note: Well hi there. *wiggles eyebrows* (yeah, I've been away, my laptop broke. It's still broken, actually. The story's too long to tell here, honestly, but basically I'm on a computer right now.)
Ahem. Hello and welcome to Kiera's first, and quite possibly last, foray into M-rated Tony/Ziva smut. I totally blame Anne as to this fic's existence, just so you know. Anyway I was randomly thinking, the other night, about what must've happened in Under Covers, between Gibbs telling Tony and Ziva to keep maintaining their cover, and the immortal "Little hairy butt" scene. And so, this was born. It wasn't going to be rated M, but yeah, Anne. Also I haven't actually watched Under Covers in a couple of weeks so excuse me if I didn't get things completely right with regards to clothing, etc.
So… let me know what you think, yeah?

disclaimer: You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you have to brainstorm what you think of when someone says Paris, and you write "Jetlag".

listening to: Candles, by Rufus Wainwright.

His hand finds the small of her back as they leave the restaurant; an act so natural he's suddenly aware of just how easy it could be to slip into this role of a married couple, if only for a few hours. Should he say he loves her? Should he walk up behind her and put his arms round her waist? Where does maintaining cover stop and inappropriate actions take over?
Ziva's body tenses a little at the contact, but as they squeeze through a door, her head turns toward him, and her eyes drift to his lips, and he lets himself think she's pondering the same things.

A man dressed in the same bright red jacket as McGee nods politely at them as they pass, headed for the elevator that'll take them to their room. The room they'll be in all night. All night, with Ziva by his side. Shared warmth and shared sheets and skin so near skin perhaps it'd hiss if it were to connect.
He's not completely aware of the fact that his hand has slipped a little lower in its resting place upon his partner's spine, or the fact that his thumb is brushing up and down, moving against the fabric of her dress but still pressing down onto her skin.

Just as he starts planning a night spent watching TV and eating grapes, as they step inside and the doors slide shut, Ziva turns to him again with a curious expression on her face. She blinks, slides her own arm round his waist, and when she next regards him it's with dark, dark eyes he's seen once today already.
Yeah, she's thinking similar things. Her thoughts, however, might be even less innocent than his.


Her hand is gripping his as they reach their door, currently the only actual contact they're making. It's a wise choice, he thinks, since her palm itself is searing hot, and he can only dream of the heat the rest of her's giving off. His own control is crumbling, and he itches to touch her, feel her, all around him. And dream he does, for the tiniest moment, as she fumbles with the key card. His head drifts towards hers, and her hair's right under his nose, and he breathes in the deep, heady scent of her, so very overwhelming. He peels his eyes open as the door clicks, and they step inside almost hesitantly.
Her fingers are gripping his, squeezing the life out of them. Her eyes from the elevator, which were indeed elevator eyes, linger before his vision, and he really thinks her dress would look even better in the floor. This is very much something they should not be doing.

Ziva shuts the door behind them, dropping his hand before turning round to face him, oh so slowly. There's a smirk on her lips as she leans back, but her eyes seem hungry more than amused. She's resting against the door, an easy catch, right before him, but he won't let it be that simple and neither will she. Still, when her hand reaches up, fingers trailing over his jaw, he wonders if this is it. If she'll pull him to her and kiss him until he can't breathe; until their lips are thin and bruised.
It's not.

Instead, she pulls out his earplug, then hers, and stalks over to the table, rather like a beast on the prowl.

"What are y-"


The word sounds like spun sugar from her lips. It slips between her teeth and past plumped skin, and it holds him still once more. But then, she turns to him, with hooded eyes he can lose himself in them- the gaze of the beast about to pounce. She bites her lip as if contemplating something, and when he moves closer he's completely unsure as to what she's going to do.

Without warning, her hands are on his shoulders, pushing his jacket off, not to the floor, but into her grasp, where she holds it, then moves, and suddenly it's draped over the only camera in the room.
She acts, stepping toward him with confidence. Her head tilts up and his heart starts to pound, and damn "undercover" to hell. This is what matters now.
And then, she presses her mouth against his own, and his blood rushes, and he really, really can't help himself.

Her arms clutch at his back and his neck, lips pressed firmly upon his, and he lets her have the upper hand for just a moment before grasping at her waist, then holding her head, and moving his mouth against hers with urgency and need, unlike much else he's ever felt. Her scent's all around him and it's strong, powerful stuff, that sends his thoughts away as she pulls his bottom lip through her teeth.

Tired of waiting, his tongue is in her mouth before he truly notices, both exploring and devouring her over and over again. She moans and fists his shirt in her hands, reciprocating the move and tangling her own tongue with his. He's finding it hard to breathe but it turns out her lips can hypnotize him, and he's powerless to resist. Tugging on her hair tie, he lets it fall and surround them, and she smiles into the kiss as he runs his hands through it like he's wanted to all evening. She soothes the bite she places on his lip with her tongue, and a wave of something or other crashes over him. Hands moved firmly to her waist, he pulls her tighter than before, wrapped up in an embrace and a kiss and arms. His fingers dance up her spine, and it's then he realizes there are far too many clothes here.

His hands trail upwards whilst he continues planting kisses upon her mouth; something stirs within him as his fingers find no barrier to run over and he finds she's not wearing a bra. Not even waiting to draw this out any longer, he fumbles and material gets in the way, but her zip is finally undone and her dress slides off her shoulders with ease, stopping only momentarily until she shifts her arms. His shirt's three-quarters undone before he even notices.

