Sex and Chocolate
by B. Cavis

Category: Adult, Drama, Humor, PWP
Episode(s): 606 Abyss
Season: Season 6
Pairing(s): Jack/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Content: adult themes/mature scenes, graphic sex, sex, sexual situations

Sex and Chocolate
by. B. Cavis

Monday's were laundry days. Monday's generally sucked.

Not that he had anything against doing laundry, mind you: it was very good to clean one's clothes ever now and then so one did not end up looking like a hobo. Hobo's faced many problems in this world, but one of the most pressing was that fact that when one was a hobo, one did not have Samantha Carter riding one's cock on a regular basis. She preferred her men not to smell or have holes in their t-shirts. And as Jack preferred to remain Sam's man, he bathed and cleaned and spritzed and all those other little things that left to his own devices he would have done eventually, just a week or so after he did now.

So, yeah, Monday's had their advantages, because having a Monday meant that you were getting a very nice wake up call on Tuesday. Jack liked Sam's wake up calls. She had a tendency to greet him with something much more relaxing than a hot shower and a heck of a lot more... invigorating than a cuppa.

But Monday's usually meant that his... Sam was busy with fabric softener and not him. The smell of the stuff gave her a head ache and made her cranky, and since it was pretty impossible to stay mad at something with a teddy bear on the label, she'd take her frustrations out on him. Hence why he got a very nice wake up call on Tuesday instead of a very nice good night on Monday.

But today was Monday. And as such, he should have expected her to get pissy about something unimportant. This week's topic: titles.

"I said I'm FINE," Sam screeched, slammed the bedroom door in his face, and locked it furiously behind her. He could hear her cursing at him, his mother, and every piece of anatomy that was unfortunate enough to be on his body at the moment. Something that sounded expensive was destroyed with the same zest, while he stood staring at the closed door and grinding his teeth.

Stupid, stubborn, annoyingly platinum witch of a woman. She was wearing the enamel off his teeth as well as his ego. His dentist and his shrink were so not going to like this.

Say something back, say something back- "I DIDN'T ASK!" He yelled, his face bright red and his heart rate increasing by the second as he stared at the dark mahogany wood. His left eye had started twitching and his fists were clenched so tightly that little crescents had appeared on his palms.

Oh yeah, remarked the snide little voice inside his head that being around Sam for extended periods of time seemed to awaken. Really mature. Why didn't you just yell "nu-uh times infinity plus one" as loud as possible?

This was why Jack O'Neill hated Mondays.

And Samantha Carter-- he hated her too. Every little annoying part of her. Everything about her was just so stupid, and irritating, and annoying, an-and stupid!

Workaholic blonde bitch.

"See if I ever eat you out again," he grumbled under his breath, already thinking up creative ways to get her back for being such a thorn in his side. He could fill her canteen with sand. Put rocks in her boots. Replace her toothpaste with caulk.

Bwah ha ha! He put his little pinky up to the corner of his mouth experimentally and decided he liked the way it felt. Now all he needed was the moustache to twirl around his fingers and he could tie her to the railroad tracks without a problem.

Mm....Carter tied up...

Jack forcefully reminded himself that he was furious with her, that he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until those overly large blue eyes popped out of her over filled blonde head.

He glared at the door once more, then turned his back on her and her room and flopped down on the couch with a disgruntled sigh.

Maybe he should apoligi...

From inside Sam's room, the sounds of "Cell Block Tango" blasted defiantly at him, threatening his life with Catherine Zeta Jones, and his apology went the way of the dinosaurs.

Huh. He'd never suspected that he was going to be killed by an actress. He'd had his money on General Hammond. Or Simmons. It was always the quiet ones that snapped and decided to come after the unsuspecting, hard working, delightfully quirky Colonel who just wanted to get along with everyone.


In retaliation, he turned her TV on and flipped to the Playboy channel (Since when did Sam get the Playboy channel? Kinky.) and turned up the volume on a moaning threesome of brunettes.

What had started this, again?

Oh yeah. Him referring to her as his lover while she put a dryer sheet in with the darks. The same dryer sheet that was now clinging to his left thigh. He picked it off and stared at it accusingly.

"This is all your fault, you stupid Bounce sheet."

Someone should have seriously told him. I mean, come on, he grumbled to himself. I am not psychic and I'm not Daniel and I am not Jonas. I have absolutely NO idea what the hell she is thinking half the time, and the other half it doesn't make sense to me.

