet frustration—she would much rather they were interacting face-to-face, doing this together—but then his lips fall further, and she can feel the scrape of his beard against the sensitive skin of her breasts, and she has no idea why she wanted anything different.

"Kurt…" she moans his name, low and drawn-out, as he circles each of her nipples with kisses, making a point to be just as gentle with his lips as he is rough with his beard. The contrast is quickly driving her mad, and she runs her hands through his hair, down his neck, over his shoulders, his back… She can't settle her touch anywhere; she wants to feel him, all of him, every inch of him. His kisses are warm and wet and hungry against her tattooed skin, and even though she can't remember personally experiencing it, she knows exactly what such kisses will lead to. She can feel his erection again, now pressed close to her thigh, and her body surges towards it blindly, knowing nothing except that she doesn't want this feeling to go away; she doesn't want anything except to relieve the ache between her legs that's growing stronger every second they prolong this.

He groans when she wraps her legs around his back, forcing him closer, and the deep sound emanating from his throat, vibrating through his mouth to her skin, sends a jolt of pleasure through her so sharp that she thrusts her hips up into him on instinct, needing more. She is feeling uncomfortable now in her jeans, too contained, too trapped, and while she'd been somewhat scared of baring herself to him earlier, now it's all she can think to do. She drops her hands from the enticing curves of his back, and reaches down to the button on her pants.

"Wait," Kurt pants, his mouth leaving her inky breasts as he his hand flies down to stop her. "Let me, please."

His eyes find hers in the darkness, bright blue in the dim room and needy, anxious. She shrugs, not seeing a problem. Who cares if it's her or him taking off her pants; at least they'll be off.

But he seems to have other plans than just taking off her clothes; once he sees her nod, he puts his lips back to work on her skin, kissing a torturously slow path down her body from her breasts to the waist of her jeans, pausing at nearly every tattoo he comes across so he can lave it with personal attention. She would tell him not to bother, if she could. But she finds she doesn't know how to form those words anymore. She doesn't know how to tell him that she doesn't need this, doesn't crave this, doesn't dream about this when she goes to sleep at night.

At one point, she hears herself whisper to him desperately Please don't stop, and listens to him promise that he won't.

When he finally makes it down to the button on her jeans, he glances up at her, and she swallows, nodding again. She watches closely as he undoes the button, and then the zipper, and then kneels by her ankles to pull off her boots and socks. When they're gone, he reaches up to yank the skin-tight jeans off, but it doesn't go as smoothly as planned. He has trouble for a moment, and despite herself, Jane can't help but laugh, teasing, "Do you need a little help down there?"

"No," he mutters, stubborn as ever, swearing as one hem gets stuck around her foot and the other gets trapped above her ankle. "I'm fine. I can do this."

"Sure you can," she grins, stifling a laugh against one of his pillows beside her head.

Finally, he gets her pants off, tossing to the corner of the room with what she can't help but think of as excessive force, biting her lip now so she won't laugh. When he turns back to her, triumphant, she smiles, waving him forward.

"Come back here," she calls, already missing the weight of his body on top of hers, the touch of his beard against her skin, the warmth of his lips on hers.

But he shakes his head.

She blinks at his refusal, too surprised for a moment to even realize what's happening. But then he's kissing her again, his lips trailing up her body from her knees now, and the closer he gets to the apex of her thighs, the fiercer her desire burns in her stomach. She knows what he's doing now as he trails his lips in between her thighs, his tongue lapping at the skin of her inner thighs as if trying to taste the ink of her tattoos. Tasha, after a few too many drinks, had said this might happen. She'd even gone so far to guarantee it, turning around with a laugh and an offer of twenty bucks, before she'd remembered Reade wasn't with them to take another one of her endless bets. Oh, just relax, Jane. Tasha had waved her hand when she turned back, rolling her eyes at what she'd quickly grown to call Jane's Doe-in-the-headlights look. It isn't like it's going to hurt, Jane. What do you think his tongue will be made of, sandpaper?

Jane swallows now, watching his mouth grow closer to the aching center of her desire, knowing and yet not knowing what's about to happen. She understands the logistics of it, but somehow thinking about it from afar rationally is so much different than being faced with the reality head-on.

He's just pulling her underwear down her legs when she can't keep the worry in anymore.

