hello people! It's been a long while since last time I've been here, and I beg your perdon. I've been busy, things, sometimes (many times) unpleasant things, happened, life got in the way, inspiration moved to other subjects at hand not concerning writing... and, last but not least, my data storage unit, aka usb pen, died.
Anyway, I'm back. with a "small" tag to 4.1, which got an interesting development, because it was supposed to be short but is over 8000 words long, and it was supposed to be PWP but there s' just a little and it's all about feelings and refelctions, mostly.
Anyway, ehre we are. ah, I was forgetting. Guess what? I don't own it.
After he confessed her his crimes, how he had lied to a jury, buying himself a verdict of innocence, how he had killed the wrong man, a mad man, a bad man, but the wrong man nevertheless, after he told her that Red John, the real one, was still alive, at large, after he had confessed how he felt about everything was going on and had happened in the last few days, they kept silent for the rest of the ride back home, not a single word shared between them.
And they weren't even really going home. He no longer had one, his home had been destroyed- the mattress under the smile in a place where once happiness had been was no longer an home, just a shadow, a cemetery where Patrick Jane had found not eternal rest but immortal damnation, like a ghost possessing, hunting the mansion. The attic wasn't home. And neither was the Spartan motel room where Madeline Hightower had found him not long before.
He no longer had a home. And who knew about the future, what it could hold? He didn't know. He thought he had, he had hoped he had, really. While talking with Timothy Carter- if he was rally called that way. He had, for the first time, saw something that had been refused to take in consideration, couldn't have taken in consideration, in the last 8 years.
Hope. For a future, a tomorrow, something more than what he had now, something more than being merely the shadow not of the man he once was, but the shadow of a man, of a human being. He had dared to think of being a husband again, of being a father again, of having not just a place, not just a house, but a home. It had been just… like a taste, like a lifetime saw in front of his eyes- a lifetime not happened yet, but still…
And he had loved it, oh, he had loved it so much, he just… he couldn't simply shake the thought away. He had seen it, and now, like the greedy and selfish man he had always been, he wanted it, and he wanted it so much he didn't know if he could wait, make it until the day Red John would be gone, done and dealt with, this time for real, once and for all.
"So… I guess I'll see you around. If Bertram doesn't convince the higher-ups to have us all transferred to the Alaska State Police…" Lisbon's forced laughter awoke him from his reverie, and, still a bit out, he turned to face her, and shaking his head, he finally noticed their surroundings - the parking lot of "his" motel, where his favorite car, his beloved Citroen DS, was diligently parked (blessed the team. Probably Lisbon, she loved that car, even if, with him, she insisted of calling it a trap on wheels. She found it charming and, yes, decadent as well, in a strange way. And had fantasized about the two of them going at it there more than once, he just knew it, sinful images of the two of them, driving back from a crime scene, late at night, fighting to stay awake, and Lisbon, decided to keep him awake, to strip him of his ever-lasting control, of that mask, gently skimming over his groin, the whisper of a touch at first, then unzipping his trousers, and putting her small, soft and warm hand inside his boxer, trying to span him, squeezing him, making him hard and bothered, fingers tracing his vein, bathing in the texture of his pre-cum, making him come inside his own boxer, all the while fingering herself with her free hand until she couldn't help it, and come as well, climaxing screaming his name inside the car, at the top of her lugs…).
"Uhm… Jane?" she called him, once again, this time directly using his name, hoping that he'd wake up, that he'd… do something, other than staring in front of himself, in the void, or at her, for at least 15 minutes at time.
He stopped to stare, but not to look, maybe seeing her for the first time, or maybe, just noticing how he looked at her for the first time- that taste of heaven he had felt in the mall, once again there, with him, for him, ready to slip through his fingers, if he didn't do something. But could he? And mostly, did he deserve, really, that taste of heaven, or even it all?
He wasn't sure. Like he wasn't sure she needed another complication in her life like him, he knew she didn't need the heartache, could easily do without it, but, then again, he was selfish, and maybe… maybe she wanted it.
He didn't know, wasn't sure. He had always told her she was translucent, and that was the point. Translucent wasn't transparent. You can see through something transparent, but, on the other side, something that's translucent, is always a little foggy, objects are never fully on focus, and changing from the point you look at them, according to how the light hits the spot. And that was her, never on focus, always foggy.
