Work Text:
Samira knew it was a mistake to bring it up.
It had been an off-the-cuff remark, a cheeky retort to Jack asking if she was good to go for a third round as if she wasn’t already rolling him over to straddle his lap and ride him into the mattress. A simple, bratty I can get off six to seven times in under an hour with a toy, old man, this is nothing. And he’d held her gaze as she sunk down onto his cock, just managing a throaty One day you’re gonna have to prove that to me in response before she began to roll her hips and his head lolled back and there wasn’t much talking, for a while after that.
And she’d forgotten about it, for about a week or two, until one night she accidentally sent him a meme that she’d intended to send to Santos—one of those “Ready for whatever the day brings me” ones with a nightstand holding, among other things, a bottle of liquor, a Lunchables, and a vibrator wand. She immediately followed it up with a quick This was meant for Santos but I guess you should know this, too, with an accompanying Pedro Pascal gif that she knows he won’t understand but it’s part of their thing: her teasing him for being chronically offline and him teasing her for not knowing a reference from one episode of the only season of some obscure canceled show from the 90s. He’d reacted to the gif with the HaHa bubble, which from anyone else would be an obvious blow-off, but from him is a genuine expression of amusement, albeit a dry one. She can always picture the wry quirk to his lips, the lifting of his brow.
And then he’d had the audacity to reply with Do you use that kind of toy when you’re getting off six to seven times in an hour? and she’d just stared, slack-jawed, at the message before her until she remembered its context (and sent a picture of the actual toy that she uses before chucking her phone across the room and pacing wildly around her studio apartment, because he was on shift right now, what if someone saw that).
It isn’t exactly hard to keep what they have going on under wraps, not when they hardly work together as it is. Apart from the brief points where day and night shift overlap, or when one of them has to work their mandatory day or night hours, their paths do not often cross. In fact, one of them typically has to go out of their way to see the other—which is what got them here in the first place. After a subdued talk on a park bench after the Shift From Hell, they’d gravitated towards each other more and more, finding increasingly lame excuses to be in each other’s orbit. It all came to a head a whole ten months later on the Fourth of July, when Langdon had just come back from rehab and everyone was walking on eggshells around him and Robby, and they were getting varying levels of backyard barbecue burn victims left and right, and she and Abbot were working like a well-oiled machine, constantly brushing up against one another until she was just fit to bursting with want, and at the end of the shift she went up to the rooftop to watch the city fireworks display and found Jack already there, a little wired from the onslaught of noise and lights but looking like he’d been waiting for her all along as he’d reached for her hand and held it, so gently, between his own. She went home with him that very night, and in the five months since then, there’s been no need to approach one another under the sole guise of discussing a new medical journal study or a particularly difficult case.
(But they do still talk about those things, obviously, because at the end of the day, they’re still Dr. Abbot and Dr. Mohan, true lovers of their profession.)
Of course, it’s all still very new, even five months in. Samira would hazard to call it dating—they usually get food after their rare shared shifts, sometimes alone and sometimes with others, and more recently their respective doors have opened for coordinated or even surprise after-work visits when they work different shifts, even if all that happens during one is a very long and well-deserved nap—but they don’t go on what most people would call dates. Her mother would clutch her pearls at the very idea if she knew, which is exactly why Samira hasn’t told her.
That isn’t to say that Jack isn’t—romantic is too loaded a word—tender, with her. It’s obvious, that he cares for her; when he listens to her ramble about her day or something she heard on a podcast or that she read recently, and actually participates in a discussion about these things, asking thought-provoking questions like he actually cares about her answers, like he’s curious to know what she thinks, how her mind works (and maybe that’s a low bar, but the men her age that she was going on actual dates with couldn’t seem to grasp this concept). When she shows up at his place on a rare shared day off, expecting takeout from one of their usual spots, and finds that he’s actually scrounged around his kitchen for things they can manage to make into a meal (always together, because for all his bravado in the ED, Jack Abbot cannot be trusted with any kitchen appliance apart from a microwave, and sometimes not even that). When she shows up for her morning shift and finds a fresh thermos of masala chai waiting for her in her locker, sweetened just to her tastes (with sticky notes affixed to the front that have asinine reminders scrawled on them, like Make sure Myrna gets her fill of Robby today—she pinched my ass last night. Said she wants to compare our firmness? Morbidly curious as to who’s got the better glutes and TELL WHITAKER ABOUT ROACH I SAW IN SOUTH FIVE—IN-HOUSE EXTERMINATOR NEEDED A.S.A.P. that make her hide her bubbling laughter behind a sip).
And she likes to think she shows him the same tenderness. When she understands his need for silence and darkness, sometimes, and they lay together in it, not quite asleep but not quite awake, just listening to each other’s breathing and their own thoughts (until she’s fidgeting, and he tells her, gruffly, what’s on his mind at that moment, willing to break his contemplation time for her). When he’s having a particularly bad phantom pain day, which she has little to no trouble spotting now, and he lets her gently remove his prosthesis and massage the skin there, and she tells him that she’s proud of him, and that he’s so handsome, like this, and he gets too pink in the face to protest (but he tugs her into the shower with him afterwards and shows her how much he appreciates her praise). When she stops by the hospital cafeteria to stock up on his favorite banana nut muffins that they’re always out of by the time his usual shift begins, wrapping it in a beeswax wrap and stowing it away in his locker the way he does with her tea (with her own sticky notes atop them, covered in little doodles that she makes throughout her shift, caricatures of their coworkers and of them, too, as stick figures holding hands that could be fairly ambiguous to their nosy coworkers bar her signature low bun and his close-cropped curls).
So—they’re not dating, but there’s always that tenderness that belies any lack of a definitive label. She knows he’s not seeing anyone else. Neither is she. But both of them have been told, by their coworkers and other people in their lives, that they seem happier, these days. And they are. Sure, this new part of her life is still tied heavily to her work, but it’s something she hasn’t had in a long time—something she’s probably never truly had, if she’s being honest—a companion. Someone in her corner. No pretenses or expectations, just true interest and care.
And not to mention—the sex is amazing.
Which brings Samira back to the original point: it’s been a few hours since she sent him that picture of her vibrator, and when she gingerly crept over to retrieve her phone about five minutes after chucking it (and discovering the decent divot in the side of her phone case after it had collided with the corner of her desk), she found that he’d left her on read. And it’s now been like that for most of the night.
She knows he’s busy—he’s the attending in the ED on the night shift, of course he’s busy—but she can’t help the frustration that sits heavy on her chest, even as she goes about her calming bedtime routine that usually helps her unwind. Because a big part of that routine, at least a few times a week, was to use the very vibrator that Dr. Abbot has now seen a photo of but hasn’t deigned to respond to, and get herself up to those six or seven orgasms. Masturbation is healthy—endorphins releasing and all that—and, well, she had admittedly been sexually frustrated for a good chunk of her adult life, before him. But, at Jack’s request, she’s saving her orgasms for him and him alone.