He really wanted a beer, but Janet had already told him he couldn't mix it with whatever pain medication she had prescribed for the aches and pains his bones had received on their latest mission to Hell In a Hand basket; a location that was surprisingly lovely this time of year. The fresh screams of the damned filling the air, the sweet smell of sulfur, the hellfire all in bloom...

He was so blaming this on the pain medication if it came right down to it. And Daniel. Cuz it was fun to blame stuff on Daniel and also because Daniel SHOULD have told him that Sam apparently did not like being referred to as a lover. Daniel SHOULD have told him that if he referred to Samantha Carter as his lover, she would pointedly remark that no BOYFRIEND of hers was going to be giving out intimate details of her sex life. Daniel SHOULD have told him that referring to Samantha Carter as his lover would lead to the end of the aforementioned sex life, right at the point where he was getting a feel of her limits and her hidden little perversions.

If Jack had to go back to being not sexed up on a regular basis, he was going to kick Daniel's glowy behind but good. Beware, he mentally communicated to the ascended geek, if those condoms don't start disappearing again, your ass is mine.

"Grr," he announced to the air, and the music turned up a notch.

This was so not worth it. The only good thing about being in a fight was the make-up sex, in which all the stops were pulled out to reassure the other person that they truly did care, and knowing Sam he wouldn't even get that. He should just go apologize right now, take the days of Celibacy Punishment like a man. It wouldn't take too long for her to get over it; Sam's sex drive had been a pleasant surprise when they'd started this. He had little doubt she'd cave quickly once her vibrator got boring and her battery costs conflicted with her paycheck size.

Going in and apologizing would be the responsible thing to do.

The song got louder. Someone was threatening to kill him if he chewed, no not chewed, POPPED his gum.

Well fuck responsible. And fuck Samantha Carter.

Sam had referred to him as her 'boyfriend.' And Jack had never been anyone's BOYFRIEND. And he wasn't about to start now.

That's why I'm angry at her, he reminded himself. Don't forget it; I need to keep that in mind. Jack knew from personal experience that if he didn't keep his mind firmly set on the culprit and the offense in question, he'd feel so bad about it within an hour that he'd crawl on his knees and beg and preform cunnilingus for forgiveness. And as that would never do, he resolved himself to the fact that he was going to have to make her beg first.

Which could totally be done. He just wasn't sure quite how yet.


What had started as a misunderstanding had quickly grown to a full out, knock down, drag out fight between them. She'd thrown something at his head, he'd ducked and tossed it back at her, and she'd called him an impotent old man and slammed the door in his face, while he tried to formulate a reply involving as many dirty words and as many low blows as possible. He was sort of annoyed he'd never gotten them out, actually. It was a major let down to think up all these nasty comebacks and then never get to use them.

And suddenly it hit him how he was going to get her back.

Sam's period was starting in two days. He knew this, because she'd been doubling up on the sex for the past week to make up for the week she'd be unable to get up close and personal with Mr. Happy.

Something life with Sara and his previous lovers and now Sam had taught him was that women, at least all the ones he'd ever known in the biblical sense of the word, got really horny a few days before they started bleeding. Extremely horny. As in willing to cook for him in order to get some horny.

He was going to make Sam pay. And then he was going to make the condom stash deplete. And it was going to be good.

His stomach started rumbling. Foooooooooooooood.

Sam apparently had Cell Block Tango on repeat, so he kept the TV on the Playboy channel until she decided to give it up, and went into the kitchen for a snack. She'd made a cake this morning; something special for the girls' night in she and Janet and some of the other base ladies were planning for Wednesday. He hacked a piece of it off defiantly and shoved it in his mouth, chewing as loudly as possible in her direction. Sam turned up the volume on her CD player and he grinned to himself.

After demolishing half of the cake and licking his fingers in satisfaction, Jack walked back into the living room and sunk back into the welcoming pillows of the couch. Sam had apparently given up on trying to block him out with six chicks in fishnets, but he left the porno on anyhow. Never hurt to rub something in Samantha Carter's face.

The couch was looking pretty comfortable right now. Of course, there were several spare bedrooms in the house, something Sam had made sure of before buying it. Apparently she'd wanted to make sure she could always cater to the needs of all three male members of her team in case of emotional crisises. He briefly contemplated going to the room she'd specifically set out for him, with a telescope in the window, but denied himself the pleasure. That would be letting her win, his inner Patton told him, and winners never let the other side win.

He suddenly felt very patriotic. Honestly, he was seeing stars and stripes.

