A/N: An AU one-shot. Based on the songs 'Good Girls Go Bad' (Cobra Starship) and 'Cowboy Casanova' (Carrie Underwood) Not Songfic. For Aly; I think it will be clear why:)

Starring: Leroy Jethro Gibbs; Marine/Jennifer Shepard; College Student-slash-Goody Two-shoes virgin/Aly; mischievous roommate.


Something was trying to wake Aly up.

It was loud, repetitive, and insistent. Knocking…that's what it was called…damn knocking.

Aly lifted her head and blew hair out of her face, groaning softly as she glared towards her roommate's bed.

"Jenny. Get the door," she ordered.

Nothing happened, and the knocking continued.

"Jen!" growled Aly, and chucked a pillow at her roommate. The pillow landed on the bed and Aly lifted herself on her elbows a little, narrowing her eyes.

Where the hell was Jenny?

Aly grumbled and dragged herself out of bed, trudging towards the dormitory door. She wrenched it open, yawning, scowling balefully, and completely prepared to bite someone's head off.

She was not prepared to find her absent roommate in a curious state of disarray.

Aly blinked.

She lifted an eyebrow slowly and looked Jenny Shepard up and down, from the cute, strappy green heels she wore to the tangled, curly red hair. She noted that aforementioned Jenny Shepard was wearing yesterday's outfit.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," Aly stated, leaning against the door and folding her arms.

"Lost my key," Jenny murmured, avoiding her roommate's eyes.

Aly smirked and looked the other girl up and down appraisingly.

Skirt and sweater: wrinkled. Strappy heels: haphazardly laced. Hair: had been tangled manually, as in by a man. This was all very interesting information. Jenny had been out all night. Abnormal, and intriguing.

"You stay out all night?" Aly probed.

Jenny rolled her eyes and gave her a look.

That is when Aly noticed. When Jenny met her eyes. She looked like she was smiling. Even though she wasn't, it was there. In her mouth, and in her eyes, and her pink cheeks. Like a secret.

Aly straightened. She lifted both eyebrows, and a knowing smirk crept across her lips. Her first thought? No way. Not Jenny Shepard. But all the signs were there. She thrust out her finger and pointed at her prudish roommate boldly.

"You got laid!" she shouted wickedly.

"Shh!" hissed Jenny violently, smacking her hand over Aly's mouth and shoving her over the threshold of their dorm. She kicked the door shut and forced Aly back to her bed, tackling her down, grabbing a pillow, and hitting her with it.

"Someone could have heard you!" snapped Jenny.

"That was the idea, sister!" restored Aly, shoving Jenny away with a gloating smile. "This is monumental. The whole world needs to know. Little miss innocent lost her virginity!"

Jenny blushed and bit her lip, whacking Aly with the pillow again.

"I never said that; you assumed," she said.

Aly laughed and propped herself up on her elbows, shielding another smack with the pillow and giving Jenny a devilish look.

"Oh no, honey, no assumptions here; I know," she said primly, and nodded at Jenny. "It's those eyes of yours. Spill."

Jenny bit her lip.

She buried her face in the pillow and Aly shrieked, jumping up and scooting closer, tugging the pillow away.

"You did! You lost it!" she cried, shocked at the confirmation, and half in awe.

Jenny smiled slowly. She giggled.

Aly lifted her brows again and wiggled them.

"I am waiting, Jen," she said impatiently.

Jenny shook her head.

"No. It's personal."

Aly stared at her for a split second and then whacked her in the back of her pretty head.

"Tell. Me." She ordered.

Jenny folded her arms over the pillow and swallowed, biting back a smile.

"His name was Jethro—"

"Jesus, Jen, don't tell me you let some guy named 'Jethro' pop your cherry," groaned Aly distastefully.

"Alyson!" hissed Jenny, her nose flushing at the vulgarity. She gave Aly a look. Aly rolled her eyes.

"He's a marine," Jenny said.

"Acceptable, then," Aly said. "Continue. Don't scrap on the dirty details."

Jenny looked down at her hands and then past Aly's shoulder to a stack of her Political Science books, the night rushing back to her…


Loud music, half-dressed people, the smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and men.

It wasn't a scene Jenny Shepard was used to. Nor was she at home in it, comfortable in it, or desirous of it. She'd much rather be back in her cozy university dorm with a political thesis in front of her.

She had been dragged, gnashing her teeth and clawing at eyes, to this bar for a 'celebration', in the relative words of her best friend and roommate Alyson.

"Jen, you got a perfect score on an exam everyone else failed. We're going out!"