"Kurt," she whispers, suddenly unsure. "You—You know you don't have to—"

"I want to," he replies, his eyes finding hers from between her legs. His hands are warm, comforting, on either side of her hips. His thumbs rub gentle circles against the tattoos there, the ring of colonies on one side, and the owl on the other. She tries to find solace in his touch, tries to let it calm her down as she knows he means it to. "I want you to feel good, Jane."

"I do feel good," she replies quickly. "And I will feel good. I just…" She trails off, not even knowing what to say. She doesn't know why she's nervous about this, why she wants one thing but not the other. Tasha was right: this part won't hurt.

Sensing her worry, Kurt lifts himself up, moving forward until they can look one another in the face. "What is it?" he asks quietly, his eyes roaming her face, searching for the answer. "What are you scared of, Jane?"

She bites her lip. "I don't know," she whispers. "I'm not scared, I just… I—I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'll feel, or—"

"You said you trusted me," Kurt interrupts softly.

"I do," Jane replies at once, her eyes flying to his. "Kurt, I do trust you."

"Okay, so keep trusting me," he encourages. "Trust me when I say I know what I'm doing." He touches her cheek, brushing his knuckles against it very lightly. "Trust me when I say this will make you feel good, and help for later."

Later, she thinks, her mind lingering on the word, latching onto it, wondering what later will feel like. Wondering what it will be like, with him inside her.

After a second, she nods, knowing he's being the more rational of the two of them. "Okay," she whispers.

He gives her a quick smile, and presses a kiss to her cheek, before moving back down her body. He stops at a few spots along the way, kissing and teasing her skin until she's back to where she was before: whispering his name, lifting her body to his, wanting more, wanting him never to stop…

Her hips jerk up from the mattress when he finally puts his mouth on her and she can't help but gasp, her eyes flying wide open, her head sinking back into the mattress as her body bends in angles she hadn't realized it could. Barely a minute later, when his fingers have joined his tongue, she can't at all remember why she was worried about this. Why she thought, under any circumstance, that this would ever feel anything but wondrous. She rocks against the mattress, rocks into him, silently and sometimes audibly begging for more. She can hear herself chanting his name, as if from far away, and though she tries to say something else, nothing comes to mind.

His fingers push deeper and deeper every time, and even when it seems like there is not a space inside her he hasn't touched, he finds one. He finds it with his hands and his lips and his tongue, and all she can do is pant beneath him, pleading for more, one hand clutching onto his that holds her waist steady and the other gripping the back of his head like it's her only anchor to the world.

She cries out his name when he finally pushes her over the edge and makes her body burst with pleasure, and she rises to him one last time before collapsing back onto the bed, panting, her ears actually ringing, her eyes still trying to see.

He's grinning up at her when she comes back to her senses, and out of a mix of instinct and embarrassment, she kicks him lightly in the ribs with one of her feet. "Don't laugh at me," she mutters, staring to scoot away from him, up the bed.

"I'm not laughing at you," he replies, still smiling, following her on his hands and knees up towards the headboard. "I promise."

She starts to reply, but before she can say a word, his mouth is on hers again, his tongue moving between her lips, and she can do nothing except moan softly and kiss him back.

"You taste good," he whispers between kisses, tangling a hand in her short dark hair, and she can't think of anything else to do except nod dumbly because he's right, she does taste good. For a few minutes, they lie there kissing one another, hands roaming over one another, before she starts to feel the pull of him again. The need brings her closer, and makes her hands more adventurous. When she pushes herself against him, she can feel him, hard beneath his jeans, his underwear, and having been given a taste of the pure pleasure he can give her, she finds she wants more, even if there might be a little pain with it. She reaches out for him blindly, going through the zipper on his jeans and slipping her fingers beneath his underwear in just a number of seconds.

"Jane," Kurt whispers roughly, when she takes him in her hands. She smiles a little at the way he has to tear his lips from hers to speak, and press his forehead against hers hard, as if he needs something supporting him while her hands are on him.

"Yeah?" she asks, pushing at his pants, his underwear, to free him.

