Archive of Our Own

“I hate to admit it,” Tony’s voice boomed through the hallway, “but if we don’t shake a leg, you’re gonna have to drive. Otherwise, we won't have a prayer of getting to this shin-dig on time. Abby has texted me 10 times demanding our ETA, and now McGee’s messaging me, too, because Abbs is pestering him about us. Ziva, you almost ready to–?”

Fastening a small silver hoop through her earlobe, she glanced to the doorway at the exact second he rounded the corner. His scuffing footsteps came up short, and her breath did the same. He was dressed nicely in khakis and a polo, yes, but it was his freshly bared jawline that commandeered her focus. It had been several weeks since she’d seen him without a beard; he’d been keeping it trimmed and moisturized after she expressed how erotic it was when the bristles grazed her inner thighs, a tantalizing prelude to the same sensation against her other sensitive areas.

“You shaved.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Ziva dipped her chin, sending him a look. “I was also beautiful when we were naked in the shower together this morning, according to you.”

“I call it like I see it, sweet cheeks.” His hazel eyes glinted – and oh, that smile. Not the 1,000-watt DiNozzo beam that he displayed to the world, but the private, gentle wavering of his lips that softened his entire face, like he really was in the presence of loveliness. She’d grown accustomed to, as well as fond of, the evolved version, despite a persistent internal nagging that she was unworthy of his high regard.

That didn’t stop her body from reacting to him.

A measured inhale calmed the flutter deep in her belly. It was not the time for that, considering their earlier shower encounter had left her pleasantly sated, if sore between her legs. She shifted toward the vanity again, sliding the second earring into place. 

“Then perhaps your vision is faulty, hm?” 

“Definitely not,” he replied with no hesitation, giving her a look of his own. We’ve been over this, it conveyed. Many, many times.

She knew the truth.

A summer of retracing her roots around Europe and the Middle East had taken a toll on her mind and her body. Confronting a lifetime of guilt for her choices resulted in heartache as much as stress and fatigue, all of which weighed on her. The effects could be seen in hollowed cheeks, her first white hairs, and the seemingly permanent dark half-moons beneath her eyes. Returning to the States, to her apartment and the life she’d built for herself, would hopefully provide stability as she began the journey of regaining her health and spirit.

But for this evening with the team – a ‘Welcome Back’ dinner organized by Abby – Ziva was merely making the best of her exhausted husk. Make-up had not graced her face since departing D.C. in the spring; the thinnest layer brought some color and depth back to her complexion. She’d gotten a desperately needed manicure that afternoon and managed to tame her curls, ironing them straight to control the frizz. Then there was her outfit.

“Am I at least allowed to compliment you in that dress? Wow- za.” Tony had yet to move from the threshold of her bedroom. He crossed one foot over the opposite ankle as he braced his shoulder to the wall. His smile lit up approvingly. “It’s new, right?”

Rising from the stool, Ziva fluffed the satin garment. “Old, actually. It belonged to my Ima." She traveled the room on soundless bare feet, avoiding him and his unfailing sympathy. Tenderness. Support. Everything he’d been flooding her with since tracking her down in Be’er Sheva. 

It was almost as difficult to confront her own reflection (and had been for months), but when she stepped up to the free-standing mirror situated in the corner, the dress was her focal point. Found in a forgotten trunk at her family farmhouse, the puffy three-quarter sleeves and drop-waist spoke to the fashion of a past decade, though the navy paisley pattern with interspersing bursts of magenta flowers rendered it a classic. Not her typical style, yet it was the only option that felt appropriate bridging one chapter of her life to the next.

“I have no doubt your mom was beautiful in it, too.” 

His voice was louder; his body closer. That she failed to detect his approach until he was stepping up behind her confirmed her discombobulated state. She couldn’t even hide the slight tremor in her hands that hung at her sides; he wrapped them in his larger ones, their fingers intertwining on instinct. His face appeared over her shoulder in the mirror, golden from the desert sun. Calm. Open. Ready to be whatever she needed. 

Tony took his expanded role of partner and the duties that came with it seriously.

“You and that word today,” she grumbled, resorting to distraction, rather than delving further into the past. Or the present, for that matter. Not to mention a flame had replaced the fluttery sensation at her core, sparked by the gain of proximity to his scent: soap, musk, distinctly man. Her man. 

The possessive thought coaxed a sly smile onto her lips. After years of restraint, of bad timing and silly rules, of their own fears preventing the potential for happiness, it was a feeling like no other to acknowledge her claim on him, albeit silently and to herself. For now.

“Well then…” Spotting the crack in her fortified walls, Tony snaked his arms around her waist and lined up the run of her back with his solid chest. Habit kicked in. She curled one hand under his bicep, the other resting atop his muscular forearm, embracing him in a sort of reverse half-hug. It was the vertical equivalent of how they’d been sleeping every night.

His warm lips skimmed her neck and hovered at the shell of her ear as he whispered, “How ‘bout gorgeous? Radiant? The most utterly remarkable woman alive? I can keep going…” 

Her smirk mellowed to a gracious smile. He was charming, it could not be disputed. He was more, too. Much, much more. He’d proven that time and again throughout their partnership, but now she was willing to see it for what it was. Admiration. Devotion. And another word that neither of them had spoken aloud yet.

