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Author's Note: Originally posted at Porn Battle #7
There's a trap Gibbs refuses to fall into. It's too easy to think of her as young and innocent—even with the bawdy reminisces of fetish-loving boytoys and all-night raves. She's got a child's sense of wonder, but it's shining brightly in grown woman's body, with a grown woman's appetites, and the short skirts and the hair in plaits isn't about holding onto her youth.
Abby fizzes like a Fourth of July sparkler.
And when all the sparks have been thrown off, there's a red coal that smokes and can burn you far worse than the bright lights ever could and that's what he thinks of as he presses her back against the curved rib of an unfinished boat with the single bulb hanging from his basement ceiling throwing off harsh shadows. Her laughter against his neck is whiskey-soaked and not a little girl's laugh. Her long fingers hook through the beltloops of his rumpled grey slacks and pull his hips flush with hers and all her red lipstick is gone now. Probably on his neck and collar and there's a smudge on his thumb that she sucks clean, her tongue swirling around the digit before she let's his hand drift down to skim her collarbone.
Her shoulders are round beneath his palms. She thrums like a live wire along the length of him, grinding against him because she knows what she wants and she'll get it if she's not careful. And they're not. Caution's in the rear-view, moving away at speed and he doesn't give a damn anymore. He tastes bourbon on her tongue, and a laugh catches in her throat as he nudges her knees apart and grips her hips, lifting her so she's on her toes. Even with the boots. And he'll leave marks if he's not careful, and she likes that, so he just might.
She leaves marks of her own. But that's alright too.
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