He mutters her name one last time, low and disbelieving, before he leans back and yanks off the rest of his clothes. She takes satisfaction in the fact that he tosses them just as fiercely into the corner of the room as he did her jeans. The next second, he's reaching into a table beside the bed, and she lies back and watches him as he puts on the condom, hardly breathing, hardly thinking, unable to look away from him. Just like earlier when he took his shirt off, she can't stop staring at this part of him she has never seen before. He catches her watching when he glances up, and smiles with a mix of hope and encouragement. He opens his mouth to reassure her that everything will be fine, before he sees the look on her face and he realizes she isn't scared.

And se isn't scared, not anymore—not of him, not of her body, not of his, not of what they're going to do together. She trusts him now as much as she does anytime they're in the field. Sex is an unknown just like all those trips out for cases are unknown. She can handle this unknown, she will, with him by her side.

"I want this," she whispers, reaching her hands up to cup his cheeks, to pull him down to her. He lowers down to her level slowly, carefully, and her legs part for him easily, out of some inborn instinct, out of desire, out of curiosity and trust. "I want you," she murmurs, lifting her head to press a kiss to his lips. She's rewarded with a low groan from him, something that resembles her name but also sounds like a curse. She smiles at the sound of it, wrapping her arms around his neck, slipping a hand into his hair, and pulling him down to her until they're touching from head to foot. She can feel his body against hers on every single plane, in every single place, except one. "Please, Kurt," she whispers, sick of dragging this out, sick of waiting.

He stares at her for just a few seconds more, and then he finally nods. She closes her eyes as she feels him reach between them, guiding himself into her, slow and steady and ever so careful. She finds herself swallowing hard and holding her breath as he enters, and it isn't until he reminds her aloud to breathe that she does so.

He doesn't ask if it hurts, he doesn't ask if she's okay, he doesn't say a thing, and for this she is grateful. She's having a hard time keeping her head on straight with him so close, and she doesn't think she'd be able to answer in English if he spoke to her at this moment.

He rests there within her for a minute or two once he's fully inside, and she takes the opportunity to come back to earth, to open her eyes and find his, and pull his mouth back to hers. His mouth is eager against hers, ravenous, and she can feel in his kisses all that he is holding back elsewhere. She wills herself to adjust faster, to want faster, and as if he can read her mind, he runs his hands down her body, cupping and teasing and stroking, and in moments she can feel that fire of desire again, that hunger, and she lifts her hips to his, inviting him to continue. She moans when he starts to move inside her; slow as he is, the feeling is entirely new, entirely unknown, at least for this mind of hers, and she is reveling in the fact that she can feel every inch of him. She can feel him when he's there and she can feel him when he's pulled away, like he's made a mark inside her, too. Branded another part of her his.

"Jesus, Jane…"

She gasps at the roughness in his voice; she doesn't know what she's doing to make him speak like that, but she knows she doesn't want him to stop. Amazing, how merely the sound of his voice affects her now.

"You feel…"

He trails off, shaking his head, burying it into her neck as he pushes into her, going deeper, it feels like, each time.

"Good?" she supplies, breathless, but wanting to tease him anyway.

He laughs at that, and his breath is hot and weighty against her skin. She basks in its warmth as if it's sunlight, and when she presses her neck into him, he closes his teeth lightly around the bird inked onto her neck, making her back arch and some sort of wild cry escape her throat. "Good would be an understatement," he replies, letting go of her with his teeth and then tracing the wings of the bird with his tongue. "Good would be a huge understatement," he says between kisses, and she can't help but smile at that, can't help the sharp pricks behind her eyes, because he is making her so happy right now, he is making her feel so alive and wanted and normal, and she can't breathe.

"You are so much more than good," he whispers, moving his mouth from her neck to her lips as he sets a new pace, pushing swiftly, deeply inside of her only to pull back out, achingly slow, and then repeat the process all over again. "You feel so much better than… anything I can remember."

She smiles a little, cradling his head in her hands. "Shouldn't it be me saying stuff like that?"

He smirks, pulling back a little to catch her eye. "Well, it wouldn't be a compliment that way. You can't remember anything."

