Of all of her many colors, he loved Abby best in red. It was a happy color for her, the color of her smiles, and of her strength. The bright red of the huge cups of Caf-Pow that he brought her, both as bribes and gifts, always seemed garish in his hands - until she reached for them, and gave him one of those treasured smiles in return. When those smiles were glossy with blood red gloss, instead of her customary matte black paint, it was a signal that her mood was playful, daring.
While red may mean stop for everyone else, for Abby, it meant to go – go fast – faster – don't stop – never stop. He knew, because those were the words she whispered in his ear when his fingers slipped into her red, silk panties – the ones that she wore when she ached for him so much that she couldn't wait another hour, another minute, to have him inside of her. The very thought of that thin, red, scrap, moist with her arousal, was enough to trigger a hunger in him that surpassed even her own.
Red was the color of the roses he gave her the first time he told her that he loved her, not the black that everyone thought she preferred, and the color of the candles that flickered around her room the first time he slid home, inside of her body. It was the color of the bruises and scratches that they left on each other in the heat of passion.
There was no red here – just the blue-green of the sea, the beige sand beneath his feet, and miles of white, as far as he could see. Maybe that's why Gibbs knew he couldn't stay. He needed to be home, in Abby, in red.