Lie To Me - "I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow"
Title: "I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow"
Chapter: 1 of 2.
Rating: M
Charcter(s)/Pairing(s): Cal Lightman, Gillian Foster, Emily Lightman, Cal/Gillian, Zoe Landau.
Genre: Angst/Friendship/Romance/Humour.
Summary: Things he'd consider doing to Loker, should never be crash-tested on Gillian; he'd made the solemn vow to himself. This story is set directly after 'The Canary's Song'.
Author's Note: THIS IS A HAPPY BIRTHDAY FIC FOR sum_of_one (@_fallen_one_) But I hope everyone enjoys it. And Special Thanks to bevfank and anuna_81, my beautiful cheerleaders.
Chapter One | Chapter Two
Chapter One
"Come on, love, I'll take you home." Cal whispered gently, his hands pressed to her hips as she continued to sway slowly, back and forth.
"What about Torres?" She smirked, resting her palms against his chest. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand within his own as they continued to sway to the dulcet tune of Frank Sinatra.
"She'll be fine. But if it makes you feel better," He smirked as her eyes drooped and she tilted forward again. Covering for her, he reached up and touched his free hand to her cheek, steadying her and she smiled sweetly, her eyes still closed. "we'll leave her a note."
Gillian smiled, licking her bottom lip. "Alright."
"It's Saturday tomorrow, anyway. She'll be fine. Look, I'll even move her into my office so she's more comfortable."
Gillian giggled, a very distinctly un-Foster-like giggle as she rolled her forehead on his shoulder. And he chose to ignore the little snort that slipped through her laughter because clearly, she hadn't noticed and he found it rather adorable, in a very Gillian way.
"Do you have Emily this weekend?" She asked, in a tone so serious he would have sworn she weren't drunk at all, were it not for the empty bottle of extremely expensive Macallan Scotch perched precariously on the balcony rail beside a very empty, Krosno crystal tumbler.
"No. Why? You wanna sleep on my couch?" He smirked, running his fingers through her hair and feeling her body shake against his as she laughed. Gillian leaned away from him again, her smile reaching her eyes before smoothing out to the most serious expression she could muster.
"Not on the couch," She licked her lips, keeping her eyes locked on his as silence - not heavy nor light - slipped between them. Cal studied her eyes, watching how the moonlight reflected off the grey-ish blue and he smiled wistfully, touching the tips of his fingers to her hair. He wanted to say yes, more than he'd ever wanted to say yes to her. But at the forefront of his mind, he knew that he couldn't. Because two thirds of a bottle of Scotch was asking the question, not Gillian and he cared for her too much, to answer the scotch instead of her.
"Maybe another time, love." He spoke softly, leaning closer to her so as not to give her the impression that it wasn't completely what he wanted. She may be inebriated, but she was still Gillian Foster so he couldn't chance it that anything he said, or particularly didn't say, could be classified in a way he'd never intended. He needed to be honest with her, especially now. Gillian dropped her forehead back to his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist because apparently, standing that way had become easier than navigating her own two legs. He didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her there, letting her guide him any way that she chose.
"I don't want to go home alone, Cal." She spoke firmly, honestly and Cal felt his heart restrict at the thought of Gillian, stumbling drunk, making her way through her home alone. He couldn't do it. Drunk was never fun alone, he knew that. She of all people, knew that.
"Alright," He whispered, kissing her forehead and brushing her hair away from her eyes. "Zoe's got Emily all weekend. You can come home with me."
"Can we get ice-cream on the way home?" Her eyes practically sparkled and Cal could barely contain a chuckle. He was wondering where Sweet-Toothed-Gillian had been the last few weeks. Apparently, she was hiding in a very expensive bottle of Scotch. Sort of like a Genie, come to think of it.
"Sure."
"With sprinkles?"
Cal laughed. "Sure, love."
