"...I will take excellent notes for them." --Jennifer Shepard, Season4Episdode"Driven"

This is a one-shot derived from Jenny's quote during the Sexual Harassment seminar. I get so tickled by the looks she gives Gibbs during that bit, that after I heard that one line, I couldn't resist. Now beware: perhaps consider this my trick for Halloween; it is not for the kiddies. M.

He heard the click of her heels on the floor above his head mere seconds before he caught the scent of her perfume. The case hadn't been particularly stressful or painful, nor was it the weekend, nor had he done anything wrong; she had no reason to be here and yet even though he was curious he refused to acknowledge his interest in her showing up, ignoring her presence even as he familiar stilettos tapped methodically on their way down his basement stairs.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs continued to sand his boat, feigning indifference to her presence even though he already wanted to turn around and demand to know why she was here. Their relationship had been better lately, but he wasn't sure if he could handle her coming over to spend quality time together.

She moved easily around his workbench and box of tools set upon a stool, and he heard her helping herself to a makeshift glass of bourbon, recognized the sounds of nails and bolts tumbling out of one of his mason jars.

Smoothing the sander over one already impeccable expanse of wood, he blew imaginary sawdust off of the rib of his boat and brushed it lightly with his hand, letting the comfortable silence sit for a moment before he spoke.

"Get lost on your way home, Jen?" he asked mildly, setting the sander down inside the boat and inspecting his handiwork cursorily before he turned to finally give her a glance.

Jenny Shepard's lips turned up minutely at the corners and her sharp eyes flickered in a way that he knew well enough to make him suspicious of her intentions.

She was still in her work clothes—fashionable, complimenting, and no doubt designer blouse accompanied by flattering slacks and the customary ridiculously high heels. The only difference was the slight relaxed look of her hair, like the spray had been tousled out by the wind; now the short locks rested around her brow lazily.

Leaned against his countertops, she had the mason jar of bourbon in one hand, held delicately, and a thin manila file in the other, crossed across her chest.

Jethro met her eyes and glanced at the mysterious file pointedly.

"I need you to read this file," she said casually, ignoring his smart comment. She shook the folder slightly to indicate it and lifted the bourbon to her lips, shrugging a little. "Mandatory."

Jethro brushed his palm off on his jeans, narrowing his eyes to a threatening glare. She'd come all the way over to his house to force some bureaucratic crap on him?

"It can't wait?" he asked gruffly, glaring at the file. He swept up the sander and brought it back to the toolbox he always rested on a stool, tossing it into the mix of other tools and rummaging through for a hammer.

"Might be important," Jenny informed lazily, and he looked up at her, eyes narrowing a little more, studying her.

She lifted an eyebrow just slightly, her lips parted at the rim of her jar of bourbon, and she took a sip as he looked at her, her eyes flashing mischievously again. There was something in that look that hooked his attention.

He braced his palm against the stool, during towards her a little with an indulgent, exasperated look, and stopped in his quest for another hand tool.

"What is it?" he asked, giving in. If she wanted to play games, it might be easier to go along than fight it.

Jenny shifted, tapping her shoulder lightly with the file as she swallowed her mouthful of bourbon and held it out to him nonchalantly. He couldn't help watching the movement of her throat as she swallowed, his eyes tracing the column of her neck down to the loose top button of her oxford.

Clearing her throat softly, Jenny tapped a nail against the file. With a dramatic grumble that clearly conveyed his displeasure, Jethro straightened up a little and took it, a little roughly, shooting her a churlish look.

"The notes from the Sexual Harassment Seminar," Jenny relented as he held the file, tilting her head at it a little. Jethro stared at her in disbelief, tempted to throw the neat file against the wall—no, better yet: douse it in bourbon and set fire to it. Immediately. He thought he'd gotten out of that when they caught the AI-Self-driving-car case. It had been bad enough sitting through that bull when Jenny kept shooting him smirks and cocking an eyebrow suggestively.

"You can't be serious, Jen," he growled.

"It's important material, Jethro," Jenny responded seriously, her tone scolding, "You got out of the class because of the case. You have to know what you missed."

