Title - Bulletproof
Author - pepsicolagurl
Rating - PG13 for language, situations, violence and the whole shebang
Disclaimer - See Chapter One.
Author's Notes - The end. This is it. There's no sequel for this one, but I do have another story in the works. These two characters have inspired me. God help us all. Thank you to all of you who reviewed. I really appreciate it more than you can tell. And yes, there is sex in this part, but nothing explicit. It didn't seem right after writing this whole thing, so the PG13 rating remains. So, enjoy this last part, and I hope to see you the next time around.
Dedications - Kind of late for them, but here we go. First of all, to my mother, who laughed at my pain: "What, are you telling me that you cried? It's a television characters." To which I responded, "Hey, I've caught you crying over people that died on Days of Our Lives. Don't mock my pain." To my best friend, Nancy: "What, who was it that died? Oh, was he that cute one?" And to my father, who is absolutely clueless about the things that I do. Yes, Dad, all this typing that I do late at night, early in the morning, whatever, is because I'm writing you a love letter. Now I know who I got my sarcasm from. It only took twenty one years to figure it out. And finally, most importantly, to all the fans who believe, like me, that again, there's just something about these two characters that inspire.
Calleigh yawned as she brought the coffee cup up to her lips, blowing on the hot liquid before regarding the scene before her. It was, to say the least, messy. The suspect had no clue of what he was doing. He had left a lot of evidence, evidence of incompetence, all over the place. In fact, that suspect was currently using up all the hot water in the shower. A faint smile curved her lips as she sat down at the rarely used dining room table, this time utilized for all of its space.
She felt her body being lifted, felt his strong arms encircle her, surround her, as he laid her gently on the bed. The pillows were still in the living room, but neither of them cared. His lips never left hers as she sunk back onto the mattress, feeling his arms leave her waist, and instead caressed her, from the top of her blonde hair, down her face, down her arms, down to her fingertips which were splayed on his shoulders.
She shook her head, reaching for the nearby remote and pointing it in the direction of the large stereo system in the living room, turning on the radio. Her coffee mug went down beside her as she reached for the first roll of wrapping paper, unrolling it in front of her and placing the first box on it, reaching for the scissors. A deal was a deal, after all.
There was no doubt in her mind that he would be a considerate lover, someone who cared about her first. So unlike the other men she had dated in the past, who had assumed that she liked it rough, because of what she did, because of who she was. There was tenderness in his touches, and when she chanced opening her eyes, she found him staring back at her, his eyes devouring her, and there pain was gone from his eyes, the sadness that he tried so hard to hide, but failed most of the time. She sighed against him, when his lips burnt a path across her jaw and down her neck. This was sublime. There was no other word to describe it.
The woman felt a blush rising to her cheeks as she flashed back to last night, and instead, looked back down at her wrapping. Her fingers moved automatically as she cut the coloured paper, pulled it around the box and taped it into place. The music from the radio, whatever it was, barely floated out to her, and she was glad. She was enjoying her flashbacks, she was enjoying reliving those moments, even if they hadn't happened that long ago. She finished with the first gift, complete with bow and gift tag, before moving it off to the side to reach for the next.
He was teasing her. He would move away when she tried to get closer, keeping her in place by the sensuous movements of his hands. She felt them playing with the bottom of her tank top, unsure of whether or not to continue, to go further. She sat up, helping him, looking at him. The shirt dropped on the floor with barely a whisper. There was no smile on his face, ut it was inhis eyes, and that was all that mattered. His eyes smiled at her. And now, those hands, rough by feel, but tender by touch, were on the naked skin of her back, and she loved it. Couldn't stop it. Didn't want to stop.
The sound of the water running still came from the bathroom, and the occasional sound of a shampoo bottle being put back down, a bar of soap being put back into place. There had been no awkward morning after moment for them. She had woken up exactly where she had fallen asleep, in his arms, head against his chest, his face buried in her hair. And he had woken her gently, knowing that she was a morning person, knowing not to startle her. Rubbed his hand up and down her bare arm, caressed her fingers, dropped feather-like kisses in her hair. She had woken with a smile, just like she had fallen asleep with a smile.
Soft murmurs, quiet whispers. They didn't really need to speak. It was if their bodies had been waiting for this. They were so attuned to each other, in sync with each other. He hovered over her. He laid her back again, and instead of the warm hands on her back, it was the cool sheets. She balled her hands in his tee shirt, tugging at it, pulling at it, before he finally relented, and it joined her shirt. Her fingers examined the newly uncovered skin, willing herself never to forget the texture, the smell of it. His scar was a part of him now, something that had brought them together.
With Alexx's gift wrapped, and she had no doubt that it was for her, because she had peeked in the box, she moved onto Eric's gift. A new roll of wrapping paper, picking up the scissors again. The sound of paper being cut filled the air before she reached for her coffee and finally took a sip of the hot liquid. The water was shut off now, and she couldn't help but wonder when that had happened. Her mind filled with the image of Tim Speedle, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist. She bit her lip as she tried to concentrate on the gift she was wrapping, but it was no use. She knew where her mind was.