He flipped to the news to hear about the latest Iraqi battle. Everyone around them was getting reassigned, but the SGC had so far been immune from the drafting. He had a feeling some high ranking official had erased all their names from some very important data base, just in case they decided to flush Colorado Springs for as many airmen as possible. Probably as a favor to Hammond or one of their alien friends. Maybe the Asgard-- they had certainly made an impact at the conference of national leaders. Never underestimate the motivational power of a Roswell gray. Jack was planning on asking them to make a cameo appearance to the President whenever he got up enough nerve, love, and/or stupidity to ask Sam to marry him.

The news was becoming depressing, so Jack flipped to an old movie and turned down the volume. One of the leading ladies, a blond with killer legs, picked up a gun and shot a shady looking fellow in a uniform.

Jack gulped and turned off the television.

His conscience was nagging at him. Mama O'Neill had always told her children that they should never go to bed angry-- that it was very bad for their souls. He'd always taken that advice to heart, all through his marriage with Sara, and he had a feeling it was what had kept them together as long as they were.

Sam was, however, most decidedly still angry at him. Hugely. As in willing to dissect his live body for the raw materials and organs, place him in a tub of ice, and put figure skating on the TV in front of him before throwing out the remote. Really angry with him. He was actually sort of worried she'd try and get revenge before the night was through.

Sara had been a wonderful woman because of who she'd been to him. He'd been at a point in his life where he didn't need someone to question him. He didn't need someone offering opposing arguments. He didn't need a woman who'd throw tantrums or vases. He'd needed someone calm and understanding, someone to come home to at the end of the day for comfort, a hug, and some reassurance.

Sam was many things. Calm and understanding did not top that list.

But the bags under his eyes won out in the end, as they always did. Fluffing up the bleach stained throw pillow (a desperate attempt by Sam to hide the fact that they'd sort of spilled on it), he shoved it underneath his head and closed his eyes firmly. Tomorrow, he promised himself, settling in with a yawn. Tomorrow he'd fix it.

"You're one fucking bastard, you know that?"

Jack blinked as the light came on, feeling his head swim. Sam was sitting on the coffee table, her legs crossed and her arms latched over her chest angrily. He tried to remember what he'd done... then licked his lips as the chocolate that lingered in the corners of his mouth reminded him.

"I know. And you're the biggest bitch this side of the Mississippi, Sammiegal." She snorted and rose, using her height difference to try and be intimidating. He rose as well, refusing to let her have the easy way out.

"You ate my cake."


"That cake was not, I repeat, was NOT for you, Jack." She was spitting his name out like it burned her tongue. He hoped it wasn't a bad sign that he was finding her more and more attractive as the seconds ticked by. There was just something about an angry astrophysicist that was just so fuckable.

Oh yeah. He was gonna crash and burn.

"It was goooooooood," he grinned at her, smacking his lips loudly and sucking on one finger, as if trying to get every last trace of icing off it. "You make a good cake, Sammiegal."

"I hate you."

"I know you do."

"Get out of my house." Huh. He'd sort of hoped she'd been getting just as horny as he was. Oh well. Maybe she needed a little more time.

"No." He punctuated the word by stepping closer to her, invading her personal space. Her legs twitched as she fought the instinctual response to run, and instead chose to hold her ground. He mentally applauded her. Thatagirl, Sammie. Don't let me win. Fight me for this. And we'll see if we can't double your pleasure, double your fun...

His hips brushed against hers, and she pushed her own forward in response. He brought a thick hand around to grab her ass, pulling her towards him with little effort. She glared up at him even as she rubbed herself against his fast inflating erection.

Oh yeah. This had possibilities. He slid the hand cupping her ass further down to slip between her jean clad thighs. One finger flicked up to where her legs met, parting the cloth covered her nether lips with a thumb and pressing the denim up into her. Sam's head fell back, but she refused to lose eye contact, defiantly staring him down. He brought his other hand down to squeeze the first nipple he saw that wasn't his.

Wow. He hadn't known Sam could turn orange. "Get. Out."

Making one word sentences. Was there no depths to where this woman wouldn't sink? Well two could play at that game. "No. Thanks."

And Samantha Carter literally threw him to the ground and attacked him.

Those Level 3 Advanced skills came in handy in situations like this. He had, unfortunately, been absent for the lesson on how to remove two pairs of pants with one hand while sitting on your victim's thighs and cursing his ancestry. Good thing Sam was such an attentive listener. Probably took well organized notes and everything. Made multicolored flash cards.