But it was there, a tangible aura that hung like a veil over them sometimes. She caught it glittering in her peripherals when one of them turned, searching, only to discover the other waiting, hand outstretched. It had been shining especially bright when Tony decided to stay in Israel to be with her, thereby extending his ‘vacation’ beyond what Gibbs had sanctioned.

Let him fire me, was the Senior Field Agent’s defiant response to the umpteenth request for his return. From now on, I’m choosing you. I’m choosing us.

A phone call from Ziva to her father-figure had remedied the disagreement and bought them extra time, but she understood Tony’s motive – that zeal to rebel from those who demanded everything for too long, to snatch any freedom available to you, regardless of the cost. 

Ziva leaned her head back on his shoulder, reaching to cup his jaw. Immediately, he nuzzled into her caress and kissed her palm, a level of intimacy that felt strangely natural given the newness of their romance. How was it that a person could so quickly transform from a colleague and a friend to her biggest champion and greatest source of comfort? That was Tony, a shield deflecting the worst that the world and her own mind could devise, and a sword clearing the path forward for her to thrive.

I’m fighting for you, he’d promised her in the olive grove behind her family home. And he didn’t seem to be stopping now that they were once again on American soil. 

She might not have deserved him, but she wanted him. All of him. Every version, and by any title. Her man. Her Tony. 

“I do not believe your opinion of me can be trusted, ahuvi.”

His eyebrow quirked. “Why is that?” 

“You are too biased.” She winked in their joint reflection, yet watched as sadness unexpectedly spilled over her expression. 

Tony saw it, too, before she could look away. His grip on her waist tightened, as if he anticipated her calving in half like an iceberg. Was her weakness that obvious?

“Seeing you clearly, Ziva – which I happen to think I do pretty damn well eight years in – is not biased,” he stated evenly, but with a forcefulness that bordered on growling. “It's what you fucking deserve from the guy sharing your bed. It's the least of what you deserve.”

Her head snapped up, finding him as steadfast and determined as his words, yet his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes drilling into hers told a parallel story: Didn't she see him clearly?

Of course she did. The Tony who stood in front of her was loyal and reliable and did not lie to her. He was not Ray or Rivkin or any dalliance in her early years. He wanted, always, what was best for her. Knowing all that, however, failed to cast out the ancient shadows in her mind, the blind spots that remained after a summer of wading through her burdened conscience and absolving what she could. A leaden ball of self-loathing still rolled around in her stomach, fleeing from her grasp each time she came close to smothering its continued reign. 

“What is clear to me, Tony, is all I have to answer for,” she finally replied. “Why I left in the first place, how I am feeling, my plans now that I am back – none of which I can completely answer for myself.”

“I’m not asking you to, Ziva.”

“You are not.” She smoothed a worry line at his temple with the pads of her fingers. “Certain members of the team will, though. I can't begin to– to explain all of that to them– I cannot–” Her chest rose and fell rapidly at the prospect of such scrutiny waiting for her at dinner. Hours of it. Endless. Suffocating. 

In a blur, Ziva was beside her bedroom window, never having told her feet to carry her there. A glance sideways revealed her sandy-haired partner still standing by the mirror, his arms frozen in mid-air where they’d been holding her and were now just starting to thaw. Confusion marred his handsome face, throwing more guilt into the festering wasteland of her gut.

“Perhaps I’m not… ready, after all.” 

The honest words were delivered to the carpet, and their meaning had nothing to do with finishing her hair and make-up or selecting a complementary pair of shoes for her outfit. If she were more honest, nerves had plagued her the entire week, exacerbated by Abby referring to her as the ‘honorary guest’ in every email, text, and phone call. The expectations! 

“Okay,” he agreed easily with her self-assessment. So easily, it annoyed her. A sharp exhale flared her nostrils.

“I see. You have no trouble believing me incapable of making it through a meal with people I consider my family, then? That is–”

“Ziva.”

Tan loafers appeared in her downward gaze, not pausing at the invisible boundary line she would have preferred, but ending nearly toe-to-toe with her. Personal space had always been a suggestion for them – and she secretly hated him being at a distance, anyway. She wasn’t sure if she was sure of anything at that moment.

A curled knuckle swept under her chin, lifting, lifting until his sea-green eyes had her attention monopolized. 

“What,” she demanded without fire or scorn. It was rather pitiful-sounding, she realized too late.

Tony would not be rushed. He gazed at her – caringly, but insistent – and trailed his calloused fingertips along her jaw, her neck, and eventually wove his hand through her glossy hair to her nape. 

“I promise you,” he said at long last, massaging the base of her spine in a way he’d learned would unravel her stress – and defenses. “All of that stuff, the why’s and how’s… It’s the last thing anybody’s going to be thinking about tonight. They’ve missed you. They were worried and hoping you’d choose to come home, like I was. Now here you are, and they want to celebrate that.” He beamed, the reality seeming to dawn on him anew: her, there, with him. His fingers at her nape twisted into the fine, short curls her hair straightener could never fully flatten. A small, hidden piece of her true self. Defiant. Proud. 

