A/N: It's November and that means NaNoWriMo! Which means I'm struggling to juggle all my writing and publishing Ballet Heels. New chapters ASAP! Buuuut... I was looking for ideas for this year's NaNo and since I don't really have time I went browsing my fanfic files (yay for saving time with not having to come up with characters!). I found this and it made me smile. :) From NaNo 2014, but I think it works as a 'oneshot'.
TIA 4 R & R.

Little Transgressions
Chapter 1

She is feeling boneless, stupid and reckless. It has been hard three weeks with four young women murdered and a sweltering heat taking over the city. Not to mention all the other things from her divorce to adoption to this strange dance she's been involved in with one of her Lieutenants. The dance that had at least the equal amount of steps back as it had forward until last week and certainly until the day before. Last night she let him kiss her for real, for the first time.

That it did take this long might be his fault. He has been anxious and distracted and trying to start a conversation with her without really getting anywhere for the past however many days, weeks, building untenable tension between them. But somehow last night the reason for all that clicked with her and with a sudden clarity she realized what he was struggling to get out so when he decided to blurt out he was 'getting tired of this dance they were doing' she knew. She knew. And instead of wanting to talk about all the things that made all this a stupid idea she practically sent him an engraved invitation to kiss her.

He was a little slow on the uptake, she has to admit, but he picked up pace nicely. Now, a day later, she could barely imagine the time when all his touches and looks weren't there. They still hadn't talked and she has no inclination to go there tonight either. It's all dark and complicated and unpleasant and they've had enough of that at work. No, she's perfectly happy to be standing in her building's garage, quietly face to face with him as if preparing to thank him for the ride and wishing him goodnight.

They both know this isn't going there and there's nothing either of them can do. And she doesn't mind: she likes to be looked at, like she is enough and alive.

But he is not content to just look at her. He studies her with penetrating eyes and, when he gets the courage, gentle fingertips. He likes her closed eyes, the hums deep in her throat and the swallows he can feel reverberating just below his ring finger. Her skin is sticky and fragrant: the heat alone brings a slight blush to her chest.

"You look tired," he says when she opens her eyes. She laughs. "I know, the most charming thing I could possibly say to you."

"Not that bad, really," she responds.

"No. Your eyes shine." He pushes a hand under her hair, briefly pausing to graze her cheek before mixing fully in her gorgeous tresses. The diluted smile on her lips makes him ruefully clear his remark, "And that was not a compliment. They only get that shine when you are tired."

"I am," Sharon admits with a content sigh. His fingers at the apex of her neck feel heavenly against her stiff muscles.

"Beautiful still," he murmurs and before anything orders, "Don't roll your eyes."

With a laughter in her voice, she asks for a correction. "My pretty eyes?"

"Yeah." He tickles the velvety skin at the back of her head and reaches to steal a quick peck from the corner of her lips. As if in secret his other hand goes to rub her flank. It is electricity running from one of his hands to the other, to his lips, making him hyper-aware of her body. "You feel wonderful," he breaths out as he pulls back.

"Don't." The strong admonition — almost the strength of her prime days — carries more weight when she extracts the hand from her waist and grabs the wrist disappearing behind her ear. "I'm tired and dirty and worn-out and only thing I'm good for right now is sleeping."

"Doesn't matter," he smiles and strokes her neck in calming patterns, "Gorgeous still."

"Andy, don't." The meaning wouldn't have been any clearer if she had used the words 'you're such a liar' instead. She sighs. "Me and my inner glorious vamp are not even in the same county tonight."

He snorts. "You don't have an inner vamp." He shakes her hand off his wrist and pulls both of his hands to cradle her head. "You don't need one. Tonight or ever."

She hums that little sound Andy has come to know as the 'oh please, you're so wrong, but I just can't win' groan. In recent weeks, days, he has caught himself from thinking how vocal would she be when using no words. He can picture it now: her biting her lip, trying to keep quiet and failing miserable with every hum, whine and groan his hands would elicit from her. He imagines hands because that is the powerful contact point with reality: she is right there, in his hands; pliant and heavy, warm and at peace.

His fingers gently pry in her neck, playing a soft symphony on her strained muscles. A high-pitched hum of pleasure closes her eyes. It makes him yearn for more, makes him thoughtlessly daring as he leans closer to her ear.

"Would you mind if I invited you into my bed?"

She smiles faintly. "No." Oddly enough, she wouldn't. She's not even panicking at the thought, not even thinking of all the reasons why she should mind.