That had been the decree, and Jenny, gracing Aly with the benefit of the doubt and trusting her to choose a place for dinner or a benign club, had refrained from bursting her bubble. Aly in turn had destroyed the benefit of the doubt, and dragged her protesting whiner of a roommate to a hard core bar.

Jenny surveyed the room, folded her arms, and turned up her nose.

"Loosen up, Jenny; this isn't a punishment! Damn, girl—you look hot, you're gorgeous; knock 'em dead for once!" Aly encouraged, leaning into her shoulder and smirking.

Jenny smiled and rolled her eyes, raising an eyebrow at her friend. Aly studied the conservative, prim look on Jenny's face and rolled her eyes good-naturedly, pointing ominously at her roommate.

"One of these days, Jenny Shepard, I shall rend your uptight innocence to miniscule pieces and stand amidst the pile of it, laughing wickedly."

Jenny laughed outright.

"I have no doubt of that, Aly," she agreed.

Aly gave her a mysterious look and turned away, already attracted elsewhere by the music and the fun. She lifted her brows and slipped away, abandoning Jenny and giving her a few last words of wisdom.

"It's about time you got laid, honey!"

Jenny shook her head and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

She moved gracefully out of the way of the crowd of people, casting a critical eye around the bar to observe her surroundings. The establishment was filled with the drunken conglomeration of the human blend of mating-call-and-dance. Grinding, touching, kissing—whatever it was so-called.

She heard a shriek of bubbly laughter that was Aly's and quirked a half smile. She turned her head and her eyes fell to the jukebox in the corner, old and brow-beaten, and she tilted her head a little.

A lone man leaned against it casually, and her eyes roamed the fit impressive fit of his jeans for lack of anything better to do, following the contours of the hand that rested at his hip and then his strong shoulders, covered in Parris Island t-shirt.

She settled her gaze on his face and caught her breath, unprepared for the raw good looks she stumbled upon; a luring blend of handsome and sexy. Strong jaw, clean shaven, immaculately clipped jarhead cut of the hair, and a pair of icy, piercing, blue eyes.

Irrationally, she felt drawn by those eyes; intoxicated. Couldn't look away.

Until he looked at her, his eyes catching hers in a sudden quick flash; they sparkled and he smirked, as if he'd known she'd been watching. Those cobalt blues held hers and mocked of their own volition.

Jenny simply arched an eyebrow, hardly intimidated, pursed her lips and turned away.

Jenny took a stool at the bar, leaning languidly onto the counter and waiting until the bottle-blonde, pony-tailed tender awarded her attention to her unfamiliar customer.

"Pick your poison, sweetheart," she ordered, her disposition friendly and open.

Jenny brushed her fingertips against her lips silently and took stock of the taps and mixes behind the counter. She was a wine or liqueur girl, but this was hardly the atmosphere for that. She ignored the beer, considered the tequila with disdain.

The pretty bartender gave her a wise look and pushed off the counter, whipping a tumbler from the shelves down under and partitioning a generous amount of dark amber liquid into it. She slid it deftly in front of Jenny and winked at her.

"Bourbon," she announced briskly, and Jenny rested her index finger on the edge of the glass skeptically. "Take it from me, honey, you'll need a friend in Jack Daniels if you've taken an interest in Casanova over there," she said knowingly.

Jenny flicked her eyes covertly to the jukebox and back again, lifting the tumbler experimentally in her hand. She gave a small half-smile and the bartender grinned.

"Knew I saw you lookin' at blue-eyes," she murmured appreciatively.

"What's his story?" Jenny asked mildly.

"You talk," noted the bartender with a smirk. She threw a glance at the subject of their conversation and jerked her head towards him. "He's the devil in disguise," she revealed with a secretive smile. Someone called her name down the bar and she lifted her finger at Jenny warningly. "You watch your back with him. That boy's like a drug."

Jenny lifted her eyebrows and tilted the complementary glass of bourbon to her lips.

She thought of Aly and grinned, throwing caution to the winds and swallowing the entire glass in one go. It was a slow burn like cold fire down her throat, stung violently at the back, but there was something sweet and intoxicating to it—other than the alcohol.

She looked at the empty glass and compressed her lips, narrowing her eyes.

The bartender materialized, apt as bartenders are to reappear when a drink was needed. Her colored brows shot up at the sight of her redheaded customer's empty glass and she laughed and nodded approvingly.

"Funny; I pegged you for the Prohibitionist type."

"Don't judge a book by its cover," Jenny retorted smartly.

The bartender put a hand on her hip and cocked her head.

"What can I really get ya?" she asked graciously.

"A Long, Slow Screw Up Against a Wall."