He had seen… signals, he dared to call them, small hints in their years "together". The way she blushed, how she got caught when he gave her something, was it coffee, a donut or a pony, the pout of disappointment when she had to return the emeralds (not that they suited her. it was just a game. He could do so much better….), how she had kept the origami frog… how she had felt at easy dancing with him, totally relaxed, how she had trusted only him along the years (with info about her pats, with her own life and sanity). And how she had been the first one willing to stay there, with him, to help him out, always, how she had believed him even when he was the first one to question his own sanity, and during the trial, when he was ready to even accepting the death penalty, when he refused being bailed out… she had always been there, every time he turned while the DA spoke, he could see her, her face, her tender smile, tired, a bit sad, but a smile nevertheless. For him, just for him… like she was there for him when he was sitting in a visitor room inside a prison, Lisbon the only one who went to see him, check on him, the only one who actually tried to understand.
Yes, she definitely wanted him, and knew that wanting him just meant troubles, but he wasn't sure if she was already aware of that, of her own feelings.
She was attracted by him, that much she knew from the indecent dreams, open eyes or by night, she had had since… well, always. And he was pretty sure she liked to get herself off thinking of him, fantasizing of him, of them, that when her fingers played with her nipples, completely naked on her bed, or more often, with her 99 jersey lifted from her body, she thought his fingers were cupping her breast, and that his mouth, just a shadow in the reality of her own bedroom, was taking care of the neglected one. He knew that when she spread her legs she thought of doing it for him, that when she pushed two fingers inside herself to the hilt, she imagined it was his hand entering her, his thumb pressing on her clit and droving her insane, bringing her to the edge again and again and again (what a wonderful view for his eyes, he just needed to let it happen, he had to make it happen).
He knew it, he didn't know how or why, but he just did. Maybe it was because, in the solitude of his motel room, or in coldness of the attic, when he jerked off, tracing his body with his hands, skimming over the taunt skin of his cock, spanning it, barely, with his huge hands, stroking, slowly, so slowly, himself to orgasm, he did it thinking of her, seeing her – it was Lisbon who skimmed over his whole body, gently mapping the surface of his length. It was Lisbon who tried to span it with her so small hands, unsuccessfully, because he was quite huge, and it was Lisbon who stroked him, up and down, up and down, driving him insane, her actions made easier and more erotic by the slight state of pre-cum she rubbed on his dick like it was baby oil, it was Lisbon who made him cum, driving him crazy with need and want, Lisbon who took his load on her, on her naked skin, happy and satisfied, licking everything that come close to her mouth, her wicked tongue probing out of those luscious, full lips (so, so perfect for going down on a man…) to have a taste of him, enjoying the rich, hot and balmy seed, his very essence, all for her, just for her…
"Jane, are you planning of leaving this car or what?" Once again her voice, like the beautiful song of a siren, awoke him, bringing him back to reality, a reality where they were both fully clothed and inside her car. He preferred much more his indecent dreams. Even if those indecent dreams were causing him a little problem- well, not exactly little, but… definitely noticeable, was she going to look there.
He didn't know what he was supposed to hope into. Did he want for Lisbon to leave like nothing was going on? Or, did he want for her to see how hot and bothered thinking of her made him? Did she wanted to know it, or she was good this way, keeping dreaming of him in the solitude of her room? Did she want to put him out of his misery or fantasy was enough for her? Maybe she didn't care too much, maybe it wasn't even a crush, just fantasies about wild and crazy sex and she didn't care about him too much, not beyond friendship, at least. She hadn't tried to touch him during the trial, after all, hadn't tried to touch him in jail, or after he left, or when he was finally set free. Not even a small touch to try to give him comfort.
But then, he saw it. She was tense, rigid, worried, and kept stealing glances every now and then. She was relieved he was out, that was sure, but she was still worried, worried because Red John was still at large, of course, but also because of him. She was worried for him, had been since that day at the mall. She was worried she'd never seen him again, and was worried that he was going to vanish like thin air. She thought it was too good to be true, and didn't want to risk it being an illusion, didn't want to hope for too much.
"Uhm, sorry, I guess my insomnia is catching up with me. Prisons are such an ugly place to sleep in, Lisbon, extremely dangerous. And for a man of my ligature, charm and beauty it was quite dangerous…" he left the car, finally, grinning, happy like a child on Christmas day, then lent on the door of the car. "Goodbye Lisbon, I'll see you soon! And, please, don't exaggerate with the takeout. Your body can only tolerate that much Chinese…"
She sped away without bothering to answer him, irritated like usually with her pain in the ass consultant, almost crushing his feet under the wheels, and he just grinned, laughing.
