a/n: decker's a bit more of a dick than i usually portray him, but since we next to nothing about him, it's plausible in my eyes. not to mention he's in charge of a precarious under cover mission, so he's clearly on edge. last chapter! smut "warning", though i doubt ya'll want to be warned, you've probably been wondering why the hell i haven't written it yet.

[there's a blatant Game of Thrones reference in this chapter, heads up.]

La Marseillaise

trois

Decker was furious when Gibbs strolled into his apartment the next morning.

He had taken his sweet time getting there, so it was not particularly early when he arrived. He had taken a cab into the middle of the city where Decker was holed up for the duration of this operation, and he had taken the long route to stroll leisurely through the city. It was his goal to buy Jenny as much time as she needed.

"I said bring her with you," growled Decker, slamming the door violently. The noise echoed loudly, and Gibbs just raised an eyebrow mildly. He vaguely sensed he was supposed to be intimidated; he wasn't.

Gibbs shrugged, and moseyed into the kitchen. He looked around, snooping a little bit. He poked at a dirty bowl of congealed cereal in Decker's sink.

"She's not a dog," he said blithely. "Can't just put 'er on a leash and drag her."

"Where the hell is she?" barked Decker.

Gibbs pointed at the cereal.

"You ever gonna do dishes?" he drawled.

"Gibbs!" snarled Decker.

"She was gone when I got up," Gibbs said simply. "Didn't even make coffee."

Decker stormed over and started throwing dishes in the empty part of the sink. He flicked on the hot water and glared at it, either bothered by Gibbs' criticism, or just searching for a way to fill the silence. His jaw twitched unhappily and he grumbled under his breath.

"You call her?" Decker asked.

"Yeah," Gibbs retorted, narrowing his eyes.

"And?"

"Voicemail."

"Goddamnit," swore Decker. "Fucking Shepard," he muttered violently, shaking his head. "Who the hell does she think she is? She isn't in charge here, Gibbs," he reprimanded, turning on the senior agent. "She reports to you. You report to me."

Gibbs lifted his chin slightly, giving Decker a hard look.

"Got a year on you, Deck," he reminded him.

"I don't give a damn! I was given point here," Decker groused. "You got a problem with that, you take it up with McAlister and Morrow. Otherwise, you answer to me, and you have got to get her under control." He swore under his breath and turned the sink off. "What the hell happened in the streets, Gibbs?"

Gibbs shrugged his shoulders again. He knew his nonchalance was unnecessarily provoking Decker, but he had promised Jenny he would take care of this until she could finish whatever the hell she was doing.

"You know how it is," Gibbs pointed out. "You been there. You get into situations," Gibbs paused, and lifted his hands upwards. "Sometimes things go bad."

"Things go bad," repeated Decker sarcastically. "She shot a key player in the arms ring—it was her, wasn't it? She shot him?" he didn't wait for Gibbs to confirm or deny. "And you covered for her!" he squawked, outraged.

"Already told you, she's got it under control," Gibbs said harshly.

"She may think she does, but in the world of black ops she's an infant, Gibbs!" Decker railed. "I know Shepard's a fast-learner and she's an invaluable, quick-witted little asset, but she's a probie!" Decker turned and rubbed his jaw. "You don't let probies on the loose to clean shit like this up. You don't cover for 'em!"

"What would you've done, Deck?" Gibbs asked curtly. "The bastard is dead, either way."

"I could have started running interference immediately! I could have done something to plant information, to clean sweep the crime scene, rather than let French authorities discover it and plaster it all over the damn media. I figure you were out cleaning up after her when you fed me that bullshit about her earring," Decker broke off, his face red.

He shook his head wildly, getting heated up.

"There's going to be a full-scale investigation!"

"They won't find a damn thing," Gibbs said firmly. "I policed the scene."

"The earring," growled Decker. "You didn't police it well enough. They found her earring!"

"Where'd they find it, Deck?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't care—"

Gibbs almost cringed at the words.