The bartender's eyes cut immediately to Jenny's right, to the direction of the low, gruff voice that had spoken for her. Jenny felt a strong, confident hand make itself comfortable in the general vicinity of her lower back, and the previously named devil-in-disguise leaned onto the bar next to her.

"My tab," he added.

"Way ahead of you there," the bartender threw back at him. She turned away, casting a superior look on Jenny.

Jenny rested her hands neutrally on the smooth wood in front of her and turned her head slightly, glancing down at the arm touching her mildly before slowly looking up to his face. She considered him a brief second, dashing blue eyes and all, before she favored him with speech:

"What's in that?" she queried.

"A darker room, a locked door, and a lot less clothing," he answered wickedly.

She tilted her head just a little and smirked, less than smitten with his roguishness and much less than daunted.

"The drink," she clarified distinctly.

"The drink," he repeated innocently. "Vodka, Galliano, Sloe Gin, Orange juice," he paused and tapped his finger against her empty tumbler. "Southern comfort."

"Dutch courage," she countered.

"Is that what you're after tonight?" he asked, lifting a brow with cool interest.

The bar tender slid the drink Jenny had been ordered in front of her and Jenny caught it gracefully, holding it delicately in her curved palm. He gestured to the girl, and she, recognizing the movement, whirled to fetch him a drink.

Jenny tilted her head and lifted the drink, eyeing it thoughtfully. She shot him a glance.

"Tell me what you're after first, Casanova," she challenged in a low voice, and she didn't miss the bar girl's approving smirk as she thrust him a tumbler full of plain Jack Daniels and twirled away to attend elsewhere.

He laughed, amused, and jerked his thumb at the bartender.

"She's been telling stories," he remarked.

Jenny pressed the edge of her tumbler against her lips, still debating whether or not to accept the drink he'd bought. It would mean at least favoring him with conversation, and while he admittedly had her attention, she wasn't sure she wanted to dive in.

He moved his hand on her back slightly and she arched an eyebrow dangerously.

"She seemed to think you deserved a narrative," Jenny allowed, her tone aloof. His warm hand felt good on her back but she wasn't about to let him know that. She didn't even know his name. "I figure I looked like I had a willing ear. She stigmatized you the real," Jenny pursed her lips mockingly, "Devil dog heartbreaker."

She threw out the military slang unexpectedly; already keen on his Marine status from the Parris Island t-shirt, tell-tale hair cut, and a lifetime of familiarity with servicemen thanks to Daddy the Colonel.

He looked impressed.

"You believe everything you hear?" he asked.

"I know you're type," she answered ominously. She smiled a little cynically. "Man like you looks like a cool drink of water."

He leaned forward, picking up his bourbon and examining it, slowly lifting his eyes back to hers.

He took a slow sip and his eyes hardened a little, watching her intently.

"That what I look like to you, huh?" he asked.

She smirked. She shook her head slowly.

"Bootlegged moonshine," she decided distinctly, straightening a little and leaning back. She crossed one of her legs over the other and relented to the drink in her hand, knocking back a generous mouthful.

He laughed, a wide smile breaking over his face. Her heart jumped just a little and she licked her lips, the drink tingling all the way down and kicking her nerves. He really did have a gorgeous smile.

"You're the one with the legs," he said appreciatively, giving them a look. She watched him admire her bare legs, smooth, and long, indulging him experimentally until his eyes hit the hem of her navy corduroy miniskirt and he found his way defiantly back up to her face.

She held her glass to her lips, inclined her head, and cut her eyes demurely at him, accepting the compliment.

"You got a name, red?" he asked in an intrigued voice.

She bit her lip, giving the effect of stopping a smile in its tracks, and held his gaze for a moment before she searched for and snagged a glimpse of the dog tags she knew would be around his neck. She swiftly leaned forward, hardly failed to miss the slight lift in his brows, and swept the metal identification into her palm.

"Jen," she said quietly, with a small smile, hardly understanding why she felt like letting this stranger call her 'Jen'. She read the name stamped on the tags and smirked. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

Her eyes sparkled as the captured his and she lifted her glass to her lips and bit the edge, wrinkling her nose and giving a soft, teasing laugh.

"Do you prefer Leroy, or Jethro, Gunny?" she asked, stealing his rank from the tags.

"Jethro," he allowed.

She cocked her head and took a drink of the alcohol again, narrowing her eyes slyly at him.

"Then, Jethro," she said good-naturedly, "if this is a long, slow screw up against a wall," she paused for the effect and leaned back, setting the drink down and spreading her fingers like a spider over top of it, "Colour me interested."