Once she was out of sight, he strolled, but not towards his room, but his car. He had a plan to make her relax, a plan to make her realize he was still there, wasn't going anywhere, he was real. And he was going to stay.
When she entered her home a good hour after having left Jane, cartoons of food in her hands, something took immediately her attention. Only, she isn't sure if it's the fact that once she get inside the lights are already turned on -but maybe she forgot to turn them off before leaving in the morning or the smell of fresh, home-made food, something that she hadn't definitely forgotten from the morning.
Yes, it's definitely the food to catch up with her first. With the knowledge that only one person and one person only, could dare to enter her home (break in- that it is) and then start making food for her. And the name of that person was Patrick Jane, the same man who, not too long before, asked her to drop him at his motel.
She wondered if he came out with this plan, or whatever it was, before she went away, if he had been up to this all the time since she took him outside the tribunal, or if maybe it's something he decided to do once left all alone in the cold, dark room he happened to live in, testament and proof of his ever-lasting punishment for something she never thought he was supposed to blame himself for.
He didn't kill his family. Red John did. He talked, of course, but everybody talked. And not their families got killed, because, if every time someone got offended by mere words, by stupid idiots, they killed the families in return… well, she'd probably never know the meaning of words such as "day off", "spare time" or "vacancies". (Not that she did anyway. Why should she take days off, since she didn't have anyone to spent said days with?)
Trying to remain stoic, she walked into the kitchen- no reason to get angry, and she didn't feel like putting on a fight. There's nothing he didn't already knew, nothing she hadn't already told him few millions of times, and she was too tired to repeat them once again, also because it would be useless. And maybe she didn't even want to, not tonight, at least. Jane had been too much in the last…. In the last years and in the last few weeks in particular, there was no reason to add injury to the injured (besides, the aroma is just paradisiacal. She is pretty sure she could have an orgasm just for that).
She threw the cartoons of food carelessly in the fridge for the following days, and then leant against the counter, looking at Jane busy with pans and stoves, her apron covering his clothes, sleeves rolled up, couples of buttons undone, no vest, no jacket (She didn't mind the jacket, the vest, yes. The thought of having to undone layer after layer to find the hidden treasure was quite erotic), the very picture of domesticity.
It was like he belonged there, and, as scary as that thought was, it was even scarier her desire to have him there, with her, every day, every night, to be both of them like that (she hated him, when he did that, giving her a taste of heaven, a taste of who he was, of who he could be again only if he tried, of the man he didn't want, couldn't be again, not now, maybe never again).
"You are lucky I'm in the mood for home-made food, Jane, otherwise you'd be with a pair of handcuffs around your wrists right now. After having been kicked in the ass, repeatedly."
He didn't answer, just smirked, grinning, with a strange light in his eyes, one she got to know quite well during the years, but still different. It was like he was making some innuendos, double-meanings sentences, but it was slightly different at the same time, like he hadn't done that, the smirk, the grin, just to annoy her, but because….but because the thought of being handcuffed by her (maybe to her bed) was actually… turning him on.
Well, it was an erotic thought. And she was pretty sure it could even be a sight worth being seen, with him having that gorgeous body, and being that well endeavored in that department (she wasn't spying on him, really. She didn't do it on purpose, entering the shower room while he was already inside. She didn't know he was there, and even if she got an unforgettable view of his naked body, he never found out about it- thanks to God).
He kept smirking, but never stopped chopping the vegetables – no onion or garlic, which she loved and he knew it. Why? "Well, what can I say. When you left, I thought that I haven't been… I thought I should have done something more to show you my gratitude. I've put you through hell and back these last few weeks, and…."
She lightly hit him on the shoulder, smiling bemused, blushing in the color he loved so much. "Don't be silly, I told you, you are part of our family, and besides, it wasn't just me. the whole team helped, even Van Pelt."
He smiled sadly at the thought of the poor girl, and hoped that Rigsby could be there for her, her friendly shoulder- for now. Those two were like magnets, attracting each other, always, all the time, and in such an obvious way that only someone who was faking his own feelings, like O'Laughlin, could have missed the longing in their hearts, the desire for each other. He took note to help them out, in case things would develop any further, yet again, for the lovebirds. They deserved it, they both did, Wayne with his past, the lack of love from his real family, and Grace, still blaming herself for her younger sister's suicide, even if she still claiming she never had a sister to begin with. Only the higher-ups, Lisbon included, knew of this particular, and he knew his lovely boss wasn't going to call the younger agent on that, one of the many reasons he had…one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with her.