"Where?" he interrupted harshly, getting louder.

"In the guy's throat!" shouted Decker.

Gibb gave him an angry glare.

"You ask yourself how her earring got in his throat?" he demanded roughly.

That had to have given Decker some pause—it wasn't as if Jenny was the type to get serial killer on them and start sticking trophies down the throat of her marks.

Decker mouthed angrily for a moment and then deflated slightly. He flung out his arm and twitched his shoulders in a sort of shrug.

"How?" he asked rudely.

"She didn't tell me," Gibbs admitted in a grunt. "But you can be damn sure he had her down if he got that close."

Decker rubbed his forehead roughly. He pointed at Gibbs, approaching.

"You're making bad decisions because you're fucking her," he guessed, asserting the information recklessly. "Shepard is damn good. I don't need the two of you hooking up and blowing this whole thing to bits because she can't resist whatever it fucking is about you that makes redheads think they've seen the promise land—she's a good agent, Gibbs, and she'll go far if you keep it in your pants and she keeps her legs closed—"

Gibbs made the decision to punch him about half a second after he'd already socked Decker in the jaw.

Decker stumbled back into a chair and blood spurted from his nose. Gibbs shook out his hand coldly, flexing his fingers. He had reacted instinctually, because he didn't like the way Decker was disrespecting Jenny.

"Are you serious, Gibbs?" Decker bellowed, his face turning purple.

Her nails were cotton candy pink again, and they looked flirtatious and vibrant paired with her loud yellow dress and harsh red lipstick. She was still playing the vixen, artfully orchestrating her cover, and the Russian seemed to enjoy it.

She stroked one finger across her lip, and then played with her earring. She had deliberately worn pearls. She intended to look brazen, and shock him with her lack of secrecy.

He was going over her documents, and she was lounging back, running her hand through her red locks coquettishly.

"You bring me these," murmured the Russian silkily. "Why?"

She inclined her head.

"You seemed disinclined to trust me," she answered in smooth, impeccable French. She flashed a delicate smile. "I am an impatient woman."

The Russian nodded as he perused the files once again. His lips curled distastefully, and then he snorted.

"That you are, Mademoiselle Primokova," he remarked mildly, using the patronymic of her cover name.

She leaned forward and pulled a cigarette from her purse. She let the contents spill out of it lazily; more show of openness.

"Anastasie," she corrected demurely. Her cover gave her a mixed cultural background; Russian father, French mother.

The Russian flicked his eyes over her and gallantly held his hand out in a sweeping motion.

"Anastasie," he agreed. He leaned forward and gave her a light. "In my home, we would call you Nastya. Perhaps—Nastusha."

"Ah," she said lightly. "No, monsieur, only if you were dearly close to me."

"Perhaps we will become close, Anastasie Primokova," he said, leaning back. He flicked his lighter shut and watched her smoke. He threw the files down on the table. "You say this man, my cleaner, was a turncoat," he growled, sharp suddenly. "You bring me proof."

"Irrevocable proof," Jenny said primly, wriggling her hands at the papers. "You spoke with Élodie at Sangreal's brothel; you know my intelligence to be true."

The Russian made a disgusted, sour face.

"You allege that Sangreal worked for the Americans," he growled. He tapped his finger harshly. "You tell me he is a—how do you speak, a rat, for this—this agency—"

"NCIS," Jenny supplied coolly. "The very same agency that sent the hit after you eight years ago, when the Mossad interfered."

She had gleaned the information off of Agent Vance in her research into her work.

The Russian made a hissing, spitting noise. He cursed and waved his hand, blowing it off.

"The Mossad," he growled. "I am not a Nazi, I have no time for the Mossad," he said flippantly. He leaned forward. "I sell to those who target ships, that is why these American Navy boys ache for my blood." He laughed. He rubbed his hands together. "I am too good for them, like a wisp of smoke."

His French was heavily accented with Russian thickness, and Jenny found it strangely enticing. She blew smoke through her lips and shrugged.

