Enter the Ruin
by B. Cavis
Category: Adult, Angst, Drama, First Time, PWP, Romance
Season: Season 6
Content: adult themes/mature scenes, graphic sex, sex, sexual situations
Enter the Ruin
by B. Cavis
She is hungry tonight, and damn proud of it.
After all, hadn't they told (goaded pleaded, ordered) her to get out more? Get a life? A boyfriend? A standard of existence away from the mountain that sucks in every aspect of her life with more ferocity than any black hole? They've pushed her to do this for so long.; it was only a matter of time before she stopped shoving back at them and gave in to the call of the wild life.
She wonders if they'd still be pushing if they could see her now.
Charlie's skin taste salty from sweat and the granules of sodium chloride she had sprinkled up and down his tight stomach. Sam has a cut in her tongue from god only knows what, and it burns just a little going into her mouth, but she doesn't stop. She has an audience, after all, and if she wants her pick of them, she has to prove her worth. Test theirs, as well.
The previous thought outlasts the salt in her mouth. How would her friends see her tonight? Would they congratulate her for her boldness--the means she is taking towards what they have always considered the ultimate ends for her? Would they applaud? Laugh? Or would they condemn her; label her the harlot? The skanky ho she has always viewed the others they've come across as.
She has a sudden flash of someone comparing her to Anise, and she shivers.
Sam takes the shot glass from where it rests on top of Charlie's bellybutton and throws her head back. The tequila goes down smooth and fast and burns every little inch of her it can get, but oh it is such a good burn. She shakes her blond mane (sprinkled with little flecks of silver to catch the light--Charlie's idea) and dismisses the ideas of judgement from her head. After all, her skirt it short, her top it tiny, and her shoes are pretty and impractical.
She is hungry tonight, and it shows in every step she takes in her fashionably high, metallic silver, Fuck-Me-Senseless strappy sandals.
And she is not alone, and that thought is just to good to be true. Knowing she would need a backup dancer, both for effect and for confidence, Sam called out one of her wilder friends. The one who she had drifted away from--one who danced, partied, and fucked just a little bit too often to make it above a certain rank in the Airforce. Charlie wanted to have fun, Sam wanted the audience; needed the comfort of the peanut gallery in order to keep moving in these heels. She wanted someone there to help her remember how to move. To witness her taking the final steps in the all to inevitable dance that she has chosen to move in tonight.
She doesn't regret her choice, especially as she takes the lime from between Charlie's lips. The men and women circling around them howl in pleasure at the carnality going on before them, and Sam knows she made the right choice in bringing a tag along.
After all, who wants one hot blooded blonde woman dancing on the floor, when you can have aforementioned hot blooded blonde straddling a man she's not attached to, licking at all the provocative pieces of skin displayed for all to see as they contort to suit the seduction? To know what you could have before you take it home? A test hump without the messy aftermath or hickeys?
Sam licks her lips slowly and firmly, before poking the rind of the lime section out from between her lips and throwing her head back teasingly. The nearest masculine hand that comes towards her mouth is allowed to take it between two thick fingers and slowly drag the citrus remains from between her teeth. Sam nips at the digits that get too close to her mouth, and then apologises by sucking on his thumb for a minute. He tastes of salt and her least favourite brand of beer, and she knows she won't be going home with him tonight.
Charlie arches his back to pick himself up off the table, and another shot, lime, and shaker are instantly presented by Bachelor number five. Bachelorette number three locks eyes with Sam and offers her hand to help her down to the table. Sam takes it--they both know she won't be going home with a woman tonight, but denying someone something they want for a change is all too sweet a flavour on her tongue, and Sam is not going to give up the opportunity.
She so rarely gets anything she wants when it comes to relationships. This little bit of control is all she has ever been granted, and she won't give it up without a fight.
Enough thinking. It's her turn now.
Instead of taking the easy way out and lying on her back for the presentation of her breasts and belly, she grabs the opposite edge of the fashionably small table in her hands and bends over it, sticking her ass in the air. Someone's hands get just a little too up close and personal with her, and she laughs while kicking them hard in the shins. She thinks she heard something crack, but it is so hard to bring herself to care when she is in this mind state.
She's hungry tonight, and she doesn't care just who gets hurt in the feasting.
The already impossibly small tube top ("It'll look so cute on you, Sam!" Cassie had cooed when she had pushed it across the counter at the cashier) is pushed even further up her back, and she feels Charlie's reassuring hands on her skin this time. The familiarity is comforting, but it does nothing to ease the ache that has developed over the past half and hour.
They have arranged to stay for just enough shots to get them both pleasantly tipsy and attached to someone for the night. Sam's head is still clear, but she can feel Charlie's fingers slipping a bit as he places the glass in the small curve of her back. They both laugh at the feeling, playing for their audience with more ease than any professional actors could ever claim.
I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Deville, Sam thinks to herself and then giggles some more at the silliness of it all.
The lime is insinuated directly into the top of her G-string thong ("You can't wear this without one," Charlie had complained when they were getting dressed. "It completes the whole look--I'm not going with you unless you put that on underneath that. I need to show them I can fuck a well dressed woman, not one with Visible Panty Lines." She slipped the silk scrap of material on underneath her bondage skirt silently.) and she wiggles at the cold, but the glass against her back doesn't twitch. She knows what she's doing tonight.
