Chapter 2: Overtime Pay
The insistent buzz of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound in the deserted NCIS bullpen. Midnight shadows stretched long and thin across the cluttered desks, the glow from computer monitors casting eerie blue halos. Vance’s empty desk stood like a silent accusation near the elevator banks. Tony slumped in his worn leather swivel chair, staring sightlessly at the grainy black-and-white feed on his primary monitor – a static shot of the empty garage corridor leading to Evidence Bay 3. The image was a raw nerve.
Beside him, Ziva stood rigid, her back to him, rifling through the Vance case file with sharp, precise movements. The crisp white sleeve of her blouse was rolled up, revealing the faint red marks Tony’s fingers had left on her wrist earlier. The memory of the evidence bay – the cold metal, her heat, the frantic, bruising coupling against the crates, the near-discovery – hung between them like ozone after a lightning strike. Heavy. Charged. Undeniable.
"They will reassign the case tomorrow," she stated flatly, not turning. Her voice was cool, professional, but held an undercurrent Tony knew too well. A tightly coiled wire. "Gibbs will expect closure reports by 0800."
Tony leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble scraping his palm. "Closure. Right. Because Santorelli spilling his guts makes everything neat and tidy." He gestured vaguely at the screen. "Except it doesn't feel closed. It feels… messy."
Ziva finally turned. Her dark eyes were unreadable pools reflecting the monitor’s glow. "Justice is rarely clean, Tony. You know this." But her gaze flickered, just for an instant, towards the grainy image of the corridor. The scene of their transgression.
He met her look. The air thickened, crackling with the unspoken tension that had been simmering since they’d hastily straightened their clothes, wiped damp palms, and slipped back into the bullpen pretending nothing had happened. The memory wasn't just mental; it was physical. The phantom ache in his lower back from shoving her against the crates. The ghost of her teeth on his shoulder. The slick, desperate heat of her around him. It thrummed beneath his skin, a relentless pulse.
"Messy," he repeated, his voice dropping lower, rougher. He pushed away from the desk, the chair rolling slightly. "Like us."
Her gaze didn't waver. A challenge. A dare. There was no coyness in Ziva David. Only assessment. Calculation. And beneath it, the same restless, dangerous energy that had propelled her interrogations and now fueled this… thing between them.
He stood up, closing the small distance between them. He didn't touch her. Not yet. He just stood, invading her space, forcing her to tilt her head back slightly to maintain eye contact. The scent of her – gunpowder, jasmine soap, and the faint, musky trace of their earlier coupling – hit him, intoxicating and sharp.
"You ever stop watching, David?" he murmured, his eyes flicking to the security monitor then back to hers. "Even now?"
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Hard. Dangerous. "Always," she breathed.
That was all it took. The spark met the tinderbox.
His hands shot out, not gentle, grabbing her hips and yanking her forward. She came willingly, crashing into him, her own hands fisting in the front of his ruined, buttonless shirt – a casualty of the evidence bay. He spun her, the momentum carrying her backwards until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of his desk. With a grunt, he lifted her, setting her firmly on the cluttered surface. Files scattered, a pen clattering to the floor.
Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking him in. Her eyes blazed, reflecting the flickering monitor light, pure feral heat. No words now. Just the harsh sound of their breathing, already ragged.
His mouth crushed down on hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was a battle. Teeth clashed, tongues warred, hot and demanding. He tasted coffee and adrenaline and her. His hands roamed roughly under her untucked blouse, finding the smooth skin of her back, the clasp of her bra. He fumbled, cursed low ("Fuckin'…"), then tore at it. The clasp gave way, the material loosening. He shoved the blouse and bra straps down her shoulders, baring her breasts. The cool air in the bullpen pebbled her nipples instantly.
He groaned, dipping his head, taking one hardened peak into his mouth. Sucking hard, his tongue swirling roughly over the sensitive bud. Ziva arched off the desk with a sharp gasp, her fingers tangling viciously in his hair, holding him there. Her hips ground against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his slacks.
"Tony…" His name was a ragged whisper, a command, a plea.
He pulled back from her breast, leaving the nipple wet and glistening. His eyes locked on hers, dark with hunger. "Show me," he growled, his voice thick. "Show me you're not watching."