He grinned that fabulous grin. She had to take another drink because, hell, she couldn't believe she'd just said that. She could chalk it up to the glass of straight bourbon she'd tossed back when she wasn't used to hard drinking—or she could surrender and admit that his eyes were intoxicating and his gruff, seductive voice was like butterscotch and sanded wood.

He was equally interested. It struck him instantly, the moment she said it, how much he'd give to hear her moan his name in that sophisticated alto voice. She was educated; that much was evident, and classy—and that red wine, thick hair of hers was more alluring than any amount of bare skin.

He walked in counting on another boring night, looking for another boring girl; come on liberty, take liberties, and forget about it on duty the next morning when whoever the girl had been that time was still in bed, thinking he was next to her. Instead, she caught his eye in the midst of the usual suspects.

She silently prayed to the Gods who loved her to keep Aly absent, to keep her roommate's clever, plotting mind away tonight. She may have been dragged here from a warm bed and an even warmer cup of coffee, but she supposed she might stay for blue eyes and the primal attraction of a man in uniform.

Jenny smiled playfully and gave an internal shrug. What the hell. Something about him effortlessly made her want to lose control. And she was woman who went with her instincts. She turned and rested her arm on the bar.

His hand, jilted from its suggestive position on her lower back, smoothly transferred to her knee—or just a little—higher, and Jenny smirked, narrowing her eyes threateningly. She lifted her leg and pressed the heel of her stiletto into his calf.

"I'm flattered," she simpered, and lowered her voice. "But I am by no means that easy."

He drew back his hand slowly, and deliberately, taking his bourbon in it instead.

"Wouldn't be interested if you were," he said gruffly, and something told her he meant it. He was one to enjoy the cat and mouse game. She smirked.

The confident, straightforward exchange defined their banter. She nursed the drink he'd bought her slowly, always one to keep her head, and thrived on the increasingly suggestive and by no means boring repartee he captivated her in.

The music changed, and the conversations changed, and the background roar faded to a dull murmur as she focused in on him, moving closer almost unconsciously until their back-and-forth was close and their volume low, perhaps sultry.

She was attracted to him, and she was acutely aware of it when he reached for her empty glass and brushed his hand against hers. A surge of electricity whipped through her and she parted her lips as he pushed the tumbler away.

Jethro downed the rest of his bourbon and stood up, stepping up behind her stool. He put his hands on her shoulders and she barely moved in her perfect posture, turning her head just slightly to watch him. He smirked, and ran his hands over her collar bone caressingly, his strong hands brushing against her skin.

She allowed the intimacy, for some strange reason, picked her tumbler up again and held it to her lips hesitantly before taking the last drink. Oh, his massage felt good. Hot, even. She resisted closing her eyes.

He pulled her around and leaned forward, his arms braced suddenly on the bar behind her, trapping her, and with wide, observant green eyes she noticed the bar was calmer, the music was heavier and mellow, and the people were dispersing. His eyes flashed at her mischievously and before he could assert his control of the situation, she reached up in a deft movement and snatched his collar, twisting it in her fingers, holding him at a firm angle even when he kissed her hard.

She tilted her head up to the hard, determined kiss, even as she held him at tantalizing arms length. Her head spun and her blood rushed; he ran his tongue along her bottom lip and she tasted bourbon on him. And something else.

And the clink of two empty glasses broke the brief moment of what felt like the sinfully good fires of hell.

She righted herself gracefully, because sixteen years of classic ballet left a girl with certain poise in every situation, and swiveled on the chair casually, refusing to look embarrassed. The blonde, sly bar girl, stuck her tongue in her cheek and shook her head, smirking.

"You didn't listen to a word I said," she said, clicking her tongue, and gestured a finger at Jenny.

"I earnestly considered your words," Jenny replied sweetly.

The woman just shook her head knowingly.

"I know that look on your face," she said, and she whipped the empty glasses away as Jenny turned around, her tongue pressing against her teeth as she shot a devilish look at Jethro. His eyes were dark and she tilted her head, lifting a brow.

"You want another one, hon?" the bar tender asked airily, and Jenny knew she was being spoken to.

She was looking at Jethro, though, distracted, her heart jumping against her ribcage once more when he looked back at her, and his eyes weren't just on her face, he was really looking at her, and it made her feel warm and vulnerable in a nerve-wracking, exciting way.

She answered slowly, without taking her gaze from Jethro:

"Yeah," a low, thoughtful answer.

And the bar tender disappeared, as she was apparently wont to do. Jenny listened to the soft, subtle clink and quiet sound of the drink being mixed and tilted her head at Jethro. He reached out and touched her knee, his palm spreading over her bare skin and inching up her thigh.

He leaned forward.

"Let's get outta here, Jen," he suggested, soft so the bar girl couldn't hear, but loud enough not to be overly forward.