**
After driving around for next to an hour, Cal decided that it was just too difficult to find a place in DC that sold ice-cream with sprinkles at near to one in the morning. Gillian looked forlorn, but didn't complain when he started to head for home. He had some double-chocolate chip in the freezer anyway and the idea of that seemed to make her smile, so he considered it a win.
By the time they made it into his driveway, though, Gillian had fallen asleep with her head rested against the window. Her chest was rising and falling in a gentle rhythm and he smiled, watching her trying to snuggle closer into the very uncomfortable door.
Leaning over, he gently cupped her face and guided her over until her head was resting on the side of the chair closest to him. It would have been cruel of him to have left her there, or worse yet, to have opened the door with her resting against it. Things he'd consider doing to Loker, should never be crash-tested on Gillian; he'd made the solemn vow to himself.
Once he was on her side of the car, he hooked one arm under her knees and the other around her back, doing his best to lift her out of the car without waking her. She was easier to move than Torres, he noted, smirking as he hugged her closer and she buried her face in his chest with a gentle purr. Torres had come out swinging, waking up, ready to come to blows before she'd realised it was him and that he'd only been trying to make her more comfortable. Gillian had been standing behind him, doing her level best to hold the wall up, as she giggled uncontrollably and Cal had laughed, never having been sure he'd ever see the day he was the one trying to corral these two, drunk off their pretty heads and full to the brim with untameable giggles, silly one-liners and pent up animosity.
Torres' fist had nearly collided with his cheek, before she'd seen him. And while she'd insisted she was fine; she hadn't had as much to drink as Foster; Cal still called her a cab home before guiding Gillian to his car.
"Cal," She mumbled and he froze, feeling her holding on tighter as he made his way up towards the house.
"It's alright, Gill, we're home. You go back to sleep."
"Okay," Her voice was muffled in his shirt and he smiled, thankful that he'd thought to open the door before getting her out of the car. He kicked it closed behind him, and carried her to the couch.
"I hope this is alright, love." He said gently, brushing his fingers along her cheek after he rested her down. Gillian just smiled in her sleep, wrapping herself around the cushion he'd set her on, mumbling something incoherant.
He felt bad about setting her down on the couch, but he knew it'd be too awkward to try and get her up the stairs. So instead, he pulled a soft throw-rug over her shoulders, making sure he covered her toes because he knew how she hated having cold feet, before he grabbed a throw of his own and sat down in the lounge-chair. Resting his feet on the coffee table, he knew he was going ot ache in the morning, but he also knew that there was every chance Gillian would wake up with absolutely no clue where she was or how she'd gotten there, and he didn't want her to freak out.
So he watched her sleep. He intended to sleep too, but found the act so much more difficult with Gillian's gentle, steady breathing only feet away. So he watched her. Beautiful and peaceful in sleep. And he smiled, because there was just so much he'd never thanked her for. Sure, she'd dragged a thank you out of him for cleaning up his mess with the FBI. But she'd had to drag the thank you out of him, and shaking his head, he was annoyed with himself that she'd had to resort to a forty-nine percent Scotch and physically standing between him and a way out, to get what she deserved. To get what she was honestly entitled to, simply for being.
"I'm sorry, love." He whispered to the silent room, completely aware that there was every chance she'd never know he'd said it. It didn't matter though, because she was there and he was feeling sorry for himself and guilty that she was in this state. He knew how Gillian felt about drinkers, about being drunk and he knew that it was more his fault than hers, that she had gone to this extreme. And he intended to make it up to her, somehow, someway.
**
Cal woke with a start, feeling the firm pressure of a hand on his arm before he opened his eyes to see Gillian, kneeling before him. She was awake and more sober than before, her eyes clearer and her smile, though shadowed by the darkness, more self-recriminating. She was regretting something, even if only in her subconcious and the guilt from earlier, crept it's way back into his heart. "Hey," She smiled, contrary to the expression on her face, but he said nothing of what he really saw.
"Hey," He answered, grasping the hand that had woken him and squeezing it gently. "what time is it?"
