Chapter 2: Written on Her Skin
The silence after Jane’s whispered words hung thick, charged like the air before a lightning strike. Teresa’s kitchen, her safe haven, felt like a cage. His proximity was suffocating, the scent of him – sandalwood and something sharper, darker – overwhelming the fading chamomile. The letter dangled from his fingers, an accusation and an invitation.
She stood rigid, spine pressed against the cool counter, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. Every instinct screamed fight. Push him away. Yell. Draw the line they’d been skirting for years in acid and steel. But his gaze, blue and unrelenting, held her trapped. He saw too much. Saw the heat his words had ignited, the tremor in her hands, the way her breath hitched when he’d described pushing her knees apart. Shame warred with a terrifying, liquid pull deep in her belly.
"Give it back," she managed, her voice rough, stripped of command. It sounded like a plea.
Jane tilted his head, a predator considering its prey. "Why? So you can hide it again? Tuck it under your pillow? Read it late at night when the professional facade cracks?" He took another infinitesimal step closer. The heat radiating from his body was a physical force. "You already know it by heart, Teresa. Every word I wrote about you. About wanting you."
Her name on his lips, spoken with that low, possessive intimacy, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She flinched. "That was private. A mistake. You had no right—"
"And you had every right to steal it?" His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. He lifted the letter slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "To take my thoughts, my desire for you, and keep it? That makes it yours now, doesn’t it? Our little secret."
He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand, startlingly fast, shot out. Not to grab her, but to close firmly around her upper arm. The contact was electric, burning through the thin cotton of her pajama top. "Come on."
He pulled her away from the counter, guiding her not towards the front door, but deeper into her own house. Towards the dim hallway leading to her bedroom. Terror and anticipation twisted together in her gut.
"Jane!" she protested, digging her heels into the worn hallway rug. "What are you—"
"Showing you," he murmured, his grip unyielding, propelling her forward. "Making it real. Since you seem so… fascinated by the fantasy."
The door to her bedroom was ajar. He pushed it open with his foot. The air inside was warmer, softer, scented with the jasmine candle she’d forgotten to blow out. Soft lamplight pooled on the plush rug, illuminating the king-sized bed draped in deep blue linens. The faint melody from the small radio on her dresser was a discordant counterpoint to the pounding in her ears.
He steered her inside, releasing her arm only to swing the door shut behind them with a soft, final click. The sound sealed them in. Alone. In her sanctuary, now violated by his presence, by the stolen words hanging between them.
He turned, his expression unreadable in the low light. Calm. Focused. Predatory. He advanced slowly, backing her towards the wall beside the dresser. Her shoulders hit the cool plaster with a soft thud. Nowhere left to retreat.
He placed the letter carefully on the dresser top, beside the flickering candle. Its scent suddenly felt cloying, overwhelming. Then his hands were on her. One seized both of her wrists in a grip that was surprisingly strong, effortlessly pinning them against the wall above her head. The other hand, palm flat, pressed firmly against her sternum, holding her in place. Not painfully. Just… immovably.
Panic flared, sharp and bright. "Jane! Stop! This isn't—"
He leaned in, his body a solid wall of heat trapping her against the plaster. His breath feathered warm against her temple. "Shhh." The sound was soft, almost soothing, but it held an edge of command that silenced her protest. "You wanted to know. You took the words. Now feel them."
He shifted slightly. His head dipped lower. His lips brushed the incredibly sensitive skin just below her ear. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. The hand pinning her wrists tightened fractionally.
He began to speak, his voice a low, resonant murmur pressed directly against the column of her throat. Not reading this time. Reciting. Knowing the words intimately, just as he knew the frantic pulse leaping beneath his lips.
"I imagine the scent of her skin," he breathed, the vibration traveling straight down her spine, making her knees weaken. "Warm and clean beneath the faint trace of coffee and gunpowder." His lips traced a slow, burning path down the side of her neck. His free hand, the one that had been on her chest, slid down, slipping beneath the hem of her pajama top. Cool fingertips met the hot skin of her waist.