She bit her lip and smirked, shaking her head just a little. Disbelievingly.

"You're that guy," she noted slowly, "I'd be stupid to trust."

He shrugged, and flashed her a wicked grin.

"Didn't ask you to trust me."

She smiled, impressed with the bare simplicity of the statement. He hadn't yet fed her some laughable, see-through line, and that was perhaps more attractive than his rugged good looks. She slipped off the bar stool and he inclined his head towards the exit.

She shook her head slightly.

"Give a girl a minute to freshen up," she said with an off-hand wink, nodding her head towards the restrooms near the emergency back exit of the bar. He shrugged, and she sauntered off, watching him turn and pay the tab from her peripheral vision.

She vaguely considered finding Aly and telling her she was leaving. And then she though, who was she kidding? The place was half-empty. Aly was gone—pleasantly drunk, probably, and talking to someone she thought was Prince Charming. Or Jenny.

Jenny pushed open the door that led to the women's bathroom and gave the neat little parlor area an odd look, hardly expecting such a decent set-up in a college town bar. She slipped through the next door into the bathroom and staked her claim on the closest mirror.

Her lipstick was faded, from the drinking, and then Jethro's lips. Her hair still looked fine, her blouse neat and unwrinkled, and she had a slight, pink flush to her cheeks. That was all it took to soothe her minor insecurities; one comforting glance in the mirror to assure herself she still looked decent.

She had never been lacking in the self-esteem department, nor the over-dramatic type when it came to looks.

Jenny smiled at her reflection, and turned away from her own eyes, before they could demand of her just what she thought she was doing. She brushed her hair back casually and slipped out of the rest room, pausing—hardly in surprise—when she caught sight of Jethro leaning against the opposite wall. Like he had against the juke box.

She shut the door heavily and put her hand against it.

"This is a designated female area," she said lightly. "Don't you follow the rules?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

He shrugged carelessly and walked over to her, crowding her back against the door. She drew herself up and met his fierce gaze, her mouth going dry suddenly, closing her lips. He grinned.

"Have my own rules," he remarked impishly.

"Naughty," she commented flippantly.

He gave her a suggestive, amused look.

"You're the one kissing a man in the girl's bathroom," he retorted, crushing his lips against hers unexpectedly.

Purely on impulse, she reached up and clutched his neck, her fingers brushing against his short, coarse hair. She held his mouth to her, trying to drag in a breath and keep kissing him at the same time. Her intake of air was sharp when he braced his hand next to her head on the door and pressed closer, his hips hitting hers boldly.

She may be inexperienced, but a nun she was not; she'd been kissed before—and not just on the lips, contrary to Aly's belief—but this kiss was different. Like the one in the bar but sharper, more consuming, and full of warmth and flavor.

She uttered a small gasp when he broke a fraction of an inch away.

"Oh my god," she whispered appreciatively.

"A long, slow screw up against a wall?" he muttered huskily, curving his palm around her shoulder and pressing his lips to her jaw lightly. Her lashes fluttered.

"Mmhmm," she murmured willingly.

It suddenly occurred to her to question what she'd meant when she'd informed the bartender she wanted another drink and just what she was presently acquiescing to.

Sirens screamed awake in her head. No; don't you fucking dare, Jen! Warned her conscience. She wasn't drunk; she'd never been drunk. On any given night she'd never give a brief passing thought to engaging in such wild behavior but something drew her to him and his touch—something that said:

Just one night couldn't be so wrong.

He placed one of his hands on her side, just below her breast, and she leaned her head back delicately against the door, acutely aware of the warmth of his hands through her clothing and the sizzling, explicit touch of his lips to her neck—below her ear, his tongue, the gentlest scrape of his teeth.

She sighed and bit her lip, clutching his t-shirt and pulling him against her. Virgin she may be but sexually innocent (so to speak) she was not; she'd talked, she'd read, and she knew where to put her hands. She smirked as she let her hand travel down his chest, brushing his navel, and then the buckle of his belt, before she cupped her hand between his thighs experimentally.

His groan was half-surprise, half-pleasure, and she drew her hand away slowly, brushing it over his thigh around to his backside. She shifted, moving her back away from the door to give her spine a quick brake; Jethro sucked in his breath as her movement ground against him and he pushed her back, looking at her with dark eyes.

Jethro fingered the top most button of her soft and form-fit emerald green sweater, smiling at her a little. He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly this time, deliberately sluggish in his careful, deft unbuttoning of her blouse. He slipped his hand inside and the first touch of his bare skin against her bare skin made her shiver.

