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'I'm sure I'm going to pee.'
'No, you're not,' he said smoothly, 'it just feels like you are.'
'How do you - know?' she demanded, breathlessly.
'Cause it always feels like that. Just relax.'
His fingers curled again, applying pressure on what was probably her G-spot - or if it wasn't, she thought, it was something else that made her twist and whimper with enjoyment.
* * *
She'd started the argument by asking Owen, who, after all, is a doctor and should know about this. Some study she'd read about said the G-spot didn't exist, and she was inclined to agree.
Owen denied all knowledge of a G-spot, and reckoned it was just a myth, a way for Cosmopolitan to sell more copies, and incidentally to persude men that they were all crap in bed. Then it turned into the standard Owen/Gwen row, and Jack stepping in and saying 'Of course it exists. I've seen it in action' didn't help. Both of them had turned round and started to dispute the question with him, and he'd retreated to his office, amused and irritated with the 21st century.
Gwen reappeared in his office after Owen had gone home, clearly spoiling for a fight. He shrugged, got them a beer each and settled down to argue with her.
'It's a myth,' she kept insisting. 'I've not got one.'
'Oh, you have. Some folks have less sensitive ones, but it's a biological fact. You just gotta find out what to do with it.'
He is damn sure it isn't that he's putting the moves on, because he's very very careful these days about making moves on Gwen. He's just arguing the point with her, in a scientific way. Drawing diagrams, he tells himself, doesn't count as seducing someone. Even when she's so determined to prove him wrong - and so irritated with his complete certainty - that she accepts when he offers her the use of his bed to test this out.
So she ended up in a very unromantic way, on his tiny camp bed, trying to follow his instructions, her fingers slipped inside her cunt, curving upwards, seeking out some sensation she's not even familiar with. As self-discovery goes, it's not quite what she'd imagined.
Jack had wandered out into the main area, and was pacing aimlessly when she emerged from his office, an irritable look on her face.
'Any luck?'
'No. Just need to pee.'
He'd smiled that maddening smile as she made tracks for the bathroom.
No, she didn't need to pee, clearly - nothing was happening.
So she went back. He was sitting on the bed, legs crossed, waiting for her.
'Still not convinced?' His chin tipped up, that irritatingly handsome way he does when he thinks he's right.
'No way!' She jumped down off the last rung of the ladder. 'All right, there may be something there, but I still don't believe it's like - in the magazines.'
'Like what in the magazines?' he asked. 'Never read 'em myself.'
'Oh - female ejaculation and that.'
'Oh, that?' And there it is, that fucking smug grin again. 'Seen it happen.'
'You're just - oh!' She's frustrated. She sat down beside him on the bed. 'Bet you even you can't make me do that.'
Never one to turn down a bet, he'd looked her in the eye.
'Are you sure?' he asked.
'Oh, why the hell not?' she said, irritably. Not drunk, not at all, but there seems no other way to get him into bed, and oh, she wants him. Not necessarily in a nice way - she wants to wipe that ridiculously perfect smile off his face, and show him he's not God's Gift To Everything With Erogenous Zones like he thinks he is - if only to make him stop giving off radiations of attractiveness that still make her breathless.
'OK.' An arm goes round her. 'You have a safeword?'
'Oh, um - Philadelphia,' she says.
He's kissing her neck, but pauses to say 'You got that off "Desperate Housewives", didn't you?' He's laughing, softly, against her throat.
'Yes. So what?' and she gives him a shove.
'So nothing,' oh, his hands are doing things, her nipple peaks up into his fingers, 'just - everyone seems to be using that as a safeword now.'
She's distracted from any possible response by the smell of his hair, the urge to run her hands through it, fluff up handfulls, pull his head back down to her breasts.
Which is how, by easy and hungry manouevres, he comes to have his fingers inside her, bending and straightening. Her legs looped, soles of her feet together, her hips on a pillow. And this time, she's warm and eager and turned on, which makes all the difference.
* * *
'It always feels like that. Just relax.'
She tried to relax, feeling his other hand move - fingers tracing and pressing her mound, thumb circling lightly over her clit. He feels her push up, back down, push up.
'Hey,' he said. She opened her eyes. 'Baby - do something for me?'
She stretches awkwardly towards his fly buttons.
'Na-ah, not what I meant.' He took her hand, guided it gently towards her own slick pussy.