It’s a newer arrangement, one that she can admit gets her ridiculously hot under the collar. In the month or so since he almost shyly suggested it, she’s developed a Pavlovian response to his touch—she’s always craved it, always been eager to be on the receiving end of it, but something about being so pent-up after days without orgasm makes her body feel like a live wire, so responsive to even the lightest brush of his body against hers. Which he’s been using to his full advantage, lately, whenever they see each other in the Pitt. A guiding hand on her back as they rush to Trauma One, a knock of his foot against hers under the staff room table during the rare period of downtime. Christ, even the weight of his gaze, as he watches her intubate or perform a risky surgical maneuver under his direction, affects her more these days than it ever has.
And she knows that he’s equally as affected, because he’s also staving off self-pleasure, when he isn’t with her. His teasing touches, she’s well aware, are also a by-product of his need for her. And God, that just makes it all the more enticing. Knowing that a man is so weak for her that he has to seek her out like that, even at work.
Not that they would ever let this affect their standard of care. Samira can’t think of a less sexy place to have sex in than an emergency ward room that gets covered in very unsexy bodily fluids multiple times a day. It’s just a little pick-me-up, for both of them. And not every work interaction of theirs is sexually charged. They can be quiet and contemplative about what they could improve upon after they’ve lost a patient. They can be goodnaturedly ribbing one another over a procedure, the way that Langdon and Garcia or Santos and Whitaker would. They can even be argumentative, when there’s a disagreement over how a patient should be treated. As far as anyone knows, what they have is your average work friendship, formed from mutual respect and mutual love for their field.
And if Dana looks at her sideways sometimes when she gets a spring in her step close to when night shift is set to come in, or if Jack complains to her about Robby starting to look suspicious about how normal he seems lately, well. Luckily their job provides ample distraction from just how close they’ve gotten in the last year.
There’s not really a problem, with what they’re doing. Age difference and hospital hierarchy aside, he has no say over her position at PTMH, or anything at her job, really. They only work together so often, not just because of their attraction to one another, but because they genuinely make a good team, his unwavering leadership and cool head pairing well with her quick thinking and positive attitude. While Jack has the experience, and he imparts the knowledge that comes from that to Samira at every opportunity, it’s more because he sees her as an equal than anything else. Someone on par with him—maybe even above him, as his praise so often suggests, though Samira would never let herself truly believe that. Other residents in her year certainly aren’t learning how to use a pigtail catheter, though, let’s put it that way.
Besides, so many of their coworkers have hooked up over the years that there’s really no intrigue or scandal to it anymore. Princess and Perlah’s rumor mill is solidly fixed on Mel and Langdon’s will-they-won’t-they these days, anyways, subtle bets being placed on when he’s going to finally leave his wife. While it might be juicy gossip, who the emotionally unavailable widower of nearly two decades Dr. Jack Abbot is seeing on the sly, he’s not the type to be the subject of such fodder. He warrants a sort of respect and awed intimidation from most of the staff that he isn’t close with, even though Samira could tell very easily when she first met him just how warm-hearted and dorky he is most of the time beneath his stoic veneer.
Except for right now, when he finally responds to her text with a simple Make sure you charge that tonight, sweetheart. I expect the proof I was promised. I’ll be over by 7:30.
The message sends a rush of heat through her body, settling in her nether regions that she can’t touch because of him. She could be bratty and say something about how she never technically promised him anything, how it’s clearly a comment that he’s taken to extreme levels of fantasy fulfillment, but. It’s not like she was lying when she said it.
Samira just has a lot of time on her hands when she’s not working, okay?
In the end, she doesn’t respond at all, but she doesn’t need to for him to still show up tomorrow morning, as stated. She putters about the space, doing some last minute cleaning, as if Jack would really care about that sort of thing (and she’s seen the state of his condo, she knows that he doesn’t). She’s already changed into a pair of maroon cotton boyshorts and an oversized Deftones shirt that he had left, not-so-subtly, on the back of her desk chair a few weeks back. Standing in the entrance of her apartment, everything looks neat and put together, which makes her smile. Not just for Abbot’s sake, but for her own. She’s always loved resetting her space the night before a day off, to give her as much time as possible to focus on things she actually enjoys doing on that day.
It’s nearly 11:30 by the time she calls it a night, sliding off her reading glasses (yes, she has reading glasses, some of don’t want to ruin our eyesight by squinting up at the board all the time, Jack) and setting them on her nightstand atop her copy of Everything Is Tuberculosis that she’s almost done rereading. She doesn’t text goodnight; when it’s pretty much guaranteed that they’ll see each other the next day, they prefer to let mouths do what thumbs do—or whatever Shakespeare said.
Belatedly, she remembers to open her nightstand drawer and pull out the sleek black box that holds her vibrator in a padded foam mold. The charger is already plugged into the USB port of her extension cord, and she sticks in the little prong that goes into the bottom of the base, and there’s a little witticism there about penetrating the thing that ultimately will be penetrating you, but as she’s settling back into the pillows she can’t seem to think of—
Her 7:00 AM alarm wakes her up with a start from a very pleasant dream, eyes flying open and losing the image of Jack—oh fuck, what was he doing? Shit, and it was really hot, too.
With a sigh, she sits up and throws off the comforter, going into her stretch routine. Rolling her head in circles, chin pressed to her neck, swiveling her arms, leaning forward until her chest is flat against her knees and her fingers touch her toes. This one might come in handy today, she thinks a little giddily, and shakes her head to scold herself as she sits up.
She doesn’t bother with the bedmaking part of her morning, just smoothing down her side sufficiently before she heads down the hall and through her little makeshift office space into the bathroom, where her (mercury-free) skincare routine begins. Her mornings and nights, if it wasn’t obvious, thrive on routine. On structure. With a job as unpredictable as hers, she likes to exert control over the free time she does have—and after McKay’s advice last year, she’s been trying her best to fill that time with things that are actually completely separate from work.
Take today, for example—she has her third adult pottery lesson this afternoon, something she signed up for after seeing it in passing on the community billboard in Chairs when she was heading out (Jack made her watch Ghost, the night she told him about it, and at the wheel scene she buried her face in his arm and laughed when he asked if she had any intentions of making him recreate that). The shoddy vase she had spun together with her own hands should be done in the kiln today, so it’ll be time for glazing. She’s thinking about it being a Christmas gift for Jack; she hasn’t gotten anything else for him yet, not sure if they’re really going to do anything for it, and it’s already the middle of December, so. Worst case scenario she can use it for herself, or give it to her mom, or something.
