Intoxicated

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it. My life would be a lot more interesting if I did. Characters originally developed and are the property of CBS/DBP/Paramount.

Authors Note: I'm blaming this on bourbon (Wild Turkey American Honey)… lack of a decent night's sleep… and a few other things that I probably should not mention. Set in Season 3, immediately after the events of Jeopardy. Reviews are always appreciated. _______________________________________________

She used the shower to sluice the smell of blood from her body running the water temperature as hot as she could stand it. While it washed away the physical evidence, the mental image of what she had seen and experienced remained. She found the hovering security outside her townhouse irritating, but understood the reasons behind it. She now sat in the study, sipping bourbon. It rarely failed to help chase away shadows, but tonight it wasn't what she needed.

She needed him.

Despite the honey overtones of the alcohol, it still burned after all of these years. She had learned that the rush that came with drinking it too rapidly had another consequence---- it made her skin incredibly sensitive and aching to be touched. Telling herself that that particular side effect could not easily be remedied, she took a large mouthful of the amber liquid and swallowed. She closed her eyes for a moment and let her thoughts wander.

Stanley. The Dempsey brothers. Ziva's innocence. The shot that had saved her life.

To Jethro.

Her hand shook slightly as she added more liquid to her Waterford tumbler. The man was responsible after all for this particular addiction. He was the one who had tempted her to try it: bourbon and some other things that she knew probably wouldn't be in her best interest to indulge in more than once. She wasn't one, however, to back down from a dare. She drank little else after Paris. And she always thought of him when the alcohol took effect and she felt her body relax, her inner ears buzz, and her mind was floating lazily somewhere about ten inches above her body.

She heard the quiet sigh from the darkened hallway and knew his eyes went from the glass in her hand to the decanter on the shelf cooling judging how much the level had dropped since he had last been in her study.

"Something I can do for you, Special Agent Gibbs?" The tone was icy and –if she were honest—a bit blurred. Not that she wasn't in control: she never let it get out of hand even when she was at home and could let herself go. Control was one of the few things she still prided herself on. She was no longer under any obligation to Jethro. Even if his well placed bullet had saved her life. But she'd be lying if she said that she didn't care—she still valued his opinion on both a personal level and a professional one. The shot had been made in the line of duty—nothing more. Semper Fi. Ha! Her mouth twisted in an ironic hint of a smile. 'Always faithful' was one of those phrases that held many connotations. God knew that they had both failed in some of those definitions. She took another large mouthful of bourbon—intent on chasing away the guilt that hovered. It could help her forget after he left… at least for a little while.

"Do I even want to know how you got past Hector?"

"Probably not. He'll be right outside if you ask me to leave"

"Would it do any good?" Green eyes met his blue. "Since when have you ever listened to a damn thing that I've said?"

His resulting smirk told her far more than words ever could. "Ducky was worried. Said I should check on you"

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine" The pause was intentional. She lifted her glass in a mock salute. "Thanks to you"

"I think the amount of bourbon you're drinking says otherwise"

"Ha!" The bitterness came through loud and clear, "You're here to lecture me on my drinking habits?"

"No"

"I killed Stanley" There. She'd said it. The heavy weight pressing on her conscience. She wasn't looking for confirmation or absolution. She had made a mistake and would have to live with it for the rest of her life. Verbalizing it somehow added a sense of formality to the horrid reality.

He heard her breath catch when he stood behind her and carefully took the glass from her hand. She trembled at the contact of his skin brushing against hers. Her eyes avidly watched him swallow a line of bourbon and her mouth was suddenly dry at the not so professional thoughts running through her mind.

"No," he crouched to the level of her chair and looked her firmly in the eye, "you didn't kill Stanley".

He could see her scrambling. Trying hard to hold back the tears that he knew where hidden just underneath her simmering anger. He could feel the wall cracking and was secretly surprised that she was willing to let him see any sign of vulnerability. Not that he would point that out.

He turned his head a fraction of an inch and skimmed his lips along her jaw line.