"It matters not to me," she drawled girlishly. "America, Russia—it is who pays more who wins." She rubbed her fingers together, and then pointed to her information. "This is my offering to you. This is how I prove you need me, I show you the rat within your ranks."

"And it is money that motivates you, Anastasie? Not love of country?"

"France," she trilled with a smirk. "Do I really love France? I am a child of two nations. Paris, J'adore. France? There is wine and there is cheese. And I am watching my figure."

"In Russia, there is but snow."

"And an ancient Empire," she whispered.

The Russian grinned. He leaned back and began examining files again.

"You know you accuse this man when you see his background is Russian-Serbian. Yet you expect me to believe he fled to the capitalist pigs? For what means?"

She shrugged again.

"The same promise the Americans give all—a better life," she snorted lightly. "Toiling day and night to widen the income gap."

It was working; she could feel it in her blood. She had utilized Agent Leon Vance's catastrophic attempt to bring down this bastard to her advantage; she was throwing suspicion wildly off herself and Gibbs and presenting herself as a hero rather than a wolf in sheep's clothing. The CIA had agreed to provide Intel for her; NCIS would come around when she convinced the Russian.

He raised his head.

"You killed Gérard?" he asked bluntly. "But you are a slip of a woman."

"Skilled with a knife," she said, drawing it into her fingers from her purse. "Skilled with a pistol, as well."

"Where is that pistol?"

"Flung into the Seine," she guessed. She shrugged as if she cared not. "I learned from his head whore that he was prone to violence against pretty woman. I lost a pearl for my troubles," she touched her ear delicately, "but the fox is removed from your henhouse, so to speak."

The Russian laughed. He eyed her carefully, for a very long time studying her. He leaned forward finally, watching smoke curl up from her cigarette. His eyes lingered on her nails, and he seemed to take a deep breath of her perfume and the tobacco.

"What is it you want, Anastasie Primokova? Glory? Money? Love?"

She took a drag.

"In," she answered simple. She planted her elbow on the table. "I want in." She tossed her tousled locks back. "You nearly put a traitor at the head of an arms branch here, reaching all the way to Prague," she smirked like a cat with a canary. "I want what you would have given him."

"And you think that your sweet position at DGSE will ensure I give this to you?" he asked.

"Can you afford to turn down the opportunity to spy on French coordination with the Americans, Anatoly Zhukov?" she asked innocently.

He arched his chiseled brows with a smirk of approval. He inclined his head, as if to accept her argument.

"Sveta," he called mildly.

A blonde woman entered—the beautiful, laughing blonde hooker from the bar. She looked infinitely more threatening and much less like a whore in this setting—in fact, Jenny must have mistaken her.

The Russian held his hand out casually.

"Say hello to Anastasie, kitten," he ordered. He gestured at the blonde. "Svetlana Chernetskaya," he growled contently. "My best kept secret."

Jenny showed no surprise, but her mind went insane—the invisible partner of the Russians, the one that always extradited him from ever sticky situation he got into—it was a woman, not some faceless man.

It was her.

Jenny shook hands with the blonde, and the other woman's soft, fierce eyes studied her intently. They were made of like stuff—that much Jenny realized immediately.

Svetlana spoke in Russian to her counterpart. He chuckled.

"She is the third head of our dragon, my dear," he purred.

She had done it; she was in the clear.

In retaliation for what he saw as Gibbs' ridiculously immature punching shenanigans, Decker had elected not to speak to his colleague for the entire duration of their wait for Shepard to show herself.

He sullenly mopped up his nose until it stopped bleeding, and then sat stubbornly on his sofa watching television with a mechanical expression. Gibbs wasn't sure whether to laugh or solemnly accept his lot, so he chose instead to lounge in the kitchen.

He was checking his watch for the eighth time when she walked in and kicked the door behind her shut with a nude pump. The red bottoms of the shoe flashed, and she had a light ghost of a smile on her mouth as she chucked her purse onto the couch.