Sam presses her stomach flat against the table, accentuating her breasts and bedroom eyes. Charlie takes up the salt shaker and liberally coats her throat and shoulders. Two of the nearest women gasp as he pushes himself into her groin (though it's perfectly chaste--for them at least) in a mock doggy style lay. She can feel his broad chest press the glass down into her back as he extends himself over her. His palms appear on either side of Sam's head, and his face is soon lowered into side view as well.
"Do you have your pick, Samantha?" he asks, and Sam smiles to herself.
The man across from her is handsome. Not devastatingly so, but she's not looking for facial perfection tonight--she doesn't intend on spending much time looking at that part of him anyhow.
Her Pick is preening under her scrutiny, and she smiles. He looks like he'd more than make up for his rugged features in other ways. His body is tight and hard, and his arms could easily wrap around her. He looks like he could crush her into the mattress without really trying, and it's exactly what she wants tonight. Beauty is for girls. Beast is for women.
He has just enough salt in his salt and pepper hair to keep him from looking totally at home in this place, which only has 3 letters in the name and only allows in those who know the owner. No bouncers here--if you haven't got a key, keep walking. He keeps shifting from foot to foot and glancing towards his wrist, as if he's asking himself what he's doing out in a place like this on a Tuesday night at an hour so close to midnight.
Sam likes him, and she tells herself firmly that it's not because he looks like... Oh.
Oh, she thinks to herself again, and urge to bite someone solid becomes even stronger with each passing moment. Her Pick is dismissed, and he looks rather hurt by the loss of her gaze, but she can't bring herself to care. Her Pick is nothing.
She's just seen her Mate. And he could kill her Pick with his bare hands.
Oh that felt good...
"Yeah," Sam answers back in a voice that has gone gravely with intent. "I've got him."
He's standing by (leaning on, lounging against, owning entirely) the wall in front of her, his jacket open and his posture relaxed. The dark leather blends perfectly with his skin and his rough hair, worn features, and alert eyes. He looks dangerous, and it's drawing people to him more quickly than their little floorshow ever could.
He is the alpha, and she feels the sudden need to offer him her belly, offer her throat, offer her heat all for his inspection and ownership. Her hunger for substance has just become a lot more interesting, and a lot more important than it had been when she was just parading around to draw in her prey.
She feels a role reversal coming on, and she doesn't entirely like the fact that it's inevitable.
A woman is pressing herself up against his groin, nibbling and licking his stubble painted throat, but he doesn't look down at her. She is inconsequential--she is not the prima female, and they both know it. He's the alpha, after all; he deserves the best and he will settle for no less than the best and the best just happens to be the woman currently bent over the table with her friend on top of her.
Funny how these things turn out. She's not laughing. He isn't smiling.
Charlie laves his tongue over Sam's throat and neck, seeking out the pieces of salt and savouring them in his mouth.
He pushes the woman away from his body and bares his teeth in Sam's direction. She bares her own in return. She is filled with the sudden knowledge (comforting, frightening, incredibly appealing) that he will hurt anyone who gets between them right now. Anyone who tries to stop him from achieving his overall goal.
Me, she realises, and the thought sends her throat into convulsions.
Charlie's tongue traces down the length of her spine until he reaches the glass.
He starts to make his way across the dance floor, and the dancing couples part for the newly arrived Moses. Someone reaches out a hand to brush a strand of hair away from Sam's cheek, and she moved with the touch just to see what he'll do. Her stomach curls up in a tight little ball of anticipation as he increases his pace and bows his head slightly, nostrils flaring.
He's finding my scent, the thought flashes in her head, irrational and illogical but there none the less. He's tracking me, he's locking in, and he's on his way. Nothing is going to stop him.
Oh god why hadn't any one ever told her that this could feel so damn good?
Charlie circles the base of the glass with his tongue, then laughs and picks it up between his lips, throwing back his head amid pants and growls.
She sees him come closer, and knows he won't be gentle, and likes it.
Charlie nips at the back, and Sam takes the hint, arching her bum up into the air. She's not the only one who wants to go home with someone tonight, and it wouldn't do to leave her friend stranded (yeah, right, she thinks to herself). The seeking tongue in the top of her panties makes her close her eyes and groan in dramatic ecstasy.
She never should have joined the Airforce, she thinks when she hears the telltale sound of a man zipping his pants down and then back up. She should have teamed up with Charlie and become a porn star. She remembers reading, somewhere, that they make a lot more money than she does, and that they usually don't have to wear form destroying BDU's. And that if they do, it's only until the naughty lieutenant comes in for his discipline session and decides that he would much rather be as the giving end than the receiving end.
When Charlie (finally) takes the lime in his mouth, he takes just the end bit between his teeth and slowly (oh God, Lee, hurry the fuck up. I have to get him on his back NOW!) draws it out into the air. The crease of Sam's ass is gently vacated of the citrus, and those around them are delighted at the display. She waits until the heat of her friend's mouth has completely left her body, and then dares to open her eyes.
And he's gone.
She feels a great rush of anger fill her at his absence. Not a feeling of loss or sadness, as all those cheesy romance novels she could never bring herself to finish described as what came when two lovers were separated. No, Samantha Carter is pissed, not sad.