And she was proud of what she’d accomplished in the past few months. Surrendering a job that no longer served her; starting to heal from her deadly actions, some ordered, others not; starting over for… she had lost count of how many times, but perhaps this reinvention would include forgiveness and peace. She was changing, and Tony was changing with her – another vow from the olive grove he was upholding, just as she was striving to follow-through on promises she’d made to herself.

I will give up the badge.

I will start over.

I will let myself heal.

I will love.

Ziva blinked out of her thoughts, surprised that moisture was spreading across her eyes like the velvet curtain closing on a performance. More blinks. His American features – the chiseled jaw, strong brow, and hypnotically symmetrical eyes – were first to greet her restored vision. Fate was less than subtle, but she wasn’t, either.

His hand was still on her neck, in her hair, so she only had to shuffle forward and their bodies magnetized from torso to hip to thigh, any gaps along the way eliminated by Tony himself, his arms cinching firmly around her back. Together they took breath, a natural sway rocking them as they stood sharing weight and the view of a blazing sunset out the window. The fourth-story vantage point was partly obstructed by a neighboring building, but the autumnal red and orange and yellow bands streaked above the rooftops. They’d missed the gradual transition of the seasons while in Israel; the leaves were all brown now, and a distinct November crispness peppered the air, even in the sunshine. 

They’d missed so much, yet gained a chance with each other, finally able to satisfy the ‘what if?’ of an attraction and bond that eclipsed all their previous relationships combined. A fair trade-off, in her opinion.

All too soon, Tony moved against her, breaking the trance, and placed his lips at her earlobe. “I’m fighting for you, Ziva.”

Memory overlapped the present, disorienting her for a handful of seconds.

“I will be for as long as you’ll let me,” he feathered in a cool, tingling rush down the slope of her neck. Real. Oh so real.

“I know.” Her vow to him, affirmed. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know you will. You are my sword and shield.”

It was her battle, her demons to slay – and she would do it with him at her side. 

His laugh was windy, genuine; she could tell by the crinkling skin in the corners of his eyes. “At your service, my fair maiden.”

“Be careful what you offer, Tony…” This time when she winked, a playful smile accompanied it. 

“Believe me, there isn't much you could ask of me that I wouldn’t do everything in my power to give you, Ziva David.” 

A captivating flash of dark green shot through his irises, blending with the shimmering aura at the edges of her gaze, as if she needed convincing beyond his wholehearted admission, or could not interpret what the gravelly timbre of his voice made evident. The intent. The sentiment. 

The love. 

She knew. Just as she’d known prior to leaving the States, and when he found her in Be’er Sheva, and every day since they’d landed back at Dulles. Home.

So it was half rhetorical, half yearning when she prompted, “Anything I ask for…?” and laid her hand on his smooth cheek… which became guiding his face down to hers, became lips brushing – light and exploratory to start, then fevered, mouths opening, searching for deeper connection, hunger laid bare, insatiable – despite over a month of unrestricted indulgence, no less. Every taste, every long-held endearment released in hushed tones, every night of sweat-slick, pleasured bodies replacing sleep, chipped away at eight years of denying themselves this sweetness, this unleashed passion. It was addictive, to say the least.

“We’re not going to team dinner,” he murmured when they parted for air, chasing another kiss while her eyes were still closed. “Are we?” 

“I do want to see them.” The words flowed off her tongue, their truth as potent as the desire swirling through her blood. The flame of arousal had reignited within her, blazing brighter than before and crackling in her eardrums. 

“I know you do.” He lowered his forehead to rest on hers, exhaling slowly. “But it’s… a lot, the whole gang at once. Maybe Abby should have planned individual re-get-to-know-you coffee dates for you with everyone.”

“That is a good idea, actually.”  

Gibbs, Ducky, Abby, McGee – their care for her had never been in question, not really. Her own recent self-doubt and anxieties were the culprit; they had the side-effect of infecting her perception of how others viewed her, always skewing far more negative than reality. One of the many chinks in her armor that required future mending.

“Yeah. Too bad I thought of it–” Tony loosened one arm at her side, consulting the watch on his wrist. “Twelve minutes into the dinner that was planned. Abby’s probably calling hospitals.” 

 A flurry of chuckles vibrated from her lips to the spot beneath his chin where she nestled her face. His clean, woodsy scent was stronger there, overwhelming her senses – or maybe helping her come to them.

“We should text her, so no one will worry about us,” Ziva said, slipping a knee between his legs and deliberately skimming the underside of his significant package with her thigh. “Or interrupt us.”

He hissed, flying a hand to her nape again. “We don’t want that.”

“No.” A kiss. A step. A prodding at his chest. 

“No,” he echoed, getting her hint and setting their sealed bodies on course for the center of her bedroom. 

But she was the propulsion, walking backwards and dragging him by his belt loops to match her pace. “Tony?”

“Hm?” His mouth was on a section of her collarbone not covered by the neckline of her dress, suckling at the thin covering of skin.

“Where is your–” She gasped, her nerve-endings zapping as his teeth scraped the side of her throat. Blindly, she fisted the short hairs at his crown, eliciting a rumble off his lips and staccato nips along her neck, followed by softer swipes of tongue over the spots he’d most certainly reddened, maybe bruised. “Uhhn, yes…” The seesaw of sensation soared her pulse to an impossible height, thrumming out the same giddy drum beat she felt pounding inside his chest. 