Gibbs stood, but Decker rocketed violently up from the couch.

"Explain yourself, Shepard!" he roared, cutting right to the chase.

She arched her brows. She took a seat on the couch, peering up at Decker, and Gibbs came into the room, standing ominously behind the couch, slightly near her. Decker was livid, but her train of thought was interrupted when she noticed Decker's throbbing nose.

"What…happened?" she asked.

"Your boyfriend punched me," griped Decker sardonically, shooting a glare at Gibbs.

Jenny turned slightly. Gibbs nodded at her, deadpan.

She gave Decker an innocent look.

"He's not my boyfriend," she said blithely.

Decker gave her a distracted look, his eyes falling to her jaw.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice. "Tell me you didn't go meet up alone with these bastards—Shepard, so help me God—"

"I was with the Russian," she said calmly.

Decker looked like his head would spin off. Gibbs' eyes narrowed.

"Jen?" he asked sharply. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded.

"You told me to get myself out of this," she said icily. "I got out—or in, actually," she added, still cool.

Decker rubbed his face, towering over her. He looked over her, his eyes falling conspicuously to the ear that had no pearl in it. His eyes bugged slightly, but he swallowed more shouting.

"What did you do?" he asked tightly.

She leaned back, pushing her hair out of her face. She felt nervous—anxious—but she didn't show it. She had taken a huge risk, but it was looking good. In practiced monotony, she explained what she had been doing since the shooting in the alley—how she had orchestrated a frame-up that exposed Gerard Sangreal as a traitor operating for the Americans, and how she had leveraged Vance's failure to intimate NCIS was behind Sangreal and throw suspicion onto him.

When she came to the last bit of her conversation with the Russian, Decker's face turned white.

"The ghost? You identified the ghost?" he asked rapidly. "The ghost—is a woman?"

Jenny nodded.

"Svetlana Chernetskaya."

Decker turned, scratching his shoulders tensely.

"NCIS spends eight years trying to figure out who the Russian's partner is, and she bats her eyelashes and finds out," he groused. "Fuckin' brilliant," he muttered, shaking his head. He turned. "You took a big goddamn risk, Shepard."

"It was my mess," she said tightly.

Decker shot a nasty look at Gibbs.

"You're damn lucky this is working in our favor. If you'd let Gibbs cover your ass and this went raw—"

"It didn't."

"I want to know what happened," snapped Decker. "Read me in. Now."

"It is immaterial," Jenny said.

She had no taste for repeating the story. She hadn't talked about it with Gibbs, and as much as she liked, enjoyed, and respected Decker, she didn't want to relive it here.

"I am your control officer," Decker said dully. "I have to know everything, all information. It's a safety precaution. Tell me what happened in that alley, Shepard."

She compressed her lips until her mouth was white, and before she could answer, Gibbs saved her the trouble.

"Bastard assaulted her, Deck," he grunted coarsely.

Decker tilted his head, turning his ear closer.

"Assaulted?" he asked curtly. "How?"

Jenny flung her arm out.

"How the hell do you think?" she asked darkly, narrowing her eyes like an animal backed into a corner. "He pushed me down on my knees and tried to make me suck his dick."

Decker looked completely abashed. Gibbs raised his eyebrows at the back of Jenny's head, startled. He cocked his head and then looked over at Decker, waiting. The other agent glared tensely for a few moments.

"And you-?" he began hesitantly.

"I spit him out," Jenny said crassly. She blinked and leaned forward, rubbing her forehead. "I barely fought him off of me, Will," she informed him hoarsely. "He bit my earring off. He had his hand between my thighs," she shivered. "I don't know how I got him down, but I did. Except I didn't have cuffs, because I'm undercover."

Decker nodded. He rubbed his jaw. He shook his head.

"You had to kill him?" he asked tightly. "You could've just knocked 'im out. You had him off of you."

