It’s been almost a decade since I have slept with or woke up next to anyone other than Jase. 

 When I open my eyes the next morning it is through strands of unfamiliar long dark hair and with a feeling of contentment and peace.  This is as alien to me as the arm tossed across my ribs and the hand which is tucked beneath me, loosely cupping my right breast.

 I’m curled on my side, knees bent and the person behind me is tucked in close, spoon style, legs tangled with mine.  The deep even breathing on the back of my neck tells me they are still sleeping deeply. 

 Exstead, my brain supplies me groggily and with that I am instantly awake.  

As if on cue she stirs behind me, one leg untangling and stretching out as the arm around me tightens, the fingers sliding out from under me to remove her hair from my face.

 I keep my eyes closed.  I’m not sure what I’m afraid of exactly, but I am definitely leery of looking at her right now.   

I try to not jerk when the arm eases itself back beneath mine and the hand edges lightly beneath the coverlet and along my ribcage and nestles itself gently back around my breast.  She sighs and curls herself more firmly up against me, her knees bumping tenderly into the backs of mine.  I am as stunned to feel the little brush of lips on the side of my neck as I am to feel my nipple tingle erect against her palm and I shiver. 

 Behind me I hear her breathing shift and change slightly and the legs stretch and then slide to mould even closer as she moves herself tighter against me, hips bumping softly into me, nudging gently.  The fingers around my breast curl inward and squeeze softly, then slide teasingly over the nipple, the nails rubbing delicately over the nub through the soft cotton of the SFPD tee shirt she had found for me to sleep in the night before.   

I hold my breath as she slips her hand languidly beneath the shirt and runs it palm down over my belly and ribs and unerringly to my other breast whose nipple she takes gently between her fingers, tugging.  I moan and there is an echoing sigh behind me as the hips roll into me again.  The hand cups and kneads in a familiar rhythm before dragging delicately up and tracing the bones of my ribs.  By the time she has traced the curve of my waist and hips for the fifth time with nothing but her finger tips I am breathing hard and rocking my own hips in tangent with the lazy thrusts behind me.  

When she reaches between us and pushes firmly on the back of my upper thigh I let her shove it higher and try to not whimper as she teasingly drags her nails and fingertips over every inch of my ass and the backs of both legs deliberately avoiding exactly where I want her hand.   

 But when she skims them lightly down the center cleft, hesitating only briefly at the pertinent area and descending with only a feather brush to the pubic mound from behind I can’t take any more and grit out hoarsely, “You are a sadist.”

 She laughs and I can feel her leaning so she can see my face and when she speaks her voice is low and very near my ear.

 “I’m waiting for you to open your eyes and stop pretending I’m him.”

 That certainly did it.

 They fly open, startled and fasten on the lighter green pair so near my own.  I consider denying it, think of several responses which might get that hand moving from where it has paused in mid-stroke and is resting now, lightly, cupped on the curve of my hip bone, but that would be unfair to her and she would know if it was a lie.  If I know anything about her it’s that she would know if this was a lie.   And right now that’s definitely more than I know about myself.   

“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead and she blinks, then nods and the weight of the hand on me changes subtly so that I know I am done with being teased and there won’t be the delicious slide of penetration I was anticipating and ready for.    

I don’t quite whine in disappointment but it’s definitely close.

 She pulls away and lays back and puts her hands behind her head, staring up at the ceiling.  I roll over untangling my legs from hers slowly because I have never woke up in bed with a woman before and I think maybe what I’ve just done is possibly akin to some form of verbal castration.   

I roll onto my other side and prop my head in my hand and gaze at her and eventually she heaves a hard sigh and without looking me, announces to the ceiling, “Are you okay with what happened last night?” 

For a brief moment I think she means the tearful scene in the Legaspi-Weaver television room; I wonder vaguely what she could think would have disturbed me in the holding her, the comforting of someone whose heart had been broken and betrayed so callously. 

 Then I flash on a mental image of us dry fucking and rubbing against one another’s hands and thighs like dogs up against the wall of the lounge at the G-Spot and I mentally wince and she’s slid her eyes to study me and sees it. 

 She releases her breath in a hard, slow sigh and nods, cutting her eyes away again and clearing her throat. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

What? I wonder.  That it was an experiment, I was intoxicated, that I was some desperately horny creature who would have used anyone to get off, to orgasm?   

I shake my head in protest but she’s not looking at me, is staring at the ceiling.   

“It’s okay.  I won’t tell anyone and you can trust Kim and Kerry. “ 

I sputter something and she cuts me off with a furiously dry eyed glare.   

“You don’t have to do that.  In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”  

The look is so… horrible I am speechless.  It’s what I would expect to see over the barrel of a gun.  Or maybe on the receiving end of one.   

Before I can gather myself to react she’s thrown herself physically off the bed and is jerking her jeans on, hopping on one leg, tousled dark hair flying.  Her boots laces join in a moment later and she lunges for her jacket where it’s hung on the back of the straight backed chair in front of the small desk by the window and snatches up the keys to the Harley, tossing them up and catching them in a jingle and blur of non-stop motion. 

“Jinny…” I venture and she spins around, throwing her head back, glaring at me and I subside immediately.  Jesus.  If this is Misunderstood Morning After what the fuck does she do when she’s really, really irate? 