She smirked. "It's almost four. I woke up and..."
"It's alright, love." He leant forward and she dropped back to sit on her feet between him and the coffee table. He reached for her cheek, brushing his fingers gently from her temple to her chin as he studied her. "You need some aspirin?"
She shook her head, hiding a grimace for her fading headache. "No, I already took the liberty, I hope that's alright?"
"Of course."
"Was I very embarressing?" He knew she was blushing and the guilt intensified. But Cal couldn't keep the smile from his face. And she looked at him oddly, smirking as he inched closer.
"Actually, you were pretty adorable."
Gillian scoffed. "Sure." She patted his chest but froze when his hand caught her's.
"Thank you," He paused, making sure that their eyes were locked as he filtered all meaning into his next words, holding tightly to her hand and keeping as close to her face as possible. They were mere inches apart, so close she could feel his breath on her lips as he whispered. "for everything, Gillian."
He said her name the same way he had earlier, that beautiful way that was so honest and heartfelt, so different to the way he'd ever said her name that it literally made her stop, pause and wait for the pin to drop. But it never did and it made her heart flutter, just knowing that he meant, each and every word.
"Thank you." He whispered again and she knew, as he reached for her other hand, that he wasn't talking about the FBI or the poker games, or Wallowski or payroll. He was talking about everything all rolled into one. He was talking about eight years of minutes, acts, lies that had all drifted by without a single spoken thank you that mattered. He'd thanked her for picking up Emily from school, he'd thanked her for getting him a coffee when all she'd gone out for was a cheeseburger but he'd never thanked her when it really mattered.
"It's okay," Her voice faltered as he inched forward in the chair.
"No, love, it's not."
Gillian nodded, swallowing. She leant back a little, trying to gather her thoughts and clear her head of the fog. Her headache was lifting and she was glad she'd found the advil when she had. But it was so much to process and she had to try her very best to ignore the desire in his eyes if there was any chance she was going to come up with a coherant response.
She couldn't though, as she studied his eyes. She came to the conclusion that there was no response to the absolute truth that wasn't absolute honesty. Because, no, it wasn't okay but she didn't want to say that, because she was moving past it. He'd said thank you, and in the only way Cal could, he'd meant it, completely. He meant it more than he'd ever meant anything and that could have just been her still clouded mind, misreading. But the depth of his intention, didn't matter. Because regardless of how much, he truely did mean it, and that was enough for her.
She didn't know what to say, how to act. So instead, she leant forward slowly. Cal watched her intently, his peircing gaze studying her as she watched her own hands move towards his knees. She rested them there, both her eyes and his, fixed on where her palms rested on his jeans and she smiled nervously, watching her hands sliding down his thighs before she leant up on her knees, extending herself until her kneeling height was level with his shoulders. "Gill," He started, but as she inched forward, situating herself between his knees, his breath caught. She smiled coyly, barely looking into his eyes before he reached for her chin, tenderly grasping it and guiding her eyes back to his.
He needed to see that she wasn't drunk anymore. He needed to see that this was Gillian and not a forty-nine percent Scotch. And there it was. As he lifted her eyes to his, the moonlight shining in the window caught the blue of her eyes and made them seem almost like two clear, shining crystals and he could see the Gillian he wanted to see. The Gillian he'd taken advantage of being right there beside him, for so long. The Gillian he'd wanted to kiss, since the moment she'd signed her divorce papers.
He'd never admit to having wanted to kiss her before that moment, because that would bring a guilt up in her that he never wanted her to bear. No, he'd say he'd wanted to kiss her, to touch her, since the moment she was a free woman. And he had done, thinking back over how close they'd come together since then.
Before it, he'd only been able to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder or a brief hug. She'd confided in him and shown him her broken heart and never before that moment, had he been able to take her into his arms and let her cry or laugh, or press the heel of her palms into his thighs as she raised herself up to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
He froze for a moment before letting the reality of it all wash over him. Before letting himself succumb to the sensation that it was Gillian Foster kissing him. And he grasped her cheeks, her hair getting tousled by his fingers as he kissed back with ferver.