Gibbs saw that white colour hit her cheeks again, and he heard himself saying the same thing to her when she'd told the story. Standing behind her, hearing Decker say basically the same thing, he realized what a son of a bitch he'd been to accuse her when she'd been scared and hurting after a fight like that.

Jenny put her hands in her hair.

"He was going to rape me," she barked. "He was going to force himself on me! It was a violent sexual attack—why is it so hard for you men to get that?" she stood up, looking between them both. She blinked her eyes heavily; her lashes wetted.

"We're in an unstable situation, Jenny!" Decker pleaded. "It's a bitch, but you should have just backed away once you had him down—"

"God, you're an asshole!" she choked out.

"No," Gibbs said.

They both looked at him.

"No what?" asked Jenny sharply.

"You shouldn't have backed away," Gibbs said. He rounded on Decker. "Don't tell her to let some bastard put his hands on her for the sake of the job," he growled aggressively. "That isn't part of her job. She doesn't let someone rape her," he barked. Decker looked abashed at the suggestion.

"Jesus, Shepard, I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, you did," Gibbs said roughly. "You hinted at it. She got herself out of it. She turned it to her advantage. She doesn't have to apologize for putting a bullet in some guy who was gonna hurt her."

Decker backed off; Jenny pushed her hair back. She hid her face for a moment, stole a glance at Gibbs, and then she picked up her purse and left the apartment. She had taken a cab here, but Gibbs' car was parked on the street—and that's where she went; she curled in the front seat there, against the window.

He had protected her. He'd had her back. He'd been a partner. She had gotten through to him. She covered her mouth and tilted her head back, closing her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Hearing him buck Decker's criticism like that—she wanted him so badly.

He showed up at the car moments later and got in, slamming the door.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

He leaned over and rested his palm on the back of her head gently, his fingers massaging her scalp. Strands of red hair sifted through his nails and fell over his arm. She turned towards him, and nodded. She licked her lips and then bit the lower one, lifting her shoulders.

"He was going to rape me," she repeated, a quiet, strong justification.

This time, his response was different.

"You did good."

She closed her eyes.

"Thank you," she sighed.

She turned away. His hand slid from her hair to her neck, and then down her arm. He took her hand in his and squeezed, his fingers fitting perfectly against hers. He tugged her towards him a little, and when she opened her eyes, his face was gruff, but his eyes were sincere.

"I'm sorry," he grunted.

He had heard her tell Ducky she just wanted him to apologize to her, but he wasn't going to tell her that. He meant it—and he needed to say it to her. His apologies were rare, but he damn well gave them when it really was necessary.

She lifted her hand and brushed at her eyes. She sucked in her breath and held his hand tightly—and she didn't say anything else, but she smiled a little, and she did not let his hand go the entire drive back to the safe house.

He would have taken her to dinner, but it was late when they got back and she didn't seem to be in the mood. He killed the car's engine and turned to her, tilting his head.

"Want me to cook?"

She shook her head and ran her thumb over his knuckles.

"I'm not hungry."

He started to protest, but she leaned over and pulled his head towards her, pressing her lips into his. He tugged her hand into his lap, reaching over to take her shoulder in his hand, and she kissed him harder. Her bangs fell into her eyes and brushed against his forehead.

He shifted towards her, but his legs were too bulky to work with the steering wheel, and he was forced to break the kiss instead. She drew in her breath, her brow furrowing with disappointment.

"Inside," he suggested.

"Bed," she murmured.

He nodded, and they got out of the car, locking it and leaving it on the street before the safe house. He stood behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him as he reached over her shoulder and unlocked the door. His lips brushed the crown of her head and she ran her hands over his thighs, reaching behind her, before she stepped forward and led him into the house.

"Ducky?" she called mildly, as Gibbs shut the door and locked it.

"Duck, you here?" he echoed warily.

There was no answer, and Jenny closed her eyes in relief. They were alone, then. She started towards the stairs, but at the foot of them, he took her arm and spun her around. He pulled her close and resumed the kiss from the car. She leaned back against the bannister and tilted her head up.