He gulped, stopped to chew the vegetables and drank a glass of red wine in a sec, as quickly as possible, a bit scared by his own admission. He had knew he was attracted by Lisbon- heck, he was a man, he still could say when a woman was beautiful, and she, indeed, fit the picture. But love? He hadn't been sure. Even if, maybe, he should have already understood it, with all the images of a life lived together he had witnessed right before his eyes after Carter… well, after Carter.
"Ehy, are you all right? you sure you don't want to just rest? You've been… awfully quiet today, and I know a lot is going on, but… maybe you should just take something, rest and forget it for few hours? I think I still have a couple of pills of Ambien somewhere…" she tentatively put an hand on his arm, looking at him with those green eyes, huge and brilliant like only emeralds could be, and that was when he saw it – worry, tenderness, affection and… longing, all for him.
She loved him, was in love with him, he was fully reciprocated, and now he knew for sure. He knew for sure everything, especially what she wanted. Because what she wanted, what Teresa Lisbon craved more than anything in the rest of the world, in all times, was him, all of him. And she had been lucky, because he was willing to give her just that, because having her and giving her all of him was what he wanted- and needed- as well.
Only, she didn't know it yet. But he was planning to let her know soon, very, very, soon.
He smiled, of a different smile, tender, happy, sincere, no mask on for once, and silently moved a full glass of Red Merlot to her, on the counter, with the back of his hand. "Here, enjoy it while you take your bath. The water should be at the perfect temperature for your shoulder right now, and I put in the cinnamon salts you always use. It will take a while before everything will be ready, and for once I want to spoil you senseless, woman." She blushed, and didn't add a word. She just took the glass, and keeping it against her chest with both hands, scared of letting it fall, walked towards the bathroom, smiling a secret smile.
In the kitchen, Patrick cut himself while sinful images of her getting naked, being submerged by the warm water in the tub, hit the front of his brain full force.
Soon, he told himself, very soon. It was, maybe, just a matter of hours. And then, she'd be relaxed in his arms, and he was going to be lucky enough, naked and satisfied as well. Like he hoped he was going to be. Otherwise, he'd be in need of a little privacy, and soon; preferably, somewhere far, far away from her prying eyes, and ears (He had always been a very vocal man, after all. There was no reason to believe things had changed, even if it had been a while and… and they had never experimented together, of so he could say).
He wanted her, he needed her. and he couldn't wait for everything to be over, once and for all. His sanity was at risk, and besides, he needed to let he know he was in as well, couldn't allow to get lost along the road, to not wait for him, because waiting wasn't something he was allowed to ask for her, something she had to do. But maybe, if they were on the same, she would have just walked at his side, at his same velocity.
Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, clothed in nothing fancy, almost her usual attire (a thank top, quite long, no skin on display there, and yoga pants), cast gone, completely relaxed, and, surprise, surprise given his presence in her sancta sanctorum, calm, almost….
No, not almost, he corrected himself, as he watched her taking a seat in front of him at the small table, she wasn't almost happy. Lisbon, even given the circumstances, what he had just done, what he had told her about Red John, was happy, happy because he was free, and yes, he knew that, despite her lack of admission, she was happy he was there, with her, at her side, sharing something as domestic as a meal with her (he hoped she got the hint that he was sending to hell his promise to never seduce her over a meal), as a simple meal. It wasn't something fancy, just a small plate of pasta, not even too elaborated, vegetable ratatouille and a mousse (Mayan Dark Chocolate, added with chilli, probably the only aphrodisiac threat of the whole meal) , but it was still full of meaning, of double entendre. Like when she finished a certain vegetables and he simply took it from his own plate, feeding her himself, or when he kept offering her red whine, hoping to get her tipsy but not drunk, more open and less of a prude (not that she was a prude. She had surely shown that much to Mashburn. She just played the part, for him and him alone) .
He barely resisted the urge- and need – to feed her the mousse directly from his fingers.
"Tired?" he asked her when it seemed that the evening was coming to an end. They had talked until that moment, shared good memories, opinions, anecdotes, chatting like they had never done before, opening almost completely to each other, probably for the first time since they met, not like the other times he had blackmailed her, tricked her, into getting info about her past. He just didn't want to get her to talk, he wanted for her to talk with him, and he wanted to listen, wanted to be there for her to hear her out.
She gave a look at the old clock, left there from the previous owners, and shook her head, grimacing a bit. She wasn't tired, tired wasn't the right word to describe how she felt, even if, if she had to be honest, she didn't know how to actually describe how she was feeling at the moment.