Her answer was immediate. Her hands flew to his belt, fingers nimble despite the urgency. Buckle clinked. Zipper rasped down. She shoved his trousers and boxers past his hips just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already leaking. She didn't hesitate. Her hand wrapped around his shaft, a firm, knowing grip, pumping him once, twice, her thumb smearing the slickness over the swollen head.
He hissed, hips jerking involuntarily. "Fuck, Ziva…"
She shifted, hiking her skirt up around her waist. The practical black panties were already soaked, a dark patch visible in the dim light. She hooked her thumbs into the sides and pushed them down her thighs, kicking them off one foot. Then, still holding his gaze, she guided the broad head of his cock through her slick folds. She was hot, impossibly wet. Drenched from their earlier encounter, from this tension, from him.
He gripped her hips hard, fingers digging into the flesh just above the curve of her ass – where the bruises from his grip in the evidence bay were surely forming. He didn't care. He wanted to leave more. He wanted to mark her. Claim her. Lose himself in the obliterating heat of her.
With a guttural groan, he thrust upward, sinking deep into her in one smooth, powerful stroke. She cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound as she took his full length, her inner muscles instantly clamping down hard, gripping him like a vise. He held there, buried to the hilt, both of them gasping, suspended in the shock of intense connection. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Then she moved. Hips rolling, lifting, taking control. Setting a slow, torturous rhythm. Up, then down, sliding almost all the way off him before sinking back down, taking him deep again. Each deliberate stroke dragged his cock along her inner walls, a friction that was maddening. She kept her eyes open now, fixed on the security monitor over his shoulder, the one showing the empty hallway, the elevator bank, the entrance to the bullpen itself. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, hard enough to blanch the flesh. Silence was paramount. Detection unthinkable.
Tony watched her, mesmerized. The focused intensity on her face was the same she used when disarming a bomb or interrogating a suspect. Utter concentration. Utter control. Even as she rode him, she monitored their environment. It was the most erotic, most unnerving thing he’d ever seen. Her breasts swayed slightly with her movements, the peaks hard and begging for attention. He reached up, pinching one nipple roughly, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.
A choked whimper escaped her bitten lips. Her rhythm faltered for a second, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his cock. Her gaze snapped back to his, fierce and demanding. More.
He took over. Gripping her hips tighter, he began thrusting up to meet her downward strokes, driving harder, deeper. The slow torture transformed into a relentless pounding. The ancient swivel chair protested loudly, its springs squealing in sharp counterpoint to the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh. Her thighs trembled against his sides. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
"Look at me," Tony ground out, his own control fraying. "Look at me, Ziva. Not the damn monitors. Me."
Her dark eyes, clouded with lust, flickered back to his face. The effort to maintain that dual focus – the physical onslaught and the environmental threat – was etched in the tension around her eyes, the desperate clench of her jaw. But she held his gaze. Her hips met his thrusts with equal ferocity, grinding down as he drove up, seeking the deepest possible connection. Each plunge forced a tiny, breathy gasp past her clenched teeth.
He slid one hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding her swollen clit. It was slick and hard, pulsing under his touch. He rubbed it firmly, in tight circles, matching the punishing rhythm of his thrusts.
Her eyes flew wide. A ragged sob tore from her throat, instantly muffled as she slammed her own fist against her mouth. Her body arched violently, her back bowing off the desk. Her inner muscles convulsed around his cock in powerful, rhythmic spasms, milking him. The silent scream contorted her beautiful face, her eyes squeezing shut again, finally losing the battle to monitor the screens as pure, obliterating pleasure ripped through her.
Feeling her shatter, her tight channel clamping and fluttering around him, was the final trigger. With a strangled groan, Tony buried himself deep, holding her hips hard against him as his own release surged. Hot jets pulsed into her depths as his hips jerked erratically, emptying himself with a force that left him trembling. He slumped forward, forehead resting against her collarbone, breathing harshly against her sweat-dampened skin.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged gasps and the relentless hum of the overhead lights. Ziva’s body shuddered with the aftershocks, her legs still locked around him, her head resting back on a scattered pile of Vance’s witness statements. Her fist slowly lowered from her mouth. Her eyes opened, blinking slowly, regaining focus. They immediately sought the security monitors. Still empty. Clear.