'Touch yourself for me.'
In five years, Rhys has never said that. Owen did once, but then got bored and leapt back into action after a minute. Hesitantly, she does. The look on Jack's face says, that is the hottest thing possible.
Gwen's idiosyncratic style: a fast up-and-down move with two fingers, pausing every few seconds to dip inside for wetness. In her mind, when she does this, often it's Jack - although it can be Pierce Brosnan or Orlando Bloom or Brad Pitt - who is inside her. And now he is, his fingers smooth and intimate, looking down at her, his bare chest sheened and soft-lit, his eyes - wondering. Maybe this is how he does it, she thinks - maybe he finds every lover this new and special.
Jack is half-mesmerised by her responses.
His fingers in her warm, smooth folds - her fingers bumping against them every so often, then returning to the tiny, peaked head of her clit.
He follows her moves, with a beckoning, come-hither tug and press against her G-spot. He does it harder, speeds up. Gwen has lost whatever line of thought she was following - lost the awareness of the bare wall against her right knee and the cool air of the subterranean room. She's lost herself, her eyes shut, her consciousness pulling in to her own body, to her cunt, to four fingers working an intimate rhythm and counter-rhythm.
'I am - so - going to pee,' she muttered.
'Go ahead,' his voice is calm. 'Doesn't bother me. Kinda hot,' and his voice drops a notch, soft, intimate, filthily appealing. 'Making you lose control like that,' and all the time his fingers pushing and pressing, up, up, into that place, pressing back, kneading til she thought she would dissolved in a strength of sensation.
'I'd love to make you pee,' he whispered. 'I'd love to get you so hot - and so wet - you couldn't hold it - I'd love to make you spurt when you come,' oh god, she thinks, oh god, I would too, you bastard, don't stop, ' - lose control completely, and pee on my hands, want to do that?'
It's invitation, it's beguiling, and he's pressing mercilessly now, right on the sweet centre of her. She can feel the orgasm beginning to happen, and it's the very best kind, the kind where you have five seconds of awareness before it all rushes over you, five seconds or ten, that it's started and nothing on earth can stop it now -
A cry, almost a wail: 'Oh god, I'm going to - I'm think I'm going to - ' and then she tips her head back, makes beautiful noises, and he feels the clench of her orgasm lock round his fingers, keeps moving them, faster, faster, and - oh wow - she does it, she spills a gush of heat and wetness, soaking him to the wrist, in fast spurts, in time with her cries. He gasps - seeing her release herself like this, entirely out of control, it's beautiful and primal and new and he's taking it in, greedily, loving to watch her pleasure, the last few drops spilling and pooling in his wet palm.
The comedown: she opens her eyes and is surprised to find she's still where she was. The orgasm was so intense, she was sure she'd travelled. Jack is still kneeling between her legs, his eye pupils dilated. Meeting her eyes, he smiles, then very deliberately raises his hand and licks his fingers. They are soaking wet.
'Oh,' reality sweeps back in, fast. 'Oh god. Did I - ?'
'You did,' he's looking so pleased that the apology dies in her throat.
'Oh, but - the bed - '
'The hell with the bed.'
He slipped down beside her, neatly pulling the cover over her bare body. It is, indeed, quite wet.
'Hey.' Aftercare is in order, a proper Harkness hug, big and enveloping and affectionate. She snuggles back into him, aware of his hard-on against her bum, but spent and breathless and wet in his warm arms.
'Want to try?' He smoothed back her hair to behind her ear with his off hand, offers her a finger of the other - still damp. 'Tastes good.'
And - no way she would ever have done this with anyone else, but all bets are off tonight - she licks.
'That's - not as horrible as I thought,' she said, surprised.
A playful swat on her bum.
'Oh, hi, body-positivity, meet Gwen Cooper,' he laughed, close to her ear. 'It's - amazing. Unique. You.'
'Um. Is it actual pee, though?' she asked.
'Technically, no. But you don't want the science lecture right now, you want to lean back and think "Hey, I have a G-spot, lucky old me."'
'What about you?' she asked, feeling keyed up, more awake than usual after she came.
'Yeah, I've got one too,' he said, cheerfully.
'No, I mean did you want - wait, what?' Her voice is surprised, suddenly strong. 'No! Do you?'
Behind her, Jack combines an eyeroll and a grin.
'Tell you what - bet you I haven't?'
END