The city was a brick oven, holding the heat even after the sun had dipped below the skyline, the concrete radiating back at you in waves. Tony’s shirt clung to his back, sweat beading at his hairline as he strode through the humid dusk, but if he was being honest, the heat had nothing on what had gotten under his skin tonight. He navigated the familiar block, half on autopilot, half thinking about the way her hand had lingered on his arm earlier, the way her lips had brushed his ear when she’d whispered “See you later.” He could still smell her perfume, the faint citrus and jasmine and every step was a beat in the drumline building up to what would come next.
He was a man driven by appetite. That had always been the joke, or maybe the truth and he’d learned early to make no apologies for it. But his history of appetites was full of fleeting things, snacks, cars, movies, women whose names he sometimes forgot before breakfast. Ziva was different. Ziva was the kind of hunger that gnawed at him long after the meal, the kind that left him haunted and hollow until he filled himself with more.
They’d fallen into a rhythm lately. End of shift, change into civilian clothes, sometimes not even doing that, and he’d be knocking at her door. At first it had been drinks, then drinks and pizza, then drinks and pizza and her, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin on the sofa, her eyes holding his like she was daring him to do something about it, just like the first night he had. He was helpless in the face of her dare. He was helpless, period.
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