A/N: Only my lovely friend GeekLoveFan is partial to the story of the inpsiration behind this, and it shall cryptically remain so. And now, I descend into silence on the subject. Suffice it to say: I am damn proud of this smut. It's smut&sweet!

"Punctuality is the Politeness of kings." -Louis the XVIII, King of France.

He was late, he knew he was late, and there would be hell to pay.

Impatient, headstrong, bossy redheads hated it when he was late.

And late for a very important date he was.

But he couldn't help it that his perp had cold-cocked DiNozzo, causing a bloody mess in Interrogation and resulting in an annoyed Boss having to prevent an irate Israeli from murdering a scumbag.

That set him back fifteen minutes, which ended up setting him back an hour.

The very notion that he was filling out an incident report while she was back in her townhouse, starting without him, made him considerably prone to homicidal thoughts towards his entire team of special agents.

So it was with extra force that he slammed her front door when he stormed into the foyer, and his keys made a particularly loud clang as they hit the ceramic bowl on the hall table.

"Honey, I'm home," he called sarcastically, warning her. There wasn't time to waste.

The ground floor was empty, and as he walked—rather, marched—up her carpeted stairs, the air started to smell like perfume and steam and thick, floral bubble bath and he scowled to think of what he had missed out on.

Because when it's been a busy week, and your girlfriend tells you to be at her house and in her bed at six o'clock sharp, you really don't want to be late.

He was ready to kick down her bedroom door, but found it to be unnecessary—it was open. And, conveniently, she was within eyesight. There was a sheen of water on her skin, not yet dry from the bath, reflected like sparkles by the lamp light. She was wrapped in a fluffy white towel so short that, as she leaned forward a little, her hand unseen inside the bedside table drawer, he bet if he cocked his head and looked up a little, he could see everything.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs took a split second to admire this view of her, and then crossed the vast master bedroom in five great strides, reaching around her and grasping her elbow tightly in his strong fist.

She paused, and turned her head, tendrils of her warm, damp hair brushing against his ear and cheek, and she smirked lasciviously, releasing something with a quiet thunk in the drawer. She straightened a little, her body curving into his, and shut the drawer with a buck of her hip, spreading her palm out protectively over the top of the bedside table.

He reached around her with a suspicious growl and pulled her hips back, opening the drawer and peeking inside.

Feeling substantially weak-kneed all of a sudden—something he would never admit to—he gave a low, frustrated groan in her ear and forcibly turned her around to face him, shoving the drawer shut, pressing her body against it, with her little quickly hidden item branded in his mind's eye.

Swallowing hard, he looked her over slowly. Her skin was flushed all over, red, pink, wet, warm, perfect; her hair was pulled back, sticking to her neck and cheeks, her eyes bright, pupils dilated, her breathing just quicker than a warm, relaxing bath should make it.

Jenny Shepard smiled sweetly, arching an eyebrow.

"Jen," he growled sharply. He lowered his head to her neck, breathing her in. "You know I don't like it when you start without me," he rebuked, dragging the towel up the back of her thighs, images of what she'd been doing and what she'd been using to do it accosting his mind and his blood flow.

She clicked her tongue sympathetically.

"Finished without you, too," she noted suggestively, puckering her lips when he gave her a hard, hot look of arousal. Her words were uneven, as she still tried to catch her breath. She bit her lip and smirked.

He drew her against him, holding her hips to his, his jeans rough against her smooth, naked legs—he hitched her up roughly, easily, and sat her on the bedside table, grabbing her knees and forcing her thighs around her waist, reaching for that towel where it was tucked to form a little tartan dress.

"Wouldn't have killed you to wait," he hissed, glaring when she pushed his hand away. He went for her knees instead, squeezing, running his palms up her thighs, under her towel. He shivered, gritting his teeth; he knew it wasn't just the bath that had left her this wet.

She breathed in heavily when he touched her, and leaned against him, shaking her head in mock sadness.

"But it kills you that I didn't," she sighed dramatically, gripping his shoulders. She titled her head. "You understand my insistence on punctuality now, Jethro?" she asked. He was distracted by the way she said his name—teasing, deep, husky. Like butterscotch. "Tardiness is inconvenient."

He felt light headed—all the blood in his veins seemed to have magically pooled below his waist.

Talk about convenient.

It was all he could do to get his belt out of its loops and his jeans unzipped—and that he'd loosened her towel and it fell a little in the process was merely a plus. He was hardly going to let her get away with this; he wasn't late due to irresponsibility, but due to some damn punk kid and DiNozzo's bloody face.

