Last time

Pairing: CJ Cregg/Kate Harper

Note: Stand-alone sequel to "In the wake of war."

Disclaimers: I own nothing, this is pure kidnapping and drive by traumatizing. Aaron Sorkin will have his ladies back in more or less the same state once I'm done.

I eat reviews for breakfast.

You said it was the last time, the night she cornered you in her office. You said you wouldn't play that game of sneaking out her door in the cloak of darkness anymore.

When you wake up alone you decide again not to let her get you this time. You promise yourself not to allow her to peel off another slice of your heart.

And you keep your convictions all morning, until your eyes meet in the oval office. Over matters of national security and the fate of thousands of uniformed lives, you discover that she already has your heart wrapped up in her pocket.

You think maybe this is why you hurt, because of the bleeding, hollow rip where your heart used to be.

Her passion inspires you and you jump on her train of thought with pure enthusiasm as your starting off point. With her heart and your knowledge you fit each other's sentences perfectly with barely a breath in between.

When the Commander in Chief goes with your plan over that of his men in uniform, she smiles proudly and you wish you still smoked.

You excuse yourself along with the grumbling men who never really liked you in the first place because you have the soft heart of a woman. But it doesn't matter. She's going to be in a good mood today and you know you'll be rewarded later. And you ignore the little voice that cries out about lost convictions, because it always fades away with her smile.

And when she calls you to her office you do not hesitate. You do take a detour to borrow some of Ginger's perfume though.

She greets you with the confident smile of recent victories, her steps so light you'd think she was once a dancer.

When she looks at you, her eyes convey promises of what is to come. You feel yourself tingle under her gaze because you know that look and you know she won't be gentle with you tonight. She'll make you beg.

You love days like these.

So you play professional, almost indifferent, ignoring her long, raking looks and low voice. It drives her crazy; you can see it in her eyes. And for a second you feel in control.

You know that you're not. You know that the second she decides she's done playing; you will not hesitate to give in to her every need.

But for now, during office hours, you play the game. And you do it well.

"Have drinks with me tonight." It's not a question and she barely looks up at you from her papers as she speaks. She knows you don't have other plans, and she knows that if you do, you'll change them for her.

"What's in it for me?" You can't help but keep playing and your answer does get her to raise her head up to look at you.

Her face changes from surprised to amused in a second, and your breath catches as her expression grows serious and her eyes rake ruthlessly over your body as if in search for food.

"Do you have objections?" She asks, raising one sharp eyebrow and you notice her voice has already dropped a notch.

It's when she meets you eyes and you see the darkening shade in them that you quiver in your seat. You know that as soon as you agree she will dismiss you back to work. But there is nothing else you can do as her eyes never leave you when she starts biting at her lower lip.

She's breathtaking.

So you shake your head once, and for a fraction of a second you think she might have smiled.

"Excellent." But as she speaks you know you're fooling yourself again as her head bows back down to the lucky folders on her desk. Her voice sounds as professional as the dark suit she's wearing.

You've been dismissed. But you chance a lingering look at her tall, slim frame, your eyes trying to memorize the texture of that silky smooth skin on her neck and the back of her knees. She fits perfectly behind the dark oak desk that once belonged to one of those old men whose picture hangs with the others around the White House. And this is when you realize you'll never mean more to her than this desk.

With a sigh you leave her to her work.

It's never crossed your mind to say no to her. Not for real anyway. Not as she's standing in front of you, cocking her head ever so slightly to her side as she watches you. No, you never even play with the thought of turning her down then.

Now as you go through the motions of your everyday work, everyday for you not for anyone else, you wonder why it is that you never tell her no. You know your life would be so much easier without her in it.

She doesn't know how you feel; you thought it better to never let her know. It would just annoy and upset her, she'd tell you she didn't want to hurt you and that this complicates things.

You don't want to complicate things, there is too much of that going on already.

She needs company, compassion, to feel less alone for a few hours of her excruciatingly long day. You are in love, and you know it.

"You should tell her." Leo once said. He doesn't get it. You can't just tell her, she'd never see you again. You'd never get to touch her like that, hear her whimper from your kisses or watch her writhe beneath you ever again. No matter how hard it is, these are the things that matter to you when all hell breaks loose in the situation room. And when there is talk of an upcoming war, as it sometimes is, your eyes instinctively search for hers, to make sure she's not afraid, to let her know it will be alright.

But she never returns your gaze; her focus is always on the grey haired man to her right with the President seal on his chest. You find you are glad that the CIA does not know how to read minds, and if they did you would know, because your thoughts would sometimes be considered treason.

She is the right hand of the President and yet you cannot help but envy the attention she lavishes on him.

It's not him per say, you always liked him. He's a good man with good values, but he's holding your lady caged by his knee and for that you get a bitter taste in your mouth whenever you're in his presence.

In the CIA you had a knack for disguises. Disappearing into a crowd was a skill your superiors found to be a great resource. And now you cannot help but wonder if this is why she never looks at you like that, if her lack of attention your way is a result of your skills of camouflage.