She was tired, but not the kind of tired you get when you lack of sleep. She was tired… of waiting, of Red John, of being alone. Because that was the huge, dirty truth: she had been injured, and nobody was there for her, nobody cooked her a meal, nobody prepared her a warm bath, or even just asked her how she felt. Just Jane, and it was, maybe, even worse. Because she had long stopped telling herself lie after lie, had long give up to hide, even from herself, her real feelings.
She loved Patrick Jane. She was in love with Patrick Jane. She wanted and needed in her life Patrick Jane, and definitely not as a friend, and even less as a mere coworker.
She had been merely attracted to him at first. He was handsome, terribly, terribly handsome, such a perfect specimen of male with the eyes, shifting color accordingly to the light and his mood (bleu when it was a good day or he was outside, grey-green when he was closed somewhere or he wasn't exactly feeling on top) , blond curls that she bet were as soft as silk, old fashioned and a bit decadent in his manners and in his choices of style, from clothes to car, and such a know it all, but not the kind that just tells things just to annoy you. When he talked, he did it within reason, and awakening her interest. The fact he had a body to die for (probably thanks to a magnificent metabolism) was just another plus, another pros to add to the list that made Patrick Jane the perennial main character of her erotic fantasies, even during her brief relationship with Mashburn (and Mashburn represented her usual kind of man) .
First, had come the attraction, then, slowly, without that she could fight it, without she could even notice it until it was too late, it came the love. She cared for him, and had always knew that it was completely different from the kind of love that she felt for her friends, or for her brothers. She had never really been love before, not the one that brought people to fully commit, to suffer, to be ready to do and face everything. It was the kind of love, she knew, Bosco had felt for her, the kind of love her parents had shared in an happier life, the same kind of love that tied Jane with his past, drove him made with the desire of revenge (it was the kind of love who drove him to kill a crazy, bad man, a man who the world believed to be Red John, even if they knew it better).
For a long time, she had never assumed her could even remotely feel something like that, not for someone who wasn't his wife, but then, she couldn't help it, and she started to notice them, the small things, the shifts, almost imperceptible to an outsider observer, in his behavior- in his behavior towards her: warm glances, lingering touches, secret smiles, meaningful gifts, conversations made just with their eyes, that dance, on the notes of her favorite song, "More than words", faith, trust, fear for her more than for the others, and now, this, taking care of her, like just a… a boyfriend, or an husband, would do (Did he know it? Was he doing it on purpose? Was he aware of his behavior, of what being wined and dined affected her?).
She smiled, biting her lips. a bed was her first thought, sleeping the last thing on her mind. Having him, as long as possible, preferably forever, was the only thing that mattered for her.
"I'm just… painkillers took the edge of pain, but… it's not even the pain, I'm just…" billions of words crossed her mind, all the things she was feeling, all the thing she had felt, her shoulders bearing all the weight of the last few days, and not only the pain inflicted on her by the traitorous bullet of the traitorous O'Laughlin (the pain was the lesser of her problems. She wasn't even feeling it any longer).
"You are tired, but not by the lack of sleep, tired of the events, like washed out. You feel like the weight of the last weeks is finally crushing on you, now that the adrenaline is no longer running through your veins. You are tense, and obviously, worried. You are worried for me, because you still fear for my own sanity even if you are now aware that Timothy carter was a bad man and believe that he had a gun, and you fear for you, for the team, and for my life, because I told you what I think, what I know, that he is still somewhere out there waiting to make his next move." She nodded, and he offered her his hand, leaving his chair and standing up. She looked at it, then looked at him, made to gave him her won hand, then took it back just to look once again at him, gulping, a bit scared. "I know a great and effective way to make you relax fully, and forget about the pain for a while." He added, smiling, Lisbon still sat on her chair, hands in her lap.
Taking his hand would mean crossing a line, jumping a bridge, reaching a point of no return, and she had to be sure, had to be sure he was in as well, was there with her, because she couldn't survive it another time (her father broke her heart once, she couldn't survive being played, being abandoned by Jane as well).
"Teresa, trust me. Please" she shivered, and she wasn't sure why, didn't knew what made it, what convinced her to put her small hand in his bigger one, allowing him to close his fingers around her palm, looking at her like she was the most precious thing in his life. maybe it was the use of her given name, something he randomly did, or maybe it was the word, the verb, trust, or maybe it was the way he was looking at her, like begging her with his eyes.
