DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Lindsay growled at the familiarly annoying voice that called out from behind her. Jacobi raised an eyebrow at her with a bemused smile.
"Lindz? You guys best buddies?" he asked, barely holding back his laughter. The pure annoyance on Lindsay's face was like gold to him.
Lindsay didn't reply. Instead she whipped around and stalked over to the yellow tape where Cindy was standing. Bouncing, actually, on the balls of her feet. She offered Lindsay a cheerful smile. The detective merely glared and ducked the tape, dragging the reporter off by the arm.
"Ow, hey!" Cindy protested as she struggled to stay on her feet. Lindsay said nothing until they were two buildings away. She backed Cindy against the brick wall of the warehouse. The din of the crime scene was still present, but Lindsay felt that they were out of earshot.
"How many times have I told you not to act like you know me at a crime scene?" Lindsay asked, her voice rough and heavy. Cindy frowned and Lindsay realized that she shouldn't have asked the question.
"I can't recall an exact number maybe four," Cindy replied thoughtfully. Lindsay rolled her eyes and smacked her hand against the wall next to the reporter's head, causing the girl to jump a bit. She leaned in so close that Cindy could smell the stale coffee on her breath.
"Look, if we're going to continue this partnership, we have to keep it reasonably down low. People find out I'm letting you cover these stories, and suddenly every leak about a crime becomes my fault. I have to stay credible, understand?" Lindsay checked. Cindy swallowed nervously and nodded. Her eyes traveled to the non-existent space between them and Lindsay's mind finally caught up to their ridiculously close proximity. Her eye's flicked back up to Cindy's face. The redhead showed nervousness, fear anticipation.
Lindsay's lips were exactly like Cindy thought they would be: rough, caffeinated, persistent. The kiss, however, wasn't. She'd imagined that it would be forceful, hard, heated. This one was gentle, exploratory, almost pleading. Her fingers wound around Lindsay's silky hair, pulling her in closer, while the other hand rested on the bare skin at the base of her back where her shirt had lifted a little. Lindsay's hands were a little busier, traversing every inch of Cindy's sweater-and-jean-clad body. The girl was small, petite, fragile. Lindsay wanted her all the more for it.
It seemed to take ages for Lindsay's hand to travel underneath Cindy's sweater, across the smooth skin of her stomach, and over one satin-clad breast. The redhead sucked in a shallow breath, staring down in awe at what was happening under her shirt. If she hadn't been so preoccupied, Lindsay might have laughed at Cindy's constant need to investigate everything, even in the heat of passion. A small moan escaped the reporter's mouth and Lindsay's breath caught a little. What the hell was happening?
Cindy's eyes seemed to urge her further, lower. Lindsay obliged, abandoning chest for jeans. She knew it would only take her nimble fingers a fraction of a second to have the button undone, but it seemed wrong to go this far without permission. Her throat was too tight to ask the question, but her eyes conveyed the message well enough. Cindy captured Lindsay's mouth once more in answer.
As long fingers made their way past underwear and into the moist heat, both women gasped. Cindy's head made a dull thud as it hit the brick wall behind her, but neither of them paid attention to it. Lindsay's fingers explored the slick skin, hesitating at the opening. Cindy's eyes were closed, but she seemed to sense that Lindsay was asking permission again.
"Lindz," she breathed heavily. Lindsay was suddenly quite fond of that nickname coming out of the reporter's mouth, and she showed her appreciation by sliding two fingers into her deeply. Cindy's whimper had Lindsay trailing kisses down her neck as she set the slow, steady rhythm. They moved together against the wall, only breathy sighs and low moans shared between them, any trace of the crime scene behind them drowned out by their haze. When Cindy's finger nails dug into her back and her fingers were suddenly engulfed in liquid flame, Lindsay knew that the redhead had reached release. They stayed quite still for several minutes, Lindsay's forehead rested against the cool brick and Cindy's rested against the leather of Lindsay's jacket. Cindy had just barely caught her breath when
"Boxer! Lindsay, where the hell are you?" Lindsay sighed.
"Jacobi," she mutter.
"You should go," Cindy told her, voice still a bit shaky. Lindsay looked at her with concern.
"You sure?" she asked. Cindy smiled and nodded.
"Yeah, Lindz, I'm sure."
"I told you not to call me that," Lindsay reminded her. Cindy grinned devilishly.
"Next time, I'll do it in front of the whole station," she promised. Lindsay chuckled.
"Looking forward to it "
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