To think that it could just simply be because she doesn't love you is too harsh a reality to face.

You ignore the fact that she has never made love to you. Not that you would ever complain. The sex is always amazing, but it's never making love, it's sex, sometimes it's fucking. There is passion and desire, when she touches you it's rough and determined. Kisses are limited and for the sole purpose of arousing. When you come, she holds you, but after a few moments, she lets you go. The closeness smothers her she says, and you believe her.

You're never as rough as she is, you take your time and revel in the way she moans your name. You could listen to her like that forever. There is a point when she's so turned on and not that far from release that you know she'd do anything you wanted just so you'd set her free. Sometimes you play with the thought of telling her, right then and there. But you never do, and the reason is the same as the secret; because you love her.

You know she wants you, that the sight of you releases waves of desire within her and makes you think about turning religious, but you cannot help thinking that this might just be all it is; desire. She wants your body and talent; she wants your hands and mouth guiding her to that blissful state of surrender. You fear she has no interest in your heart, and somewhere you know it to be true. But it doesn't stop you from fighting the never-ending lost-cause battle for her affections.

The days are always the longest when she's not around and you find yourself wishing for some kind of mild national security crisis just to see her face.

But today none is within sight and CJ Cregg's day has been completely focused on politics. It's not your field, you really don't care who's opposing what bill and why. There are bigger issues to fight the way you see it, but still, you have some understanding of her work.

You've walked by her office a few times this afternoon, and you wouldn't give the reason even under torture. Pathetic is never a word you'd thought of to ever describe yourself, but this is exactly how you feel after your forth rout past her office.

You never saw her, she's a busy woman. Unfortunately the one person you did see was Toby.

You always liked the grumpy speech writer, until you saw him in a room with her. It was in his eyes, clear as daylight. You should have known you wouldn't be the only one to love her.

Maybe it's the possibility that it could be reciprocated that bothers you.

But the glare he sends your way makes your heart lighter. The mixture of fear and loathing in his eyes lets you know without a doubt that he regards you as a rival.

You quell the urge to tell him how delicious her skin is, to gloat with the knowledge that you've made her cry out in release and that she begged you too. Not him, never him.

Instead you give him a polite nod and keep walking.

The remaining few hours of the working day you spend buried in every piece of work you can find. Anything and everything to keep you focused on something other than how her scent makes your knees go weak. Instead you make time for excessive discussions with Hutchinson about things you really neither like nor care that much about. Arguing with him makes thing easier. And he's all too willing to help you out in that department.

When her scent fills your nostrils you decide you've finally crossed the line of insanity and you need help not to turn into one of those people whose emails have a special filter in CJ's mailbox. And you know she has a filter that goes directly to the secret service; you made sure of it yourself.

But your sanity is saved by Hutchinson ironically who looks up over your shoulder with a nod of his head.

"Am I disturbing?" You can't help but smile, but you repress the urge to wrap your arms around her slender waist and whisper in her ear how the sight of her face brightens your existence, how much you've missed her presence.

Instead you settle for twirling around and casually cock your head to the side.

"No, not at all." You say sweetly and you can feel more than see the Secretary rolling his eyes. And you know CJ is uncomfortable, she doesn't like not being in the power position, especially around military men like Hutchinson. She feels the need to prove herself in a man's world, and she doesn't believe you when you tell her she already has. So you decide to let her sweat, if only for a second. She owes you that much, you reason, but you know that's not true.

"Ready?" She asks and you know by the tone in her voice and the way she's already heading for the door, that you are in trouble for this.

"Yeah." You say your goodnights to Hutchinson and the staff before grabbing you coat and bag. You assume CJ will be waiting for you up in the comfort of the West Wing. She owns the West Wing; around here she's just a visitor.

As you walk your nerves decide to kick in, so does your second guessing. This is the time your mind and body pick to assess the choice you're making.

You've been doing this for a few weeks now, going home with her, occasionally having a drink, but most of the time you never get further than in her door and to the nearest flat surface.

But every time, your legs start to shake ever so slightly and your stomach starts to tingle. You'd think that in your line of work nerves would not be an issue. She's proved you wrong on that one.

Yet your mind keeps intruding on your self-deprecation with questions you don't want answered. Questions about motives, both hers and yours, and as you reach the top of the staircase you heart makes a final soul searing plead for its safety.

You ignore it. You tell your heart it has itself to blame for putting you in this situation to begin with.

When you reach the lobby you see her standing there in her beige overcoat signing a paper in an excessively large stack of folders in Carol's arms. For a moment you stop. The sight of her makes you want to run and hide. You know it's your blood pumping organ speaking, pleading with you one last time. But your legs refuse to move.

As she turns to face you, there is no choice anymore. Limb movement or not, your body is drawn to her and you find it both appropriate and incredibly absurd to think of yourself as the moon in her orbit.

You walk a step after her on your way out only in the hopes of catching a whiff of her perfume before it mixes with yours.

Thank you so much for reading! 3