There was no kissing. Somehow they had come to that decision together. This was about anger and lust and passion (three things that were very closely tied) and not about the growing affection and love that had developed between them over the past few months.

This was fucking in the purest sense of the word. Not making love.

Sam had either been growing her fingernails or her talons had come out to play, because his shirt front had certainly seen better days after she ran her hand down the buttons. Half of them popped, the other half came undone, and his chest was bared. She ran her sharp hand over the area where his heartbeat originated from. Licked her lips.

Okay, that was enough of that. He didn't really fancy her reaching into his chest and reenacting Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, no matter how cool Harrison Ford was. He grabbed a thigh in each hand and threw her onto her back, grinding a boxer clad cock against the silk of her panties and forcing her out of the bra with a disgruntled huff (stupid piece of complicated crap).

Her legs had wrapped around him. To get her panties off would require him moving her from her position around his body, something Jack was loathe to do. He weighed his options for a second while making sure to grind into her every time it sounded like she might be catching her breath.

Inspiration struck. He had a feeling someone, namely Daniel, had held a light bulb over his head, out of fear that his shoe-toss throughable butt would be kicked severely if he didn't.

Jack shoved his boxers down, leaving Sam's probing feet to push them down the rest of the way. A sparkle painted toenail gorged into his back in anger, and Jack brought his hand down hard on her cunt in retaliation, grinning at her as the groan worked its way free of her throat.

"Sammiegal, behave yourself and you might just get a reward."

He had no doubt. In that moment, if she could have eaten his face off and still gotten her lovin', she would have. Pulled a Praying Mantis on him and bitten his head off for protein. Made him feel pretty darn special, too. And smug. Don't forget smug.

He pushed the crotch of her panties to one side, leaving the part he was interested in bared while the fabric created an interesting amount of friction everywhere else it touched her. Her back arched and her eyes sunk down to half mast. "Jack," she warned, "if you don't hurry up and fuck me, I swear to Christ I am going to pull a Mrs. Bobbit on you, and you'll wake up with a much lighter load, you got me?"

"Don't fucking threaten me," he growled out, and added just for good measure, "bitch."

"Shut up old man. Whasamatter? Can't get it up for me? If you're not able to perform, Jack, I could always just go find someone else to help me get my ya-ya's out." He shoved two fingers into her.

"Oh yeah? Like who? Name me one person who would put up with your BULLSHIT," he thrust a third finger into her to underscore the point, "long enough to get into your pants? Huh? Riddle me that, Blondie."

The pad of his thumb was becoming very well acquainted with her clit. She shifted to increase the contact, and he took it away entirely in punishment. "Jonas," she ground out, raising one hand to grip his balls firmly in warning. "I'd go fuck Jonas."

Well. That was more than a little "grr" inspiring.

Jack had to get back at her for that. Had to. So he waited until he could feel her innermost walls start to flutter around his fingers, until her liquid had spilled out over his hand and covered his inner thighs with a clear, gooey telltale substance that made little strings of elastic Sam juice when he spread his fingers apart. He waited until her head started thrashing on the carpet and her eyes were just starting to close.... to pull his hand away entirely, removing the pleasure and delaying the upcoming orgasm.

Sam's head shot up off the ground, her eyes ablaze, her face red. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He rose, wiping his hands on the discarded boxers that had somehow ended up on the coffee table. "What you asked me too, Sam, leaving."

"Get back here."

He pouted. "You can't make up your mind, can you? You just order me around like I'm some sort of pleasure slave made to suck your pussy all day long and never eat any chocolate cake." He waved a finger at her, feeling deliciously happy and naughty. "You can't treat me like this, Sam. I'm your BOYFRIEND."

God he had to do this more often...

Sam pushed herself up off the ground on shaky knees, her eyes low lit and determined. He forced down the urge to gulp or quiver in terror. He'd seen Samantha Carter pissed off before. The last time it had happened, they'd been going through withdrawal, and she'd verbally castrated both him and their relationship. He had a feeling she was going to try it physically this time.

Jack had been hoping to hold onto his balls for a little while longer. They were such good balls to him, so well trained and worn. Man's best friend, only they didn't slobber all over your face and had a bit less hair.

"Jack," she began, taking a deep breath to calm her shaking chest. "I am going to push you up against the wall in about five seconds, and I am going to fuck you like I own you, for as long and hard as possible." She drew out each word with a little sigh. "And you can either go along with it, or you can sit still and enjoy the show, but either way I am going to ride something tonight, and it is going to be you."