The kisses started at the waist band of her pants and slowly moved up. Her hands were useless, she didn't have the strength to move them as he covered her feverish skin with his lips. Her stomach muslces contracted and then relaxed. he moved higher up, eyes closed, tip of his nose rubbing against her skin. Another sigh, this time his, enjoying the taste of her skin, the sweetness, the saltiness. He continued upward, now kissing the warm, intimate area between her breasts, her eyes sliding shut as he paid attention to that certain area, his bare skin sliding against hers. This was torture. Her mind was so wrapped up in her own pleasure that she forgot she was supposed to be a willing partner in this. And she commanded herself to move her hands, even if only to rest them on his skin, as he finally left that small purchase of skin, moving up to her neck, kissing her pulse. He slid up and came near her ear, as her hands finally loved again, caressing the warm skin of his shoulders, the back of his neck. Yes, this was how it was done, she told herself. Give and take. But she stopped when he heard his whisper, breath so hot against her skin. Heaven. This was Heaven.
She heard his bare feet pad across the hallway, back to the bedroom. Was he expecting her to still be in bed? She couldn't stay there forever, no matter how much she wanted. She made a promise, made a deal, and she was paying up on her end of it, she told herself as Eric's gift went off to the side. Horatio's was next.
"No," he had whispered, and her hands stilled, eyes opened, as she looked back at him. She repeated the word, watching as he shook his head. The smile was in his eyes again, brightening them, making them sparkle in the dim light that fought its way through the curtains. He returned to his ministrations on her neck, allowing her mind to race through all the possibilities of what that meant before she felt his chuckle against her skin, that throaty chuckle, and her eyes closed again at the sensation. "All about you," he murmured, his hands pushing her hair out of the way, so that he could get to an area of skin that he hadn't yet covered. She smiled.
Drawers opening, closet doors opening, metal hangers bouncing against each other. He was getting dressed, and here she was, sitting in a pair of his old jeans, certain that they didn't fit him anymore, and to tell the truth, they were still too big on her, and one of his button down shirts over her tank top from the night before. What would he say when she saw him, his shirt rolled up to her elbows, his jeans rolled up so that they weren't dragging on the ground anymore. Then she realized that she didn't care. Why should she?
His caresses left her skin on fire. Completely unclothed now, for his eyes to examine. He had, and then gone back to the task at hand. She was completely at his mercy, her mind unable to comprehend anything but his touch, his smell, his voice. The barrier of clothing had been erased, and she shuddered with pleasure when his legs brushed against hers, his torso touched hers, his hands touched her. He was skilled. There was no other way to put it. She needed him, wanted him. She was ready, but he simply pulled himself up her body again. His lips left her after one last kiss, his hands cupping her face. He waited until she opened her crystalline eyes to look at him. "Hi," he whispered, and she was surprised at the prickle of tears in her eyes. This was the kind of man he was. "Hi," she whispered back, feeling his kiss on her cheek. She nodded, giving her final consent. This was it, this was the moment.
She ran a hand through her hair and looked over her shoulder when he entered the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Their eyes met, but neither of them said anything. Words would be useless at this point. They now knew each other, intimately by touch, intimately by soul from their whispered coversation the night before, when she had laid in his arms, tracing a never ending pattern on his chest. His eyes were smiling again, as he sipped her coffee. She tore his eyes away from him and finished wrapping the last gift on the table, closing her eyes when he walked behind her, and bent to kiss her cheek. Smell of soap, smell of toothpaste, smell of him.
She sighed when he entered her, slowly, oh so slowly, not wanting to bruise her delicate skin. The entire time, his lips ravaged hers, her hands on his skin, eyes closed to absorb the sensations. God, this was what it was like to make love to a man, to him. She was wrapped up in the sensations that he had created, painfully aware of her heavy breathing mixed with his, the tension in her shoulders, the openness of her body. He was kind, he was gentle. He filled her completely.
His eyes were on her fingers as she tore the tape and applied it to the wrapping paper, smoothing it out. It joined the others on the table. His eyes devoured every part of her, her lithe body encased in his larger clothes, looking for allt he world like a little girl playing dress-up in her father's clothes. He fought a smile at the thought of Calleigh as a child, choosing instead to remain looking at her, and her eyes met his.
She lay in his arms afterwards, listening to him breathe, listening to his heartbeat. They were both awake. Every now and then, as if he couldn't help it, he tightened his hold on her and kissed a part of her. Her hair, her face, her hands, her shoulder, whatever he could get near. "Tim?" she whispered, raising her eyes to look at him. She saw him smile, actually smile. Why didn't he smile more often, she wondered. It was boyish, charming, and completely unexpected. He looked down at her, as she brought her lips up to his. Gentle kiss, almost chaste. "Thank you."
She stretched her arms above her head, his eyes following the raising hem of the tank top, the tender skin that she uncovered for a second or two. She flashed a smile at him. "I'm done."
"I can see that," he answered, taking pleasure in the look on her face. He watched her finish her coffee and stand up, bending over him for a kiss, long hair creating a curtain around them, seperating them from the rest of the world.
"I should get home, change," she told him.
He reached out and took her hand, stopping her from turning away, before throwing the same line at her that she had used on him last night.
"Hide out with me."