Like the hug from earlier, on the balcony with the breeze and the stars and the Scotch, he couldn't hold enough of her in his arms. She moaned into his mouth, leaning into him, her back arching as he wrapped his arms around her. She smiled against his mouth, giggling gently as he slid off the chair until he was knees to knees with her. Her arms went around his neck, his palms pressed firmly to the base of her spine as he pulled her closer, inching their bodies closer and closer until there was nothing left between them but a thin layer of cotton and cashmere.
"Cal," She breathed, pulling away only far enough to speak.
He hummed in response, barely able to form coherant words.
"We can't do this here."
Tilting his head back, Cal looked around his living-room and laughed deep but soft, squeezing her hips gently as they laughed. They were kneeling on the floor, squished between the lounge-chair and the coffee table and Gillian had to laugh too, dropping her head to his chest, hugging him. She couldn't seem to stop hugging him. As much as she'd hated him for the last few weeks, she couldn't get over the fact that he hugged better than anyone she'd ever known. That he hugged like it was the last hug he'd ever receive, like it was the last touch he'd ever feel. He hugged like he needed to breathe the same air she breathed, occupy the same space.
And in hating him, this time, she'd missed the veracity of those hugs. She'd missed that he'd barely touched her and before that moment, she hadn't realised just how much.
"Come on, love." He grasped her hand, helping her up from the floor before he kissed her again, so hard and wet and intense that she stumbled slightly backwards. He caught her though, his hand pressed to the small of her back. Her eyes drooped at the heady feeling of him so close. She almost felt woozy with the lightheaded idea that they were really here and she really craved every single touch as though she'd waited a lifetime for it.
"Forgotten the way to the bedroom?" She smirked, running her hand up and down his chest as she leant into him and Cal shook the cobwebs from his mind, gripping her hand tightly before pulling her in the direction of the stairs.
TBC.
Chapter: 1 of 2.
Rating: M
Charcter(s)/Pairing(s): Cal Lightman, Gillian Foster, Emily Lightman, Cal/Gillian, Zoe Landau.
Genre: Angst/Friendship/Romance/Humour.
Summary: Things he'd consider doing to Loker, should never be crash-tested on Gillian; he'd made the solemn vow to himself. This story is set directly after 'The Canary's Song'.
Author's Note: THIS IS A HAPPY BIRTHDAY FIC FOR sum_of_one (@_fallen_one_) But I hope everyone enjoys it. And Special Thanks to bevfank and anuna_81, my beautiful cheerleaders.
Chapter One | Chapter Two
Chapter One
"Come on, love, I'll take you home." Cal whispered gently, his hands pressed to her hips as she continued to sway slowly, back and forth.
"What about Torres?" She smirked, resting her palms against his chest. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand within his own as they continued to sway to the dulcet tune of Frank Sinatra.
"She'll be fine. But if it makes you feel better," He smirked as her eyes drooped and she tilted forward again. Covering for her, he reached up and touched his free hand to her cheek, steadying her and she smiled sweetly, her eyes still closed. "we'll leave her a note."
Gillian smiled, licking her bottom lip. "Alright."
"It's Saturday tomorrow, anyway. She'll be fine. Look, I'll even move her into my office so she's more comfortable."
Gillian giggled, a very distinctly un-Foster-like giggle as she rolled her forehead on his shoulder. And he chose to ignore the little snort that slipped through her laughter because clearly, she hadn't noticed and he found it rather adorable, in a very Gillian way.
"Do you have Emily this weekend?" She asked, in a tone so serious he would have sworn she weren't drunk at all, were it not for the empty bottle of extremely expensive Macallan Scotch perched precariously on the balcony rail beside a very empty, Krosno crystal tumbler.