"But you won't come," he says and she thinks there might be even a little sadness in his voice as the fingers in the back of her neck turn even softer.

"No."

He goes to ghost his lips along the line of her jaw, content to satisfy their want to shed whispered kisses at all the important points.

"You know I can invite you just to sleep," he says after a moment.

"I know," she sighs. That does sound pretty heavenly, but she won't be telling him that. And she wouldn't be able to anyway, not when he is eating the breath back to her lips. She lets him, even asks him further. "I want my own bed," she murmurs with her lips still ghosting his.

"I'm flexible," he shrugs.

She smiles. Instead of her whole palm stopping him, it's more to do with three of her fingernails caressing his chest, feather light. "Alone. I just want to slip between my cool, slippery sheets and forget about today," she says on a needy hum.

He imagines her doing just that, nothing but that, and in nothing but, and it is too much. In his imagination her sheets are dark, satin, the light enough to expose the contrasts.

In admonishment he shakes his head and travels his lips back back closer to her jaw. "I can think of other ways to help you forget," he says and nips at the translucent skin right before her ear, "especially after hearing a thing like that. You are determined to make me wild."

She again exhales a long breath. One of the not-so-good 'Andy, please!' variety. Nevertheless she doesn't resist his efforts to block further examples by gathering her lips in another kiss. This one is an unhurried exploration of the most tender skin of hers he's had the privilege to touch and a series of his lips trying to gently bite hers. Turn by turn be tries to pick up first her top, then bottom lip.

"I'm not", she sighs straight on his lips, when he relents and hovers just close enough for her scent and warmth to fool his skin with untrue messages of touch. "I'm telling you the truth."

She searches for another light contact but he pretends to be offended.

"With words that build strong imagery for men," he says pulling back the inches, three at most, to lend any credence to his charade. It is sufficient to elicit a whimper from her throat. It's new, a better 'please' than the ones he has heard before.

He watches her closed eyes, slowly bringing the hand up from behind her neck to cup her cheek all the while letting his thumb make the small smoothing half-circle. She lets him. Sometimes it feels like he is trying to read secrets on her skin and she wants to know what he can uncover.

"Come to my bed, I'll cool the sheets for you."

Her lips part in that radiant smile that always is more about the emotion than the act. He is foolish enough to start pushing his other hand from her hip back and around her waist. It doesn't take an inch for her smile to fade, for her hand to grab his wrist to stop him where he was, for her eyes to open. They are bright and radiant, even when she pushes both of his hands off her body.

"Thank you, I have good sheets at home."

"How do you know mine aren't better?"

"I don't." She drops her head, smiles and licks her lips. "There is a discussion needed here."

"Is there?" He snakes both of his arms around her waist and pulls her as close as physics allow, his lips finding their place on the tendon beneath her ear. "I seem to think this is pretty simple. I want you," he whispers urgently straight into her ear. She is surprised there is enough air for her to hear the words or feel the vibrations of his breath. It makes her shudder and start away the inch he allows her. Her hands slide down her body to behind her waist where she peels away his.

"Even if, you can't..."

She leaves the sentence to hang between them, to squish between her lips meeting his in a flat and soft gesture he can't name. She doesn't mean it anyway. It's written clearly in the contact that is more warmth than kissing and he feels the strong need to run his hands up and down her back to get some craved friction. He manages the first half of his first downstroke before she pulls them off.

Holding his wrists away, though strategically in the wrong place (if he was brave he would show her the error she makes due to fatigue by pressing his palms the two inches that separate them from curling around her ribs, maybe even tickling the undersides of her breasts), she closes in for another kiss, this one more traditional than some they have indulged in.

In the moment, there aren't many things Andy can think of that would start with 'I can't'. A list of things starting with 'I shouldn't', and plenty of ideas starting with 'I won't' in connection with her he is smart enough to notice. That is why he lets her be in control, dictate the connection.

When she pulls back, his eyes linger on the collars of her shirt that loosely rest against her collarbones. Right between them there is a little deeper flush than the weather allows and the tops of her breasts seem to rise and fall in a pattern that is enticingly deep and tranquil. He wants to trail his finger down across her sternum, to pop open the button just sitting there, unmovable and taunting.

"Come on," she tells him with a smirk that is totally unmissable for everyone but the man trying to stare down her blouse. She starts walking away with enough sway in her hips to distract him for a few moments more. "We have plans."