Teresa jerked, a strangled sound escaping her. His hand flattened against her stomach, warm and possessive, holding her steady as his lips continued their devastating path. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate circle just below her ribs.
"My fingers," he continued, his voice thick against her skin, "easing under the hem…" His hand slid lower, skimming the waistband of her pajama pants, tracing the lace edge of her underwear he’d so accurately described. "...sliding up the incredible strength of her thighs…"
His touch was electric, igniting every nerve ending. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The hand on her wrists felt like a brand. She wanted to struggle, to fight this invasion, this terrifying intimacy. But her body betrayed her, arching slightly into his touch, seeking the pressure of his hand as it moved higher, tracing the curve of her hip, the taut muscle of her outer thigh.
"Finding the lace edge…" His fingers hooked lightly under the delicate fabric. She cried out, a soft, involuntary whimper. He paused, his lips hovering over the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. His breath was hot, uneven.
"The hitch in her breath," he murmured. His fingers tightened possessively on the lace. "The way her fingers might clutch… knuckles white…" He released her wrists abruptly.
Teresa’s arms dropped, heavy and useless. Instinctively, her hands flew forward, not to push him away, but to clutch at the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the crisp cotton, seeking an anchor as his touch threatened to unravel her completely. She felt the hard planes of his chest beneath the fabric, the rapid beat of his own heart echoing hers.
He made a low sound in his throat. Approval? Triumph? His hand beneath her pajamas slid fully over the curve of her hip, his palm hot and demanding against the bare skin of her upper thigh, just below the lace. His thumb swept inwards, a deliberate, claiming stroke along the crease where her leg met her body. The touch was incendiary.
"My name," he breathed, his lips brushing her ear. "Barely a whisper on her lips. ‘Jane…?’"
It wasn't a question this time. It was a command. A demand for surrender. His thumb pressed higher, insistent, seeking the heat he knew was there. Teresa’s head fell back against the wall, a moan ripping from her throat, raw and desperate. The world narrowed to the pressure of his hand, the burning trail of his lips, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood and him.
The name tore itself from her, not a whisper, but a cry, shattered and breathless against the charged air:
"Patrick!"
Her cry echoed in the small room, sharp and raw, shattering the heavy silence that had held them. Patrick froze. Not the hand beneath her pajamas, which remained a burning brand high on her thigh, thumb pressed perilously close to the lace edge. But his head lifted slightly, his lips leaving the damp trail they’d been burning down her throat. His eyes, impossibly blue and dark with intensity, locked onto hers. He searched her face, the predatory certainty momentarily replaced by something raw, questioning. "Teresa?" His voice was gravel, rough with disbelief and a sudden, terrifying hope.
He hadn’t expected that. Not her first name, ripped from her like a confession. Not the sheer, desperate vulnerability in the sound. It changed the air, shifted the ground beneath them. The game blurred, the lines between punishment and possession suddenly razor-thin and trembling. His hand on her thigh flexed, fingers digging slightly into the taut muscle. Not hurting. Claiming. Anchoring her, anchoring himself, against the sheer force of that single word.
Her own name, Patrick, hung between them like smoke. Shame flooded her, hot and immediate, warring violently with the molten arousal his touch and words had unleashed. She’d broken the unspoken rule, crossed the professional line she’d guarded for years with him. It felt like falling. Her fingers, still fisted in his shirt, tightened convulsively. She tried to look away, to find Agent Lisbon again, but his gaze held hers, demanding the truth she’d just screamed.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice losing its purr, gaining an edge that brooked no argument. He didn’t move his hand from its incendiary position beneath her pajamas, the lace a thin barrier his thumb nudged insistently against. "Say it again." The demand was stark. A challenge. To acknowledge what she'd just revealed. His need for her was written on the page, confessed in his voice. Now he demanded hers.
