Finally


Tagline: She had been aware of the heat, the attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface between them for a while now. She had been able to resist it. But now…

Warning: Contains explicit sex. Not for kiddies or the easily offended.

Disclaimer: I do not own. All royalties and rights go to Markus and McFeely, Marvel, and ABC. But after such a teasingly short season with no guarantee of another, my muse demanded that I play in this sandbox too.

Enjoy.


One: Point of No Return

It finally happened.

They had finished yet another mission, yet another stakeout, tracking the ghosts of the Leviathan organization in some city or another.

Peggy couldn't even remember which one she and Jack were in. There had been so many. First it had been Boston and then Philadelphia and then Detroit. After that there had been a slew of others including Atlanta, San Antonio, and Seattle. Now they might have been in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, New Orleans, or Pittsburgh.

No, it wasn't Phoenix. It was raining.

She and Jack were shedding their sodden coats in the tiny foyer of their two-room hotel suite when it happened.

She tripped as she was toeing off her water-logged pumps. Her tired body slumped into his equally exhausted but no less firm and warm one.

Her hands automatically reached out and grasped his arms to steady herself. And with that contact, her tired, drained-to-deadbeat-status body came alive. Her senses went from dull to hyper-aware.

Every nerve in her hands was humming with appreciation for the feel of his well-defined biceps beneath his damp shirt.

Every nerve in her sensitive bosom was aware of how well her soft curves fit with his hard firm physique.

She was cognizant of solid shoulders that always seemed so tempting to lean on. Of blue eyes that burned bright and were now devouring her drowned rat looking self. Of lips that were – in the words of Angie Martinelli – scrumptiously delectable! And of the goddamn heat that was radiating off of him, between them, that was making her heart pound and her normally orderly and organized mind dizzy with desire.

She had been aware of the heat, the attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface between them for a while now. She had been able to resist it. It was just lust after all, right?

But now, being so sapped of her normally bottomless well of strength and will-power…

With a pitiful whimper, Peggy Carter succumbed.

~A~

Agent Jack Thompson had been able to keep it professional between himself and his detrimentally attractive if highly capable partner for weeks.

At first, it had been easy. They focused on the mission and hunted down the Russian bastards and their arms-dealing suppliers.

But then…But then, their cover had changed from boss and ever-dependable secretary/assistant to husband and wife, which meant from two hotel rooms to adjoining rooms to suites, which meant occasionally seeing her hair down to seeing her more than occasionally in her dressing gown.

And Gods, was she gorgeous. All those goddamned, sinful curves.

Curves that were this very minute pressed oh-so-divinely against him. Curves that were well-supported by the tantalizing lacy bits that were discernible through her soaking wet white silk blouse.

Agent Jack Thompson might have been able to maintain his persona of condescending gentleman bastard of a partner and Deputy S.S.R. agent by reminding himself that he was no hero, no Captain America, if it hadn't been for her.

Her and her big brown eyes. Her and her soft and tempting red lips. Her and her bold taking of no prisoners.

She pressed in and leaned up, and he was a goner. He was a red-blooded all-American male after all. And most definitely, no saint.

~A~

Their kiss was like falling out of a plane.

The heady adrenaline rush. The jolt of fear. The flood of sensations. The refreshing burst of freedom.

His sensuous if chapped lips slid confidently across hers, while his hands glided across her waist and caressed up her back, pulling her closer to him.

And she let him.

She more than let him. She hurled herself headlong into that flood of sensations – his heat, his mastery of lips, tongue and teeth, his silky hair between her seeking tangling fingers, his spicy smell, and his very own unique taste of whiskey and bitter stale coffee.

The feel of the low primal rumble in his chest when she sucked hard on his lower lip to get a larger second helping of that mouthwatering combo sent shivers down her spine and out to every nerve-ending. She would not have been surprised if her formally wet limp curls were now a frizzy mess as a result.

Her surrender to this inevitable moment was exhilarating.

And then, it was beyond exhilarating. Instead of it being like falling through the bright blue sky, it was like falling down a mountain.

Jack went from demonstrating his masterful skills to trying to master.

And that just wouldn't bloody do.

