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Disclaimer: "NCIS: Naval Criminal Investigative Services," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Belisarius Productions, Paramount Network Television Productions, Paramount Television, and CBS Television. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with " NCIS: Naval Criminal Investigative Services," CBS, or any representatives of the actors.
She found herself thinking; but I’m not a redhead. It swam over and over in her thoughts, even as he slowly bent one of her legs and arched it up so that she could almost lick her knee. She groaned then, not in pleasure, but in pain. She had just been beaten by Iranian intelligence, cleared by the hospital, and black roses were blooming across her belly and across the bridge of her nose where she had allowed herself to be physically decimated by the enemy.
Because I’m an investigator now. Strategy, Ziva. Strategy.
Gibbs had offered to drive her home; a concerned, confused look on his face when he wasn’t looking at her. Every now and then he would pin her with a fierce gaze and she would find herself meeting it, then looking shyly away. It wasn’t like her, she knew that, but she was feeling unusually vulnerable. Perhaps it was the pain or the painkillers; she didn’t know.
When they entered her home, she had offered to make him a coffee as he surveyed her modest apartment. There was the piano, the sofa, a dining table, no television. Non-fiction books in on weaponry, linguistics and politics were stacked in neat piles on the coffee table, they were not all written in English. There were no cushions out of place. She wondered what he thought even as he walked a straight line to her full bookshelf and perused the titles there. Different languages again.
She had set the kettle to boil and bent down to retrieve two mugs from the cabinet, and an unexpected swoop of pain bolted through her gut. She knew she had made a sound, and flinched when she felt a protective hand attempt to guide her to a chair.
‘I’m fine Gibbs, just the hazards of the work place.’
‘I know.’ He said, amused. But all the same he had set her down and looked at her once, intensely, before raising her shirt. Ziva said nothing as he stared at what she imagined must be large bruises by now. She was exhausted after the explosion, hiding from the authorities and fearing – among other things – that her father had a contract out on her head. Assassination, from her father of all people. She never thought she would ever find herself thinking at least it was Iranian intelligence.
It was a bold man who made advances with her. Usually she pursued, and usually she got what she wanted. It had never occurred to her to pursue Gibbs, after writing the dossier on him for Ari, she knew that she had too much respect for him, to just target him for a one night stand. She wasn’t looking to proposition a member of NCIS unless there was some tactical advantage anyway.
So she was shocked to find herself gasping as he placed a warm hand flat on her belly. Her muscles contracted and she stared at the top of his head in amazement. She was even more surprised as he moved that hand up very slowly, until he reached the underside of her bra. He looked at her, with a serious and earnest expression, and then deliberately moved his hand further until it cupped her left breast. Ziva exhaled sharply, and couldn’t look away. She felt her eyes widening.
She opened her mouth to speak and found that she had nothing to say. ‘This isn’t appropriate,’ well… he would already be blindingly aware of that. ‘I’m injured,’ he knew that one too. ‘I don’t want you,’ would be a bit of a lie.
His hand softly touched, and she shifted her feet uncertainly, even as she felt tendrils of warmth spread through her body. And then he caressed, eventually kneading and her nipple tautened in his hand. She was biting her lip to stop herself from making any noise. It seemed indecent somehow, to make it seem more real with her vocalisations. She felt awkward, it had been a surreal forty eight hours.
And then Gibbs was ignoring the kettle, which had switched itself off, and was pulling her up by her waist. She turned her head to hide her wince, as his palm brushed against a bruised rib. He grunted, aware of her pain, and shifted his hand to the small of her back as he guided her towards her room. He had never been down the hallway that lead to her room before, but after years of looking at the interiors of houses; questioning people and investigating… it was easy to know where a master bedroom would be.
He didn’t pause in the bedroom, didn’t look around. She could feel his gaze on her as he pushed her towards her bed and then guided her gently into a seated position. Her knees dangled over the edge of her bed. Gibbs began to methodically unbutton his shirt, and Ziva stared blankly at him.
What is going on? Ziva found herself thinking. I know what I think is going to happen, but is it actually going to happen?
I’m not a redhead. She thought.
Other reasons were crashing into her brain; the insensibility of it all, that she was injured, the possibility of damaging her relationship with NCIS and potentially, Israel’s relationship with America through tensions with Mossad. She began to stand and then paused as he turned towards her.
He gazed at her – aware – and bare-chested now. Ziva found she couldn’t move, her heart was pounding in anticipation, and fear. He stalked towards her with a sort of confident grace, yet there was concern in his eyes. Was it for her? For him? For whatever consequences would arise from these actions?