They were in sync, badge or no badge.

That was also the best explanation she had for how they stayed upright and moving; neither stumbled nor slowed, even with his focus on devouring every inch of her he could reach and her focus on not whispering in his ear to simply take her against a wall or down on the carpet – if his aging back and knees could survive it. Before her wanton urges could win out, the bed rushed up, colliding with the backs of her thighs.

Tony’s hands flew to her ass, preventing her from toppling. “Easy there, ninja.” 

“How chivalrous,” she purred, raising her brow as he gave into his own basic urge to palm and knead her backside.

He cocked a grin in return. “You kept cutting in and out, sweet cheeks. What was it you were trying to say – until I reduced your vocabulary to pleasured sighs, that is?”  

A throaty laugh poured from the well deep in her sternum. “Hmm, I distinctly recall you speaking in no more than single syllables, Tony.” 

“You were making it hard for me to think, Zee-vah.”

“I could say the same of you – at least, a part of you.”

Gliding her hands over his ass, she jerked their lower regions flush, pulsing her pelvis against his impressive bulge. Once, twice. The spark of friction drew harsh breaths from them both. 

Pupils blown and expression dazed, he took her in, switching a hand from her butt to her breast and mindlessly circling the stiff nipple over the fabric of her dress. “I should have suggested we stay home earlier. Damn, woman.”

Her toasted-brown eyes narrowed on his dizzy smile; it was growing as fast as his erection – and her impatience. If he only realized his taunting was delaying her from pushing him onto the bed and straddling him, he wouldn’t have been smiling at all.

“That’s what I was saying,” she huffed, yanking his polo shirt up and over his head, flinging it behind her. “Unless you would prefer Abby driving here to check on us, we need your–”

“Phone. Crap.” He stamped her mouth, hard, teeth imprinting on her upper lip. “Don’t start anything without me.”

“Don’t force my fingers.”

In his hasty retreat down the hallway, he called, “It's hand!”

“That, too,” she said to the empty room, knowing from experience the pooling dampness at her entrance welcomed his touch as readily as her own. It would not come to that, judging by the buffalo in a china shop racing around her apartment. 

Ziva busied herself in his absence, shimmying out of her Ima’s dress and returning it to the hanger. Though Tony was partial to peeling her out of her clothing (and thoroughly ravishing the skin he uncovered along the way), she didn't want the heirloom thrown aside in a lustful craze. He would have to be satisfied with stripping off her slip and underthings.

Hooking the hanger onto the hinge of the upright mirror, she paused at the woman reflected in the clear surface. It was not the watery smudges of mascara from her spontaneous tears that transfixed her, nor the maroon love-marks on her neck – Tony's handiwork, as she predicted. It was not any one aspect of her appearance, but rather the act itself: viewing herself without evasion or snap judgement. Plain. Straight-on. Honest. She tested a smile, and her lips achieved the gesture with confidence. 

Changing. She was changing and also rediscovering pieces of herself lost, but not forgotten, in the past year. Now, with coaxing and reassurance, they were slowly reemerging to find their place in who she was becoming. That Ziva David stared back at her, smiling. Cheeks pink. Eyes sparkling. Happy. The first real instance she could recall since her Abba died. 

I will let myself heal.

Happy – to be where she was. 

I will start over.

And with whom. 

I will love…

As the last promise crossed her mind, movement in her peripherals garnered her attention – and a burst of laughter. How else was she supposed to respond to her partner penguin-waddling through the doorway because his pants were puddled around his ankles? Down to his black briefs and an impish grin, he babbled about missed texts and calls, asking “How detailed do you want me to get in this excuse to the team?” with a saucy smirk, but her heart’s funny pitter-patter drowned it out. 

Never had she felt such resounding gratefulness for the ridiculous, charming, mensch of a man who chased her around the globe and fought for her and knew precisely when she required space, talking it out, comfort, or a laugh. Her man. Her Tony. 

“Guess we’re on the same page with clothes, huh?” His open leer raked her figure, the form-fitting slip accentuating curves previously obscured from his consumption. 

“Less is better?” She lingered her gaze on his hardened cock, which appeared seconds away from tearing a hole in his briefs. Tremors radiated from her core like ripples on a pond just considering him – hot and large and heavy – soon satisfying the throb of her need. A fresh gush of moisture in her panties attested to her excitement. 

Ziva wondered if he could detect the thick, heady fragrance of her arousal as he teeter-tottered toward her. 

“Less is more, not better,” he corrected. “But I knew there was a reason I traveled all the way to Israel to bring you home.” 

“My preference for getting naked?”

“Among other things.” Tony winked, then nearly pitched over attempting to extricate his foot from an unwieldy pant leg. “Fuck. Pretend you’re not seeing these super suave moves, deal?”

“See what?” Confirming her selective ignorance with a blithe smile, she intercepted his struggle before the remainder of the evening was spent at the emergency room. “Perhaps you should add ‘loyal confidant’ to your reasons.” 

He borrowed her shoulder for balance, hopping on one foot as they untangled him from the offending item. “Sure, right after ‘endearing butcher of American idioms’ and ‘looks beautiful in the shower,’ which I guess comes back to the naked one…”

Task complete, they came face-to-face – his tomato red from the ordeal.