She laughs a bit at that, and she is just wondering if she should tell him that she does remember some things, but that the reality is so different, so much more potent, but before she can get the words out, he steals her breath. The speed of his thrusts has increased again, and she can hardly think, let alone speak as he moves within her faster, faster, faster, until she's gasping, digging her nails into his back, whispering his name over and over again, because she's going to leave him soon, she's going to disappear, and—

It happens so much faster than she thought it would. One moment, she is all coiled tension, all pent-up desire, and the next she is completely boneless, thoughtless, sightless—her eyes are shut, her face is twisted in what she is sure is a horrible expression, but she doesn't care, because she feels so good, he is making her feel so good, and she remembers him saying, You are so much more than good, and she wants to say the same to him, wants to think of another word, a better word, but she has no breath with which to speak, no brainpower with which to think—

She hardly realizes it's over when his body collapses onto hers—that is how welcome his weight has become, in the span of… A few minutes? An hour? She has no idea how long it's been since he carried her from the kitchen into his bedroom. She doesn't care.

She wraps her arms, loose and shaking, around his back, and whispers his name softly in his ear, trying to communicate that she doesn't want him going anywhere, not right now at least, and maybe not ever. He reciprocates by murmuring her name, again and again, and by pressing too-hot kisses against the bird on her neck. She smiles at the touch, wondering with a weak laugh, if there will be marks there, tomorrow, after how he devoured it. She wouldn't mind. She feels like she's in some sort of dreamland right now, and proof that what just happened actually happened would be welcome, come tomorrow.

Eventually, after both their heads have resumed somewhat regular patterns of thinking, he rolls off of her. She listens to him catch his breath beside her for a few moments before he lurches to his feet, probably to get rid of the condom, though she doesn't have the strength to turn her head to follow him into the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth, which she accepts gratefully, and when she's finished, she tosses it to the other side of the room, with their other discarded clothes.

He laughs, for some reason, at the dull thunk it makes, and she turns to him, smiling, she's sure, like an idiot. But he doesn't look at her that way. He looks at her with this lazy, dopey smile on his face, his eyes half-closed already, and it makes her stomach stir again, impossibly, with want. It makes her feel beautiful, though he hasn't said the word. She doesn't need him to; he said enough already without ever even opening his mouth.

"Hey," he whispers after a few seconds, rolling on his side towards her, as if this is tomorrow morning already, and they've both only just woken up.

She reaches out to touch his cheek, grazing a couple fingers against his stubble. Her hand is no longer tentative when she touches him, and she wonders now why it ever was. "Hey," she whispers back.

He watches her for a moment, not saying anything. His eyes are bright and warm in the darkness and she cannot look away. Still holding her gaze, he reaches for her wrist, and lowers it to his lips. She lets her eyes fall closed, feeling very tired suddenly, and hums a quiet note as he presses a few kisses to the honeycomb pattern on the back of her hand.

"Anything you want to talk about?" he asks finally, and she smiles at the careful question, shifting closer to him.

She shakes her head, still smiling at him. "No, Kurt," she whispers. "I don't want to talk about anything right now."

She can hear him laugh softly at that, but she doesn't have the strength to lift her eyes, let alone reply.

"Anything you need, Jane?" he murmurs, moving closer to her, too. She can feel their knees bumping, their legs brushing, and then his arm is wrapped around her back. She smiles at the way he splays his palm over the middle of her spine before he hugs her closer. "Water, or something?" he checks, his breath ruffling her hair.

She shakes her head again, curling closer, until her head bumps against his chest, and he has no choice but to draw her into his arms properly. She relishes at the shift, at the easy way he can take her whole body in his arms, as if she weighs nothing. "I don't need anything," she whispers against him. "Nothing more than this, okay?"

"Okay."

She tucks her head under his chin, smiling sleepily at the way she can feel his breath leave his lungs beneath her when he sighs contently, and the way she can feel it ghosting past her hair, disrupting the already disrupted strands. He reaches a heavy hand up to stroke the dark locks, and she mumbles his name, too pleased at his touch to say much else. He draws his fingers along the curves of her skin, too, across her cheekbones and her nose and the little space between the corner of her eyes and where her hairline starts.

She starts to whisper his name, but it gets swallowed in a yawn, and she takes that as a sign. She reclines fully against him, trusting him to hold her tight, and lets her mind go. Lets her body just relax…

She isn't sure how long she sleeps, but when she wakes, its to the sound of his voice, interrupting her dozing.

"Can I ask you something, Jane?"

"Hm?" she wonders, yawning, turning her head into his chest to muffle the sound. "What's that?"