Or maybe, it was just everything, put together to create that moment, a moment with the capital "M", the moment that was gong to change them, change things between them for the rest of their lives, what she had waited for more than seven years, thinking that it was going just a dream, a stupid, naive and child fantasy bounded to never happen.
But it was going to happen, she knew it, felt from his look, his touch, the electricity in the air, filling the space and the atmosphere with static, like a tempest was coming. And maybe, just maybe, it was just like tempest, the perfect storm, going to turn them, and their world, upside down.
Maybe it was just what they needed. Maybe they were just perfect for each other, and together they could overcome their fears, their past, they could become more than the sum of one plus one (or maybe they could just decided that, in their case, one plus one was still, always, equals one).
She followed him on her couch without saying a word, without protesting, Jane walking backward, locked eyes, him offering everything, his heart on his sleeves maybe for the first time, and her taking everything, all of him, accepting him, even the darkest parts of his soul, the scarier ones, loving him not despite of them, but partly because of them, because they made Jane the man he was.
They made him her Patrick.
He made her sat on the couch, facing one of the armrests, crossed legs, her back to his chest, and she just did as he silently asked her to, following every movements he suggested in silence, his hands putting her in position, soft and warm and appetizing on her skin through the fabric of her clothes. It was erotic, it was intoxicating, and it awoke in her desire as she had never felt before, not even for him, for this very man sitting at her back, even if the touch wasn't meant to be erotic (not completely, at least), to drive her insane with want and longing and desire.
He put aside the dark locks of hair, long and soft and still infused of cinnamon and orange and vanilla (her bath essences, the ones he had prepared for her, the ones he had felt on her, sniffed on her, so, so many times since they knew each other), making them fall on her still covered breasts, and, placing a tender, and long, full of meanings, kiss on her head, he started to work on her neck with his fingers, relieving the tension, unmaking the knots, making her relax with the pressure of his warm and sexy long fingers, the callous fingertips working their magic in her.
She lifted her head and breathed, in and out, fully relaxed, like she was lost in some other world, like few hours before, in her tub, and he smiled against her hair, happy and satisfied, grinning like an idiot, a victorious idiot but an idiot nevertheless.
The strap of her top moved, and he shivered, stopping for an instant, his lips still on her hair, his fingers stalling on her skin, as he saw the full extension of her bandage. She told she was ok, she told him it was nothing. She told him the doctors gave him more or less 24 hours or so to rest, and then she'd be back full force.
He had promised her to always save her, he had promised her to always be there for her, but he hadn't. He hadn't saved her from a traitorous bullet from a traitorous O'Laughlin, wasn't there for her whole she was alone in the hospital. He was going to make up to her for this, and even for the rest, even for what hadn't happened yet… even for the rest of his life, if it was necessary.
Feeling him motionless at her back, Lisbon stilled, gulping silently, teary eyes wide open in something that she didn't know exactly how to call, how to describe, but that was extremely close to panic, to chocking; an inner battle started inside her soul, and she couldn't help but wonder, ask herself what she was supposed to do… stop him, walk away behaving like nothing happened at all, call him on his change of attitude?
She didn't know. Because she didn't know why he was stilling to begin with.
"Patrick?" she called him, using his Christian name, a rarity, her voice sounded low, hoarse, and shuddered. She barely recognized it, and she found herself wondering if someone else was there with them, because there was no way that voice was hers, but at least, whatever it was, where it come from, it worked, it awoke him, she awoke him (she awoke Jane, the human being there, with her, and she awoke Patrick, the man hidden inside him, lost for so long, almost forgotten, the one that kept, from time to time, to show his head, especially if where a certain brunette was concerned, a tempting elf posing as a cop, his boss).
She lifted her head slightly, resting it in the crock of his neck, her back fully resting against his solid, warm chest, and she blushed, the breath dying in her throat when she saw a myriad of feelings, of emotions, melting into his eyes, eyes of a color she had never seen before… not blue, not green, but dark and cloudy, like a stormy sea.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
His hands slid gently and sensually over her ivory skin, along the curve of her neck and on her shoulders and her arms, lowering with his controlled movements the straps; his lips followed his hands' movements, kissing with open-mouth, wet and intoxicating erotic kisses the skin on her injured side, staying there, on the white fabric, a little longer, without an hint of pressure, just the ghost of his lips, to impregnate his memory with what has almost happened to her, what has actually happened.