He pulls back to drink her in, like he'd done earlier, while she pops another button. A low whistle would ruin the mood but he finds himself unable to say much else. She's standing before him, her hands all over him, naked save for the tiniest piece of satin and a pair of heels, and he's never wanted anything more in his life.

She makes light work of his shirt, though it's not the trickiest of tasks, and as she pushes it to the ground she somehow manages to plant a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, that sends his senses reeling. His hands run up the breadth of her back and pull her to him, pressing a kiss to her neck, then her shoulder, and drifting lower until he meets the dip to her chest. He leaves his mouth there, lips brushing her skin every now and then, as she kicks off her shoes, and when she's done she simply raises his head and kisses him like she's running out of time. His arms wrap round her back as they kiss near-ferociously, and she's so warm and soft his head starts spinning circles and he wonders if this can get any better.

He toes off his shoes as she half-leads them closer to the bed, catching his socks along the way, and he's about to remove her of her only remaining piece of clothing when her fingers grasp his belt buckle and he gasps into her mouth.
A low chuckle emanates from her as she flicks it open, and yeah, he knows she's taking her time on purpose.

"You have to be patient." she says in a hushed voice that sounds far too sexy, and it's all he can do to restrain himself from jerking his hips up as she unhooks the button on his pants at a pace he can't endure for much longer.

"I have no patience." he murmurs back, against her lips, and his mouth has moved down to her neck by the time she pulls down his zipper. His pants crumple into a pile at their feet, finally, and he's just hooked his fingers through the waistband of her final piece of clothing when her hand cups him, quite unexpectedly, through his boxers.

He can feel the warmth of her palm even through the material, and he kisses her firmly, possessively, as she remains there, unmoving. Then suddenly, the contact is skin-on-skin, and he barrels them into the wall, brain clouding over with lust he can no longer control. Her underwear pools at her feet, along with his own, while his hand trails up the inside of her thigh. It's all bare and skin and heat and they lose their minds for a good few seconds.

But then, his hand arches closer to the place that's exactly where she wants him, and her fingers loosen then tighten their grip on his length just the slightest, and breath rushes into his body without warning.

She's unbearably hot by his hand, he can feel the scorching heat radiating onto him, and as he tests the waters, brushing one finger by her, she whimpers and he swears, loudly, right by her ear.
Her own hands do not cease moving, perhaps as he'd like them to, but instead continue, quicker, rhythmic and steady, yet hurtling them both toward an inevitable demise.

His fingers circle round, once, then press right into her, and her hips buck up into his palm. He's unbelievably turned on by the hot little noise she makes when he does the movement again, and again, and again, and though he's rapidly losing any awareness, when her control unravels by the slightest margin, and her legs begin to quake, he realizes they're still pressed up against the wall, and that just won't do.

She's light, thankfully, and the bed's only a few feet away, so despite his lack of control, they're lying down on the sheets within moments of moving. Part of him desperately wants to continue their ministrations from before- her hands can work magic and those noises really were hot- but the more overpowering, impatient side of him, takes control.

She locks eyes with his, raises her hips off the bed the tiniest bit, and his mouth finds hers as he slides into her; he's that impatient.

Her mouth goes slack against his and she utters a lust-filled "Oh ". He grins wickedly as she wraps her legs round him, already trying to deepen the movement. His hips roll once, twice, before she grasps his head and kisses him more, harder. It does quite the opposite to slowing him down. He jerks his hips again, unable to control himself, but she meets him this time, biting down on his lip at the sensation. And then again, and again, each time meeting him thrust for thrust, over and over, until his ears buzz, and all he can see is Ziva and all he can feel is Ziva and all he can breathe is Ziva; it's all her.

She falls apart first. He can feel her heels dig into his back less and less, and her movements are more erratic; her noises and moans are becoming wild, louder, completely addictive. Then her body shudders and her muscles contract, and she says his name in a low voice he knows he'll never be able to forget. He's halfway gone by the time she apparently clears her head again, already having rolled her right underneath him and jolting his body with hers again. She whimpers with each movement, though not from pain, and when he comes she breathes heavily in his ear, one hand cradling his head for no reason at all.


About a half hour later, she untangles herself from him and wanders over to the table, picking up both their earwigs. His skin is still shiny and sticky and he still can't quite breathe properly. He'd blame the plague for damaging his lungs, but he knows it's not even related to that.
Walking behind the stand, she holds the comms in one hand, and picks up his jacket in the other, sliding it round her shoulders, presumably to at least protect her modesty from the leering observers in MTAC as she swings past.
From his viewpoint, though, he sees every wondrous sight, and even more when she drops the coat and slides back in next to him, popping her earplug in place before lying down comfortably. He doesn't voice the fact that she let him stare as blatantly as he did.

Rolling over, he reaches out for his boxers and pulls them on- he's bound to be tempted-, then places his own earwig back in. However, he reaches out for his partner and slides an arm round her waist, pulling her to him whilst he still can. He has to angle his head a little, but there's definitely a smile on her face, however small it may be.

Yawning quietly into her neck- God, he hopes they were convincing, it was tiring enough-, he snuggles down, shuts his eyes and hopes to drift off quickly.
He wonders if she snores, but shrugs off the thought with a silent "Nah."

So… bad? Good? Don't hate me, either way.