"No. Why? You wanna sleep on my couch?" He smirked, running his fingers through her hair and feeling her body shake against his as she laughed. Gillian leaned away from him again, her smile reaching her eyes before smoothing out to the most serious expression she could muster.
"Not on the couch," She licked her lips, keeping her eyes locked on his as silence - not heavy nor light - slipped between them. Cal studied her eyes, watching how the moonlight reflected off the grey-ish blue and he smiled wistfully, touching the tips of his fingers to her hair. He wanted to say yes, more than he'd ever wanted to say yes to her. But at the forefront of his mind, he knew that he couldn't. Because two thirds of a bottle of Scotch was asking the question, not Gillian and he cared for her too much, to answer the scotch instead of her.
"Maybe another time, love." He spoke softly, leaning closer to her so as not to give her the impression that it wasn't completely what he wanted. She may be inebriated, but she was still Gillian Foster so he couldn't chance it that anything he said, or particularly didn't say, could be classified in a way he'd never intended. He needed to be honest with her, especially now. Gillian dropped her forehead back to his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist because apparently, standing that way had become easier than navigating her own two legs. He didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her there, letting her guide him any way that she chose.
"I don't want to go home alone, Cal." She spoke firmly, honestly and Cal felt his heart restrict at the thought of Gillian, stumbling drunk, making her way through her home alone. He couldn't do it. Drunk was never fun alone, he knew that. She of all people, knew that.
"Alright," He whispered, kissing her forehead and brushing her hair away from her eyes. "Zoe's got Emily all weekend. You can come home with me."
"Can we get ice-cream on the way home?" Her eyes practically sparkled and Cal could barely contain a chuckle. He was wondering where Sweet-Toothed-Gillian had been the last few weeks. Apparently, she was hiding in a very expensive bottle of Scotch. Sort of like a Genie, come to think of it.
"Sure."
"With sprinkles?"
Cal laughed. "Sure, love."
**
After driving around for next to an hour, Cal decided that it was just too difficult to find a place in DC that sold ice-cream with sprinkles at near to one in the morning. Gillian looked forlorn, but didn't complain when he started to head for home. He had some double-chocolate chip in the freezer anyway and the idea of that seemed to make her smile, so he considered it a win.
By the time they made it into his driveway, though, Gillian had fallen asleep with her head rested against the window. Her chest was rising and falling in a gentle rhythm and he smiled, watching her trying to snuggle closer into the very uncomfortable door.
Leaning over, he gently cupped her face and guided her over until her head was resting on the side of the chair closest to him. It would have been cruel of him to have left her there, or worse yet, to have opened the door with her resting against it. Things he'd consider doing to Loker, should never be crash-tested on Gillian; he'd made the solemn vow to himself.
Once he was on her side of the car, he hooked one arm under her knees and the other around her back, doing his best to lift her out of the car without waking her. She was easier to move than Torres, he noted, smirking as he hugged her closer and she buried her face in his chest with a gentle purr. Torres had come out swinging, waking up, ready to come to blows before she'd realised it was him and that he'd only been trying to make her more comfortable. Gillian had been standing behind him, doing her level best to hold the wall up, as she giggled uncontrollably and Cal had laughed, never having been sure he'd ever see the day he was the one trying to corral these two, drunk off their pretty heads and full to the brim with untameable giggles, silly one-liners and pent up animosity.
Torres' fist had nearly collided with his cheek, before she'd seen him. And while she'd insisted she was fine; she hadn't had as much to drink as Foster; Cal still called her a cab home before guiding Gillian to his car.
"Cal," She mumbled and he froze, feeling her holding on tighter as he made his way up towards the house.
"It's alright, Gill, we're home. You go back to sleep."
"Okay," Her voice was muffled in his shirt and he smiled, thankful that he'd thought to open the door before getting her out of the car. He kicked it closed behind him, and carried her to the couch.
"I hope this is alright, love." He said gently, brushing his fingers along her cheek after he rested her down. Gillian just smiled in her sleep, wrapping herself around the cushion he'd set her on, mumbling something incoherant.