Damn. She still tasted like honey and some heady spice that he never had been able to identify. This time when they locked gazes, they recognized a mutual need. She wanted to feel alive and he wanted to celebrate that life.

She bit back only part of the moan and allowed her head to fall against the headrest of the chair thus giving him full access to the white column of her throat. There was no way he could have missed the change in her breathing or the acceleration of her heart rate. What was he doing to her? A thousand points of pleasure danced along her skin as he tasted – his lips moving in a tantalizing pattern along her throat. The pressure intensified.

She wanted. She needed. She burned from far more than the alcohol.

She turned so that she was now mouth to mouth, her softness straining against the hard planes of his body. She allowed her hands to wander and her fingers twisted into his silver hair—marveling at the way the taste of the bourbon mixed with his unique flavor.

This. This was what she craved far more than the bourbon. The words he muttered against her lips sounded dangerously like threats. She took them as promises. And tonight, she silently prayed that he keep each one.

He knew he was drowning. She was offering everything a man could want and his hands moved over her body fully intent on claiming what she had to give.

He swore and lifted her out of her chair and leaned her back against the desk. Her red hair was a stark contrast to the white papers now scattered beneath her. Her body was moving under his in a sweet torment that reminded him of times past. Her left hand moved his right from where it was tormenting a nipple and down to the area of her body that was generating the most heat— and had the most need.

"Jethro" She could hear the pleading in her voice but was beyond the point of being embarrassed by it."Touch me. Now"

She never felt him pull on the robe, but it fell open—exposing her skin. He blew warm air across her abdomen enjoying the way her flesh quivered in response to the sensation. Hot kisses teased along the triangle of silk that separated them. He slid a finger under each side and slowly worked them down her hips until they too landed on the growing pile of their clothing at his feet. His lips now replaced his fingers. Teasing. Touching. Tasting.

The slow burn was forgotten as his tongue delved deeper. She tensed for what seemed like a long moment and then cried out as her body shuddered---the rush intense as she rocketed towards momentary oblivion.

The pressure in his groin grew exponentially, but he fought the urge to plunder. This was a ride he intended to prolong. He had waited for almost seven years. He could afford to make sure that this time was as memorable as the last.

"Jen, come on. Give me another one. Let yourself go." He toyed with the wet heat he found. Her legs came up and around him as she bowed up—allowing herself another spree on the stream of ecstasy rushing through her body. She could hear herself babbling his name—lost in the sensation.

Gibbs lifted her bottom with both hands and plunged one time hard to the hilt. Rapid breathing and ragged whispers tore at what control he had and snapped it: muscles gave into the moment. This was primal—the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. He felt her clench tightly around him and then a rush of warmth. He didn't know when the shudders ended, only that one moment he had lost touch with reality and the next he was holding her close to him, placing gentle kisses on the top of her head and allowing them both the chance to catch their breath.

The afterglow began to cool and her insecurity filtered in. Something had changed and it had little to do with the bouron. He had risked both of their lives today. She never would have asked that of him—but would have expected nothing less of the man she had known so well. But she also knew that it was foolish to expect more than this type of comfort. She had lost such benefit by walking away years ago. If her heart got broken again, she would blame no one but herself.

He lifted her as if he would a child and carried her from the study and up the stairs into her bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed and kissed her. She ran her hands along his chest, relishing in the steady beat of his heart. She paused at a scar on his shoulder—the souvenir from Ari. She kissed it gently. If only she could reach his other wounds that he buried so deep. If only he could reach hers.

"Does it still hurt"? She asked softly.

"No" She watched his eyes turn a darker shade of blue before he leaned down and gently nipped at her collar bone. "This time, I'd like to do it much slower"

"I'm not sure if my heart can take anymore tonight"

"Your heart can take whatever you are willing to let it, Jen" He dipped his mouth to enclose a taut nipple.

God, she hoped so. For now, she just relished the feeling of being intoxicated. By him.

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The End