She'd thought they had an agreement. An unspoken contract, a mutual understanding. She'd thought that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him, more perhaps. He always had in the past--hadn't he proven that to her time and time again every opportunity he had? Every instance where the doors of The Room were opened, and It peaked out to test the waters once more?
Suddenly, all she wants is for Charlie to get off her. She needs to go and find him, or at least find someone who looks enough like him, and fuck the issues out of them both until their bodies seize up and their eye balls roll back in their heads. She wants to get him back form leaving, and if that means climbing on top of somebody else and trying in vain for hours to relieve the burn between her pale ivory thighs, then so freaking be it.
Sam has no time for his dismissal. He had no right to deny her this, just as she would never dream of denying him. She had thought that they were above that, beyond that. That they both recognised how and with whom they would be passing the next day of downtime.
The anger in her vision is suddenly replaced by dark denim, and she finds herself on level with his bulging crotch. She cranes her neck upward to examine his face and finds it blank and unemotional. He does not look at her--he is too focused on everyone else, on her other possible mates. She wants to tell him he's being silly, that she had already chosen whom she is going to go home with, but the steel in his stance makes her bite her lips to stay silent.
He has come to lay his claim to her.
Charlie looks up at him and scrutinises the one who has dared enter into their personal space. Their performance has barriers, and he believes they should be minded. He climbs off Sam's butt, and the two of them perch on the tiny table, blonde bookends. Her Mate's shoulders go back powerfully, and Charlie pushes his own back in response. He too is a man of actions not words, and is not about to be bullied into doing anything by the man with the angry hunger in his eyes.
"Sam," he asks in a loud and clear voice, though the music swallows most of it, "are we being bothered?" He throws his chin up in defiance as the protective nature kicks in. He doesn't want his friend to be pushed around either, and it touches Sam. She tries to remember why she lost touch with Charlie, and makes a new resolution to get close to him again.
Sam puts her hand on Charlie's arm to calm him. "No." She says, and the man relaxes, bowing to her superior skills.
Charlie can see the danger in Sam; the ferocity that lurks underneath her pain thickened skin. He knows of the darkness that has appeared in his friend over the last seven years, ever since she started at "the mountain" doing whatever her cover story claims she's doing.
This is a new Sam. This woman, who's his friend one minute and then isn't, has that look in her eyes of total concentration--of someone who's done things they're not at all proud of, so they're trying to focus in on something else to forget. Charlie suspects she's killed more than a few people since he last saw her.
This new Sam has the potential to frighten him a little bit with its intensity, but he has already resolved not to dwell on it.
The man in front of them matches his companion in the intensity category, and he hides the shiver that goes up his spine.
"I'll be taking her with me," her Mate informs all who care, and turns his hand palm up, as if requesting she be packaged and handed to him in a doggie bag. Sam blinks and feels her eyes grow even more lidded at the tone of promise in his words. The "You're going to get fucked stupid 5 times over, Blondie, and then we'll do it until I feel finished" prediction is dripping from every syllable that pops out of his mouth, and she loves it.
One of the nearby women gyrates her hips unconsciously with the sound of his voice, and Sam fights down the sudden territorial feeling that rises in her at the movement. She has the urge to gut everyone in viewing distance; bend over for her Mate, while screaming "MINE!" at every woman in the room who dares think they can challenge her for his attentions. Sharing is pointless. Competition is not to be tolerated.
"And you would be?" Charlie asks, not allowing the arousal that obviously melts off this man and into Sam to change his resolve to keep everyone safe.
He refuses to be baited. "She knows who I am," he says through tightly grit teeth. "Sam," he calls, and she shivers at the angry promise in his voice. She fears she's pushed him just a little bit too far for one night, and he can smell her fear.
She stands up to face Charlie and offers a reassuring smile, though her legs are shaking and her teeth are chattering together. "It's okay. I'll call you later. Is next Wednesday night good for you?"
"Yeah," Charlie smiles back, not meaning it. This man is still silently threatening him just a little bit too much for comfort. "Sure. It's fine. Call me tomorrow, okay?"
"She won't." He intones, and it's both a promise and a threat. She wonders how exactly he is going to manage to stop her, and that thought sends delicious images through her mind.
Does she really bend like that, she wonders, then resolves to try and find out before her downtime is over.
Sam smiles wider. "I'll be fine." They kiss once, to amuse the bystanders and ensure that Charlie has his choice, once Sam leaves, of any man or woman in their general vicinity. The crowd hoots, appreciating the display, and Sam hears another couple of zippers being shoved down.
His hand comes out and shoves Charlie's shoulder, pushing him away from Sam. He glares, as if Charlie's competition, and Sam hides her smile quickly.
"Right," he growls, "that's enough of that. Sam." Her name has now become an order, and she throws one last grin at her newly titled best friend, before falling into step beside him like she has so many times before.
They're halfway through the club when her favourite song comes on. "Could we stay? Please?" She purrs against his neck, though the last thing she wants to do is keep him away from her for any longer than absolutely necessary. "I promise I'll be good." She folds down the pleats on her bondage skirt and smiles when his eyes darken to an almost black tint.