She was unprepared for the feeling that rushed through her when his hand curved around her breast; he ran his thumb over the lace bra and pressed against her and she made a soft noise in the back of her throat, her heart slamming violently into her ribcage.

She slid her hand into his jeans back pocket and gripped, tilting her head back and dragging her lips away. He tugged the sweater down over her shoulder, nudging the bra strap with it, and smirked at the cliché purity of the ballet pink lingerie.

Jethro reached for her leg with his unoccupied hand, dragging his fingers up the skirt-exposed thigh and lifting it against his a little. He pressed his lips to her neck, taking cue when he felt her breathe in deeply, and kissed her, taking greater liberties with her bra.

Jenny bit her lip and closed her eyes, her knees buckling a little. He had pushed aside the bra and she felt the flush of modesty, spread across her nose as he pulled his mouth away to look at her and she swallowed a sudden nauseating self-consciousness.

"You know what you're doing," she remarked in a sure voice.

His eyes met hers intently and he caressed his fingers over her skin, moving expertly under her bra and over just the right places. She sucked in her breath.

"You don't," he returned bluntly, simply, and without judgment.

She shook her head minutely.

He took her by the waist and lifted her up. Jenny squeaked in surprise and bit her lip, caught of guard when her feet left the ground and he pinned her against the door, holding her there with his hard muscles and strong arms.

Instinctively, she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist; he grunted, closing his eyes briefly, and then pushed his hands up her thighs, catching the hem of her corduroys skirt in his thumbs and dragging it upwards.

"Jethro," she gasped breathlessly, when he surged forward and kissed her roughly, urgently, and her heat hit the solid door behind her with a quiet thunk. She felt hot in a good way, warm all over; there was a dull, aching throb in her groin. "Oh, my god," she moaned, her breath suddenly gone.

She was winded when the matching lace of her panties brushed against her and couldn't breathe when he touched the inside of her thigh; then his fingers were inside her and she hardly realized she was the one making noise.

She didn't have time to think about the consequences, or consider that he was a stranger. His looks, the way he talked, his conversation, his caress—all made her feel good and easy and a little reckless. It was a feeling she didn't want to fight.

She parted her lips and threw her head back, desperate to breathe in. The pressure and heat blossoming in her stomach was exquisite, indescribable, and all she could feel was his body up against hers.

He twisted a hand in her hair, pulled her lips towards his again, and kissed her hard. The combined desire of his mouth and his teasing fingering intoxicated her; she gripped his shoulder and dug her nails into him.

Jethro cupped his palm against her and she arched her back, an innate knowledge coaxing her to move; Jethro stopped, though, and she gasped, her breath unsteady and her nerves hurting, begging for something she was sure she hadn't quite gotten.

She felt his warm breath on her neck, and then she was aware of his body against hers, tight against hers, hard against her thigh and constricted in jeans. He ground his hips into hers and she whimpered, biting her lip hard to keep quiet, rudely awakened to where they were.

He pulled his hand from beneath her skirt to his belt, quickly in shoving the fastener loose, but she stopped him, her hand a little shaky against his. Her eyes were wide when he met them, and he saw nerves and arousal—and amusement.

"We're in a public bathroom," she reminded him softly. "And I really do not want to get caught," she admitted, smiling her little half-smile.

His hands slipped against his belt and he faltered, nodding. She loosened her legs from his waist and he let her slide down his body, his muscles reacting accordingly. She gasped at the brush of his arousal against her, senses still heightened by what he'd done to her.

She clasped her sweater closed and brushed her skirt.

"My truck," he grunted, jerking his head at the door.

Jenny slipped ahead of him and left. He let his hand rest on her lower back, possessively coaxing her close to his side as they walked this time, and she was powerfully aware of how low his hand was on her hip, and the heavy, intimate way it brushed below her hipbone.

They slipped out the back, the closest exit, under the glowing red EXIT sign. The parking lot was dark, cast only in dim starlight, and nearly empty. He pointed to a truck in a more secluded corner and fumbled in his pocket for keys.

Jenny took a deep breath as they reached it and she heard the click of automatic locks opening. She thought she might lose her nerve. This was insanity. She reached out to him, hooked her fingers in his collar, and pulled him to her, fighting him in a kiss, a fierce kiss, to rein control of her fears.

"That Dutch courage was a damn good idea," she murmured in a low voice, and he grinned, reaching behind her for the door handle; he pulled it up, pulled her away, and stepped around it.

He chucked the keys in first, and Jenny leaned back, stepping up into the truck and sitting on the edge of the back seat. He looked at her, his eyes raking over her, drinking her in, and put his hand on her knees, running them up her body. Jethro climbed up into the car over her, his arms, shoulders, legs, surrounding her, and she sat up some, tangling her fingers in his dog tags as he fumbled to shut the door and smack the locks down.