"You screamed my name," he said aggressively, glaring into her green eyes for confirmation.

She shivered subtly, chilled by the absence of her towel, and flicked her eyes down appreciatively.

"You weren't here to hear it," she mocked sadly. She looked back up and him and wrinkled her eyes narrowly, pursing her lips. "Just what do you think you're going to do with that?" she asked innocently, indicating below his waist with a discreet nod of her head.

He pressed his palm to the back of her neck firmly and pressed her leg into his hip, setting his jaw. He was so hard he found it difficult to breathe. She lost her smile for a minute and leaned back, digging her nails into his shoulder.

"Jethro, wait—"

She started—but he started, too, and cut her off spectacularly. He buried himself inside her without further adieu and she gasped, closing her eyes tightly and drawing blood the moment she grit her teeth and accidentally bit her tongue.

He nearly destroyed her poor nerves; the flash of over-sensitive pain ricocheted through her like an electric shock and she tilted her head back, whimpering.

"Ah," she squeaked, shuddering, opening her eyes. "You son of a bitch," she swore half-heartedly, weakly. "Jethro, you've got to give women a minute," she said, fisting her fingers in his shirt.

He smirked, and rubbed her neck softly.

"Sorry Jen, was I a little early on that move?" he drawled.

She gave him a look, wincing. He leaned against her and moved his arm from her thigh to the lacquered surface of the bedside table, lowering his head to her collarbone with a frustrated groan.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a strained voice, clearly finding it hard to control himself.

She dug her heel into his back, wrapping her arm around his neck. She nodded shortly.

"Go at it," she murmured in his ear.

His knees made a terrible banging noise against the abused bedside table as he thrust, and she reached out an arm helplessly, grasping one of her nearby bedposts. She latched her fingers into his hair, pulling hard.

He kissed her, bruised her lips and whet her libido fiercely. Getting off on the thought of him was nowhere near as powerful as having him inside her, his mouth on her mouth, his muscle and scent all around her, and she tilted her head back, moaning breathily.

"You aren't off the hook," she gasped, "just because I did myself without you," she broke off, sucking in her breath. "Oh, god, Jethro, yes," she cried, closing her eyes.

He gripped her ribs, somehow managed to nearly push her into the wall behind her, and he knocked the lamp off.

She heard it shatter, reminded herself to be pissed about it later. Her legs slipped against his skin, finding no traction in the sweat on his body, she tried to hitch them nearer to his shirt. She pressed her lips together, and then parted them, pressing her arm into his neck as his shoulders convulsed.

"Come on, Jethro, I've gotten used to you," she had to catch her breath again, grip his hair tightly. "—ah, coming later than me—"

He yanked her hips roughly towards him, digging his calloused fingertips into her back. He murmured a curse in her ear and she shivered against him, kissing his neck, his ear, her teeth scraping him, sweat burning her eyes.

Her muscles tightened all over him and she yelped his name weakly, holding him tightly, her voice lost suddenly and her lips moving soundlessly against his hot skin.

He let go of her skin, lowered both his hands to the table on either side of her hips and bowed his head, his temple resting smugly against her beast. She ran her fingers through his hair, relaxing, leaning back.

She gasped, thunderstruck, hunting for stolen breath.

She rested her head against the wall and turned to look at the broken lamp, frowning half-heartedly.

"You broke my lamp," she ground out.

He lifted his head and smirked arrogantly; then shrugged pointedly to show he didn't really give a damn about her lamp. He slipped his arms around her gently and pulled her close, pulling her down on the bed with him.

She moaned at the dizzying sensation, and braced her arms against his chest as his back hit the mattress heavily. She fell forward on his chest, straddling his hips, her hair falling loose and framing her face.

He reached up and pushed it all back possessively, drawing her mouth down to his.

"You screamed my name," he repeated huskily, a smirk breaking over his lips. He kissed her, his tongue possessing her mouth, teeth attacking nerve endings on her lips. "Even when you touch yourself, alone," he said in her ear, low, provocative. "My name."

She touched her forehead to his lazily and straightened up, tossing her hair back. A musky pink blush tinted her skin; her eyes were smoky and jade.

"Why are you still wearing a shirt?" she asked, arching a brow nonchalantly, giving no credence to his arrogance.

"I was late, remember?" he retorted.

She could tell though, from his tone and his self-satisfied, sated Cheshire grin, that this little occurrence had in no way taught him a lesson in promptness.

I bet you were all pleasantly surprised to find that this was a smut oneshot, given the oddly eccentric title. What can I say? I think I'm J.D. Salinger.

By the way-Happy AP English Test Day!
-Alexandra