Tony slowly pulled out, the sensation making them both gasp softly. He straightened, wincing at the stickiness cooling between them, the ache in his lower back, the sheer recklessness of what they’d just done. On his desk. In the bullpen. Surrounded by the ghosts of their unsolved case.
Ziva slid off the desk, her legs unsteady. She hastily pulled up her panties, smoothed her skirt, tugged her blouse back over her shoulders, leaving her bra undone beneath. Her movements were efficient, practiced. The Mossad agent reassembling herself. But her hands trembled slightly. She wouldn’t meet his eyes now.
He fumbled with his own clothes, tucking himself away, the silence stretching, heavy and awkward. The raw hunger was gone, replaced by a cold wash of reality. What were they doing? This wasn't just stress relief anymore. It was a minefield.
He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet. "Reports," he rasped, gesturing vaguely at the mess on his desk – the scattered files, the toppled coffee mug. "0800."
Ziva nodded, still avoiding his gaze. She picked up a fallen folder, her posture rigid. "Yes," she said, her voice clipped, back to that professional monotone. But it lacked its usual conviction. A slight flush still stained her cheeks. "The Santorelli confession needs… cross-referencing with the forensics timeline." She finally looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. They were guarded, shuttered. But beneath the cool professionalism, Tony saw a flicker of the same confusion, the same dangerous hunger that mirrored his own. It hadn't been sated. It had only been deepened.
The elevator bank chimed softly in the distance. Both agents froze, snapping their heads towards the sound. Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond the bullpen doors. Coming closer. Ziva’s hand instinctively went to the grip of her sidearm, a purely professional reflex honed over years. Tony straightened his ruined shirt, a cold dread washing over him. Discovery now would be catastrophic. He met Ziva’s eyes again. In that shared, frozen second, the unsolved case, the dead petty officer, the tangled mess of their own actions – it all coalesced into a single, terrifying point of vulnerability. The bullpen door handle rattled.
The rattling door handle froze them both mid-motion. Tony’s hand, still clutching a crumpled Vance file, hovered in the air. Ziva’s breath hitched, her eyes wide, pupils dilated not just from arousal but sharp, adrenalized terror. Discovery. The single word screamed through Tony’s mind, ice water dousing the lingering heat in his veins. Careers. Reputations. Gibbs’s icy fury. It crashed over him.
"Shit," Tony hissed, the word a bare whisper ripped from his throat. His gaze snapped to Ziva’s, finding the same primal calculation he’d seen in the interrogation room – survival mode activated. Her head tilted, straining to identify the footsteps beyond the door. Too close.
The rattling intensified. Metal scraped against metal. Someone was trying the locked handle. McGee? Abby? Panic clawed at Tony’s throat. Ziva moved faster than thought. Her hand shot out, not towards her weapon, but towards Tony. She grabbed the front of his ruined shirt, her grip iron. "Move!" she commanded, her voice a low, guttural rasp that brooked no argument. She didn’t wait, dragging him bodily towards the small, unmarked supply closet tucked beside the printer alcove. Papers fluttered in their wake.
Tony stumbled after her, the urgency contagious. His half-tucked shirt flapped open, his cock, still damp and softening, brushed awkwardly against the inside of his slacks. The door handle rattled again, louder this time, accompanied by a muffled curse – Ducky’s voice? Ziva wrenched the flimsy closet door open. The space was narrow, pitch black, reeking of toner cartridges, stale coffee grounds, and industrial cleaner. She shoved him inside with surprising force.
He collided with stacked reams of paper, sending a cascade of white bricks tumbling silently onto the thin carpet. Ziva slipped in after him, pulling the door shut with a soft but definitive click. Darkness swallowed them whole. The only light seeped through the thin crack under the door, a faint grey line cutting through the oppressive black. The dense smell of paper and dust filled Tony’s nostrils, mingling with the sharp scent of Ziva’s sweat and the lingering musk of their sex.
Outside, Ducky’s voice filtered through the door, thin and exasperated. "DiNozzo? David? Anyone still burning the midnight oil? This lock seems temperamental again…" Keys jingled. The lock mechanism scraped.