He felt bad about setting her down on the couch, but he knew it'd be too awkward to try and get her up the stairs. So instead, he pulled a soft throw-rug over her shoulders, making sure he covered her toes because he knew how she hated having cold feet, before he grabbed a throw of his own and sat down in the lounge-chair. Resting his feet on the coffee table, he knew he was going ot ache in the morning, but he also knew that there was every chance Gillian would wake up with absolutely no clue where she was or how she'd gotten there, and he didn't want her to freak out.
So he watched her sleep. He intended to sleep too, but found the act so much more difficult with Gillian's gentle, steady breathing only feet away. So he watched her. Beautiful and peaceful in sleep. And he smiled, because there was just so much he'd never thanked her for. Sure, she'd dragged a thank you out of him for cleaning up his mess with the FBI. But she'd had to drag the thank you out of him, and shaking his head, he was annoyed with himself that she'd had to resort to a forty-nine percent Scotch and physically standing between him and a way out, to get what she deserved. To get what she was honestly entitled to, simply for being.
"I'm sorry, love." He whispered to the silent room, completely aware that there was every chance she'd never know he'd said it. It didn't matter though, because she was there and he was feeling sorry for himself and guilty that she was in this state. He knew how Gillian felt about drinkers, about being drunk and he knew that it was more his fault than hers, that she had gone to this extreme. And he intended to make it up to her, somehow, someway.
**
Cal woke with a start, feeling the firm pressure of a hand on his arm before he opened his eyes to see Gillian, kneeling before him. She was awake and more sober than before, her eyes clearer and her smile, though shadowed by the darkness, more self-recriminating. She was regretting something, even if only in her subconcious and the guilt from earlier, crept it's way back into his heart. "Hey," She smiled, contrary to the expression on her face, but he said nothing of what he really saw.
"Hey," He answered, grasping the hand that had woken him and squeezing it gently. "what time is it?"
She smirked. "It's almost four. I woke up and..."
"It's alright, love." He leant forward and she dropped back to sit on her feet between him and the coffee table. He reached for her cheek, brushing his fingers gently from her temple to her chin as he studied her. "You need some aspirin?"
She shook her head, hiding a grimace for her fading headache. "No, I already took the liberty, I hope that's alright?"
"Of course."
"Was I very embarressing?" He knew she was blushing and the guilt intensified. But Cal couldn't keep the smile from his face. And she looked at him oddly, smirking as he inched closer.
"Actually, you were pretty adorable."
Gillian scoffed. "Sure." She patted his chest but froze when his hand caught her's.
"Thank you," He paused, making sure that their eyes were locked as he filtered all meaning into his next words, holding tightly to her hand and keeping as close to her face as possible. They were mere inches apart, so close she could feel his breath on her lips as he whispered. "for everything, Gillian."
He said her name the same way he had earlier, that beautiful way that was so honest and heartfelt, so different to the way he'd ever said her name that it literally made her stop, pause and wait for the pin to drop. But it never did and it made her heart flutter, just knowing that he meant, each and every word.
"Thank you." He whispered again and she knew, as he reached for her other hand, that he wasn't talking about the FBI or the poker games, or Wallowski or payroll. He was talking about everything all rolled into one. He was talking about eight years of minutes, acts, lies that had all drifted by without a single spoken thank you that mattered. He'd thanked her for picking up Emily from school, he'd thanked her for getting him a coffee when all she'd gone out for was a cheeseburger but he'd never thanked her when it really mattered.
"It's okay," Her voice faltered as he inched forward in the chair.
"No, love, it's not."
Gillian nodded, swallowing. She leant back a little, trying to gather her thoughts and clear her head of the fog. Her headache was lifting and she was glad she'd found the advil when she had. But it was so much to process and she had to try her very best to ignore the desire in his eyes if there was any chance she was going to come up with a coherant response.