She swallowed hard and took his shirt in her hands, pulling the material into bunches and yanking it over his head. He crawled over her more completely, his knees pressing into her thighs, and he slipped an arm under her back. She lifted her knees comfortably and tugged him to her by his tags, her breasts pressing against his torso as they kissed.

He maneuvered her sweater off, and then unclipped her bra, familiar with the motions no doubt as much as she was novice to them.

He pushed her skirt up, while she was reaching for his belt, snapping it through the loops, her movements a little more hurried now because her head was spinning and her blood was pounding again, and that climbing, frustrating heat in her stomach was hurting she wanted to feel it all through her so badly.

"Jen," he murmured hoarsely, his breath sticking in his throat, because she'd unzipped and unbuttoned and was pushing down his jeans, with no regard for what she touched or how explicit said touch was. "Protection," he managed.

She smirked, and felt a little comforted that she'd picked a guy who cared enough to consider it—to ask about it.

"Pill," she murmured, a little embarrassed and offhand.

He looked interested. Of course he assumed a virgin needn't be on the pill. She shrugged, biting back a lopsided smile.

"Always be prepared," she offered. "One of my rules."

He laughed, and she felt the vibration run through her because he was so close, and her hand shook, slipping at his pants as she fought to rid him of them. He sat back on his calves, straddling her hips, and took over, managing to get off his boxers and jeans in one go. He reached for the hem of her skirt and slid it down over her legs, panties last, his eyes on her. He didn't quite miss the flush on her skin, and leaned down to kiss her navel, drawing his mouth up her sternum to her breasts slowly.

She grasped his dog tags for something to hold onto and pressed the heel of her hand into his chest hard, lifting her leg and pressing her knee into his waist, her heart pounding. It was all or nothing now; nothing between them, her bare skin and his.

Jethro reached behind her and plunged his hand into her hair, tangling it messily. He ran his other down her shoulder, over her breast and ribs, and held it just slightly under her hips, pushing upward some.

He moved against her and she tensed up, her stomach flipping. It was a mixture of apprehension and desire; he felt good against her and she moaned, but he met her eyes and backed off a little, his fingers moving in her hair.

She laughed breathlessly and wrapped her leg around him, easing the position.

"Like ripping off a band-aid," she said cleverly, parting her lips with a wicked smile.

He laughed, pushing her hips up harder against his.

"You're a hell of a woman, red," he muttered huskily, grinning, and she laughed again, the sound fading to a quiet noise in her throat when he moved against her again, hesitant. She shoved her palm hard into his chest and bit her lip; Jethro's lips were on hers again and he thrust into her; nothing mushy or cinematic about it. Just like ripping off a band-aid.

She winced and moaned against his lips, more surprise than pain.

"Ah," she gasped quietly, wrapping her hand around his arm tightly. "Ow."

It did hurt; but it was a sharp, white pain that flared and disappeared before she could quite catch it, and then she shivered, biting her lip.

"God, Jen," he groaned huskily. He pulled back and thrust into her again and she grit her teeth this time; not because it hurt but because she almost screamed at the sudden sensation it elicited. She tightened her leg around his waist, her head falling back a little, and her grip on him faltering.

"You okay?" he asked grittily.

She nodded, running her hand up and down his arm.

"Don't stop," she hissed, and he moved in her, steady this time; harder.

He moved his hand from her hip and braced it on the car seat next to her, his wrist pressing into her side. She pulled tight on his dog tags, her hand still splayed against him, slipping. Jenny tasted faint, coppery blood and stopped biting her lip.

"Jethro," she moaned, forgetting every other word in her vocabulary in a split second. "Yes," she whimpered, arching her back sharply, pushing her hips up to meet his.

Jethro groaned, his hand tightening in her hair, pulling, and he thrust deeper, reawakening the initial dull pain for a moment before his movement hit just right and that heat, that pressure, erupted in her stomach and melted through her.

She cried out, her words catching in her throat, digging her nails into his hot skin.

"Harder, Jethro," she managed suddenly, figuring out what she needed, and he groaned, pulling her head up and crushing his lips against hers; he thrust into her hard and she pulled her mouth away, gasping his name, the orgasm crashing over her. He shuddered above her, his chest pressing into hers.

"Jen," he mumbled hoarsely, his muscles relaxing, breathing ragged against her neck.

She closed her eyes and shivered, her lips parted, pressed lightly against his jaw. His iron-grip in her damp hair eased a little and he slipped his fingers through it to touch her face gently. She leaned back against the seats and he collapsed, careful not to hurt her with his weight.