She should make herself a mug next, she thinks idly, as she brings her electric kettle to a quick boil, steeping her infuser in the It’s Doctor, Actually mug her older stepsister bought for her a few birthdays back. She sets out her dad’s old stainless steel filter, assuming that later today, Jack will probably want some of the filter coffee she made him once last year as a thank-you for helping her with her research that he swears has ruined all other coffee for him forever.
There’s the sound of her intercom alarm buzzing. The sound of Jack letting himself up. She takes a measured sip of her chai, waiting the minute or so it takes for the elevator to make it up to her floor. She’s already stepping out of the kitchen when there’s his tell-tale knock.
The familiar scent of his cedar bar soap reaches her nostrils as she opens the door. He’s standing with one hand in the pocket of a pair of light gray drawstring sweats and the other holding the strap of his backpack, slung over one shoulder like always. A faded navy blue John’s Hopkins crewneck with peeling lettering is overtop a gray undershirt. His hair is still damp, which she can tell by how his salt and pepper curls are a bit more pronounced. The tip of his nose is a little red; she keeps telling him to bundle up more, that he’s no good to the Pitt with a cold, but he keeps telling her that he hasn’t been sick in 20 years, maybe even before she was born, and she keeps rolling her eyes and giving it a rest, biding her time for her inevitable vindication.
He’s drinking her in, the same way she’s observing him. His gaze zeroes in on his shirt immediately, how it hangs off her slender frame just a bit. There’s only about three inches of a height difference between them, but the shirt still kisses the tops of her thighs, where the fabric of her boyshorts begins, a little bunched up from sleep and her movement. It’s the first thing of his that she’s worn apart from the occasional jacket that he lends her, and it shows on his face, just how much the wait has been worth it.
“Beautiful,” he says roughly in lieu of a greeting, crossing over her threshold with a comfortable ease she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of witnessing. His backpack is dropped carelessly on the floor behind him and then his hands are on her waist, those big, capable hands pulling her in for a sweet, close-mouthed kiss that has Samira rocking forward on the balls of her feet. When he pulls back, he sweeps a loose lock of hair behind her ear. He’s obsessed with her hair; she proudly acknowledges this fact to herself whenever she remembers it. Ever since she had taken it out of its bun that night, locking eyes with him over the rim of his beer can, she knew that if nothing else, she could get him to do whatever she wanted if her hair tumbled down around her shoulders while she asked it.
(And, of course, now she knows that pretty much anything she does will have him wrapped around her finger. She wouldn’t say he’s obsessed with her. That’s a bit egotistical. But, hey. If the shoe fits.)
“How was the shift?” She asks, smoothing her hands over his (unfairly strong) shoulders. A 5’9” man who’s pushing 50 (On a bad day, his retort echoes through her mind) should not have this physique.
He shrugs. He lifts his leg behind him to take off his shoe, and she steps back so he can take off the one on his prosthesis without the foot shell coming off with it. “Some more black ice accidents, really. Nothin’ we couldn’t handle.”
She nods. Work is always a bitch this time of year, with new ways to slip and scrape, and the great city of Pittsburgh is certainly never great at salting their roads in a timely manner (Philly never has that problem, she knows because her mom lives there, but she wouldn’t be caught dead saying that to anyone who could somehow get it back to Dana). “I think it’s only a matter of time before we have our own Christmas Story moment on our hands—did I ever tell you about my first EMT rotation when we had to help this girl with a flagpole stuck to her—”
“With all due respect,” he interjects as he straightens his posture, lips curled up faintly at her nervous yammering, and when she meets his gaze she watches his pupils expand in real time, “And the expectation that you’ll definitely tell me that story later—I’m not here right now to talk about work, Dr. Mohan.”
Despite the flare of heat that licks up her spine at his implication, Samira huffs. “God forbid a girl tries to build tension,” she quips.
“You lost all your chances at ‘building tension’ the second you opened the door wearin’ that.” His eyes flick down to her ensemble and back up. “Bedroom, sweetheart. If you’d be so kind.”
She is feeling particularly kind today, luckily for him, so she turns primly on her heel and leads him down the hall by the hand, past the kitchen and the office. It’s not really a bedroom so much as where her bed is, somewhat blocked off into its own little section by the makeshift seating area on the opposite wall. The TV over there is on, with Spotify open on some random R&B playlist that’s playing softly in the background, pink and purple visualizations on the screen. The big windows facing the city are covered with her blinds and the sheer floral curtains that still let in slivers of light. Samira hates the overhead lighting in her apartment, so she overcompensates with warm lamps and candles strewn about the place, bathing it in a comforting amber glow.
When she reaches the edge of her bed she turns, the backs of her knees against the mattress. And he’s there, crowding against her, one arm slinking around her waist and the other sinking into her hair. He’s content to just pet her and stare into her eyes, it seems, and while that’s heart-fluttering and all, she would like to hurry things along—but when she brings her face upwards, lips searching for his, he uses the leverage he has to pull her head back, a bit, shaking his head as something downright evil flashes in his eyes, and Jesus, what did she agree to last night?
“When I stop touching you, it’s like I’m not here, m’kay?” He says, his gaze searching. “I want you to show me. How good you can make yourself feel.”
She could whimper when he steps back, hands leaving her hair and her waist as quickly as he had put them there. Her hands ball into fists at her sides; she clenches them once, twice. It begins to sink in, just what it will mean to use her vibrator to get herself off in front of Jack. He doesn’t intend to help her in any way. He just wants to see her prove her competency to him, prove the knowledge, the power she has over her own body and its capabilities.
“You could start by getting undressed,” he suggests smugly, as if he knows just what she’s thinking right now, and oh, Jack Abbot is a force to be reckoned with. She doesn’t know why she expected anything less.
“I thought it was like you weren’t here,” she snaps petulantly, because she’s a force herself, and that gets her a smile, the beautifully jagged line of his front teeth.
“You can either get yourself off right now, or it’s not gonna happen today at all, brat,” he says, even-keeled enough, but there’s an underlying hardness to his words that signals to her that she shouldn’t try to call his bluff, not even to tease.
She inhales deeply through her nose and tugs at the hem of her shirt. As it’s coming up over her head she hears a faint Damn and her pulse kicks up. No matter how many times Jack has seen her shirtless, it never seems to get old for him. Her boyshorts come next. She’s very resolutely not looking up at him as she tugs them down to her ankles, bare feet stepping out of them. It is nowhere near the first time he’s seen her naked, but the first time he hasn’t also been naked, or at least in some state close to it. He’s also usually much closer to her, not able to get a full view of her from top to bottom.
“Look at me, Samira.”
Her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek, but she does as she’s told. His gaze is elsewhere, however; running down the exposed lines of her body with clear, unabashed want in his eyes. He wants her to watch him looking, the bastard.