It was so much softer than Marseille. There was less desperation, less chaos. His hands remained chastely around her shoulders for a moment, and then he let them wander—down her spine, to the edge of the zipper on the back of her yellow dress. She gripped the rails of the bannister behind her and leaned back, savoring the kiss. His jeans were rough against the bare skin of her legs, and she tried to avoid skewering his foot with the dangerous heels of her pumps.

She slipped her shoes off delicately and slid one of her feet under the edge of his jeans, pressing it into his ankle. He shifted towards her; she could feel the cold metal claps of his belt through the thin material of her dress. She moved her hands to his waistband and slid her fingers into his jeans, plucking at the material.

She didn't speak, but she disentangled herself and gave him a tug, coaxing him upstairs with her. At the landing, she was unsure suddenly whether to go to her room or his; he brushed past her and opened his door with a comically chivalrous expression, gesturing for her to enter. It brought a laugh to her lips, and she inclined her head primly. He shut the door behind her, spun her against him, and pressed her into it.

His body connected with hers solidly, fitting into her, smothering her with warmth and closeness. She breathed him in and put her palms against his chest, her hand travelling until she could feel his heartbeat. It stuttered rapidly under her fingers. Men reacted just like women did, physically. He could be turned on and vulnerable and emotional, but it was all trapped beneath that thick skin. She lunged forward and captured his lips again.

He shoved her back into the door gently. Her hips arched into him, and his hands went to the back of her dress. He fumbled with the zipper at the top and slowly slid it down. He didn't remove the dress—his hands travelled inside it, stroking her skin, pressing into her hips, and teasing the edge of her panties. She gasped, opening her mouth against his lips, and his tongue moved between her teeth.

She gripped his T-shirt tightly. Her lashes fluttered against his cheek and she moaned softly. He drew his hands up over her and pushed the dress off her shoulders, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. It pooled at her feet, and he took a step back, his eyes raking over her.

Tousled hair fell over one shoulder, her skin was flushed—and it highlighted the demure beige of her lingerie. She tilted her head back against the bedroom door, exposing her neck, and he felt a fierce desire to mark her there—but he didn't want to see any more bruises on her fair skin. His hands fell to her hips and he held tightly, fingertips digging into her.

"You look like this in Marseille?" he joked hoarsely, feeling as if he'd lost his breath.

"The lighting was bad," she muttered, laughing anxiously. "I'm sure I looked better."

He shook his head, running his hands up and down her torso, negating her self-deprecating statement.

"Damn," he swore appreciatively.

She wrinkled her nose, biting her lip. She wondered if this flattery was his way of continuing to make up for his behavior, but she didn't care. She enjoyed it. She stepped out of the yellow dress, closer to him, and he nudged it to the side with his foot, holding her against him, and then pushing her back against the door again.

His lips travelled over her neck, kissing hard and biting gently, and he reached for the straps of her bra reverently, drawing them down her shoulders. She reached behind her and unclasped the hooks. His fingers clutched the material as it loosened, and when she moved her hands back to his shoulders, he pulled the bra off, unlooping the straps from her wrists. She raked her nails down his shirt and lifted it up at the hem, pulling it up over his head and dropping it with her bra and her dress.

His hands covered her breasts, his thumbs sliding over her nipples in a way that made her breath hitch in her throat. He kissed the dip between her shoulder and her collarbone and she tightened her grip on him.

"Jethro," she moaned softly, arching her back. She drew in a deep breath and bit her lip. His mouth moved lower and his hands mimicked the movement, until his thumbs were drawing circles on her hips and his mouth was at her breast. She pressed her hands heavily into his shoulders.

He took her hand from his shoulder and moved his mouth to her knuckles, kissing the healing scrapes there. He pressed his forehead into her stomach, teeth nipping at her abdomen, making her muscles clench. His tongue traced the edge of her panties, the dips around her hipbones, and his other hand slipped between her legs, teasing her over the filmy material of the lingerie.