“This is starting to sound like something I need to write down.”

“You could,” Ziva drawled, setting the very tips of her manicured nails on his upper thigh and scratching lightly, so lightly, yet so close to his straining erection, that his body jolted and he groaned. “Or you could take me to bed and find out how wet I’ve been for you this whole time.”

She was still voicing the enticing ultimatum as Tony cradled her face in his hands, tipped it upward, and… stopped. His mouth hovered an infuriating breath above her plumped lips, a glint in his gemstone eyes.

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding. I can smell you, Ziva.” 

That answered one question, and she bit her lip to hold in a moan. Tilting her chin and grazing their mouths, she posed another: “Did you think I was lying?”

A rosy wave crested across his cheeks and neck and shoulders and beneath the curly chest hair over his torso. Tony blushed like he laughed or investigated or loved – with his whole self. His whole heart. 

“Do you really want me wasting more time answering that or do–”

She kissed him. No more stalling, no preamble or easing in. Merely rolling onto the balls of her feet, circling his neck to her elbows, and crashing them together, affording no opportunity for guilt, phones, excessive flirting – nothing – to further delay their incredible need to fuck each other.

As they’d proven time and again, where one of them led, the other eagerly followed.

In a single leap, Tony’s fervor spiked to its highest point since their morning shower tryst; hands groping, tongue shoving, every action fast and fiery as lava, burning through and reforging his branding on her mouth… neck… the tops of her breasts spilling over the slip’s daring neckline. His, each kiss and suck and bite claimed. His Ziva.

A plume of heat overwhelmed the subtle application of make-up on her face, giving away the incredible effect his ministrations had on her. So be it. She wouldn’t disguise or deny how he made her feel. Safe. Free.

And wanted, endlessly.

Without his mouth leaving her skin, Tony ordered, “Off,” and it became a race to undress – her slip, his briefs, her panties (that he held to his nose and inhaled before tossing aside). He even forewent the usual reverence paid to her naked body; instead, he reached under each of her thighs and hoisted her into his arms, a display of dead-lifting strength that spoke to her warrior sensibilities as much as spiked her already elevated arousal. Though welcome, the sudden action startled her, sending her arms and legs wrapping around his neck and waist, respectively.

“Are you sure this will not hurt your back?” Her teasing elicited rich, low chuckles that were muffled due to his face buried in her décolletage. 

“I'm sure I need you on your back...” 

Ziva raised her eyebrows at the turn of phrase, but mustered only a clipped, “Hurry,” because his dick was impossibly, miraculously, perfectly striking her clit with every… single… stride toward their goal. Too much farther and she would be dribbling down her legs.

“Tonnn-yyyy…” What aimed to be a demand for speed transformed to a strangled plea at his ear, her teeth closing on the lobe and tugging. 

His strained grunt verged on a whine, and there might have been some muttering about a ‘pack mule,’ but he sprinted the final distance, her body jostling against him and nearly unraveling right then and there… 

Tony slowed as their destination arrived, yet somehow tapped a last reserve of power and climbed directly onto the bed with her hanging from his torso. Then he collapsed, half on top of her, the mattress bouncing them like rag-dolls. Their immediate peals of laughter filled what could have been an awkward moment, but instead enveloped them in joy so pure, she wished to capture the feeling in her curled palm, or a bottle. Pull the cork later, tomorrow, a year on, experience it again beyond that night, forever. 

And she could, Ziva realized, leaning into the warmth of his presence, the close, tight pocket of their mingled breath and brushing noses and total acceptance. She had him. 

“Bet Robin Hood never managed that move with Maid Marian,” Tony puffed, winded from the feat of endurance. “Certainly not Errol Flynn. Maybe Cosner.”

“You almost made it through the evening without a movie reference, ahuvi.” She patted his cheek, grinning. “I am impressed.” 

He hefted onto an elbow and smiled down at her – a private, sensual smile that was for her alone. “And I almost forgot you're only interested in my sword.” 

“I thought Robin Hood’s weapon was a bow and arrow, not–” A gasp cut off her words because – oh.

That sword.

Tony ran the head of his cock through her slit, collecting her abundant moisture and sliding back and forth in a brisk, deliberate rhythm. “Feel me? Feel all of me?”

The surprise of him wore off. Ziva shifted her pelvis, inviting firmer contact. She sighed when it went from good to oh, yes. “Are you really begging for a compliment right now?”

“DiNozzos don't need to beg, nor fish, for compliments; they earn them, as you well know.” 

She scoffed, accustomed to his bravado. “Hmm, maybe.” 

“Liar.” Despite his shallower and shallower breaths, his snickering fanned heavily across her bare chest as he dropped his mouth to her ear. “Here’s some truth for you: no one has ever made me as hard as you do, Ziva. Every fucking time.”

A swell of pride swayed her lips to a sultry smirk and traveled like an electrical current through her veins. As he tried to move away, she clawed his shoulder blade and tossed a leg up, hooking her knee on his waist and changing the angle.

“Touch me,” Ziva ordered, licking her hand and taking over his shaft, beginning to stroke. Her core was swollen, practically pulsing with its own heartbeat, aching for the same attention she was paying his stiff length. “Now.” 