"No." And that's the end of that. He puts his hand on the small of her back, and she knows he's about to shove her to regain momentum, but when he does, she's held back by something. Her spine jars uncomfortably.
Someone is pulling on her shoulder, and she feels the shock of a warm mouth nuzzling her neck. "Wanna dance?" The offender whispers huskily in her ear and she glances over at him. On any other night, she would have said yes. He is unbelievably attractive and just drunk enough to fall asleep when she's done and let her slip out the front door, quietly making her way back to her own bed. On any other night, she would have done him up against yonder wall, her skirt pushed up, his fly unzipped, and howled her release when it came--and she would ensure it came. On any other night, he would be her choice.
Only this isn't any other night. And she's with her Mate.
His hand is a blur as it moves, but she already knows what the move will be. He's been trying to teach her some of the darker stuff for about a year, and he's pleased with her progression, but has recently been having second thoughts as to whether or not he should actually be exposing her to this part of his past life. She is above him in his eyes, and she has a feeling that she always will be.
Note to self: work on that.
Her would be woo-er is dispatched with ease--nursing a (probably) broken nose he runs in the other direction and calls for another beer. Her Mate is losing what little patience he has left.
They get outside and he takes her arm roughly in his hand, pulling her over to his truck (gas guzzling monster, she thinks to herself) and shoving her against the door. His face looms in front of hers and his temper sets its sights on her this time.
"What the fuck were you doing in there?" he hisses. She has seen him like this before, and the end result has never been good. She hastens to try and alter the passion in his voice back to lust, not anger.
"Trying to get laid." She draws out the "laid" and his face flushes bright red. She might have just asked him to take her up against a table for all the real anger he has left in him now.
"You were... making a display of yourself. Conduct unbecoming, M-"
"What happened to Sam?" She challenges, suddenly angry herself. The Airforce has no place in their lives tonight, and she would have thought he'd know that. Pathetically dense, she labels him, and wonders for the millionth time why she loves him all the same.
"That's a very good question. What did happen to you? Are you trying to get yourself hurt?"
"Fucked, actually, as I've already stated. But if it hurts a bit, well," she smiles to herself, "I suppose that's a risk I'll just have to take."
And suddenly her hands are in his back pockets, she's sitting on the hood of his Chevy, and that mouth, that hot succubi mouth of hers is on his, and damn it's good and damn he's lost.
He wonders why he didn't do this years earlier. Why he didn't just show up at her house that night after Martouf was covered in the cloth of the dead and demand she stop hiding, stop mourning, stop trying to keep them both from what they so rightly deserve.
All the missed opportunities are starting to flash through his head. The loop--why didn't he tell her? The mutation--why didn't he hold her? The 112 Tuesday night before now--why didn't he go to her?
She's reaching him, and he hates it.
And with that thought, his conscience starts to return. Slowly, but surely, his hard won military mind starts to beat back the thing he was earlier tonight, the thing that wanted to take Samantha home, bend her over the nearest level object, and fuck her until every thought of fucking that other blond man vanished from her head. He loses those thoughts (and oh those thoughts were so good) no mater how hard he tries to hold onto them. Her mouth can only hold his thirty plus year career at bay for so long.
He shoves her away from him and glares until she stops trying to return to her position in his embrace. Her eyes are dark and angry, and he hopes his are at least half as terrifying as hers appear to be.
"Major," he hisses, in his best "I am in change of you" voice.
She bares her teeth and snarls at him. "That's not fucking fair. You know I... We need this."
"Yeah, well, it sucks to be us then, doesn't it?"
(His first CO's voice echoing in his head. "Fraternization-" and God damn he made that word sound so dirty, "-between officers is strictly forbidden. It has negative effects, both on the team dynamic, and your working ability...")
"Leaving it in the room is bullshit," she continues. "We are never going to be able to get over this, y'here me? If we keep leaving it alone, it's only going to fester and rot and make things worse. "
"Well, we're just going to have to, aren't we? You feel like getting court-martialled tonight? Huh? Dishonorable Discharge?"
(Daniel's face in his head. Teal'c. Jonas. "...The team dynamic.")
"I need this tonight." She's still talking, even though now he knows he can't do this with her. He opens his mouth to cut off her arguments with a "Stand down" or a "Stop" or even a "You're out of line," when she delivers the line that makes it all impossible. "And if you won't give it to me, I'll go find someone else that will. Goodnight, Sir."
(Her eyes glazed panting and moaning in someone else's bed. Her in chest flushed berry red, clutched tight in someone else's arms. Her head thrown back and her hair tangled, bouncing on someone else's cock. )
His hand is moving before he can even come close to registering what he's doing, but one minute she's walking away and the next she's back up against his truck, only this time she's not the one in control.
When he'd first seen her inside the place he hadn't known she'd known existed, he'd wanted to take her home, sure, but only to hide her from the prying eyes of others. To keep her from being ashamed when she woke up tomorrow morning free of whatever mind-bending substance she had obviously been effected by. He'd seen his Major moving around in that club and he'd thought she'd taken leave of her senses.
And what attractive senses they are. Mm...
He's still just a little bit worried about her state of mind. She must have received a blow to the head or something. Major Carter never acts like this in front of her Commanding Officer.
But then, as she just so eloquently demonstrated for him, she is not Major Carter and he is not her Commanding Officer. She is Sam and he is...