She couldn't though, as she studied his eyes. She came to the conclusion that there was no response to the absolute truth that wasn't absolute honesty. Because, no, it wasn't okay but she didn't want to say that, because she was moving past it. He'd said thank you, and in the only way Cal could, he'd meant it, completely. He meant it more than he'd ever meant anything and that could have just been her still clouded mind, misreading. But the depth of his intention, didn't matter. Because regardless of how much, he truely did mean it, and that was enough for her.
She didn't know what to say, how to act. So instead, she leant forward slowly. Cal watched her intently, his peircing gaze studying her as she watched her own hands move towards his knees. She rested them there, both her eyes and his, fixed on where her palms rested on his jeans and she smiled nervously, watching her hands sliding down his thighs before she leant up on her knees, extending herself until her kneeling height was level with his shoulders. "Gill," He started, but as she inched forward, situating herself between his knees, his breath caught. She smiled coyly, barely looking into his eyes before he reached for her chin, tenderly grasping it and guiding her eyes back to his.
He needed to see that she wasn't drunk anymore. He needed to see that this was Gillian and not a forty-nine percent Scotch. And there it was. As he lifted her eyes to his, the moonlight shining in the window caught the blue of her eyes and made them seem almost like two clear, shining crystals and he could see the Gillian he wanted to see. The Gillian he'd taken advantage of being right there beside him, for so long. The Gillian he'd wanted to kiss, since the moment she'd signed her divorce papers.
He'd never admit to having wanted to kiss her before that moment, because that would bring a guilt up in her that he never wanted her to bear. No, he'd say he'd wanted to kiss her, to touch her, since the moment she was a free woman. And he had done, thinking back over how close they'd come together since then.
Before it, he'd only been able to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder or a brief hug. She'd confided in him and shown him her broken heart and never before that moment, had he been able to take her into his arms and let her cry or laugh, or press the heel of her palms into his thighs as she raised herself up to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
He froze for a moment before letting the reality of it all wash over him. Before letting himself succumb to the sensation that it was Gillian Foster kissing him. And he grasped her cheeks, her hair getting tousled by his fingers as he kissed back with ferver.
Like the hug from earlier, on the balcony with the breeze and the stars and the Scotch, he couldn't hold enough of her in his arms. She moaned into his mouth, leaning into him, her back arching as he wrapped his arms around her. She smiled against his mouth, giggling gently as he slid off the chair until he was knees to knees with her. Her arms went around his neck, his palms pressed firmly to the base of her spine as he pulled her closer, inching their bodies closer and closer until there was nothing left between them but a thin layer of cotton and cashmere.
"Cal," She breathed, pulling away only far enough to speak.
He hummed in response, barely able to form coherant words.
"We can't do this here."
Tilting his head back, Cal looked around his living-room and laughed deep but soft, squeezing her hips gently as they laughed. They were kneeling on the floor, squished between the lounge-chair and the coffee table and Gillian had to laugh too, dropping her head to his chest, hugging him. She couldn't seem to stop hugging him. As much as she'd hated him for the last few weeks, she couldn't get over the fact that he hugged better than anyone she'd ever known. That he hugged like it was the last hug he'd ever receive, like it was the last touch he'd ever feel. He hugged like he needed to breathe the same air she breathed, occupy the same space.
And in hating him, this time, she'd missed the veracity of those hugs. She'd missed that he'd barely touched her and before that moment, she hadn't realised just how much.
"Come on, love." He grasped her hand, helping her up from the floor before he kissed her again, so hard and wet and intense that she stumbled slightly backwards. He caught her though, his hand pressed to the small of her back. Her eyes drooped at the heady feeling of him so close. She almost felt woozy with the lightheaded idea that they were really here and she really craved every single touch as though she'd waited a lifetime for it.
"Forgotten the way to the bedroom?" She smirked, running her hand up and down his chest as she leant into him and Cal shook the cobwebs from his mind, gripping her hand tightly before pulling her in the direction of the stairs.
TBC.