Then his eyes settle on something behind her, and she knows he’s looking at her vibrator, charging on the nightstand. He licks his lips. She takes a slow seat on the edge of the bed, legs gathered demurely beneath her in a feeble attempt to cover her modesty, or something, though it very clearly doesn’t work. Jack follows suit.
“How do you build up to it?”
His voice is gruff, a little hesitant. She shrugs. “Well—before, I just had to—put something on, you know. Just to—get interested.”
It’s not like watching porn is some mortal sin, but she still hangs her head when she says it. He leans forward, reaches out and lifts her chin with two fingers. She welcomes the touch embarrassingly eagerly.
“That’s not something to be ashamed of,” he says. “I did, too. It isn’t exactly easy to keep your thoughts straight, when you do what we do. Having something like that to focus on helped.”
He’s right about that. In the past, when she tried laying there with no stimuli apart from her own fantasies, it veered quickly into the day’s happenings at work, or before that, her never-ending courseload at med school. As good as she can be at compartmentalizing on the job, she was never known for her one-track mind in other settings. It also didn’t help that she wasn’t having any sex worth fantasizing about.
That, of course, has changed. And she notes that Jack refers to his habit in the past-tense as well, which makes her blood sing.
“What do you do now?" He asks, looking more than a little smug, like he knows what’s coming.
She rolls her eyes, but shifts back on the bed. He takes the hint, withdrawing, left leg tucked underneath him and his prosthesis resting firmly on the rug. Samira lets herself lie back, head propped up on the pillows, and slowly meets his dark gaze.
“Not now, really, since you need to make yourself privy to every orgasm I have,” she can’t help but remind him, biting her smile back. It’s his turn to roll his eyes, then, waving a hand. Semantics. “But—I imagine you touching me.”
“Naturally,” he says dryly, and she nudges his knee with her foot. He lays a cool, calloused hand on it, rubbing into the smooth skin of her sole. “Where?”
“Not on my foot,” she snarks, and he laughs, muttering smartass under his breath as he rubs deeper into the tissue. A warning. “Usually—you start with your hands in my hair.”
He nods. “Your hair is perfect, Samira. I damn near short-circuited the night I first saw you take it down.”
She can feel herself blushing like a high schooler, like she always does under his praise. She loves learning new tidbits like that, or having her assumptions confirmed, about how he felt in the agonizing year that it took for their lips to touch. “I like when you get your hands in it,” she admits, thinking of how he kisses her, his big hands sliding up the sides of her neck to grab fistfuls of her waves. “When you—pull on it.”
She’s already feeling wetness pool within her, saying these thoughts aloud with his eyes on her, never wavering. She soldiers (ha) on: “I imagine your lips on mine, and how you kiss me all over my face when you need to take a breath.”
“Because every part of you deserves to be kissed,” he says immediately, and the only beat that is skipped is in her heart. “And I get so—overwhelmed, knowing that I get to have you like that, I just—have to cool down and kiss you everywhere else.”
It looks like it’s taking him a great deal of courage to admit these things, and she likes that, likes the vulnerability they’re both showing to each other in this moment. Samira might be the one naked, spread on the bed for him, but Jack is also stripped bare, in a way. She flashes him a brilliant smile, and revels in the way he melts at it.
“When we’re done kissing—when I get impatient,” she clarifies with a huff, quoting him directly, and he chuckles, low, his hand circling light patterns on the bottom of her foot. “You kiss your way along my body, and—it feels so good.” Good doesn’t even begin to sum up the fire she feels on every inch of skin that Jack’s lips touch as he works her way down. She feels it now, and with the tip of her pointer finger she traces it lightly around her neck and clavicle, teasing just above the swell of her breasts, well aware that he’s tracking her movements with laserlike precision. “And by now—I’m usually ready to begin.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
His voice is hoarse, and she smiles as she turns to her side to grab the vibrator. It’s a G-spot vibrator, which she occasionally uses for its intended purpose, but more often then not she uses it for outer stimulation. “I don’t use this inside of me much, anymore,” she finds herself saying. “I guess I’ve already been letting myself go without something, waiting for you.”
The admission results in a quiet groan from Jack. “Christ, Samira”, he says, and she watches him shift on the bed, like he’s trying to adjust himself, and her smile turns a touch devilish. His control can slip so easily. “You like my cock that much, do you?”
“Mhmm," she confirms. She clicks on the vibrator; the familiar rumble makes her clit pulse in preparation. Suddenly, any doubts about oversharing melt away, at the realization of just how much he’s enjoying this. “I used to have to put some lube on this, too,” she tells him. “But I get so wet just thinking about you that I don’t have to, anymore.”
He bites his lip and closes his eyes. His head tilts back. “I’m starting to regret this,” he says to the ceiling, and she laughs, breathless. “You—you’re so—you deserve that, Samira. To feel that good. Every other man that hasn’t gotten you there before had no idea how goddamn lucky they were.”
God, he’s so sweet, so earnest and desperate to make her know how much he reveres her, under his attempts to keep his composure. He’s what the internet (and the fanfiction Samira used to read alongside the porn she used to watch when she got herself off that she is absolutely not going to tell Jack about under any circumstances) might call a “soft dom”, but even then, calling him a dom is a little much. Sure, he gives her these challenges, like refraining from orgasm without him there, but in the bedroom, they’re about as equal as they are in the ED. He makes it obvious to her just how much sway she has over him, and gladly lets her wield that control when she wants. But today, she is more than happy to relinquish a bit of it to him.
“I’m the lucky one,” she says, quelling his instant attempt to protest with a shake of her head. She lets the vibrator in her hand lightly skate along the planes of her body, circles it around her left nipple and jerks at the sensation out of sheer need. And Jack’s attention is diverted, just like that, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. "So lucky to feel this good. Because of you.”
The head of the vibrator begins to touch the top of her pubic mound, sliding through the coarse, close-trimmed hair and around her outer labia. Another benefit of being with an older man, and a doctor, no less—Jack could not look less likely to chide her for not shaving herself entirely (which had happened on more than a few occasions, with men her age, even after undergrad). He’s drinking in the sight of her before him, fingers twitching on his lap and against her foot with the clear desire to reach out and touch her folds himself. “So fuckin’ gorgeous,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. A pleasant shudder racks through her at the words, coupled with the feeling of finally pressing the vibrator to her aching clit.
“The first one always comes easy,” she tells him, and he nods, because he knows. Half the time her first climax is from rutting against his thigh while they kiss against her doorframe, fully clothed, or from the barest touch of his fingers over the top of her underwear, pants not even fully down to her ankles. It seems to surprise him, every time, how worked up she gets from his full attention to every part of her, from the moment their lips meet. She’d be more embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the other half of the time, when his first orgasms are from her grinding down on his bulge while they kiss on her couch, through his jeans, or from two pumps of her hand around his cock when she’s able to get it free, pants not even below his knees.