Pressed together in the stifling darkness, crushed between boxes of printer paper and shelves laden with cleaning supplies, the frantic energy didn't dissipate. It condensed. Transmuted. The near-discovery was rocket fuel to the already volatile cocktail of adrenaline, unresolved tension, and raw, unspoken hunger still humming between them. Tony felt Ziva’s body against his in the blackness – her rapid heartbeat thudding against his bare chest, her hot breath puffing against his neck. Every point of contact burned.
He shifted slightly, his hardening cock pressing insistently against her hip. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Her hand, trapped between their bodies, moved. Not pushing away. Seeking. Her fingers found the straining bulge in his slacks, tracing its outline through the fabric. Her touch wasn't gentle. It was possessive. Demanding.
"Quiet," she breathed directly into his ear, her lips brushing his skin, sending shivers down his spine. Her voice was pure, dark silk. "Or he hears us."
He bit back a groan as her fingers deftly worked his zipper down again, freeing his cock. The cool air of the closet was a shock, instantly replaced by the searing heat of her small hand wrapping around his length. She pumped him slowly, firmly, her thumb swiping over the slick head, smearing pre-come. "Fuck, Ziva…" Tony choked out, bracing his hands against the shelves behind him, the metal biting into his palms. The confined space magnified every sensation, every sound – the rough slide of her hand, the rustle of their clothes, the ragged pull of their breathing.
Outside, the lock finally clicked open. The bullpen door creaked. Ducky’s footsteps, slow and deliberate, entered the room. "Hmm? Lights on, but deserted? Peculiar." His voice echoed slightly in the empty space.
Ziva’s hand continued its relentless rhythm. She leaned even closer in the darkness, her breasts pressing against his chest. He could feel her own arousal radiating through her skirt. "He will search," she whispered, her breath hot on his lips. Her other hand slid down, hiking her skirt higher. She guided him, positioning the thick head of his cock against her soaked entrance. The heat radiating from her core was intense. "Now," she commanded, the word barely audible. "Do it now. Hard. Before he comes closer."
The primal command, coupled with the immediate danger lurking just feet away, obliterated reason. Tony gripped her ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle through her skirt, lifting her slightly. She hooked one leg around his hip, anchoring herself. With a single, brutal thrust, he sheathed himself inside her to the hilt. He buried his face against her neck to stifle his own groan, teeth scraping skin. She bit down hard on her own knuckle, a muffled whimper vibrating against his shoulder.
He didn't wait. Couldn’t. The need was too urgent, too amplified by the terrifying proximity. He fucked her with hard, deep, punishing strokes, the confined space forcing a brutal economy of movement. Each powerful drive rocked her back against the shelves, eliciting a faint metallic tremor. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the shelves, their choked, desperate breaths – every sound was dangerously loud in the tiny space. He prayed the printer hum masked it.
Ziva met his every thrust, her hips rolling, grinding down onto him, taking him impossibly deep. Her inner muscles clenched tightly around his cock, milking him, demanding his release. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps against his neck. "Yes… harder…" she panted, her voice strained, fractured. Her nails clawed down his back through his shirt, seeking purchase. The fear of discovery, the raw physicality, the sheer illicit thrill – it fused into a white-hot coil of need tightening at Tony's core.
He felt her body begin to tense, her inner walls fluttering erratically around his length. She was close. He slid a hand between them, finding her swollen clit slick and hard. He rubbed it fiercely, in tight, fast circles, mirroring the savage rhythm of his thrusts.
Her entire body locked. A silent scream contorted her face, visible only as a pale blur in the pitch black. Her cunt clamped down on his cock in violent, rhythmic spasms, hot and wet and impossibly tight. The intense suction pulled his own orgasm from him violently. With a strangled gasp, Tony slammed deep, pinning her against the shelves as he came. Hot jets pulsed into her depths, his hips jerking erratically, emptying himself with a force that left him trembling and weak-kneed.
They slumped against each other in the stifling darkness, slick with sweat, sticky with shared release, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. The silence in the closet was thick, broken only by their ragged, gulping breaths. Outside, Ducky hummed faintly, the sound of shuffling papers reaching their hiding place. He hadn't left. Tony rested his forehead against the cool metal shelf, every nerve ending screaming, the aftershocks of pleasure mingling with the acid burn of fear still churning in his gut. Ziva’s body remained pressed against his, trembling slightly, her breath hot on his skin. The whirring printer outside seemed deafening. Then, a muffled thump against the closet door made them both freeze.