Title: Wet Heat

Rating: Look at that title. Just look at it.

Summary: Sometimes they like it dirty.

Disclaimer: I'm Andrew Marlowe. No, really. I own one of the best shows on television and I spend my time writing smut on this website because ABC won't let me air it. Really.

Dedication: This is for KateMB because this is all her fault, damn it! Damn you to Hades, you she-devil! (Firefly? Anyone?)

Author's Note: I am fully aware that it is not the most original title out there, but I'm slyly referencing/poking fun at porn and the title is just too perfect so please, people… let me be cheesy and unoriginal.

After all, this is fan fiction.

He has no idea where they are.

There's a wall, there must be, because he's currently pressing Kate up against it. Other than that, he has absolutely no perception of space. His vision, his sense of everything, has all narrowed down to one woman. Her sinfully smooth legs are clamped around him like a vice, with her ankles hooked as tightly as she can get them. Her hair, full and silky and beginning to stick to her face in parts from the sweat, has fallen in a curtain around their faces, further cutting them off from the outside world. There is literally no space between them, their skin sliding and bumping with each tiny movement that they make. Every inch of his skin is buzzing, the contact of her slick, hot skin making him dizzy with lust. Each time he breathes, her breasts are crushed against him and it's entirely possible he could lose it just from the feeling of that alone.

And oh, the way her hips are undulating against him, rotating slowly, is definitely not helping. She's not breathing, she's panting, her hot breath ghosting against the shell of his ear, curling around it and caressing it like her lips were just a few seconds ago. Her nails dig into him, clawing and scratching, leaving thin red trails that scream out that he is hers, he belongs to her and she belongs to him, because she lets him reduce her to this point of desperation and he lets her mark him.

He wraps his arms tighter around her, the pads of his fingers mapping out each freckle on her back, the bumps and dips from her spine, and the firm swell of her ass. He digs into her skin a little because they're moving so quickly, so hard and dirty that there's not a bit of them that isn't coated in sweat and if he's not careful, his hands will slip on her skin and she'll bang painfully against the wall.

He's surprised that she's managing to hold herself up. Normally she'll just lean back against the surface of whatever wall they're up against this time (usually the precinct somewhere or the wall right by the door of his loft), tilting her head back and exposing that smooth, creamy column of throat, baring it for his teeth and lips and tongue. But this time she's craving closeness, not wanting to be apart at all, and he doesn't mind too much. Every slide of her skin against his ratchets up the pleasure, making him move faster, harder.

Kate is completely reduced to moans by now, her mouth open and jaw slack. Any attempts at words come out half-strangled or as a cut-off gasp, and she can't even catch her breath. That's okay; he can't either. He wants to chant her name, tell her just how fucking amazing she is, but he can't because the words are all jumbled and stuck in his throat, so he groans instead.

She presses just a little harder against him and throws her head to the side, sucking just below his jaw and scraping her teeth slowly down the line of bone that can be felt just below the thin surface of skin. He lifts a hand up and buries it into her hair, holding her in place, pinning her so that he can thrust into her with abandon. The moan of approval she gives him is enough to set his blood on fire, and she raises her head just enough to latch onto his mouth. He's drowning, drowning in the sweat of their skin, in the burning, soft wet feel of her mouth and tongue, in the moist strands of hair in his hand, and most of all he's literally drowning inside of her, her body quaking around him as her walls clench and ripple and stretch for him, against him, taking him for all he's worth.

His brain is short-circuiting. There are four words in his head, circling around and around, and he cannot think of anything else. His name? Forgotten. His occupation? What's that? Air? He can't remember, so it must be unnecessary. Kate. Wet. Heat. Fuck. Those are the only things that he can fix on for any length of time. Mostly they're just slipping in and out of his stream-of-consciousness as he drowns in the pleasure this is bringing him and the knowledge of the pleasure it's giving her.

Each moment is spread out into an eternity, and for that split-second he feels infinite. But it's still over too quickly, building up incredibly fast and then he feels like he has been shot out of the water, propelled to new heights, and he feels her nails dig into him so deeply that he knows that he's bleeding. She screams, good Lord he is memorizing that sound because fuck, did you hear that? And he feels empty, and spent, and filthy, and like he's been born anew because that. Was. Amazing.

He really had no idea. How on earth did he live without this?

It takes about a minute for them to get their breath back, but of course she's the first to recover and remember how to use her vocal chords to articulate her thoughts.

"Rick."

He loves it whenever she says his first name, but right now is always the best; right afterwards, spent, her voice hoarse and clogged with leftover pheromones and lust and exhaustion.

She bites his ear, tugging gently. "Bed." She whispers.

The list of great things about when they do it like this, dirty and fast and primal, is too large to start. But one definitely great thing about sessions like this is they only get them revved up for more.

KateMB: Think of the sweat and sex hair.

Me: Damn you, woman.

KateMB: *evil laugh*

So, you see, she made me do it. She MADE me.

Now I want all of you to write a review thanking her profusely and promising to send her your leftover Thanksgiving pie. Go on. You know you want to.