He glared balefully at her, thumbing the corner of the file repeatedly in an attempt to bend it and irritate her, unable to believe she'd actually been serious when she told that uptight instructor she'd take detailed notes.

"Jen," he said in a low voice, scowling, "I know what sexual harassment is. I don't need the material."

"Oh, you do? You understand what inappropriate behavior in the work environment consists of?" Jenny asked mildly, those seductive eyebrows lifting a little higher. She smirked suggestively and he strengthened his glare.

"It's only inappropriate if the other party doesn't consent," he snapped in a growl, fully aware of her insinuations, "and if I remember correctly, you did."

Jenny compressed her lips as if demurring. She cut her eyes to the file and looked at him through her thick lashes, her features suddenly going stern and cool. She took a slow drink of her bourbon and set the jar down, resting her hands behind her on the counter.

"I highly recommend you read those notes, Jethro," she said quietly, all but ordering him.

Muttering under his breath, Jethro wrenched open the file and started scanning the page, fully intending to memorize a sentence, claim he'd read it, thrust it back at her, and be done with it if it would make her happy.

That is, until a few of Jenny's neatly scripted words caught his eye and he focused on what he was reading.

Then, he was pretty sure he forgot how to breathe.

He wasn't expecting such…detailed notes, notes on what exactly sexual harassment was, what it consisted of, and how it was performed. The intriguing, familiar sly glint in Jenny's green eyes made sense now, as he read over what she'd written—things he remembered well, things that seemed like fantasy, what she wanted and what she liked, things like 'his hands in my hair when he comes' and 'wrapping my legs around his waist, his tongue in my mouth…'. His mouth had gone dry, the basement seemed inexplicably hotter, and his jeans were suddenly more than uncomfortable.

His head spinning with sultry images and vocabulary that steamed with sex, he looked up at her, his eyes hard and darkened, glaring at her for her playful smirk and the coaxing slant of her wicked eyebrow.

"Damn good notes," he said hoarsely, snapping the file shut and chucking it on top of the tool box.

"You think?" she asked innocently. She tapped a manicured nail against the bourbon jar next to her hand and raked her eyes from his face to his torso, her self-appreciating smirk growing as her gaze traveled down, settling below his belt, lingering, before she glanced back up at him through her eyelashes again.

"Red light behavior, Jethro," she admonished throatily, her suggestion clear.

There wasn't an ounce of shame in his blood for the state he was in. He didn't realize he'd gotten closer to her until he could smell the intoxicating perfume on her neck and the faint, sunflower-rose scent of her shampoo. Jenny inclined her head to the side a little, exposing the length of her neck, and he took it as an open invitation, whether she meant it to be or not.

"Red meant go, right?" he mumbled, wrapping a hand around her arm tightly and tugging her towards him as he lowered his mouth to her neck. Jenny moaned at the first light contact. He gripped her lithe waist tightly, bruising, pressing her into him and pulling her away from the counter. The way her pulse skittered under his lips urged him on.

He drew his hand over her shoulder, pressing against her breast through her clothing, until he reached the buttons of her crisp oxford, gracefully pulling buttons from their holes.

He dragged his fingers down the shirt impatiently, impatient with the intricacies of female clothing, exerting tremendous effort not to destroy her clothing in the process. Her small hand was at his waist, conquering his button, knocking his hand off base in her haste.

Jethro pulled back from her neck and pushed her shoulders back, shucking the unbuttoned shirt off of her shoulders and running his hands over the bare skin he revealed, untouched for so long. Jenny fluttered her eyes and grasped his t-shirt at the shoulders, pressing herself into him again, words forgotten, protests of the past forgotten; she spun him around and stumbled backwards until her back hit the frame of the boat and knocked her breath away.

She moaned when his mouth met hers and pulled his hips tight against her, pushing demandingly at the jeans. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, her cursive writing swimming in his blurred vision, reaching down to help her push his jeans down. He pushed her hand away, unfastening her slacks and hooking his fingers below the waist, waiting for her sharp intake of breath.