For having almost fifteen years on her, his refractory period is impressive, something she’s teased him about before. Today he seems determined to keep it together, though she wonders, once she’s proven herself tonight, just how long he’ll last when he finally lets himself have her.
Samira presses the vibrator more determinedly against her clit, rubbing it in small circles. She dips down when she needs to coat the pink silicone in more of her wetness, which comes easily. Jack looks close to drooling, the tip of his tongue now repeatedly laving against his bottom lip and the inside of his cheek as he watches her. He’s let go of her foot, which allows her to spread her legs a little wider for him to get an even better view. Her knees prop up a bit, as she usually keeps them up more, closer to her chest. But she’s trying to be more open, less tensed up, for him.
“It’s not as—intense, this way, like it is when I’m with you,” she explains, little gasps escaping her as she tries to speak. She feels it building, a steady pressure. “It’s—it’s quick, but—the more I have, the better they feel.”
Jack is breathing heavily through his nose. He tears his eyes away from her ministrations, meeting her gaze. “I think the most I’ve given you in one session is four. I’ll beat that toy of yours, one day.”
She huffs a laugh. “Actually having sex takes—a lot more out of me than this. Everything—feels so much more, with you.” And so does this—getting off under his supervision, because he’s genuinely fascinated by watching her do it. Another time, she thinks, she’d love for him to be right beside her, fisting his cock. She doesn’t know if he’d be able to keep up with her—she’s only gotten him to three orgasms in one session, with a good hour between his second and third—but that might be even better, him trying to match her pace while being restricted by his own physical limitations. Edging himself, for every other orgasm she has.
It hits her, suddenly, the crest of the wave, that train of thought pushing her to the brink. “Jack, fuck, I—fuck,” and she’s throwing her head back, riding it as it washes over her, along with his gravelly voice, the That’s it, sweetheart and the You look so fucking good like this warming her up from head to toe, counteracting the gooseflesh that has erupted at the exertion as her body attempts to cool itself down. She can feel perspiration gathering on her inner thighs, beading on her forehead. The feeling of this first climax is pleasant, heady, but not all-consuming, not like how the others will be later. Her eyes, scrunched, begin to open, and she’s greeted with the very welcome sight of Jack gripping her comforter in one hand and pressing down on the incredibly noticeable bulge in his sweats with the heel of the other.
“I was under the impression that you’d wait until I was done,” she simpers, clicking through the settings on her vibrator a few times, as she typically does after each orgasm for a change in pace. Jack reluctantly withdraws his hand, having the decency to look a bit admonished. Without thinking, she extends the bulbous head of the vibrator towards him, and he leans forward immediately, actually taking a whiff of the thing before he slides it into his mouth.
She emits a quiet moan as she watches him fucking fellate her vibrator, oh my God. She might have to take Santos up on a drunken offer to give her a verbal crashcourse on how to peg someone from a few months ago on a girl’s night out, because this is a sight she could get used to. The way his cheeks hollow, the underside of the vibrator engulfing his tongue as he sucks it clean. He pulls back, giving it fucking sloppy open-mouthed kisses along the quivering shaft of it until his lips are at her fingers, and he’s trying to get those in his mouth, too, but she draws back and he—get this—honest-to-god whines, a keening sound that even he is shocked by, as he sits up straighter, breathing shallow, lips spit-slick.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” she tells him frankly, and his cheeks color. “And I’m definitely following up on that at a later date. But right now—” she moves the vibrator back to her clit—“I’m already close again, oh my God—”
This new setting is one of her favorites, quick bursts of vibration that bring her right to the edge, folds fluttering. She has a tried and true method of getting right up to that precipice before switching quickly back to a steady vibration that plunges her into the depths of pleasure. She keeps it on the bursts setting for now, feels the tremor of her body each time they hit her.
Seeing that talking is a little beyond her capabilities right now, Jack speaks up for her. “”You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this in the last two weeks,” he tells her. “You’re so goddamn brilliant, Samira, it was a fuckin’ no-brainer finding out you could do this. I wonder, if I had you do this for longer than just an hour, how many times you’d be able to come for me.” She whimpers, and he’s regaining his end of the stick, now, smirking down at her. “You’re lucky I’m just comin’ off a shift, sweetheart. Else I’d watch you get yourself off all fuckin’ day.”
She moans, then, as the lurches of pleasure begin to reach that familiar peak. “Jack—please—”
He grins at her strangled cry. “Please what? It’s all you, baby. You ready to come again, huh? Is that it? So good, my talented girl—”
Samira’s back arches as orgasm number two hits before she can even change settings, more intense than the first and more prolonged thanks to the brief lapses in vibration. Sparks fly behind her closed lids, like the fireworks on the night of their first kiss, and with Jack’s hand slinking up her calf and her thumb searching desperately for the second-highest straightforward vibrate setting, her third orgasm follows soon after the second with a gasp and a “Holy fuuuuuck” that wrack her body as she writhes with the constant onslaught of feeling running through her clit and outer labia, a circuitboard of pleasure. Her inner walls are pulsing with need, and she answers their call by dipping the head of the vibrator inside of herself, not even caring to have a cooldown before trying for a fourth.
When her lids lazily flutter open this time, Jack is gripping her calf like a lifeline, staring hungrily as she slowly stretches herself open, lips forming ohmygodohmygodohmyfuckinggod on a constant loop. She’s inclined to agree.
It would be easier if she had prepped herself first, but the vibrator is slimmer than, say, Jack’s cock, so it’s not too hard to get the head of it past her opening. She keeps it like that, just the tip; although it’s a G-spot vibrator by nature, the vibrations thrum through her walls so pleasantly that it doesn’t even matter that she isn’t pushing in further to reach it. Besides, she knows it will be worth it, to be properly filled by him instead. If she didn’t have the last five months of incredible sex with Jack Abbot to back it up, the way that he’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that exists to him could definitely speak to it.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he grits, sounding wrecked. She notes the wet patch coating the front of his sweats and smiles. Strands of hair are sticking to her neck, now, and a trickle of sweat is slowly trailing its way from her jaw, between her breasts, down to her navel. He’s eyeing it hungrily. “Can I—”
She nods, and he’s in her space, his Old Spice deodorant and woodsy cologne invading her senses. His tongue swirls around the expanse of skin below her ear before he follows the perspiration from her hairline down to her jaw, her neck, her collarbones. He keeps his focus, not pausing to lave over her breasts even as she tries to guide him there with her free hand on his shoulder. He takes that hand in his own and entwines their fingers, pressing their hands back against the pillow by her head as his tongue dips into her belly button.
“I didn’t say stop,” he says, looking up at her. His dog tags have slipped through the stretched collar of his pullover that he’s somehow still wearing, the cool metal brushing her knuckles where they grip the base of her vibrator. She swivels it side to side within her, imagining it as his thick cockhead preparing to stretch her open. God, if only she could have his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything.
