DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

A/N: No flipping idea where this came from either. Probably a nice mental break from the last two days of my life – or was it three? Yeah…that bad. Hope it provides anyone else a distraction as it has for me!

DEDICATION: You know, if you tell me these little PWP pieces are like early Christmas presents, it will encourage me to write more. Grin. So this is dedicated to those who like those little gifties.

LAST NOTE: If you are not 18, please go read something else. If you are over 18, let me know if you enjoyed this – after the cold shower.

What You Need

Night wraps the city in its dark coat as he trudges home. A light burns softly as he pushed the door open and slips inside, moving quietly. Too damn late to wake her. Damn stake-out.

He drops his keys onto the counter, slides his wallet and gun next to them. The rest of his clothing tells the tale of his exhaustion, slipping from his body as he makes his way to her bed. He pauses on his way to the bathroom and groans in exhausted frustration.

She is sleeping on her side, her face towards him, the muscles relaxed, soft, in slumber. Her dark hair tangles and curls over the pillow. The bed sheet covers her, but not enough to disguise the fact she's wearing very little, if anything at all. Her bare shoulder and the swell of a breast tantalize him.

He smothers another groan as he moves past her to the bathroom, to shower off the stink of two days in a car and to let the heat and pressure of the water begin to unknot his rigid muscles. Even as he strips off his t-shirt and boxers in the bathroom he considers putting it off, returning to her, stroking, kissing, nipping at her until she wakes up. God, he loves it when the first thing she knows is his touch making her hot and wet. She makes these sounds just before she actually wakes up, soft, mewling sounds as his fingers and lips pleasure her, sounds that plead and ones that express nothing but bliss at his ministrations. Blood pools in his groin at the thoughts running through his head. The slow, steady ache her presence always causes begins low in his body and his burgeoning erection gives its opinion. With a sigh, he steps under the shower spray, telling himself she'll still be there when he's done, when he feels human again.

He jumps only slightly when her fingernails scrape lightly along his chest, which he has just rinsed. "You didn't wake me," she pouts from behind him, her hands flat now against his pecs, pulling him toward her body.

He chuckles softly. "I was planning to."

She leans up and nibbles her way from the back of his neck to his ear. "I hope so."

He reaches for the soap again, intending to give himself another scrubbing, but she takes it from him and, wordlessly, lathers his whole body. Her fingers are deft and gentle, but strong and knowing as well. She begins with his back, washing him and easing the tension in his muscles all at once. Slowly, as if inventing a new form of torture, she moves down his back, kneading each muscle group with dexterous care. The ache in the small of his back diminishes as she works him.

He cannot help the sharply inhaled breath as her fingers find his ass and she gives it the same treatment as his back muscles. He groans, a prolonged sound of relief and arousal, as she works magic with her hands. He tenses involuntarily when he feels her step closer to him, feels the brush of her taut nipples brushing against him. His eyes flutter shut. Anticipation builds in him, in his now straining erection, eagerly awaiting the warm, confident wrap of her fingers.

She tickles her way around his abdomen, one finger lightly tracing the scar there. He catches her hand briefly, squeezing it. They no longer to talk about it. It's in the past; that and every other thing that conspired against them that year. Her hands, once free again, travel upward. She smiles against his back as he whimpers in protest. The protest is short lived as soon she is pulling, tugging and gentling rolling his nipples in her fingers, shooting currents of desire through him. She murmurs for him to give her some shampoo.

She begins to lather the gel into his hair, her nails running along his scalp, her fingers almost digging in. Woody groans happily. He had no idea how amazing that could feel. He reaches behind him for her; he wants to see her, to kiss her even as she finishes her chosen task, but she moves easily out of his grasp. "Behave," she tells him, her voice low and sultry.

"Or what?" He can't resist asking.

"Or you'll go to bed alone."

He promises to be a good boy. A very good boy.

She grins and rinses the foam from his dark hair. He sighs in relief, her hands trailing lower again. Still she keeps him on edge, running her palms along his hair-roughened thighs, crouching down to massage his calves and hamstrings. Mutely, she nudges him until he turns at last. She gazes up at him, her eyes dark with lust and love and a wanton quality he brings out in her more than any man before. No longer are these games simply that; they have become expressions of love and devotion. He studies her face, his blue eyes wide and burning in the steamy air. She backs him against the wall before rising up just enough to wrap her mouth around him. He cries out at the feel of her mouth.

It seems to go on forever. The pressure, the sweep of her tongue, the ever-so-gentle nibbling, the attendant caresses. He lets out a strangled cry. "Jo… stop!"

She doesn't listen.

He reaches for her shoulders and pulls her up, crushing her to him. His mouth is on her – her collarbone, her neck, her jaw line, up to the shell of her ear. "Inside you. Want to be… inside you," he tells her breathlessly before his mouth finds hers and his fingers tangle themselves in her wet tresses, holding her head captive for his onslaught of lips and teeth and tongue.

Hardly letting her catch her breath, he spins her so she is pinned against the wall. His hands roam easily down her body, provoking ego-pleasing moans and whimpers. His lips finally leave hers, only to kiss their way down to one tight, aching nipple. Even as he suckles strongly on her, his hands are moving lower, stroking her thighs until she shifts her legs apart. He bites down gently on her breast as he slips a finger inside her, then another one quickly after, stretching her deliciously. She is so tight, so wet, so hot he finds it more and more difficult to focus on giving her as much as she gave him.

"Woody." Her breath is short, ragged. "I want you inside me. Now."

His hands move to hips and he hoists her up. She wraps her legs around him and hangs on as he breaches her body's opening. She cries out in satisfaction as he fills her. They are a perfect fit; their bodies aware of what it took their hearts and minds so long to face up to. He is moving in her, fast and strong, a smooth rhythm. Using the shower wall to bear some of her weight, he slips one hand between their joined bodies, his finger seeking the bundle of nerves that he knows is throbbing, engorged and more than ready for him.

She gasps when he strokes it, his finger keeping pace with his body's thrusts. The orgasm builds low in her belly and then claws its way out, engulfing her body in a ferocious wave of pleasure. She can only cling to him as she shudders and trembles in his arms. Her final, astonished "Oh, God. Oh, Woody" sends him over the edge. His mouth closes on the slope where her neck becomes her shoulder. He cries his own pleasure into her flesh, his grip on her almost painfully tight.

Slowly, he lets her down and they slide apart. She turns off the water, just beginning to turn cool, while he reaches for the towels. He grabs the big, soft, fluffy one she keeps on the rack and wraps them both in it, drying her back desultorily. They lean on each other for support, neither entirely trusting their legs to bear their weight.

Only when their harsh panting has subsided, does she speak. "Welcome home."

He gives her a broad, exhausted smile and strokes her hair. "Thanks."

"Rough day?" She looks up, her amber eyes twinkling.

He nuzzles her ear. "I don't remember."

She arches an eyebrow.

"If it was, coming home to you made it all worthwhile."

She gives him a smile of her own. "Let's go to bed, Farm Boy."