Air Force One wasn't the average location for being initiated into the Mile High Club, CJ mused as she followed the tall, brooding agent into one of the private rooms off of the main hallway. But, when he stopped her to offer comfort on the trip back from New York, when the hug became a kiss, she didn't seem to care as much.
They didn't undress all the way, but CJ didn't mind that either. She didn't need to feel skin on skin; all she needed was to feel alive, to feel a brief escape from the pain of loss. Ron seemed to be needing the same thing. He told her it was a frequent feeling associated with the grieving process; she wondered how often he experienced grief.
When she felt his lips and moustache brush over her throat, before his teeth bit down into the curve of her shoulder, she forgot rational thought. She whimpered and arched against him, banging her head against the wall.
"More," she panted.
He thrust hard against her and she whimpered more loudly, scratching under his once-finely-pressed shirt with her nails that had been manicured for the War of the Roses. She felt herself wanting to cry again, but she refused to---when she was having sex, tears didn't seem appropriate.
He tightened and after a series of open-mouthed kisses, he dropped his head to her shoulder and shook. She felt his release inside of her, and then she felt a release of an entirely different variety---tears against her shoulder.
There were no sobs, but it helped. CJ sniffled and mirrored him, softly crying on his shoulder. His tears stopped before hers, and then she felt his lips travelling along her neck. CJ sighed softly and dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on as his fingers travelled under her clothes. She whimpered and shuddered, bucking against him as he brought her down from her emotional and physical high.
And as her system levelled off, he held her close.