He leaned over and placed a hand between her shoulder blades, and then placed his other hand over her sternum. She let herself be slowly lowered back onto the bed so that the top half of her body was resting on the quilt, and her legs remained dangling. He moved his hands and deliberately spread her knees apart, and she felt herself flush. As he stood between her legs, she had problems mastering her breathing. She was used to being dominant, but the shock of the day made her feel unusually passive.
He stroked her hair, thoughtfully. Then his hand moved behind her head to her neck and he began to gently massage it. Ziva sighed, and realised that she had been holding her breath.
This is nice. She thought. And as he kept massaging gently, up and down the back her neck, fingers curling into her hair occasionally, her eyes began to drift shut. They flew open again when he moved forward and captured her lips with his own. He moved over them with his tongue, first, and then bit gently with his teeth, coaxing her mouth open. Passion was starting to lurch through Ziva now, in stops and starts, overwhelming her fear and saturating her passivity with confidence. Her own mouth opened and she arched upwards, meeting his tongue with her own, biting his lower lip with her teeth, grazing the soft flesh she met there.
His breathing deepened as she stroked his tongue with her own. His hand moved from her neck to her scalp, and he held her head in place. She hissed a little at this, she had some bruising on her head from where she had been dragged into a standing position by her hair; but Gibbs didn’t care. And eventually, neither did she, focused as she was on trying to conquer his aggressive and persuasive tongue.
She lost the passionate battle the moment that Gibbs cupped her breast through her sweater. Her breath caught, and then stayed held as he swooped underneath her clothing, up over her bra, and found the nipple through the lace and rolled it between his fingers. First gently, and then hard, just enough pain that she moaned in surprise and pleasure against him and her hips lifted.
There was pain of course, as she moved, her ribs frustrated by her inability to lie still. Gibbs chuckled and repeated the motion, now moving his other hand from behind her head to her other breast. He moved beneath the lace, squeezing and pinching the nipple repeatedly, inexorably. Ziva whimpered and found herself unable to turn her head away to gasp or moan freely, as he plundered her mouth with his tongue. Instead she found that all her noises were captured by him, and just seemed to incite him further.
Her hips lifted again, and his own hips pressed into her and she felt his arousal. Her own hands, vaguely forgotten as they rested on his back, now began to move. The right hand, bold and less hampered by bruising, found itself curving over his pectorals and trailing fingernails over his own nipples. She could feel his lips quirk into a smile against her own, and then one of his hands captured hers and lowered it to the bed again. He held it there for a second, and she got the meaning very clearly; ‘you don’t have to do anything.’
He moved his hand away, and her hand followed and this time moved confidently towards his crotch. Once more he stopped her, grasped her wrist and pressed her hand back into the bed. He lifted his mouth from hers and stared at her. For a moment, all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. She was shocked by the intensity of his gaze, even a little frightened, she didn’t remember ever feeling this way with a man before. It was strange to feel intimidated, to not be the aggressor, to not demand to be on top. Part of it was the fact that her body was sore and wanted to rest.
Plus… it was Gibbs.
She left her wrist and hand on the quilt, clenching her fingers into a fist as he undid the fly on her pants. Now she was concerned, again. Aware again. She was injured, tired, unsure of where she stood.
‘Gibbs.’ A caution in her voice. He ignored her, pulled the zipper down, and then easily seemed to manoeuvre her cargoes off. The underwear she was wearing came off too, he seemed to be nonplussed that it was black lace. She wondered if he knew as much about her as she did about him and his past. She doubted it.
She shivered when she felt his hand cup her gently. He was pleasantly warm when contrasted with the coolness of her room. He leaned on his other arm now, and watched her with interest and curiosity as he stroked his fingers through her hair, tracing the shape of her. Ziva began to relax a little, and in response, Gibbs dipped one fingertip between her folds. His stare burned her as he found her wetness. She had been planning on being as silent as possible, but she could not stop the exhale and the sharp, deep inhale. She stared back at him as he dipped the fingertip again, this time sliding it up and circling around her clitoris.
‘Gibbs.’ She said, less cautionary, though still uncertain.
‘Ziva,’ he said then, and she was shocked to realise that this was the first time he had spoken since the kitchen. Since he had touched her when she was sitting down. He didn’t qualify or clarify his use of her name, and she wondered if he was mocking her own repetition of his own name.