Jenny threw her head back, breaking away from his kiss, one hand pulling him closer, fisted in his t-shirt. She hooked a leg around his as if to draw him into her, another moan escaping her lips as he shimmied her slacks down and ran his hand against her silk panties, splaying a hand over her hip and grinding her hips against him.

"Jesus Christ, Jethro," she gasped, nails digging into his shoulder through the old t-shirt. She took a fistful of his shirt and yanked upwards, fumbling with her other hand to pull it over his head and run her hands over his chest and the taut muscles of his abdomen. He groaned and dropped a hand to her bare thigh, hitching it tighter around his waist, stepping closer to her, and lowering his mouth to her shoulder.

He scraped his teeth against the tight skin over her collar bone and Jenny arched into him, mumbling his name and what sounded like a curse.

"Wrap your legs around me, Jen," he muttered, repeating her written words back to her, tasting the valley between her breasts with his tongue. Jenny writhed underneath him, her hand insistent at his boxers, thing fingers jerking at them. He knocked her hand away and drew her panties down her legs instead, running his hand up the inside of her thigh.

Jenny moaned low in her throat, angling her hips towards him, one of her arms snaking up to wrap around a rib of the boat and grip it until her knuckles were white. She wrapped her other leg around his thigh and he gripped it tightly and hitched it around her waist with the other, ignoring the sharp point in his back that was the reminder she still had her heels on.

Jenny maneuvered her free hand between them and conquered his boxers, pressing her mouth against his again with such intensity he thought he was going to lost it right then, when the brush of her hand against him was added to it.

He brushed a hand along her cheek, slipping it into her short hair tightly, winding his fingers into soft, crimson strands.

"This what you like, Jen?" he asked huskily, his lips brushing against hers. She traced his lips with her tongue, kissing him slowly, seductively, tightening all of his muscles with pent up sexual release.

"You know what I like," she hissed, lifting an eyebrow. "You read my notes."

Jethro pressed into her, teased her, his hand running over the fluttering muscles of her stomach and lower, holding her against him. He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, savoring the memory of her smutty seminar record. He braced his hand against her shoulder and held her gaze with his hand in her hair as he slipped into her.

"Jethro," she breathed, and he bit back a groan, putting his mouth close to her ear, so his lips brushed hers, murmuring her notes in her ear.

"Hard," he said, thrusting into her, "fast. Hot. Burying your face in my neck. The way I say your name—"

"God," Jenny moaned, her breathing picking up with his mantra. She arched into him tightly, lacing her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

"—when I make it last. Your legs around my waist, the way my skin feels against yours—"

"Jethro," she cried, pulling his hair, her muscles clenching around him. Jenny buried her face into his neck and moaned his name desperately, biting his shoulder with a shiver. Jethro tightened his hand in her hair and thrust into her hard, shuddering against her, his vision gone white and his words silenced.

His hand slipped off of her shoulder and down her side gently, massaging her ribs. His breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps against her shoulder and she tried to catch her breath against his neck, her mouth hot against his skin. Slowly, she let her hand fall from the rib of the boat above her and pulled back, disentangling her legs from him a little, wrapped tightly around him in a compromising position that she'd perpetrated, looking into his aroused, cobalt eyes more closely than she had in years.

"Christ, Jenny," he mumbled, leaning his forehead into hers as she closed her eyes, swallowing hard, a small smile playing over her lips.

Calming her breathing enough to manage a husky sentence, Jenny nudged his head away and kissed him shortly, giving him the briefest taste of tongue before she pulled away and ran her hand up his bicep to his neck, caressing his pounding pulse.

"I told you it was important material," she said primly, wincing a little with a small gasp as he slipped out of her and pulled her close, her feet on the ground again, hugging her to him so she fit perfectly.

"Wasn't very clear," he murmured hoarsely.


"Still don't know if red's good or bad." Jethro growled, brushing her hair out of her face.

Jenny smirked, looking at him through dark, enticing eyelashes, her eyes misty with the aftermath of sex and passion, enough to draw a groan from him.

"You didn't read the second page, did you?"

Oh yes, I must say--It's for Aly. She asked for a story. She demanded not sad. I compromised--apparantly my midway between Angst/Fluff is smut.