Teresa swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room filled only by the faint radio melody and their ragged breathing. The jasmine scent felt cloying now, mixed with the sandalwood clinging to him and the sharp, clean scent of her own fear and desire. She felt exposed, pinned not just physically but emotionally. His stare was relentless, stripping her bare. The slow burn he’d described, the ache he’d written about, wasn’t just fantasy anymore. It was a physical presence, a pulsing heat between her legs, amplified a thousandfold by his proximity, his touch, the sheer knowing in his eyes. He saw it. He felt it. He’d orchestrated it.
He lowered his head again, slowly this time, deliberately. His lips found the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. He lingered there, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, feeling the wild flutter beneath his mouth. It was a statement. A reminder of the power he held in this moment. Then, deliberately, inexorably, he began tracing a slow, burning path back up the column of her neck. His lips were soft, yet the pressure was firm, claiming. The scrape of his stubble against her skin sent shockwaves through her, a delicious friction that made her gasp and arch her head back further against the wall, granting him more access. Every nerve ending screamed.
He kissed her neck. Not a fleeting touch, but a slow, deliberate exploration. His mouth moved over the curve where her neck met her shoulder, a place she hadn't known could be so sensitive. His lips pressed, lingered, then moved upwards again, following the taut tendon to just below her ear. He paused there, breathing her in, the sandalwood and jasmine mingling with the scent of her skin. The heat of his mouth was incredible, a focused brand that seemed to melt her resistance, bypassing thought entirely. A low, involuntary moan vibrated in her chest, escaping her lips as a broken sigh. Her body betrayed her utterly, pressing closer into his touch, seeking more of the devastating sensation, the hand clutching his shirt pulling him nearer even as her mind screamed protest. His free hand slid higher beneath her pajama top, palm scorching the skin of her ribcage, fingers splayed possessively. The pressure between her legs intensified, a deep, insistent throb echoing the rhythm of his lips moving against her skin. He kissed her neck like he was memorizing the taste, the texture, mapping the responses he drew from her – the hitched breaths, the tremors, the way her fingernails dug into the fabric of his shirt through to the muscle beneath. It wasn't tenderness. It was possession. An unspoken declaration forged in heat and the undeniable truth of her response. The letter’s words weren't just spoken aloud anymore; they were being written onto her skin, one searing kiss at a time. Her world narrowed to the relentless pressure of his mouth, the demanding heat of his hand beneath her clothes, and the terrifying, exhilarating sense of falling without a net.
The relentless heat of his mouth on her neck, the claiming pressure of his palm sliding higher beneath her pajama top, scorching her ribs – it obliterated thought. All Teresa knew was the terrifying freefall, the dizzying pull towards surrender, the involuntary arch of her body seeking more contact against the cool plaster. Her fingers, still tangled in the worn cotton of his shirt, felt like lead weights, useless anchors against the tide pulling her under. A choked gasp escaped her as his thumb, the one tracing the lace edge low on her hip, pressed inward with deliberate, devastating intent.
"Patrick…" The name was a ragged whisper this time, laced with panic and something far more dangerous: a plea.
He stilled instantly. Not his hand beneath her clothes, still a brand against her skin, fingers now exploring the dip of her waist, the curve beneath her ribcage. But his mouth lifted from her neck, leaving the skin there damp and sensitized. His eyes, impossibly dark in the jasmine-scented dimness, locked onto hers. That raw hope she’d glimpsed earlier was gone, replaced by a predatory certainty that stole her breath. "Hmm?" The low hum vibrated against her temple. "Tell me, Teresa. Tell me what you want." His free hand, the one that had pinned her wrists, came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse point just below her ear. A mockery of tenderness. "Or should I just… rediscover?" His gaze dropped meaningfully to where his other hand was hidden beneath her top.