He has never heard her say his name. Not once. Not ever. The thought is disturbing to that part of him that wants to take her home and get down on bended knee, begging for her eternal love and companionship.
That part is not one he's playing to tonight.
"I'm always trying to get you to call me Jack, aren't I, Samantha?"
She nods, her eyes focused on his jugular and her hands creeping slowly up his chest to play at wrapping around his neck. He allows it, knowing she's fast losing interest in hearing him talk. (He doubts she'd try and go back inside to find another now, but the thought is so painful that he doesn't dare risk it.)
"Don't forget who I am tonight, understand?."
"Shut up." Tired of waiting for him to take the first step, she pushes herself firmly up against him, wrapping her arms up around his shoulders and banging her mouth angrily against his.
Teeth. Tongue. Lips. Oh God, he thinks, I'm going to die. They're going to find me lying next to my truck with a shit eating grin and a boner.
She sniffs the air once and wrinkles her nose in between their embrace. She can smell his fear, and that thought alone pushes it away from his mind. He wants no doubt in her mind or anyone else's who is in control tonight.
He pulls her closer to him and backs her up against the door. If he's going to die, he's going to take her with him.
Jack has never really liked kissing--he's always felt awkward. It is hard trying to get his head to move right, to remember not to slobber, to keep his tongue from choking his partner when he inevitably wants more than she was willing to give and tries to devour her from the teeth on out.
Samantha Carter is opening her mouth to him, and he is fast rethinking that opinion.
She's hot and wet and angry and willing to take just as much as she gives seemingly without end. Her hands are up the back of his shirt and his are up the front of her skirt, and he reaches into her warmth to discover that her panties are really, really tiny and really, really porous, because he can feel her wetness dripping down his fingers just by rubbing past the area and oh Jesus he was going to make her come in about five hundred different ways tonight so help him God.
He grabs her by the front of the little mesh G-String (happy sigh on his part) and uses it as a leash of sorts. She is tethered to him by the friction he is causing against her clit, and the heat inside her is spilling ever further out onto him. He wants to own her and she wants to be owned. They wonder why they can't work this well together on base, but both dismiss Cheyenne from their thoughts soon enough.
She's nearly coming just from his carefully evasive touch, and one of her hands grabs him thick and hard and oh so good inside his pants. God damn it, she thinks, he's going to be just as hot as I am. They mutually masturbate for just a moment, before they have to pull their hands away to keep from screaming.
"Oh fuck me," he groans, because it's just that good.
Eventually, her butt starts to lose feeling from the cold of his truck, and he starts to lose patience with the fact that even this side of him won't fuck her in the parking lot. She pulls away from him and grabs his head in her hands, wrenching his ear around to her level.
"Take me home, Jack."
And with these words, Sam and Jack's Wednesday morning begins.
Sam comes back to herself (where did I go, she wonders, that I have--sober--forgotten a whole ten minutes?) in Jack's car, her legs spread wide and her fingers inside herself. He's glancing down at her every so often, and each time his jaw tightens just a little bit more, his face reddens just one more tint, and his pupils get darker and darker.
It's all too easy to drive him and her at the same time. Circle, dip, trace, thrust. Her nails drag painfully across the little bit of flesh he was so harsh with earlier, and they both groan. She crazy for this, and he's still fully dressed and in his own personal space.
She tries not to look at him much, because when she does, not only do her fingers jump, but she also feels a deep pang of regret as to why she didn't do this with him sooner, and has to ponder the origins of the clich of "Hindsight is twenty-twenty."
Circle, dip, trace, thrust.
"Keep doing that," he orders. She looks down at his hand, knuckles white around the gear shift, and sighs happily, slipping the g-string (which was, she thinks sullenly, contrary to everything Charlie promised, really damn uncomfortable) down her legs and holding it up on the end of one polished fingernail.
"You'll crash the car if I keep doing that," she points out, and waves them in the air for a moment.
His knee jerks and his hand comes off the gear shift to grab them before she can do anything so foolish as lose them. He mashes them to his nose for one weak moment, then wraps them around his wrist.
She looks up at him and knows that now she has the control, and she doesn't like it. He's the Alpha, thinks the part of her that was alive and well in the club. He is supposed to be the one who can make me do anything, not the other way around.
She takes her hand from between her thighs entirely to give him time to recover, then smiles and pushes her skirt down. "Take me home, Jack. Take me home and make me."
Her words reverberate inside his skull, along with the vastly important moments of "There are things about this place that I like", "You're resigning? What for?", and of course, his all time personal favourite: "I... I didn't want him to die. Not for me. I care for him... for what we have too much to let that happen."
The thoughts of why they can't do this try and come back, but only with varying success.
He looks down on her--taking in her flat stomach, her deep cleavage, and her long legs. And he feels a lump come up in his throat at the knowledge of what this night will mean.
"I'll ruin you," he whispers.
She sits up straighter and smoothes out her skirt. Wants to hump his leg so badly. If she pushed against that bone... "What are you talking about?"
"If we do this, I'll own you, and nothing will be able to change that." There's a car behind them honking, but they don't care or move. His hand is suddenly pressing into her drenched heat, two fingers taking control of her, and fuuuuuuuuuuuck.