She squeezed his hand. He shifted to his knees and her hand slid into his hair. His fingers slipped against her and he made an approving noise in his throat. His teeth took the edge of her panties, and he pulled them down, sliding them past her thighs and knees with his hands.

"Oh, Jethro," she moaned hoarsely, as his lips lingered on the inside of her thigh, his fingers still stroking her. Her head spun. She pulled at his hair a little. "Jethro—oh—oh please," there was hope in her voice. He reached down to her ankle and drew his hand up her leg, holding her knee tightly and lifting her leg up.

He rested it over his shoulder and looked up at her.

Her head was tilted back. God, she looked so good. He turned his lips to her thigh and kissed her, his tongue moving over her possessively. She felt weak at the knees—she felt as if he were hero-worshiping her, there on the floor at her feet. His lips travelled higher, and he gripped the knee over his shoulder tightly.

"Yes," she gasped, when his lips took the place of his fingers. "Jethro-!" She arched her hips into his mouth. She lifted her hand shakily to knot it into her own hair, biting her lip as she turned her head back and forth. She leaned heavily against the door—she had never stood while a man went down on her—and tried not to fall.

She moaned, her breath catching in her throat. His tongue moved over every part of her, kissing, stroking, tasting—she hadn't expected him to be so—talented, though if the way he kissed was any indication—he dug his nails into her knee, and slid his other hand up the back of her other thigh to her lower back. His hands were as warm and teasing as his mouth.

She threw her head back hard, her knuckles turning white as she gripped his hair.

"God," she whimpered. "Oh, god, Jethro. I want—I want—"

His hand tapped gently against her thigh, as if he were asking her to clarify.

"I want you—I need you inside of me," she panted, her stomach tightening unbearably. Her muscles felt as if they would break if she didn't get her release—she wanted to shatter; she wanted him on top of her, his sweat and skin on hers—

He ignored her—he curled his tongue, pulled her a little closer. He held her leg against his neck and then slid his tongue inside her.

She screamed. She hadn't meant—she hadn't experienced—no man had ever done that to her, and she felt the tension in her crack like a whip. She tried to catch her breath, swallowing hard, her shoulders shaking.

"Jethro," she cried out. "I'm—I'm going to—"

She couldn't finish her sentence. He didn't need her to. He knew she was coming; he could feel her muscles clench. He eased up on her a little and pushed two fingers into her where his tongue had been, transferring his kisses to her thighs.

She pulled his hair hard, her heel digging into his back, and she slid her hand from her own hair down her abdomen, her nails clutching at her stomach. She cried out again, his name tumbling from her lips in an appreciative mumble. She came so hard stars exploded in her vision and she doubled over, reaching blindly for his jaw.

He dragged his lips over her hips and stood up slowly, his hands running over her ribs and her breasts. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close again, and he laughed in a smug, proud manner. She leaned into him, her lips against his neck.

"God," she murmured.

He moved his head and kissed her recklessly. She could herself on his lips and tongue, and there was no time to decide how she felt about it. She was naked and he was still in his jeans; he was hard against her thighs and she could feel it even through the dense material. She undid his belt and whipped it off of him, pushing the jeans down with his boxers.

He groaned when her fingers stroked over him. She pressed open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and his chest, still breathing hard. She pushed him back towards the bed and he spun her around, executing a smooth move that had them tumbling onto the bed. She arched her back, gasping. She flashed back to Marseille, and all the heat and passion that had spilled over there, and it only amplified her desire. He was heavy and he smelled so damn good.

She shuddered, her body still throbbing with aftershocks. He kissed her hard, his hips settling over hers, and she moaned, her thighs sliding against his. She reached between them, her hand stroking his abdomen and finding his cock.

"Easy," she warned hoarsely. She was still sensitive; she wasn't sure she could handle him taking her hard. "Take it slow, Jethro." The way she said his name was throaty, her voice sounded like whiskey, and he groaned, exercising extreme self-control not to lose it.