As if he can read her mind, Jack and his warmth have withdrawn back to his viewing perch, suddenly appeased, like he wasn’t ready to start humping the mattress a minute ago. “All you, baby,” he says again. His voice is husky, a clear sign that he’s still just as turned on as she is. “I know you can do this. You’re so capable, so smart. A smart girl like you knows why I can’t help you, hmm?”
Abortedly, she nods. It’s the same reason why he wouldn’t just jump in and take over for her during a procedure; without doing it herself, she wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t flourish, wouldn’t be as self-sufficient. Some retort about this not exactly being what she would call a valuable teaching moment flits around in her brain, but she’s far too distracted as she brings three fingers to her mouth and wets them as best as she can with what little saliva her dry throat can scrounge up before bringing them to dance around her now-slightly swollen clit.
At this point in the game, about halfway through, the next few orgasms really begin to rock her world, even as they take longer to work towards. The sensation of the vibrator thrumming through her, straight to her core, combined with her fingers working steadily and confidently at her clit are a most welcome addition of feelings to her nervous system as she can feel it gearing up. These stages usually bring along what she would, in her off-the-clock opinion, refer to as phantom orgasms—quick flickers of feeling that are similar to her first climax, but are really just side dishes leading up to the main course.
“That’s my girl,” he says, with total faith in her that has never once faltered in the time that they’ve known each other. “So perfect.”
She pauses to withdraw her fingers, applying a bit more spit before delving back in. Her index and ring fingers spread herself apart, aiding the subtle in-and-out-and-around slide of the head of the vibrator, while her middle finger strokes her sensitive bud. “You know,” she tries to say conversationally, voice cracking, “It’s a shame that you get such a show, and I don’t even get to see a bit of skin.”
“What’re you suggesting?”
He sees through her so easily; she can tell in the bemused quirk to his brow and the lilt to his lips. She shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but one of those phantom orgasms hits her with a groan, eyes fluttering rapidly. It’s stronger than the others, and she can tell the big one is coming soon. When she continues speaking, her voice is noticeably strained: “Just—maybe after this next one, you could—take off your pullover, for me. And, after the next one—your undershirt.”
“You wanna play strip poker with your orgasms,” he surmises, and she nods frantically, so eager to see him, to see plainly how she’s affected him. “Of course, baby. A good girl deserves rewards.”
She rewards him with a blinding smile that he looks so reverent to receive, and with this newfound goal to work towards, she works her fingers and the vibe with a newfound rigor that she can feel in her ears, the blood thundering through them as her folds begin to burn just right and then she’s coming for the fourth time in what must be thirty-five minutes. It sinks into her bones, her mouth open in a silent moan, the breath stolen from her lungs. She quivers, rides the aftershocks that keep coming and coming and coming.
The force of the vibrator on this setting is suddenly too much; she has to pull it out. Her cunt clenches and flutters at the loss and Jack looks floored. “‘M so proud of you,” he says, quietly, as his eyes slide up to meet hers, and she shines with the praise. “Doing so good, baby. Looks like I gotta reward you now, hmm?” He smiles, shrugging out of his pullover. His forearms are on display now, thick and tanned and freckled and ever-so-slightly vascular, and she never thought it possible that she would be attracted to the ulna but his is so defined that she finds herself staring at it, how it flexes when he leans against a surface or crosses his arms, far too often to be just a passing interest.
He can’t help but chuckle at how greedily she takes in what he’s presented to her. “I’ll never know what a guy like me did in a past life for a girl like you to look at me like that,” he says, tilting his head. “Just—fuckin’ look at you. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, the smartest person in any room you walk into, and you’re here with me, lookin’ at me like that. I count my lucky stars every goddamn day, sweetheart, every day until you realize a girl like you needs so much more than me.”
Her head shakes from side to side, her eyes watering from his raw, open admiration as well as his own self-deprecation. “You don’t get it,” she says. “I would never be able to do something like this with anyone other than you. I trust you, so much, Jack—you make me feel so—” Loved comes to mind; she immediately bites it back, but Jack is nodding, anyways, like he understands what she’s getting at, and he’s leaning back in to sweep his thumbs under her eyes, scooping up the tears there. His lips brush her forehead, and she sighs, her body still keyed up from the last half hour, but somehow it doesn’t feel as good as his tenderness, here, the touches he’s been slowly granting to her—partly to touch base and keep her regulated, and partly because she knows he’s bad at following his own rules. He should have known he wouldn’t have been able to go a whole hour without touching her once.
“You okay to keep going, Mira?”
She melts at the nickname, how softly he’s speaking to her, fingers massaging into the pressure points along her neck. She nods. “I want to,” she says, and she does. “Wanna show you I can do it.” Then, to lighten the mood: “And to get you out of the rest of those clothes.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Atta girl. So determined. It’s one of my favorite things about you, y’know, how you’ll never stop until you’ve done the damn thing. Gets me so—well, y’know.” He gestures to the front of his pants, which are straining, not having flagged once this whole time, and they take a moment, to laugh and breathe together, before he’s retreating and the spotlight is on her, once again.
The midwinter sun is streaming more brightly through the blinds and curtains, lightening up the apartment and shining on the side of Jack’s face. Like his arms, his face gets freckly, too, but moreso in the warmer months. She could hardly catch a break, this past summer, when he’d come in after weekend fishing trips with his platoon buddies, cheeks pink and the back of his neck tanned, with the white cords of his scars on more prominent display against his sunkissed skin. How ridiculous he is, to think that she could find someone better than him.
Keeping her appreciative gaze on him, she clicks on her vibrator again, switching to another favored setting; one with peaks and valleys to it, a bz-bz-bzzzzzzz that builds a steady rhythm of arousal. She changes the way she holds it against her clit—from the base, facing toward her rather than away, like she would hold a cock she’d be about to guide into her entrance. This position somehow sends the vibrations into her clit in an inexplicably more intense way. She grinds down on it from this angle, rather than circling the vibrator itself against her like she has been, and with the direct pressure like this she knows it won’t be long.
It’s involuntary, the way her legs lift off the bed and her knees knock together, unintentionally obstructing Jack’s view a bit. But the phantom orgasms are hitting, over and over, and she feels fucking possessed, by horny demons or something, the way her eyelids flicker open and shut and the way her mouth opens and closes, trying to form words but no sound coming out.
Jack looks utterly enraptured. “Look at my girl,” he marvels, and she manages a weak croak of his name. “Knows her body so well, knows how to make herself feel so good. I wasn’t kidding, sweetheart; I could watch you do this forever. This is what my personal heaven looks like. Shit, am I—” He presses two fingers to his carotid—“Nope, still living.”