The implication was a live wire. Rediscover every curve. Like he’d written. Like he knew. Her breath hitched, a sharp sound in the quiet room. The faint radio melody felt absurdly distant. "Don't," she managed, the word trembling. "This is insane. We can't—"
"Can't?" He cut her off, his voice deceptively soft. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, making her shiver violently. "You stole the map, Lisbon. You followed the trail right here." His hand beneath her pajamas moved, not away, but lower, skimming the waistband, fingers slipping deliberately under the lace edge of her underwear. Cool air hit her skin for a split second before his fingertips followed, tracing the sensitive curve just above her hip bone. Her stomach muscles clenched, a visceral reaction she couldn't suppress. "This curve right here," he murmured, his fingers tracing the exact line he’d described with such agonizing precision in the letter. "Strong. Defined. Exactly as I imagined." His touch burned. "Tell me I imagined wrong."
He pressed the heel of his hand higher, harder, against the softness of her belly, forcing a small, involuntary sound from her lips. His exploring fingers dipped lower, tracing the slope towards the heat gathering fiercely between her legs. The lace barrier felt laughably thin, utterly useless. Panic and an excruciating wave of desire warred within her, twisting her insides. "Jane… Patrick… stop…" The words were disjointed, breathless, lacking any real force. Her body was screaming contradictions – pushing against his chest while her hips tilted infinitesimally towards that devastating touch, seeking friction.
He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound that vibrated against her temple. "Your mouth says 'stop', Teresa." His thumb swept lower, a deliberate, feather-light stroke along the edge of the lace, perilously close to the core of her need. She gasped, her eyes flying wide, nails digging into his shoulders now, not pushing, but clinging. "But your body…" His hand flexed, his palm pressing firmly against the aching heat, applying delicious, torturous pressure exactly where she needed it, exactly where he’d pictured it in his stolen words. "... your body is screaming 'more'."
The direct contact, the pressure, the terrifying accuracy of his touch combined with the dizzying scent of jasmine and sandalwood and him pushed her over an edge. A low, shattered moan tore from her throat, raw and completely unrestrained. Her head fell back hard against the wall, eyes squeezing shut as her body bowed towards his hand. Control evaporated. Logic vanished. There was only the relentless pulse between her legs, the exquisite pressure of his palm, and the devastating knowledge that he was right. She wanted more. She burned for it.
He watched her unravel, his expression intense, focused, absorbing every tremor, every stifled cry, every desperate shift of her hips against his hand. He kept the pressure steady, deliberate, letting her ride the wave he'd unleashed, letting her feel the undeniable truth of her own desire laid bare. Her knuckles were white where she gripped his shoulders, her breath coming in ragged, shallow pants that filled the space between them. The flush on her neck deepened, spreading down her chest visible above her pajama top. She was utterly exposed, consumed by the sensation he controlled.
Then, just as her body tensed, poised on the precipice of something terrifyingly vast, his hand stilled. The pressure remained, a maddening, constant point of heat, but the movement stopped. Her eyes flew open, clouded with desperate confusion and unmet need. She stared at him, breathing hard, wordlessly pleading.
Patrick Jane met her gaze. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. Not triumphant, not cruel, but deeply knowing. Satisfied. It held the weight of the stolen letter, the broken professional barriers, the cry of his first name ripped from her throat, and now, the undeniable physical surrender trembling beneath his hand. He saw it all. He had his proof, written not just on cream paper, but on her skin, in her eyes, in the frantic beat of her heart against his chest.
He held her gaze for one endless, charged moment, that smile deepening. Then, with deliberate slowness, he withdrew his hand from beneath her pajama top. The sudden absence of his touch was a shock, leaving her skin tingling, cold, exposed. He didn't step back immediately, letting the loss resonate, letting her feel the abrupt, hollow space where his heat and pressure had been. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat near the lace edge he’d so expertly traced, then brushed lightly against the flushed skin of her stomach before finally pulling away completely.
Jane stepped away, smiling. He took one smooth, unhurried step back, putting a small but significant distance between them. The predatory intensity softened around the edges, replaced by something more complex – amusement, undeniable heat, and a confidence that radiated from his relaxed posture. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, the gesture casual, almost nonchalant, utterly at odds with the intensity of the past minutes. His eyes, still holding hers, sparkled with an infuriating, knowing light. "Well," he said, his voice smooth, the dangerous purr replaced by something lighter, yet no less potent. "That certainly clarifies things."