"Was all this your idea?"

"What?" Jane's eyes snap open at the question, her heart suddenly jumping in her chest, anxiety surging through her as if she's guilty for something. Which, she supposes, she is. "What—" She clears her throat a little, as delicately and non-threateningly as she can. It comes out sounding like a terrible rasp. She thinks she'd really like that glass of water now that he offered her earlier. But don't only liars ask for water? Isn't that a tell? "What do you mean, Kurt?"

"I mean this," he replies, shifting a bit so he can catch her eye, waving a hand between them. He smiles a second, and then presses a warm, heavy kiss to her mute lips, in case she didn't get the idea. She hardly has time to reciprocate when he's pulling back. "You and me, tonight. The poker game, and… All this," he finishes, nodding between them with a smile. "Was it your idea?"

Jane knows the correct answer. She knows the truth. She should probably say it...

"Yes," she answers, confident once more in the face of his happiness, a smile teasing its way out from the firm edges of her lips as she lies. "It was my idea. Well, I heard about the poker thing in a movie, but still…"

He stares at her for a moment, and she waits, wondering if he'll buy it… Then he grins, and leans over to kiss her again, harder this time, and she smiles, not only at his eagerness but at his gullibility. She laughs into the kiss, barely able to believe that she not only got away with everything that happened tonight, but she also got away with where—who—it came from, too.

"You have good ideas," he murmurs it between kisses, his lips now familiar against hers, and ever so welcome. "Really good ideas." He tangles a hand back in her unruly hair, guiding her closer. "And I think I want to see more of whatever movies you've been watching, so let's make a date for that, huh?"

Jane grins, cupping the back of his neck as she shifts closer to him, feeling that want stir again, even though it probably hasn't been more than an hour or so since they first fell into his bed. He chuckles into the kiss, knowing already what she's after when her hands start to roam down his chest, and he willingly does his part, rolling on top of her so they can feel one another as close as possible once again.

She's exhausted after the second time, her eyes drooping the moment he leaves her and gets out of bed to dispose of the second condom. She groans softly when he drops back into bed beside her; from the dull way his body thunks against the mattress and the low groan he gives off, she thinks he can't be any closer to consciousness than she is.

She gravitates towards him once he lies down, moving across the doubly spent sheets so she can feel him against her, beside her, underneath her. He welcomes her into his arms easily, as if they've spent countless nights like this, and she smiles as her head finds a place to rest on his chest comfortably. There's a dip there in the middle of his chest, suited perfectly for the back of her head, and in her near-sleep, she doesn't banish the thought when it comes: I belong here.

She is adjusting herself, pulling the covers closer, when she hears him sigh heavily beneath her. She frowns at the sound, for it is unlike the other wanting or sated sighs she's heard tonight—this one sounds sad, troubled.

"What is it?" she asks, concerned, tipping her head back to catch his eye. "What's wrong, Kurt?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head, but he still doesn't sound any happier than he did a moment ago. "It's just that…" He runs a hand over his beard tiredly. "I just remembered that we don't have that much extra money in the budget this year."

Jane stares at him for a few seconds, not comprehending. What did he just say? Is he seriously thinking about work right now? About the budget?

"What… does it matter?" Jane asks finally, doing her best not to sound rude. And then, she doesn't care if she's sounding rude, because even she, who knows nothing, knows a discussion of the Bureau's finances is not proper pillow talk. "Who cares if there's money in the budget or not?" she mutters darkly. She knows she probably sounds like a brat, but she can't help herself. Why are they talking about this? "It isn't like you're the Bureau's accountant, Kurt."

"No," he allows calmly, "I'm not."

Another sigh.

She narrows her eyes, and thinks of moving to the other side of the bed to punish him for this. Why is he ruining their night? And over finances? She actually wonders for a moment why she ever found him attractive, let alone considerate. They just finished having sex two minutes ago, and his mind is already moving onto the next problem to solve.

"Well, you're right, I might not be the account," he continues a second later, apparently oblivious to her anger and outrage, "but I do have a say in what the team gets paid." He pauses, and draws in a slow breath, before turning his head to catch her eye. He's grinning as he says it: "Budget be damned, though: after tonight, I really, really need to find a way to get Zapata that raise she's been bugging me for."

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback is much appreciated. :)