She felt the moment sense of guilty took possession of the man sensually touching her. She turned in his embrace, and moved her un-injured arm around his neck, her fingers engulfed in the silk-like softness of golden curls, and took control of the situation, only wanting to send away that traitorous thought that was ruining every chance of happiness they could hope for.
With the injured arm, she started to unbutton his immaculate shirt, making quick work of the buttons, nipping with her teeth his lips whenever she felt like the pain could take the upper hand. Her finger started to trace his chest, feeling for the first time his skin for real, after she had imagined it for so long. He shivered, the contact almost alien after so many years, and gulped, parting his lips. She grinned satisfied, because it gave the perfect opportunity to conquer his mouth with her tongue.
She tasted him, feeling every corner of his mouth, and still he was unmoving, but she felt it, felt he wasn't doing it because he didn't want to, but because he no longer knew how he was supposed to do that, almost like it had become somehow foreign.
He moaned, eyes closed in bliss, He moaned, and he started to answer, finally, silently asking Lisbon to allow him the same access he had given her earlier, begging her to allow him to taste the interiors of her mouth, just wanting a tongue-to-tongue duel of the not verbal kind, all with just a mere lick of her inferior lip.
She smiled, answering silently into the affirmative to his silent request, delighted to see that her was reciprocating her simple action, that smile, but that on him felt more like a smug grin. The bastard, he knew, that she couldn't deny him anything, she had never been good at it, knew that, given her enthusiasm, the only option was a hell, yes!, also because there wasn't much she could do, not when she could feel the arousal running through his blood, the heat rushing into his manhood, getting harder for her and her only.
She was doing it, her, Teresa Lisbon, agent, control freak, and quite plain woman, was making Patrick Jane losing his ever-lasting control.
She freed his curls, wondering along his body, her hand joining the other one at his waist, starting to work on his pants, on zip and belt and button, while Jane preferred to explore the skin under the top, lifting it as much as he needed to feel the texture of the skin of her stomach, and then up, up, until he had her moaning and grunting in his mouth, his thumbs stimulating her nipples, turning into hard peck while drawing little circles on her flesh through the rough fabric of her bra.
He squashed them between thumb and index when her hand found his hard length inside his boxer, feeling in the flesh his desire and need.
He lifted his body a little from the couch, giving her the chance of freeing him from the clothes, and at the same time he threw somewhere at the back of the couch the shirt, not carrying the slightest where it could land, all the while without parting their lips (it was proof that God existed, because he couldn't bear the thought of parting from her, he needed her, needed to know she was still there, alive, needed her to know he was there with her and free). Lisbon enthusiastically accepted the challenge, and in no time, Jane felt himself completely naked, at her mercy.
He leaned back, hands crossed at the back of his head, displaying without a hint of fear or shame his body, allowing Lisbon to study him, to caress him with her eyes, with her soft gaze, and she did, all the while wetting her lips, foretasting the moment they'd become one, glued to a certain point of his anatomy she had never seen before, never thought he'd allow her to see, not in million of years. But still, here they were, on the verge of taking a huge step.
Her back against the armrest, she lifted her eyebrows a little, quizzically, curious, trying to look at his eyes and not notice how glorious he was, golden curls, soft, almost invisible, all over his body, tiny nipples begging to be sucked into her mouth to form moans of pleasure, and his erection, huge, looking like pure, warm steel, ready to be felt inside and around her.
She tried to alleviate the tension between her legs by shifting position, hoping he would do something about it. she needed release, her had turned her on and now he had to turn her off. And he wasn't touching her, not any longer, he was naked and she was still fully clothed, and he wasn't doing anything about it.
He laughed, eyes almost closed, shaking his head (she pouted, making it all the more attracting). "That's not how is going to work, my dear. You are the injured party, and I don't want to make it worse. We'll do whatever you want to do- both willingly – but on two conditions. One: considering your injury, I'd prefer if you could take care of the undressing on your own…."
She huffed, but smiled, shaking her head slightly, half amused half in disbelief, and quickly lifted the tank top over her head, grimacing a bit when the shoulder pretested, and made quick work of pants as well, remaining only in lingerie in front of Jane, a matching set, beige with small flowers, quite romantic and girly. "You know, if you wanted a striptease, you just had to ask, Jane…" his name rolled erotically on her tongues, and he didn't know what was sexier, if that or his given name. he found out he didn't care, though, so intent in studying her lingerie-clad body, front clasp and culottes, a seductive contrast that did nothing than fueled his desire, and she knew, oh, she definitely knew, and was bathing in the sensation "Is there anything that Jane likes?" she teased, still pouting. He didn't know if he was supposed to love or hate that grin, because of how he aroused him, and sometime, it wasn't exactly a good idea, sometimes it wasn't the right time (but not now, now it was, definitely).