She’s out the door before I can untangle my legs from the sheets.  It slams back so hard into the frame I’m surprised that particular wall stays uncracked.   

I can hear her continuing the rampage as she bolts down the narrow staircase to the bottom floor.  Something crashes and shatters approximately seven steps into the stomp down and maybe twenty seconds later I hear the front door slam as hard as the bedroom one.

 I get my feet untangled right about the time the Harley roars into life and by then it’s a pointless and futile effort.

 Great.  

Now I’m alone in the Knuckles Legaspi HQ.  And Exstead’s busted something on her way out.

 I have no idea what time it is but it’s definitely full day light.  I open the door cautiously and listen but hear no voices below; hopefully Legaspi didn’t have a session going when Exstead stormed out. 

 She knocked a framed photograph off the wall maybe two feet past the L bend of the tiny landing.  I kneel on the varnished bare wood and sweep the glass shards off the top and lift the photo.   

It’s Weaver.  Dr. CIA herself, looking very Un-CIAish. The left hand side is black and she is positioned at the right looking at the camera with her head tilted slightly.  The light is coming in from the upper left so her cheekbone is shadowed and there is a sultry, definite come-hither look in the sidelong sweep of her eyes.   

Whoa.

 “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

 I look up what seems to be six feet of legs and finally reach Legaspi’s head.

 “Very.”  I say. 

 “Did the frame break?”

 “I don’t think so… just the glass.” 

“Good.  I bought that frame special to match her eyes.”

 I nod and hand her the photograph and begin gathering the larger pieces of the glass up.  She squats and begins helping me and when she asks it, her voice is casual.

 “So what happened to Jin?”

 I stiffen.  Legaspi blasé and detached is more alarming than Legaspi feisty and combative.   

“I’m not real sure.” I venture.

 She lifts her brows but stays silent which tells me she probably has figured it out at least as much as I have but fine, if I’m not going to even try to sort it out…

 “You know, this is still only Sunday,” I tell her.  “I don’t officially have to talk to you until Tuesday morning.” 

 She shrugs.  “That’s right.  Except I wasn’t asking in any sort of official capacity.  Or if I was it was not in any official capacity directed at you.  Jinny’s my patient, remember?  She doesn’t need me nearly as much as she did and the relationship has sort of drifted far over into the friendship level which I have had some colleagues criticize me for, but what the fuck; I don’t think you can treat each person with some dry paragraph out of a book by some long dead geezer.  So I play each person by ear, so to speak and Jinny Exstead needed a friend who would listen and give sound advice much more than she needed someone to pick her brain and label the contents.” 

 I wonder if this is the longest speech I’ve heard from her or if maybe it’s merely the longest I’ve allowed her to speak without interruption.  I’m still pondering this when I realize she’s gazing at me with exactly the sort of look that might should send me wheeling back up the stairs and making an escape myself as soon as mortally possible. 

 Instead I look back down at the photograph she’s holding.  Dr. CIA looks rather…vampish in it, in a supremely intelligent, understated sort of way.  It screams sensuality and seduction. 

 “Shouldn’t you have a bunch of diplomas and certificates up on the walls of your office?”

 She smiles, as if delighted by the question and I warily wonder if maybe I’ve just opened some door for her unintentionally and when she answers I know I have.

 “Probably.  But the upper story was Kerry’s when she first moved here from Chicago.  We had a lot of things to work through and she needed a place that was just hers so I rented the top floor and the kitchen out to her.   And she of course insisted on paying an exorbitantly high price for them.” 

I know she’s not done because she’s got this gleam in her eyes; I can see the wheels spinning as she formulates the next sentence or two.  So I wait because at the moment I am too emotionally drained to attempt any mental sparring with her. 

“And I wanted her to see this photograph of herself every night when she got home from the ER and climbed these stairs to bed.”  She lifts it in her hand and waves it slightly.  “This is the Kerry I see; this is the woman I know.  And I just thought she should be reminded that she is not only the ball-racking, hard-ass, type A over-achieving bitch she is usually forced to be within her job capacity.  And both those people can exist within the same woman and that I can be in love with them both.”   

She’s done.  She rocks back on her heels, eyes shining, triumphant.  I know I’m supposed to be hearing something more in the words than just an explanation of the photograph on the wall above the stairs.  I even know bits and pieces of what it is she’s telling me but there’s a terribly warning prickle of unexpected tears in my nose and throat and if I try to give back even so much as a brief reply I’m very likely to lose it.   

She’s honing in; I can see it.  Blue eyes narrow, her body stance shifts slightly so she is back up on the balls of her feet and leaning forward towards me just barely.  A deafening sound of warning bells go off inside my head and then I realize in shocked relief that it’s the electric door buzzer she’d told me about the first day, announcing someone has just opened the front door of the office. 

 “Dr. Legaspi?” a man’s voice calls out and she blinks and half turns and calls down that she will be there in just a moment and by the time she looks back at me I’ve got to my feet and I’m at least four steps away from her, safe.

 I glance down the stair case before I make the turn of the L shape and she’s grinning at me, hands on her hips.

 “Tuesday.  Ten o’clock, Cooper Finn.”

 I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out at her and she laughs.

END OF FIFTEEN