She felt his heart beating against hers and relaxed her grasp on him, running her hands over his steamy skin soothingly. He kissed her neck gently and she swallowed, reeling from what had just happened. It was monumental, prudish Jenny Shepard losing her virginity, and she always thought it would be…different. She wasn't expecting candles on a wedding night or—

--Oh, hell. Maybe she was.

Somehow, this was better. She felt it. She didn't feel regret at all.

She felt good.

Jethro shifted and moved out of her, brushing his fingers against her cheek. She wrinkled her nose and flinched, definitely discomforted by the abrupt, awkward maneuver. He wrapped his arm around her waist lazily and buried his head in her neck.

She took a deep breath, reached up and pushed her fingers through her hair, and then laughed.

He snickered and looked down at her, a snarky grin on his face; she moved her legs, ignoring the dull twinge of soreness. She curled up to him, inhaling his musky scent, mixed with bourbon and something else--like his kisses. Irrationally, she never wanted to leave the back seat of his truck.

He smirked at her devilishly, his enticing blue eyes luring her.

"You're Daddy's Little Girl, aren't you?" he asked with a hint of arrogance, amused.

She pressed her leg against his and arched an eyebrow.

"Was," she corrected primly. "I was daddy's little girl."

She pressed her palm to his chest and moved it downwards slowly, smiling wickedly with her tongue between her teeth…


Aly stared at her roommate blankly.

She rolled her eyes dramatically and folded her arms, flopping back against the pillows.

"Jennifer Freakin' Shepard. Those were not details," she informed her redheaded friend.

Jenny looked affronted and turned up her nose. She had edited out the personal aspect of it, giving Aly a slightly censored story, but what did the girl expect? A smut novel?

"It's personal, Aly," she defended.

"I don't understand," Aly threw up her hands. "You get laid, and you're still a prude. How is that possible?!"

Jenny smiled indulgently and shrugged, glancing off into the distance. She felt a little disappointing tug in her chest, remembering the night and thinking she'd probably never see him again. It wasn't a depressed feeling though. It was bittersweet.

"Will you at least tell me if you," Aly paused and cocked her head at Jenny, "You know," she said, lifting her brows.

Jenny glared at her mildly, feigning ignorance.

Aly glared rudely.

"No, I don't know."

"You know, Jen," prodded Aly, wriggling her eye brows, "Did you…" she shook her hands, begging for information.

"Come?" Jenny supplied bluntly, leaning to the side boredly and examining her manicured nails.

Aly looked shell-shocked. Jenny Shepard never said vulgar things like that. She stared at her roommate. Jenny glanced up through her eyelashes and smirked. Aly gave an elated cackle of laughter and jumped up, bowing dramatically.

"God bless America," she quipped, and Jenny snickered good-naturedly.

She rolled her eyes to the heavens for love of Aly and looked away; her thoughts wandering nostalgically back to Jethro. What a way to be deflowered. Aly's sudden, curious—and oddly practical—question snapped her back.

"Uh, what did happened to your dorm key?" she asked.

Jenny's brow furrowed slightly.

"I must have left it in Jethro's truck," she murmured, and then winced as Aly's eyes widened.

"You had sex in his truck?" she demanded.

She was practically dancing around the room. Jenny tilted her head when she heard a knock on the door and glared daggers at Aly.

"Door," she ordered.

Aly skipped over to it, giving her roommate a warning look.

"Oh. Don't think I'm done with you, missy, you've got lots to tell—leather seats or—"

Aly swung open the door and leaned in the doorway, breaking off and smiling sweetly. Jenny tilted her head, trying to see who it was.

Aly straightened a little. She flicked her eyes over the man she'd just opened the door to—in uniform, definitely a marine, for sure not technically authorized to be on campus. Then she caught sight of the blue eyes. Shocking blue. She smiled like a cheshire cat.

"If it isn't Sir Blue Eyes," she announced gallantly, giving him a prim look and kicking the door open. She stepped out of the way and Jenny sat up, recognizing him immediately.

Her nose coloured a pink tint and she smiled, guilty and delighted to be caught still in the same clothes and disarray he'd left her in. He smirked and held up her key, which was attached to her campus ID.

She stood gracefully and sauntered across the floor, her now-bare feet sinking into the carpet. Her height difference dramatic in this different light and setting and she made a show of admiring his uniform, her lips turning up a little.

"Hello, Jethro," she greeted silkily.

He smirked.

"Thought I might take you out to dinner," he said.

Jenny smiled. She looped her fingers through his dog tags.

That's when she knew why she didn't regret a damn thing: He was a marine.


I'm rather proud of that, thanks very much.
-Alexandra