"Well, actually, Jane thinks he'll like more what's underneath those little pieces of fabric…"
She got naked, just like that, and he gulped, seeing all that… the perfect breasts, big enough to be cupped by his hands, and the dark curls at the apex of her thighs, on her groin, so soft and luscious at first sight. "I said you just had to ask…." She said, trying to sound as a real seductress, but looking at him looking at her got her blushing, especially when she saw where his gaze was going, her parting legs, her glistering entrance. "What about the second condition?"
He closed his eyes, inspiring deeply her scent, the perfume of her arousal, so deep he could feel it from where he was standing, and she shivered, , wondering what that condition could be, but she wasn't scared, she was thrilled.
Besides, she was willing to do everything for, with and to this man.
He scooped down, sitting against the armrest opposite to hers, eyes locked with hers, offering his hands to Lisbon, again asking her to trust him, but this time with no question at all (they had never needed too many words, they knew each other well enough to not need them). "I told you, you're the injured party here and I don't want to make it worse. If you want me, woman, well, I fear that you'll have to give up for now that fantasy of yours that saw me as your dominator and stay on top as you do with all the other men…" he laughed, and she slapped him on the arm, faking indignation (she couldn't be really mad, it was true, all completely true). But she still took his hands, straddling him, her legs both sides of his body, his hard length teasing her entrance, making her shudder in delight and need.
She was so close…. She knew she couldn't last long.
As he entered her into one sure movement, immediately to the hilt so wet she was already, his hands went at her hips, holding her so tightly she could already see the bruises that would appear in due time, and his lips attacked immediately her breasts, biting the tender tissue of her nipples while she lifted her head and moaned, her nose breathing into his scent, nuzzling his curls, sweat already covering their bodies with a tiny veil while he entered her to the hilt, stalling for a moment to enjoy the sensation, to forge it into his memory.
He guessed that the sounds she was making were ones of complaints.
He grinned, and started to thrust, moving inside of her, up and down, up and down, slowly, leaving her core just to come back inside her just as slowly as before, never giving her too much of himself, never touching that point inside of her she craved to be touched, needed to be touched to relieve the tension built in the last… well, in a while (she wasn't going to feed his ego further more by telling him she had wanted to drag him to bed since the moment she had lied eyes on her new consultant).
She kept whimpering, never, though, actually vocalizing her request of going faster, of taking her harder (he wasn't supposed to need that. He was supposed to know that. He was a mentalist, he was supposed to be able to paly her like a guitar).
He grinned. And impaled her. Literally. He pulled her closer to him, and quickened his pace, and, holding her gaze, just like that, he saw it, them, the signs. Her inner muscles constricted around him, milking him dry, demanding his warm balm of release, and couldn't help it, knew it was soon, hadn't last long, but he just had to. it had been too long, and she was too much, and so, when he saw her face contorted in a silent scream of primordial pleasure, her fingernails marking his naked shoulders, he followed her, reaching just few instants after Lisbon the edge of pleasure, an orgasm that he felt in every fiber of his body.
He empties his seed into her, and she forced him to abandon her breasts, forced him to lift his head, his lips to meet hers in a powerful kiss that had them moaning into each other's mouth while they rod out their high. Eventually, he collapsed, spread on the couch, still naked, a bit cold but giving a damn about him, focusing only on Lisbon, who followed, resting her weight on his body, a comfortable position for both of them, familiar.
She starting drawing lazy, invisible circles on his chest, thinking silently about something but loud enough for a mentalist like him to know.
"You know, when I told you I wanted to make you relax, I was talking about hypnotizing you into forgetting about the pain" she laughed, her laughter reverberating through his chest, all the way to his heart. He started to play with her curls, and turned serious after just a matter of seconds. "I'm not going to disappear in the morning, Lisbon, neither I'm going to forget or regret this or pretend it never happened".
She lifted her head and studied his features for few, interminable, instants, skimming over his sun-kissed skin. She placed a soft, lingering kiss, a mere peck ma voluptuous nevertheless, on his parted lips, which got him to close his eyes to increase the sensation. "good." She smiled, trying to increase it, to deepen the kiss. He wanted to tell her something, but when her wandering hands started to be all over him, he forgot about everything but her.
Maybe it wasn't important. Not as important as making her happy and satisfied, at least.