Her palm slid against him maddeningly as she guided him into her in a slow stroke, and she drew her hand back over herself. Her stomach clenched and she cried out, arching her back. His lips captured hers for a moment, and she pressed her thighs into him, gasping his name.

"Jen," he growled huskily.

She parted her lips and threw her head back; he watched the colour spill through her cheeks again, watched it all happen again, and he lunged forward with a growl, thrusting deep. She cried out hoarsely again, her eyes closed. Her stomach clenched against him again and he still watched her; it was an unbelievable turn on to watch her come—and he hadn't gotten to see it moments before; he'd only felt it.

She pulled his lips to hers again and kissed him violently, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Fuck," she swore weakly. "Hard, Jethro."

She was the only woman he'd been with who wanted it rougher after she'd been satisfied. He had more than taken care of her, and that gave him leave to take his pleasure at will. He drew his lips over her jaw, his hand sliding down to her thigh, pulling it around his waist. She squeezed her thighs around him and he groaned.

"Jen," he growled, burying his face in her neck.

Her hand ran over his neck, threading into his hair. She arched into him, giving him a mind-numbing angle, and he slammed into her a final time. He might have shouted something into her skin; he yanked at the sheets under them and held her thigh harder than he meant to, and he knew it would bruise.

She whispered his name to him.

"Jenny," he groaned desperately, shoulders shuddering. His lips and teeth moved against her throat silently; his final thrusts were erratic and slower, coming down slowly from a white-knuckled climax.

She tilted her head back and breathed out, relaxing slowly. He eased out of her gently, his tongue soothing the bite marks on her throat. He collapsed on his back and she rolled towards him, wrapping herself around him. His hands immediately stroked through her hair and he pulled her closer. She shivered. He turned his head towards her and looked at her.

His expression was raw and open; she savored it for a moment. Then he kissed her again, and their eyes were closed—and there was nothing to see. Her heart still beat wildly in her chest, and she bit her lip. Her eyes were stinging; she threaded her fingers into his hair.

"You still owe me dinner," she whispered seductively, her words touching him right all over.

He nodded, his lips moving in her hair.

"Whatever you want, Jen," he growled gently.

She wasn't even sure he realized he'd given himself to her like that.

It was not her own nightmare that woke her up in the darkest hour of the night. She slept soundly and warmly, better than she had in days; it was the sudden cessation of Gibbs' snoring that startled her into groggy awareness.

He twisted in his sleep, his shoulder shoving heavily into her. She rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair back, reaching over and running her hand over his chest. He made a noise in his throat, a broken, pained noise.

"Jethro," she murmured soothingly.

"Shannon," he grunted abruptly.

She took his hand in hers and pressed her lips to his jaw. He had said it before. She had heard the name before they had ever slept together, once when he had fallen asleep on a stakeout, and twice on the plane ride to Europe. An ache stumbled through her chest, but she tried to ignore it.

He jerked awake when her hair brushed his chest.

"Jen," he recognized her immediately, and she smiled a little in the dark.

He closed his eyes and reached for her uncertainly. His touch was hesitant; she felt suddenly like she wasn't the right woman; she wasn't supposed to be in his bed. She had thought it was the tryst in Marseille that made him wary—but it was her.

She spooked him, and she lay there stroking his hair and wondered who Shannon was, and what that woman had done to him that seem to have fractured a part of him he couldn't mend—she couldn't mend.

He was a mess, and she had fallen right into it. He had covered for her when she stepped in it in the Paris alley—but if Gibbs was the next mire she had to pull herself out of, because it took so much for him to just deal with feeling something for her, and he was going to inevitably hurt her—who would cover her when her partner was the hot mess she was trying to save herself from?

"I'm not forgetting the time I stepped in it and you
covered my ass until I could get out of it but that was alone,
undercover, and in the field."
[Jenny Shepard NCIS Season 3 Episode "Frame-Up"]

finis

feedback appreciated, and merci for reading!
-alexandra