He could break her just from this. She'd give up almost anything to keep him here, and worst of all he knows it, because he doesn't move. A sad little expression comes onto his face.
"God damn you, Jack! Move! Please!" He shakes his head.
"Trying to prove a point. Sit still and shut up." He's looking pained while she's just feeling it. How can he stay so still? Why can't he move just a little?
"I'll ruin you, Sam. I'll make you, and no one will be able make you better afterwards. I'll own this," and his two fingers shift just enough, one of them doing a "c'mere" and arching into her G-Spot. Too damn gooooood... "I'll have this, and no one will ever be able to get the same response out of you that I will. Not even your little blond headed fuck toy back in that bar."
It's a fear, not a promise, and the worry is etched into every corner of his face because he's not allowed to ruin her and he's not allowed to own any part of her, but especially not that one.
She feels the tension ebb back into him, but pushes it out quickly enough by climbing over the stick shift between them and pressing herself as close to him as she can with them both being clothed. He hides his face in her arm to regain his confidence and dominance, and she tries to keep her own hopelessness from seeping into him too.
He slowly becomes aware that the other car has gone around them, and that Sam is rubbing herself against his hip.
"I want the ruin, Jack," she whispers to him, as if afraid someone's listening. "I've been telling myself I don't for so long that the words just sort of lost their meaning." She sighs and fights back tears. It won't do to let him see that she has no hope of surviving without this. That's the kind of thing that will send him running back to his den without her. "I want you, and I want the ownership, and I want the ruin!"
He'd never dreamed he'd get anything that amazing out of her. The revelation knocks him flat on his ass, and he is stunned into silence.
"Unless," she adds, a playful hint coming back to her voice, "of course, if you don't want to ruin me?"
He growls. They both know all he's ever wanted to do is ruin her.
How they manage to get home (i.e. to the house he lives in for a grand total of about five weeks a year) is beyond him. But when he gets there, he somehow knows that Sam's sweet spot is the crease of her thigh and that her mouth will go slack and drooling against his shoulder if he tells her the various ways he can make her orgasm (in great detail, of course). His jean pocket now smells of Sam's innermost secrets and promises, and he never intends on washing this pair ever again.
She's out of the car and on him before he can close the door to his side, but he's far from complaining. There has never been and nor will there ever be a time when any situation where he gets to make contact with Samantha Carter will not be a welcomed one. He could never get tired of this woman, and that thought is a little bit frightening in its own right.
Her mouth is on him and her hands are digging into all those places that haven't been touched properly in too long. He can't bring himself to breathe when she's sucking at his throat like that. So good. Her teeth dance along his windpipe and he pushes himself into movement. There's a little bit too much threat in her foreplay.
Her back is against the truck before she knows what the hell is going on, and her top is around her waist before she can stop to take advantage of this new position. Dark eyes. Set jaw. Smirk. He looks her over and deems her worthy, and she equal parts hate and loves each moment.
The catholic guilt ingrained in this skirt comes for her. Neighbors, she thinks, and tries to block herself from view with her hands, but he will have none of it. He forces her to lie still with the simple action of turning her around to face the truck and catching her hands behind her back in one of his thick palms. She hisses at him.
"God damn you."
"Too late. Shut up and sit still." She remembers that Jack lives in the middle of no where, but that's of little comfort as his fingers probe underneath her skirt at the sticky wetness that has so taken over that even she can smell herself now.
He pushes her farther over the hood and holds her hands still by sheer will power. The skirt is inched up and tucked into the elastic of her top. His hands drift down her inner thighs.
"Do you have any idea how much I wanted to kill you when I saw you inside that club?" It's not a question. She can feel his breath on her ass now, and he's talking at her, not to her. She arches up, desperate for anything he'll give.
He purses his lips and blows a stream of cool air at her cunt. Moan. Groan. From who?
"I wanted to grab you and shake you until you got back some of that genius brain you're so famous for." He peers at her with all the focus she gives to everything in her lab. "Take you outside and slap some clothes onto you, then drive you home and lock you in your room." He parts her with his thumbs, and she starts gasping in little "ah," "ah," "ah" breaths. She feels dizzy and desperate, and puts her overheated face down on the cool metal of the car hood for a quick reprieve from his heat. "Wanted to push you down on that table and make you scream and beg and whine and make sure you knew exactly who this belonged to!"
She's spread almost to the point of pain now, and she knows, she knows that she's going to break soon and start to cry, and suddenly his face is just where she needs it to be and it's okay.
His stubble burns and pulls at her thighs and her heat. Teeth and tongue and fingers and nose and chin and holy shit she should have walked into his office from day one, sat down on his desk, and offered herself up as a sacrificial sex slave. He's taking each section of her and marking it with bites and sucks, and she wonders if she'll see his name down there tomorrow.
Tongue in her. Oh yeah. His chin bounces against her clit, sandwiched between his face and the hood of the car. She feels deliciously sexed, and her bottom arches up almost unwillingly. God, he must either really love or really hate her to do this.
She's dying. She's so alive.
The hand not holding her wrists together (like she's going somewhere) comes down to keep her open. A thumb dips against her asshole and she groans. Was that a threat or a promise or a mistake? Jack nips at her a little bit more firmly, and she knows that nothing this man will do to her tonight will be a mistake.