Thankfully, he required no further instruction. The weeks they’d spent tangled together in her Israeli cotton sheets had provided a thorough education on preferences and proclivities. In other words, they were experts in getting each other off. 

Like a heat-seeking missile, Tony’s thumb landed on her clit and another bolt of energy sizzled down to her toes. A Hebrew swear mixed with her high moans as he smeared her juices and alternated circling her in wide ovals with frenetic strokes between her folds. Still, she pumped him, maintaining an impressive pace throughout her own rapture, practiced twists of her hands milking pre-cum from his crease.

“Zee-va,” he all but sang, burrowing his face into her hair.

Kissing the junction of his neck and shoulder, she felt a dab of his arousal plop onto her stomach and imagined the white contrasting with her tanned skin. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms and her heart seemed to unearth a secret compartment of desire for the man who drew back to stare deep into her eyes, his own watering a little. 

She dared not break their connection, but her dexterous hands were on auto-pilot, elevatoring his dick from balls to tip in long, silky jerks. Shadows peeled away layers of his expression. Lust. Disbelief. Awe. And when he stretched to hover over her, his kisses to her cheeks and nose and eyelids were so airy and purposefully-placed that her nape prickled between the end of one kiss and the start of the next. 

“Tell me something I do to you, Ziva.” 

He was still rubbing her, but his pace decreased to leisurely. He wanted her to be able to think. She ebbed her tempo on him, returning the favor. 

“Well, I have never had a lover laugh or make me laugh during sex as much as you, Tony. Does that count?”

“Ha! That may be true…” A flick of his index finger on her most sensitive nub shocked a squeal out of her. He captured it in his mouth, then tugged on her bottom lip, roughly. As rough as the words he poured across her jaw. “But the way I make you come is no joke, is it?” 

Searching for his usual impish and naughty side to counter the surge of intensity, she found only affirmation in the emerald depths of his gaze. She'd witnessed it once before: the night at the farmhouse when she acquiesced to everything they both wanted. His eyes became fathomless, swirling pools, absorbing her own chasm of feeling, the kind she could never find words to express. But he made it so she didn't have to; he bared the years of longing plain on his face for her to reflect. The celebration sex that came soon afterwards had been especially fantastic, too.

All she'd had to do was say ‘yes.’ 

“Mmhm, yes,” she hummed into his meaty shoulder. “Yes, yes.” One arm slung his neck, the other was pinned by their torsos as she continued his hand job, though it was losing her previous speed and finesse.

Tony didn't seem to mind. 

He didn't seem to notice because– God, he was kneading her in vigorous, hypnotic loops, the repetitions precise and controlled, yet also attuned to her minutest reactions, from her soft, hitching sighs to the fleet tap of her fingers on his skin; he never interpreted her cues incorrectly, making it hard to believe he was focused on anything besides bringing about her pleasure. It was all she could concentrate, too, abandoning his shaft to squeeze his flank, nails sinking into his ass cheeks, holding on. 

Shivers raced the vertebrates of her spine, twining with the ratcheting tension in her low abdomen, where the tell-tale pressure had been simmering since he waltzed in, announcing they were late and looking far too handsome, and now she was panting, sweat dotting her hairline and arms and the valley between her breasts, and Tony's breath was like hot summer winds on her face as he slipped a finger into her moist heat, then two, immediately curling them up to graze her ridged walls. A hoarse cry winnowed past her lips and her whole body bucked off the mattress – fleeing and seeking, simultaneously – but he stayed with her, massaging the magic spot inside her and grinding the flat of his palm into her engorged mound. Sounds both animalistic and obscene tore out of her, echoing on and on in the privacy of her apartment, her bedroom, the arms of her man. Her Tony. 

“You’re so close, sweetheart.” Releasing the pinch of her neck he’d been lathing with passes of his tongue, Tony bobbed into her woolly tunnel of vision and pawed at the strands of hair sticking to her throat. “What do you need?”

Of all the things he’d done to rile her up, it was his considerate question that seized her inner walls tightest and threw her head back against the bed and sent her knees hiking the sides of his ribcage. They had to be a sight: her thrashing and moaning beneath him, the muscles in his shoulder and arm undulating with the exertion of fingering her, but still some switch in her psyche stubbornly refused to flip. 

“You,” Ziva whimpered, desperate, threading her fingers through his chest hair to the feverish skin below. “I need you.” She dipped her head, ringed one of his peaked nipples with the tip of her tongue and guided it into her mouth, sucking mercilessly. The groan that tumbled from his throat was half relief, half restraint – all horny. 

“Right answer,” he growled, extracting his soaked index and middle fingers from her pussy and licking both clean while climbing to his knees. “I’m not saying that just because my arm was about to go numb from being in that position forever, either.” 

“Do you need a turn on your back, Tony?” Her frisky attempt to flip them – reminiscent of an undercover hotel romp in another lifetime – was thwarted by his hand on her far hip bone. 

“Save that for Round 2, pussycat.” He waggled his eyebrows and clicked his tongue, garnering her chuckles. 