This was turning out rather well, all things considered. Now all he had to do was get that image of her fucking Jonas Quinn out of his head.


The living room wall was looking pretty comfy, actually. He was really hoping she'd done it in wipe down-able paint. Jack grinned to himself, feeling the pride bubble up inside his chest. They were going to christen Sam's wall. Cool.

"One." Sam grumbled in warning, and he bit down on his laughter. She was counting to three! How... reminiscent of his mother. Okay, that had to stop too.

So gathering up the strings of his libido, Jack took himself in one hand and Sam in the other, pressed her back up against the nearest wall, and pushed himself slowly into her with a low guttural (he'd never understood that word before; he did now) groan. Her head lashed back and ran into solid matter, and he winced for her but she didn't seem to notice the pain. Her eyes opened and locked onto his, the love in them quickly blinked away as she reminded herself she was mad at him, and would therefore not allow him to enjoy that particular expression on her face for at least another day or two. He didn't mind awfully. Seeing that look on her face made him want to either break down weeping, or kiss the crap out of her.

And this, he reflected as his hips gave a tentative jab forward, was a much better way to pass the time.

Oh. Yeaaaaaaaaaaah...

Her claws came around to tear at his back and he slapped at them irritably. "Cut it the fuck out." Ughhhh... Since when had this felt so mind blowingly, brain cell killing, single syllable words good?

"No!" She threw her hips forward, as if this simple word made it all the more hot to be fucking up against her living room wall. Jack was pretty sure if it got any hotter his head would explode and his sperm would burn a hole through his balls and the freshly carpeted floor.

Come to think of it, though, that would be pretty interesting. So he pulled her even closer and pushed her full of himself with even more vigor. Sam panted her appreciation of the move. One carefully shaved leg came up to curl around his buttocks, her big toe nail digging into the skin above his butt, right at the base of his spine. It hurt just enough to center him on the task at hand. This was no time to be a quick wham bam thank you ma'am type of guy. He had a goal: the complete and utter position of power over his 2IC, and the ability to make her beg.

He wasn't asking for much. He just wanted to hear her say "Oh Jack, you big stud! Kiss me, please--I'm your forever. And your penis is SO big!"

Hey. It could happen.

Sam was moaning. Distantly, he recognized the fact that he was pounding into her just a little bit too hard, with just a little bit too much push and not quite enough pull, but he was beyond caring right now. Sam was moaning; melting around him with each tug his pelvis gave on hers, and the hands grabbing at his back were getting just a little bit more forceful, more desperate as the seconds ticked by. He was in sex god heaven. And all the concubines were blondes with blue eyes and legs from here to infinity plus one.

There was a tightly strung sensation in his stomach, like he was just a few moments away from snapping a vital ligament or tendon. He would hate to explain that to Doc.

"Yeah well, you see, we were having incredible hatred sex up against Sam's living room wall, and I, uh, sort of, um, you know, just a little bit too hard and she sort of got a little bit too into it, and well, that's how come I got a hernia right now."

"Colonel, I'm very disappointed in you."

"Yeah, but check out my pretty teeth." Big smile.

"Ooh, you're right. They are nice. Here, have a lollipop and some Jello."*

Mmm. Jello...

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaack," whined the woman he had apparently stopped thrusting into. "Come on..."

Ah. This had definite possibilities. "What do we say when we want something?"

"Gimme now or I'll eat your face?" He drew back an inch, and she dug her nails into his back.

"What do we say?" He prompted.

"Pretty please," she spat at him, moving her own hips to encourage movement. "With sugar and everything."

He nodded his approval and pushed the inch back in. "And what do we say when we've been very mean to everyone's favorite Colonel about some piece of bull shit that is very much unimportant?"

Oh yeah. She was gonna kill him. After, of course, she cut his dick off and fed it to the neighborhood dogs.

"WE SAY IF YOU DON'T FINISH THIS RIGHT NOW I'M GOING TO GO FUCK JONAS!" Now that was passion! Her chest heaving, her nipples erect and berry red, her face pink cheeked and fiery. Jack decided he rather liked the Passionate Samantha Carter; in fact he would have wanted to keep her around for a while, but more importantly, he realized, he had to be alive to enjoy the Passionate Samantha Carter's emotional outbursts.

Her head hit the wall when he started moving again. She was making little desperate grunts when ever he thrust up into her and it was the coolest sound in the Universe. Sweat beaded on the area between her breasts and made her skin tacky to the touch. He sped things up a bit, feeling more than a little rank himself; the sudden urge to shower coming over him. But he very much doubted Sam would appreciate him leaving, so he stayed where he was and at the task at hand.