His five AM shadow scrapes at her clit once more. Should have begged him for this pleasure seven years ago and saved herself a lot of pathetic one night stan... "Fuck!"
Her nails dig into the car hood and her back curves spastically. Her little death has come for her at last, and she feels it pour from her as he rubs his face against her violently. Finesse is no longer required.
Oh Jesus, don't ever stop, she prays.
He is shouting inside her, words of approval and happiness spilling into her as she convulses around him. Her body is shaking with effort and her chest is flushed deep red.
He's just made Samantha Carter come.
He wants that to be put on his tombstone.
She throws herself around to face him and narrows her eyes. "I did not want to do that on top of your car, Jack." There's no real anger in her face. After all, he just replaced the one drunken night she dabbled in the D/s circuit as the best sexual experience of her third decade.
Coming to the fourth one soon. Damn.
He bares his teeth in a grin. "Yeah? So? Therefore?" His fingers are still toying with the places that make her eyes roll back in her head at an alarming rate. His thumb and pointed finger come together to pinch her nipple with all the gentleness of a Mack truck, and she winces as the touch sends new spasms through her. It is so not fair that he can play her like this.
His mouth is going slack once more. And a focused Jack is a good Jack, because focused Jack seems to want to make her orgasm in as many ways as possible.
This could be a massive turning point in their relationship. She really wants to have it happen in a bed.
"Inside." It's an order, but it comes out more like a plea. He looks her over, looks down at his watch, and nods.
They stumble inside, her moving mostly with his help. Her heels are slipping into the soft dirt but he makes no move to ask her to take them off. He's dreamt of Samantha Carter in runway heels for almost four years now. He wants to feel them digging into his back when he gets her out of her pretty little head.
He really hopes Sam didn't suddenly become a mind reader and hear him call her the owner of a pretty little head. He values his life and his dick too much.
She's in first, and then he's hot and hard behind her, kicking the door closed and digging his teeth into her neck. "Here."
"Bed," she whimpers. He's really too good at all of this for her own good.
"No," he grumbles. "Here. Now. When I put you in my bed you're not leaving." She feels her chest contract painfully even as he makes her skin tingle. She'll be gone in the morning. She'll have to be.
Suddenly she doesn't want to see his bed. She couldn't deal with that feeling of cheapness that would undoubtedly come when she gathered up her clothes the next morning and tried not to feel the shadow of his lips on her thighs. When he wraps her in those sheets she doesn't intend on getting up for anything in the world.
His tongue is on her neck. Calming. Stroking. It'll happen, Sam his body promises her as he tastes her neck. Someday, it'll happen. His teeth catch her throat and she feels him steal her air. Breathe, she reminds herself. Breathe!
She offers a watery smile that she doesn't feel, then sets her hands on unbuckling his belt and getting those pants off him.
He's heavy in her hand. Hot and thick and solid. She wraps her fingers around him and gives a practice stroke to get the size of him down. Not the biggest she's ever had, but definitely the thickest and the most powerful.
Always the articulate one, she thinks to herself snidely, then dips her tongue into his urethra once more. He tastes dark and thick in her mouth, slightly bitter but satisfying overall. His fingers twist tangled curls into her hair and she wonders if the sparkles have worn out.
She swallows him down and wishes away all the thoughts of reality that have suddenly come to claim them both. He's here now, she's here now, and this is here and real for the time being.
His eyes roll back this time and he feels her drag her teeth along his length. So damn good. Was she made for this? For saving the world, watching his six, and making his mind melt away?
His skin is electric with the feeling of her and his throat is tight around his declarations of love and devotion. She wouldn't accept them now. He can't allow himself to give them right now either.
Her mouth is getting tighter and tighter--no, he's just swelling up under her tongue and teeth. He knows that if he lets her put an end to this right now, the night will be over. His time with her will be over, and he'll be left to start mellowing in the memories of these hours.
He wants those memories to include just one more thing.
He pushes at her shoulders a little bit too forcefully, and she teeters on her heels before falling flat on her ass, legs spread and lips set in a happy smile. He shoves his pants and boxers down all the way in one swoop, kicks off his shoes, and is gloriously nude in front of her. She takes him in for a long moment, then smiles for real this time.
He's on his knees in front of her just as soon as she forms the words, her legs on either side of his hips, his hands on either side of her waist. His mouth finds hers one last time, giving her the moment or two he feels obligated to give in which she can back out or kick him or run for cover somewhere. Not that she would. Not that she can even move her legs right now.
She can taste the salt on his lips from where the nervous sweat has dripped into his mouth. She licks it away and pulls at his hips. So ready. Been ready for a damn long time.
And so has he.
"Jack," pant, "Jack," moan, "Jackjackjackjackjackjack..." And suddenly she can't say anything but that forbidden word. That single syllable that she is never allowed to utter to anyone during every other moment in her life. She is drunk on it, she is caught in it; it owns her tongue and it won't seem to let go.
His hips don't stop. Her eyes don't close. They can't break eye contact; are desperate to keep as many pieces of themselves attached in an attempt to reassure each other that this is indeed real. That they are indeed here. That they're not going to turn to dust and ashes at any spare second.