She looked away, embarrassed. And at that moment the fingertip became a finger, sinking deep between her legs and she shouted, bucked up. Warmth became a flood of heat and she moaned, even though his finger now stayed still within her. A presence that seemed to burn her from the inside. She turned back to look into his eyes once more.
‘Ziva,’ he whispered, now not mocking at all; almost reverent. The finger became two, almost immediately, and she whimpered and moaned, her eyes closing and her cheeks flushing. Her ribs burnt, her stomach and belly burnt as her muscles seemed to contract around him of their own accord.
He was stretching her, marking her, much more confident and knowledgeable of the female body than most men she had slept with, though it occurred to her that she rarely gave them a chance to be confident. His fingers curled up into her, scraped against a patch of inner warmth that she had so often touched herself, and she shuddered and moved her hand towards him. She found her wrist pinned once more to the mattress.
She stared at him then, disoriented, but not enough that she couldn’t threaten him with her gaze. ‘I could get out of this,’ she seemed to say, and he stared back with amusement. She was letting herself be dominated, held down firmly, plundered. She could get out of this, but it seemed that she wasn’t going to.
He kissed her again, biting at her bottom lip before gently caressing her tongue with his own. He moved his thumb up to circle around her clitoris and drank in her moans. It wasn’t fair, she thought, that she was this turned on in such a short amount of time. It wasn’t fair, as she teased his mouth with her own and then withheld it playfully, that all those sounds should be hers and not his.
He brought her close to orgasm, this shocked her too, as she hadn’t met many men who were capable of helping her be so close in a short amount of time. She felt the familiar tightening and quickening, and gasped away from his mouth, almost confused that it had happened so fast. But even as she felt the beginnings stir through her, they faded as he withdrew his fingers and stepped away, divesting of his pants now. She was acutely aware that she still wore a sweater, that it still hid the majority of her bruising.
She did not look at his penis, even has he stepped between her legs and she felt it bump against her. She didn’t look as she heard him take a condom out of his wallet and the snick of the foil being ripped open. She stared instead at his face, which was concentrating. His eyes which were flickering between her and himself.
And then he was grasping her right leg in his hand and bringing it up while bending it. She groaned at the pain, and the burn in her ribs made her gasp prematurely. He looked at her, down at the place where the bruising would be, and then even lower. His fingers dipped between her again, she felt more exposed than ever, but she still hummed in pleasure as she felt him place himself between her.
His head dropped down next to her ear, his breath warming her as he positioned himself, and then she felt him push forward.
At the odd angle, she was more aware of his size than perhaps she would have been. He felt big, not her biggest perhaps, but big. And he slid into her smoothly and powerfully, sliding home and knocking the breath out of her. His weight leaned against her thigh, and his pelvis rocked forward a few times, still deep inside of her.
‘Oh god.’ She heard, she knew it was her, she was the loud one. And then a moan, as she arched into him, her hips undulating in a movement she found unusually easy considering the pain throbbing in other areas of her body. He moved back into her, turning his lips to her ear and licking it.
‘Ziva,’ he whispered, in awe. He withdrew then and slid smoothly back in, now hooking her knee over his shoulder and moving more deeply. She wailed at this, embarrassed at her noisiness, moving a hand over her mouth. Normally she didn’t care, but she liked to seem more composed than usual around him. This wasn’t some random man she had targeted for sex, where loud noises were a triumphant victory call. This was Gibbs, her boss, and she muffled the sounds that kept building and catching in her throat.
Instead he reached up and moved her hand away from her mouth, stopped her from muffling the noises that spilled out of her lips as he continued to move. Firmly, but not rough, quickly, but not impatient. His hand moved between her legs and clever fingers sought out her clitoris and started to manipulate it. Rolling, rubbing, squeezing, and her own hand slammed down on the doona even as she said; ‘oh fuck! Gibbs!’
He chuckled then, a surprising sound in amongst the seriousness. And she couldn’t help herself, she moved her own hand up and under her sweater, she touched her own nipple, squeezing and pinching, whimpering at her own ministrations. Gibbs’ breath gusted against her mouth then, and he bit her lip possessively. Her other hand now snaked between them both and found his chest, his shoulders, his arms and stroked him; over and over.
She was finding it hard to concentrate on anything. Her hips were lifting into his and she found herself shifting slightly to make sure that his fingers were getting her clitoris just right. They were, and she cried out as she felt the tightening across her pelvis. That feeling that she was close.
And now the moans were louder, rising, and Gibbs still didn’t cover her mouth with his own, still didn’t swallow the noise. Gibbs who was moving into her. Ziva found herself thinking all sorts of crazy things all of a sudden, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable. Did he want to know what it was like to fuck an Israeli Jew? Was he embarrassed by her loudness? Was it just a strategical move? Was this just him testing out his abilities? Was it just a pity fuck?