“Fucking—dork,” she pants, and he grins.
“Just checking for proof of life,” He quips. “Because you, Samira Mohan, cannot be real.” Her breath hitches as the foreshock kicks in; he picks up on it immediately. “You ready? Go on, come again for me, angel. Wanna see that pretty cunt let go.”
When the dam breaks, she sobs, her hand reaching behind her to grip her headboard as her thighs squeeze together and then come apart, feet planted on the mattress, her entire lower half quivering. Her back is stuck to her comforter, her now-damp hair wildly strung out on her pillow.
Jack is taking off his shirt to reward her, revealing more of that beautiful tanned and taut skin, soft but firm with his loosely defined pectorals and arms that he maintains the shape of through whatever workouts he can get, when he’s not exhausted or in pain. But she can’t fully focus on it, which is a damn shame, but she presses the vibrator more insistently against her at a slightly new angle, because these last few orgasms can come pretty close together, like her second and third had, and just the sight of him, half-naked before her, is only spurring on her insistence.
He places a gentle hand on her left knee, guides her legs down a bit to see her. “It’ll feel better if you don’t tense up,” he tells her. She whimpers, too far gone to care about sounding pathetic. “I know it’s hard, I know you want to scrunch up. But I want my baby to feel all the fucking pleasure available to her.”
This much shallow breathing cannot be good for her. She’s his. His baby. He seems to realize her breathing troubles, and he squeezes his hand along her thigh. “Breathe with me, honey,” he requests, and she inhales, matches the pace he sets. Breathe in, hold for four, out for four. In, hold for four, out for four. “Good, good. You’re doing fuckin’ fantastic, Mira. Can you breathe like that for me, until you come again? Can you do that?”
She nods. He’s still directing her on the inhale and exhale, his wiry dusting of chest hair rising and falling and the visible lines of his pectoralis major flexing as he does. Swallowing dryly, she begins circling her hips against the vibe, his hand on her knee keeping her prostrate against the bed.
Her toes curl into the comforter as it creeps up on her, slow and deliberate, a ticking time bomb. Her legs are writhing, but she presses her lips together and maintains eye contact with Jack, inhaling, holding and exhaling, and on the third exhale, she detonates.
Jack was, as he often infuriatingly is, right. The deep breaths make this orgasm seep through her bones until she herself is vibrating with how fucking good she feels. She can’t help but grin at him as she comes down from it, wild and unrestrained, and he meets her with that proud smirk as he stands to pull down his sweats and oh.
He hasn’t been wearing underwear this entire time.
It makes sense, in hindsight, how he was able to stain the front of his pants so easily. As dry as her mouth has been, it still manages to salivate, as his cock, thick and heavy, bobs between his legs. It’s slick with pre-cum, and he gives his length an experimental twist and jerks forward, having to stabilize himself against her bed with his prosthesis.
“Jesus mother of—look how worked up you got me,” he gasps, winded. He sits back down, cock standing proud against the small pudge of his lower stomach, getting the silvery trail of hair leading down his navel all messy with his leaking tip. “I could come in three strokes, tops, ’cause of you. Fuck me.”
“One day,” she says, and she doesn’t miss the flash of intrigue in his eyes. Another unsaid promise, one she’ll have to hold him to. “You look—incredible right now, Jack, you have no idea; I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
His lips twist into that smirk, the one she loves to see when he’s prowling around the ED like he owns the place. “One more, Mira, and I’m all yours. Have been, since the moment I saw you,” he clarifies, and she feels herself blushing again, which feels faintly ridiculous considering she’s come undone in front of him six times in a row, “But I know you wanna earn it.”
He isn’t wrong. She told him six or seven, and anyone who knows or works with Samira Mohan would know she isn’t the type to settle for six.
She moves the vibe around a bit, until she catches an angle that results in a new sensation, and she clicks onto the third and strongest of the straightforward vibration settings. Go big or go home, she supposes.
It’s the dull sparks of pleasure that she chases, even though it’s starting to hurt, a persistent ache in her core from going unfilled and in her clit from the sheer overstimulation. If she were to stop now, she’d be able to feel the blood pumping through the bundle of nerves, throbbing hard enough to take her goddamn pulse.
On top of this, there’s a persistent weight forming in her bladder, like she has to urinate, and if there’s one thing Samira knows, it’s that when that feeling hits, you do not stop.
She had plans to wash her bedding today anyways.
The laundry she’ll have to do later is insignificant compared to the utter disbelief that crosses Jack’s face as the ejaculate pools beneath her when her seventh and final (solo, at least) orgasm hits her with a cry, seeping into the comforter and no doubt the sheets as well.
A beat passes. “Fuckin’ unreal,” he says, hoarse, before he’s swooping down, nose-deep in her pussy without warning.
Finally. She yelps, because she just came seven times, but immediately presses her thighs to either side of his head, the way he loves to be smothered, and sets the vibe back down on the nightstand, wiping her hand on the side of the comforter that hangs off the bed. Whatever, it’s all getting washed anyways.
Back to more important matters: Jack is lapping at her cunt like a man rescued from the desert after years of water deprivation, gripping the sweaty undersides of her knees. Her feet press into the small of his back, the straight line of his nose caressing her clit. She grinds down on it, meeting it on the upswing.
“You didn’t tell me about this,” he says when he comes up for a breath, spreading her lips apart with his hands and openly admiring the continuous flutter of her cunt as she grinds into nothing but the air, the dripping wetness of it. His thumb exploratorily strokes her clit and she jolts, like he’s taken a taser to it. “That you could—”
“Doesn’t happen often,” she grins, feeling an odd sense of pride. “Didn’t wanna get your hopes up.”
He shakes his head in awe. “Unbelievable,” he says, and then he’s diving back in for more.
“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to his hair. One of his big hands is still spreading her open for him, the other holding her down by her hip as she keeps wildly grinding down on his face. “Fuckfuckfuck, Jack—” His tongue breaches her folds into her center, like he could reach her G-spot that way through sheer will, and the feeling of him tonguing her walls is like the head of her vibrator, only wetter and warmer and better, and she could come like this, but—
She fists her hands in his curls and tugs once, twice, three times, until he gets the hint and comes up with a literal gasp for air that she would laugh at if his entire nose and mouth weren’t coated in her arousal.
“Need you inside me,” she pants. “Now.”
“Good plan,” he agrees, adorably out-of-sorts and clearly pussy-drunk. If she hadn’t interrupted him, she knows, he would’ve gladly stayed down there for another whole hour himself.
There’s no fumbling for a condom; they had left that behind a few months back, when they’d essentially made the all-but verbal agreement that they were exclusively seeing each other, that they were both clean, that she has her Nexplanon and he has his vasectomy. As far as pregnancy risks go, if Samira were to be, she might as well consider herself carrying the second coming.