Hot. Thick. So incredibly good. He pulls her up so she's straddling his lap, her legs (oh god those legs) wrapped around his waist, her fingers tangling in his hair. He keeps one hand on the small of her back, burning his palm into her and claiming that one last bit of flesh as his own. This can't go on forever. It'll kill them if they try to make it.
She's a second skin around him--sticky and warm and tight. She's gushing down onto his thighs, and when she slaps back down on him it makes a violently satisfying noise. He tries to take in every detail of what they're doing, knowing he'll miss the littlest thing later on and hate himself for not paying closer attention.
Her mouth is open. Tongue peeking out at him in an erotic game of hide and seek. Her legs are spread wide, the carpet making little indents on her knees as she rocks on top of him in search of that perfect spot. Her whole body is covered in liquids of one kind or another. His saliva on her breasts and neck. Sweat on her face. Her juices down her own thighs and legs.
She's beautiful, and wild, and oh so goddamned his and it hurts and pleases at the same time. How can this be wrong? How can it be wrong of him to make her come and make her moan and make her scream--wait a second, haven't done that last one yet, his brain thinks.
And Jack is given a new goal for the rest of the night: making Samantha Carter into a screamer.
Her eyes flash as he tilts them in the other direction, so she's lying on top of him and he's flat on his back. She settles down on him for a second to regain her bearings, but he won't allow it, and thrusts up into her before she knows what's happening.
He's deeper now, so deep she can feel him at the entrance to her womb, prodding and poking and hurting but in a good way. She claws at his shoulders and feels herself start to burn again.
He sees her jaw go slack and does that move again, a nice little twist of his hips as he thrusts upwards, and is rewarded by her upper body falling forward, mouth locking onto his neck and whimpering. None of that, he thinks to himself, and shakes her free.
"No hiding that voice..." he groans. "Gimme a scream and maybe... we'll call it... even for you wearing that skirt out in public." She shivers--if she had more breath it would be a giggle--and he feels it tense her even more. He wonders if making her laugh always has this effect on her, and resolves to do it more often. The idea that he can make Sam's body quiver is just too tempting to resist.
Thrust. Twist. Drag.
"I wanna... I wanna... Jack..." He grunts. Knows what she wants. Knows how to give it to her. Needs to give it to her.
His fingers come down to savagely rub her clit between his fingers. His hips thrust up and twist and thrash in her heat. His teeth mark her neck.
And Samantha Carter shatters, for the second time this evening, screaming her head off.
He doesn't waste a moment, grabbing her by the waist and flipping them back over while she's still howling, slamming back into her, and planting his hands against the floor. His skin is overly tight and overly hot, and if he doesn't come right now, he is just going to liquefy into the carpet.
He pulls her legs further up his back while she flutters, still out of her head, and bends her as far as she can go. His hips are starting to ache with the repetitive motion, but he can't bring himself to care. She's still shaking around him, whimpering and moaning, and pleading in something that is not entirely pleasure. Too much. Not enough. Ow, ow, ow!
He's over worked her, and now her body is revolting against her. The gasps for pleasure are becoming sobs, and the cries of delight are now more yelps as his hips push him even deeper into her. She can't breath. Can't think. Needs to get away from this. Too much. Not enough. Ow, ow ow...
His head is swimming and his heartbeat makes his whole body throb. Have to finish. Have to finish. Have to finis-
"Oh fuck..." His mind turns to white and shapes stop mattering. He is no where. He is everywhere. He is high on her once again.
He thinks the sun might have just gone super nova.
Sam gasps for breath underneath him, her head rolling back as she whimpers and whines--she's been over stimulated by the whole experience, and still can't quite bring herself to get enough air to say anything. He's flowing out from between their bodies, hot and slick against her thighs and butt.
He lifts his head out of her shoulder, jaw set and eyes dark. She looks up at him and feels her stomach start to curl in dreaded anticipation. Will she have to leave now? Will he have to reclaim his position as her CO so soon after?
Why is this happening?
But he doesn't say anything. And he doesn't move away from her. And the part of him that she's seen tonight remains in the air.
Jack rolls onto his back, tugs her with him, and wraps her in the embrace of a departing lover. She feels the tears against her throat, but doesn't allow them to come up into her eyes. She knew what she was signing on for when she put herself in his hands tonight. She knew what she was signing on for when she put herself on his team seven years ago.
She doesn't feel regret. But she wishes she could.
They stay that way until morning, locked together, fully awake, and quiet.
She gets dressed in the extra set of BDU's that she keeps here, right next to the ones Daniel and Teal'c have here (and she thinks she sees a set that might fit Jonas, but she doesn't dare ask about them). He watches from the doorway as she dons the persona of Major, and when she turns to meet his eyes, he is once again a Colonel, even if he is nude from the waist up.
She walks up to him, looks up into his face, and finds the last hint of her lover clinging to his cheek. She kisses the unshaven spot and smiles a soft little smile.
He nods. "Until then. Goodbye, Samantha."
She leaves in a taxi. He watches her go from the front steps, but neither one of them wave as she pulls away.
He'll see Major Carter again in a few hours. God only knows when he'll see Samantha again, though.
He touches the rough patch on his cheek where she left her promise, and feels a little bit of hope.
Until then, Samantha, he thinks, and goes inside to get dressed for work.