“You are bold to assume there will be–”

For a second time that evening, a searing exhalation swallowed the ending of her sentence – and for a second time, Tony was to blame. The delicate stream of air he blew over her flushed folds might as well have been an arctic gust for how her core contracted. She clutched the sheets in both hands, her body folding in on itself.

“Tony… Tony, I cannot wait–”

“Who’s begging now, huh?” 

Ziva definitely would have maimed him for such a comment – if he hadn't kissed her glistening center and smiled that heart-melting smile of his from within the frame of her knees. 

“Hang on, I've gotcha.” In the span of a few seconds, he had a pillow fit under her low back and had crawled between her legs. It was a position they enjoyed – him seated directly at her entrance, knees spread wide; her thighs draped on either side of his hips – that allowed for–

“Ohhhh!” 

And then he was inside her, the first plunge driving him halfway. She was sufficiently aroused – gaping and dripping, in fact – but the invasion nevertheless ripped through her, shockwaves rocketing to her tailbone and, somehow, all the way up to her skull. If Tony hadn't already begun to move, she would have curled herself into a ball to ride it out.

“You still with me?” He open-mouth kissed her inner knee, gripping the tops of her thighs for leverage as he rocked into her, gaining traction with each short burst forward.

Ziva emitted a hum, her eyelids tacky and fluttering. “I am with you,” she replied, her hands traveling to her breasts, fondling them and tweaking the puckered halos, amplifying what he was doing – and providing him a gratifying visual. “As long as you do not stop.”

Sure enough, Tony’s saucer-sized pupils grew darker than the dusky sky out her bedroom window. “No chance of that. No–” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Chance.” Thrust.

Needy moans stuttered out of her and a fresh shiver electrified the dewy sheen coating her body. This really was what she needed: to be stretched in every direction, his ample length and girth pushing beyond her usual limits, hitting zones of erotism she’d only ever stimulated by herself. One after another after another, the spasms rolled under her skin, twitching her limbs erratically; small words of encouragement were followed by cries of validation and gasping praise; his rhythm eventually elongated, unhurried and drugging, burying himself deep and deep and deep into the farthest reaches of what honestly felt like her soul. 

It went on that way, seconds and minutes and time in general uncounted. Their whole world was wandering hands and skin slapping skin and laborious gulps of air and indistinguishable voices pleading for more, there, yes; every moving part was wired to an insistent thrumming that neither wanted to end and yet their hunger propelled them ever closer to an edge, a wingless flight, a billowing tide held off again and again and–

Without warning, Tony rose up on his knees and propped his thighs beneath her ass, thereby tilting her pelvis at the ceiling and dragging himself to the slippery cusp of her entrance.

Ziva’s mouth popped open, but her throat was devoid of moisture, hardly able to form a sound. She managed a soft grunt of protest, followed by her hand flying to where they were tenuously connected. 

Tony chuckled, weaving their fingers and pressing the resulting union below her belly button. “I'm not going anywhere, trust me.” And that was when he rutted his swollen head against her front wall, triggering a strobe-light effect across her eyes and a cascade of tingles so strong, blacking out might have been a blessing to escape the onslaught.

“Ziva?”

Until he called for her, she didn’t realize her cheek was pressed to the dampened sheet – or how fiercely she was clenching his waist between her calves and his cock within her pussy.

“Look at me, Ziva.”

She did, almost not breathing, sweat clouding her vision of his outline above her. But his smile shone through the haze, warm and roguish and what she saw behind her eyelids when she bid him to mind. The man she loved. 

“Tony… please.” 

“I’m with you, just a… ah, bit more,” he gritted out, pulsing into her deeper and harder and swifter, and with a flash of his fingers on her overstimulated clit, finallyfinallyfinally she was there, imploding in a swirl of blinding sensations – months, years of emotion and tension and heartache coiled within her unfurling themselves into strident, rippling shudders of ecstasy, wave after wave springing tears to her eyes and nearly splitting her down the middle. It was pain; it was heaven. It was a renewal.

To label it an orgasm was as accurate as describing a tsunami as a rainstorm. In a way, it was comparable to torture. Just when one imagined they couldn't handle it anymore, the body unlocked a separate chamber to house the overflow of feeling, enabling continued torment – or in this case, pleasure. At the height of its grip, she would have sworn to levitating off the bed, as improbable as it was; then suddenly she was on her hands and knees facing the headboard, Tony having lifted her into the new position.

Everything simplified as he righted her hips and re-entered her from behind; her eyelids drooped and her limbs sagged, exhaustion stealing her usual vigilance, allowing her to coast on the receding high, bathed in his scent – cedar and sweat – and lulled by the swaying chase for his own release. It wasn't until his groans changed, pitching guttural, and his pumping slowed to ragged that she cobbled her remaining energy into a glance over her shoulder at him.

Unlike Tony, she knew exactly what he needed from one assessing look: his knitted forehead and clamped jaw, his fingers digging into her hips and the razoring of his breaths.

Ziva inched forward and gripped the headboard slats, catching his eye as she arched and pushed her ass up.

“Why are you not fucking me like you mean it?”

His next thrust tore through her, causing her legs to shake; somehow his dick was fuller and heavier than seconds earlier, and somehow her walls blew wide to accept him, squeeze him, drive him insane – if his loud, wild moans were any indicator. 