In, out, in out, in, out. She met his rhythm with adrenaline powered thrusts, her hair spiky from sweat and exhilaration. He could only imagine what his own looked like, but he really couldn't bring himself to care. Not when she was this wet and this tight and this responsive around him. She was his own private anaconda; squeezing the life out of him with every muscle she could spare, surrounding him in an unbreakable cavern of fluid silk that tightened more and more as the moments ticked by.

He wasn't going to last for long. Couldn't last for long. Wasn't lasting lonnnnnn...

The heat in his stomach and balls exploded into her as his mind went blank and fuzzy. Hips jerking against hers, Jack realized that Sam still hadn't gotten her release, something that was bound to make her even angrier considering he'd been the one who kept her from it.

Do something, Jack, ordered his balls. We don't want to go away. We want to stay here with you where it's warm and we get to have sex with Saaaaaaaaaaaam. And his testicles started bawling.

Forcing up every ounce of strength he could borrow from his cells and probably shutting down some major cellular work as he did so (Metabolic functions? Nuh uh, sorry, not on the guest list), he kept his hips moving and used the hand that wasn't bracing him on the wall besides her head to fish for her clit.

She was talking. What the Hell was she saying? Did she mistake him for someone who had energy to spare for listening to her? He was running on empty, trying damn hard to make her orgasm, all the while fighting the almost overwhelming urge to sink down to the floor and fall asleep. Listening was not part of the plan.





Oh yeah, right there. Shove.

"-hate you!"

Oh, so that's what she had been saying. Huh.


Well. That deserved a fitting response.






And Samantha Carter tightened around her commanding officer's cock with a shriek, throwing her head back to declare her fulfillment and rage to the eggshell painted ceiling, while he bit down hard on her neck to keep himself from sinking to his knees. They did it anyway, falling to the floor, sprawled over each other as they last of their orgasmic twinges ran through them.

Mmmmmmmmmm, Jack thought to himself as the blood rushed back to his head. Fuzzy bunnies...

She started fighting him to get free even before the shivers ran their course, and he let her go with a more than a little regret. Sam grumbled something about his mother again and retreated to the bedroom, grabbing her clothing off the ground as she readjusted those cute little panties so they didn't fit up her butt ever so nicely as she slammed into her room once more.

Oh well.

Jack had a shit eating grin on his face as he pulled himself up onto the couch by his elbows. His legs and the majority of his lower body seemed to have failed him entirely at this point, leaving him relying on what little arm strength still remained after that exercise in endurance, but he was totally okay with that. He had just christened Sam's wall. Well, baptized was more like it, he thought with a snicker. They could amputate his legs above the knees at this point and he'd still be smirking like an idiot.

The couch was feeling more and more comfortable each time he lay down on it. His head hit the pillow, his stomach hit the cushions, and he was out like a light.

Some time during the early morning, Sam wandered for a glass of water to find Jack shivering. She picked the wool blanket off the floor from where he'd kicked it and spread it out over his legs, tucking it up around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his unresponsive lips.

Jack O'Neill was an absolute angel, just as long as he was asleep. Every other time, he was a royal pain in the mikta, a sarcastic bastard, and an all around man.

She did however get a consolation prize: he gave great orgasms, and she told him so. "You're my favorite sex toy, Jack. You're hours of fun."

One calm brown eye blinked up at her. "And I can burp the alphabet," he informed her with more than a hint of pride, and pulled her down to lie beside him on the couch. She gave the token resistance before settling in under one of his Irish Spring scented arms and burring her nose in his skin.

"I've been thinking," she told him.

"What have I told you about that?" Was he sniffing her earlobe?

"Do you realize that, technically, this is a secret, against the regs relationship?"

He was smelling her ear. She was sure of it. "You don't say."


"Maybe we shouldn't be introducing each other as anything, then." His tongue had just darted out to taste her neck again. This was becoming more and more fun. "Just a thought."

"Hm. Maybe." She took the protruding bone of his wrist into her mouth, nibbling gently on the skin she found there. "Just until we can officially say 'screw the regs,' I suppose."

"Of course." His dark, tendony hand slid down her stomach and into the panties he had so fiercely twisted just a few hours earlier, gentle seduction in his touch as he traced his fingers over her skin. A soft kiss was placed against the curve of her ear with as much tenderness as he could manage. "You wanna have sex again now?"

"Sure. You'll be busy making me another cake later on, any how."


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