The tightening lessened slightly, her head turned, her eyes widened at the reality of her situation. Her ribs seemed to burn a little more as she became aware of the pain that the pleasure had flooded out. Gibbs raised his head and looked at her, he paused.
‘Oh, Ziva,’ he said slowly, sadly, and she turned and found herself startled by the tears in her own eyes, the overwhelming rush of emotion that she had held back so long by the force of her own will. And then her lips tightened as she felt the first tears trickle out of her eyes. She was determined not to look away, and his face echoed her own sadness. ‘Ziva, it’s okay,’ he said softly, ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not trying to.’
It seemed strange, one of the strangest things she had ever heard at this point during sex, and yet she found her body warming to it. A wet, sobbing sound came out of her mouth and she arched up to capture his lips and he returned the favour.
‘Gibbs,’ she now said against his lips, unable to stop herself, ‘Gibbs, I thought…’ I would never see you again.
He was moving inside of her, slowly now, still deeply. It set off a throbbing in her gut that had nothing to do with the bruising and she was still matching him, even as he kissed her tears away and then licked her closed eyelids gently. Even as he licked the curve of her neck and she gasped loudly and then swore. She wanted to keep talking, but found that his mouth was near her ear again, his voice rumbling through her.
‘I missed you, in Mexico. More than I thought I would.’ He said, and his voice even now held surprise that she could have a hold over him. She was whimpering intermittently, the throbbing growing in intensity, her clitoris aching to be touched again.
‘You brought my memory back, I didn’t know whether that was good or bad. You killed Ari, I don’t know if you knew whether that was good or bad.’ Ziva’s breath hitched at the mention of her half-brother, it was something she concertedly blocked out of her head. ‘You didn’t trust your father when you were scared, but you trusted me. I haven’t done a great deal for you Ziva, except put you in a position where you shot your brother.’
‘Gibbs,’ Ziva whispered, and a gentle hand found her clitoris once more and she moaned. ‘You’ve done more than…’ but she couldn’t finish her sentence. The throbbing of pleasure was overwhelming her senses now. She could feel her back beginning to arch, the inevitable tightening that came thick and strong over her and seemed closer than ever.
‘Deeper.’ She said suddenly, and he obliged with unexpected vigour, moving into her as deeply as he was able. And she was making sounds, the ascent into what could be a scream, or a moan, or a wail. The ‘ah, oh, oh god, oh, oh, god,’ sounds as he moved his fingers against her clitoris and moved his body quickly against hers, deeply. She wanted to give him warning, but she could feel his own movements becoming erratic and she knew he was close. He didn’t need warning, all this time he had been waiting for her.
Her back arched, her ribs ached, and she shouted a hoarse cry, then another, as the first waves broke over her and it seemed her whole body tightened into a contraction before the shuddering began. She clutched at him, and he held her close with his other arm, as he became jerky with his movements. Then he was slamming into her, holding her close as she gasped on each breath against him and she felt him expand against her, the warmth as he spilled himself into the condom. He grunted against her ear, and then bit her earlobe, she tightened against him.
They clutched at each other, until he gently withdrew and sat on the bed next to her. She heard the wet sounds as he removed the condom, and it was painfully real once more. She moved slowly up the bed until she could turn on her side and face away from him; waiting for that moment when he dressed and walked out the door. Preparing herself and gathering the strength for that moment when she would act like nothing ever happened.
She jerked when he placed a gentle hand on her hips.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes.’ She said, not really caring if he was referring to her heart or her body.
‘Ziva,’ he whispered, and she shivered as he curled up behind her, spooning her with his own warm chest against her back. And then he was reaching behind him and pulling the edge of the doona up over them both. It only stretched partway over her body, and he placed a protective hand over her belly instead. ‘God help us, I think I like you.’
‘You think?’ She laughed wryly. After that, you still don’t know?
‘You could have stopped me at any point.’ He said, and she nodded. She could have. He may have been able to sharpshoot her from a distance, but she could physically dominate any one of that team, even with a banged up torso and nose.
‘So…what are we going to do now?’ Ziva said softly, and she felt him sigh contentedly against her shoulder blades.
‘Sleep.’ He said.
She almost laughed outright at his statement but found her own eyes heavy and lowering, her body soothed by the warmth of another behind hers.
‘Yes.’ She echoed.
It seemed like a good idea.