“Yes,” Ziva urged him on, bowing her torso, writhing her ass into his lap, crying out when he swatted the cheeks red in retaliation. “Yes, yes.”

“You're so fucking incredible,” Tony gasped, touching her everywhere and when that wasn't enough, hauling her up, their hot, sticky skin gluing her back to his chest as he pinched her breasts and she scratched his arms and thighs, and their frantic, yearning sounds harmonized, and his hips surged frenetically, pounding into her, into her, into her, and…

The sweet flood of culmination arrived, freezing them in stasis, molded together, one body, one silhouetted reflection in the standing mirror. Her name falling off his parched tongue like a chanted prayer and their shared uneven breaths shattered the quiet room until they moved in tandem, the sheets rustling as they nestled into the downy cloud of the mattress, luxuriating in their mutual bliss.

Tony was first to rouse, some minutes – hours? – later, exclaiming in a hushed whisper, as if there was a spell he wished not to break, “Wow.” 

Ziva almost squashed the girly giggle that wanted out, but she remembered: she was happy. Happy to be starting over and healing. To be loving. So she giggled and surrendered further into his embrace. 

“I agree,” she hummed, kissing the bicep of the arm he had curled securely around her. "Wow."

“I mean, we’ve been good–”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been great.”

“Mm-hm.”

“But that was… our best yet,” Tony declared in wonder and no small amount of pride.

It was her best ever, with anyone, but she was not about to boost his ego while it was already amongst the stars.

“We certainly did not hold ourselves back.”

“No, we did not.” Tony was laughing as his lips sought out her shoulder blade and marked a moist trail up her arm to the spot behind her ear that, when nibbled, never failed to stir lust in her body.

Ziva rolled onto her stomach, evading his attempt to initiate Round 2, and balanced her chin in her upturned hands. “Do not be greedy.”

“Can't help it.” He grinned like a mad man confessing his crimes. 

“Can't, or do not want to?”

“Hm, don't have to ‘cause I will fight anyone who tries to take you away from me ever again.” Towing her back to his chest, he paused after delivering the single most mind-numbing, shiver-inducing, breath-stealing kiss against her mouth. “That includes you, my sweet maiden. No fleeing the castle unless you want this Very Special Prince of Thieves coming after you – and we both know how that turns out.” 

The dark bedroom was illuminated by a slice of golden harvest moon shining through the gauzy curtains, yet the shadows weren't enough to disguise his sincerity, even diluted with residual giddiness and a heaping dose of raw affection.

I'm fighting for you, Ziva.

She batted her eyelashes, not in flattery or for seduction (a redundant folly at that point), but rather… assurance. Yes, he was real, not a mirage. He was hers, all hers.

It was time he knew that truth, undoubtedly.

She saw him as clearly as he saw her; she was fighting for him, too.

Palming each side of his face, Ziva brought him close, their noses and foreheads bumping. She studied him, really studied her partner, her soul’s unequivocal mate. He did the same, not cracking jokes to ease the momentous mood or teasing her as he might have otherwise. If it had been any other moment. 

“Tony, you are so…”

“What? Handsome, funny? Sexy?” Resting a large hand on her cheek, his thumb gentled from one corner of her chapped lips to the other. “Don’t you dare say–” 

“Loved. I mean, by me. I… have, I do… love you.” 

It was uncharacteristic of her, a skilled former assassin and federal agent, to stumble on words, but the meaning of those words, jigsawed as they were, was not lost on her faithful companion. That was clear from his gorgeous hazel eyes sparkling and brimming with something identical to the emotion bubbling under her blushing skin – anonymous in name, maybe, but potent. So potent.

“That works out splendidly, Miss David. You know why?”

A dangerous tapering of her gaze brooked no tolerance for games. 

Tony just smiled softly, indulgently, and held her tighter. “Because I have, and I do, and I will always… love you, too.”

“I suspected as much,” Ziva sniffed, turning the teasing tables on him, but she could not maintain the charade when he began peppering her face and neck and every square inch of her body with the smacking, sloppy, exaggerated sort of kisses that she had never before permitted from anyone else – yet found hopelessly endearing from the man who owned her heart. 

Coda

For years, Ziva feared a man would breach the guardrails around her heart and do damage; she wore armor and built the walls high and reinforced everything with trip-wires and fail-safes to prevent such a breach. Many suitors tried and failed to overcome the challenges; one or two came close to successful infiltration, but were eventually unmasked as well-crafted spies who proved her precautions necessary.

All along there was Tony, a threat in his own unique way at times, but ultimately the antithesis of everyone who came before him.

Through patience and error, and a level of stubborn determination rivaled only by herself, he helped her see the true goal: to free her heart from its self-imposed cage, not keep it locked away. She needed a man – the right man – on the inside. She needed him wielding his sword of humor and his shield of impenetrable devotion to replace her steel and stone defenses. She needed someone fighting alongside her as they forged a life together.

Now her battle-worn armor was crumbling, rusted and outgrown. It crumbled a little each day, month, year she spent confident of his generous love; it crumbled more and more as they constructed new walls in which to store their happiness and all too soon, for their growing family to inhabit.

Ziva no longer needed that once vital armor. With Tony at her side, she would never need it again.