He holds himself at the base, teases her swollen entrance with that fat cockhead she’s been dreaming of for the last hour, and sinks in, inch by inch. “I’m so fucking ready, please don’t wait," she pleads, hands scrabbling for purchase on the defined lines of his shoulders.
Jack heeds her request, not taking the usual minute or so to make sure she adjusts to him, and slides home. The combined groans of relief from both of them make them laugh a little, despite themselves. She grips the curls at the back of his neck and tugs him forward, mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mess of lips and tongues that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. There’s just always something addictive about seeing him, Dr. Jack Abbot, usually so put together when he’s leading the charge, falling apart and being put back together again, all because of her.
His breath is hot against her face, and he tastes like mint toothpaste and the well water at his place that he uses to fill his thermos. He pulls away, like she knew he would, like she told him about, to press soft kisses to her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, her forehead. Her stomach swoops, knowing now that this means he’s so overwhelmed with feeling for her that this is his only outlet for it. His peppering kisses go to that coveted spot behind her ear, making her buck up against him with a whine. Her hands slide back to his shoulderblades, drawing him even closer, every line of their torsos pressed together, as his hips snap into her over and over again.
“God, Mira, I fuckin’ love this,” he says into her neck, nipping and sucking and licking with no clear coordination given his desperation, but it feels good nonetheless because every part of her is on fire. “Love you.”
Samira feels him stiffen, then, his back muscles tensing beneath her hands. She can’t help but pause for a moment, too, taking a beat to process what he’s just said—that this is happening now, when he’s balls-deep inside her.
Honestly, it’s pretty on-brand, for them.
One hand once again finds itself in the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck, gently moving him from his hiding place in the crook of her neck and shoulder to meet her gaze. Her other hand holds his jaw, thumb idly stroking the light stubble there. There’s a kicked puppy look in his brown eyes, like he thinks he may have gone too far, and oh, she can’t have that.
“I love you,” she tells him, feeling the truth of those words in every part of her mind and body and soul, and the shudder that goes through his entire frame is a sight to behold. It emboldens her: “Show me how much you love me, Jack.”
“I do, every fuckin’ day I do,” he groans, sweeping in to press his lips to hers in a searing kiss that knocks what little breath she had from her lungs. His hands reach up to take hers, intertwining their fingers and pressing them into the pillows on either side of her head as he begins to fuck into her with a renewed vigor. Almost instantaneously, he finds that spot, and she moans wantonly. “I try—to give you what you deserve, always, because anything less isn’t worthy of you. Fuck me, Mira, how could I not love you? So fuckin’ sweet, so caring, so good at what you do, so good to everyone, so good to me. When you smile at me, I feel—I feel fuckin’ crazy, like I could do anything—and when you take my cock, so goddamn well, just like this—” She clenches her walls around him, at that, and he gasps brokenly against her cheek. “You’re incredible. Fuck, I love you so much.”
The tears are coming again. She can’t help it; the overstimulation, the pleasure, his love for her—it’s something she’s never experienced before, not in the overwhelming capacity that she’s experiencing it now. It thrums within her, steady like a pulse. His eyes are on her, steady and warm and loving, she knows now, and she has to close her eyes with how much it all is.
“I got you, baby,” he says, low and sweet, forehead pressed to hers. “You close?”
She takes her bottom lip between her teeth and murmurs an assent. God, is she close. If it’s even possible to have a more intense orgasm than the last, where she literally squirted, it’s going to be right now, with him inside of her and his love wrapping around her like a warm embrace.
“Look at how well you take me, Mira,” he tells her, and she dazedly opens her eyes to look down and whimper at how his cock slides in and out of her tight heat, how wet it is with no external lubrication needed. “Such a good girl. S’like you were made for me—” She clenches around him again, as if to prove his point, and they both moan at the sensation. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, sweat beading in his hair. “C’mon; come with me, sweetheart—”
If Samira were asked to recount this, she wouldn’t be able to explain how it happened. How, at his command, she felt herself let go, the feeling of her eighth and final climax soaring through her core and spreading into her legs and her toes and her stomach and her spine and her breasts and her heart and her lungs. How, at the same time, she feels Jack let go, cock twitching and spilling inside of her clamped walls for what feels like an age, with the loudest moan she’s ever heard from him in the five glorious months that they’ve been doing this, that they’ve spent falling in love with each other.
“Shit,” he breathes against her ear, and that’s about how she would put it, too.
He lets himself collapse onto her slowly, his head resting on her chest as she cards her fingers through his hair. It takes a moment, for them to catch their breath. She feels his cock softening inside of her, and he pulls out as gently as he can, although they still hiss in unison at the loss.
She kisses the top of his head, feeling unusually giddy about doing so. She’s had this sort of urge, before, to do these ultra sappy things with him after sex—hell, just when they’re just spending time together fully clothed—but it had seemed off-limits somehow, before. But now—he loves her, and she loves him, and there’s a conversation to be had about that, but they can have it later.
“Lemme draw us a bath, honey,” he croaks.
“Maybe get yourself a glass of water, first,” she teases, and he bites weakly at her breast. She swats at his arm halfheartedly, unable to tamp down her grin. “Can you even stand? Looks like I took a lot out of you.”
“I’ll tell Gloria you’re being insensitive to war vets and amputees,” he huffs against her skin.
She laughs, bubbly and bright. “No, you won’t.”
He sighs. “No, I won’t. I love you too much. You’re gonna get away with anything you want with me, you know that?”
“Oh, I already have been,” she says, all mischief.
Jack shakes his head and begins to get up, his hands on either side of her head as he looms over her. “Pottery today, right?” He asks.
She loves this—the easy, post-sex banter that makes her forget she’s still completely naked. No other man that she’s been with could ever treat her this, like an equal, like a partner, not if they had her in a compromising position like this. And maybe that’s a low bar, too, but it doesn’t matter when he’s leaps and bounds above it and all the other ones, too.
“Yup,” she affirms. Oh, he’s definitely getting that vase for Christmas now. “Not until one, though.” She checks the time on the TV across from her: it’s only a quarter past nine. “Plenty of time for coffee, breakfast, and a nap after our bath.”
He hums, contented, and presses a sweet kiss to her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her cheekbone, her lips. “Sounds like the perfect morning to me.” He pushes himself up, rolling his neck, and guides his prosthesis off the bed so he can stand, his body shining in the glow of her apartment. She could look at him like this forever.
He’s sweet enough to gather up their discarded clothes. “Wear this out?” He suggests as he holds up the college pullover he came in with, hanging it over her desk chair. “Just like thinkin’ of you in it, out in the world. Bein’ mine.”
“I don’t have to wear your shirt to be yours,” she chides, but she’s smiling, and as he heads off down the hall to start their bath, she can’t help but think about how excited she is for him to be hers, too.