Their kiss went from slow and gentle and nibbling to hard and fast and biting.

She used her already off-balance weight to push him into the closet door.

He dug his fingers into her hip. She tugged forcefully on his hair.

He bucked his hips, rocking his growing not-a-gun-in-his-pocket appendage against her damp core. She ground back against him, pinning him against the door while trying to claw loose his offending tie.

They panted and cursed at each other as they tumbled from wall to furniture and back again in their game of one-upmanship, like two loud and vulgar-sounding pumas in heat tumbling down a tree-studded and boulder-strewn mountainside.

By the time they landed in one of the bedrooms, Jack's tie, vest, suspenders, and belt were gone. His shirt was untucked and mostly unbuttoned (or button-less as the case may be). They were both shoeless, but she was still in her stockings, garters, and peach camisole.

She had shoved him onto the bed and was now straddling him. While his talented tongue was exploring the edges of her lacy undergarments, she was exploring the texture of his battle-scarred skin and rippling muscles and the taste of his earlobe's succulent bit of flesh.

It was at this point that the G-man's inner-gentleman reared up its well-styled head and with Jack's lust-rasped voice asked, "Carter, are you … sure…?"

She pulled back and looked into the questioning blue eyes of what was once the bane of her existence and teasingly answered:

"Jack, if we are going to do this, you had goddamn better call me Peggy."

At his endearingly gob-smacked expression, she added with a diffident shrug, "Or Marge, if you prefer."

Before he could make a smart-arsed comment or protest, she silenced him with another soul-sucking kiss.

~A~

She was a hell-cat, a Spitfire. A surprise.

A part of him was still struggling to reconcile the idea of Captain America's girl being anything but a sweet virtuous woman.

Captain America's, the hero's, girl should not be this passionate, aggressive, eager woman, straddling his, the coward's, hips, demanding carnal relations.

But she was the Agent Peggy Carter, he had come to know, respect, and desire. And that woman always got what she wanted. Who was he to try to stand in the way?

Jack reached between them and unzipped his already unbuttoned pants before sliding his hand along Carter's – no, Peggy's thighs, up underneath her camisole, and passed her lacy bits to plunge his fingers into her pussy even as he thrust his tongue deep into her red-rimmed mouth.

He nearly lost control right there, like a fifteen year old virgin. She was so wet and tight.

He worked her, plunging his two fingers in deep, hard, and fast and then slowly pulling and dragging them out, curling them in as he did so.

He did that over and over and over again alternating between rubbing his thumb and flicking it against her switch that turned all the pleasure lights on.

And pleasured she was. She rode his hand and whimpered and sucked on his invading oral appendage just like her quim eagerly sucked on his invading digits.

And just when she was about to crest over the edge, he removed them, grabbed her hips and drove into her.

It would have been Nirvana to him, to have this woman wrapped around him as she was – except for the facts of her mewl-gasp of pain that she tried to muffle in his neck and of the unexpected sensation of a barrier giving way.

"Marge? You're a – ?"

She dug her scarlet-lacquered nails in and growled out, "Shut up, Thompson, and use that obnoxious mouth of yours in more productive endeavors."

It was hard to argue with Carter in the best of times, and well, whether this was the best of times or the worst, really depended on a person's point of view.

His included Peggy Carter's well-endowed and pert rack.

Again, who was he to argue?

~A~

Peggy had been so close to completion that she had forgotten to warn him of a very significant detail.

And then when he had rammed through that detail with his thick shaft, it had been the most painful and effective figurative cold shower she had ever experienced.

Judging by his reaction, it was probably a good thing that she had not informed him or they would have never had gotten this far.

She was terribly afraid that they would be going no further, but then he began to nuzzle at her breasts.

He licked, nipped, massaged, and sucked them. At first through the silky, lacy slip, and then not.

His sinful mouth on her bare sensitive tits distracted her and his gentle pumping of her core loosened her, and both rapidly re-ignited her fire.

Their love-making from that point on wasn't as rough nor was it about being a dominance game. No, with him sitting on the edge of her bed, stockinged feet flat on the floor, and her straddling him, they were more like equals.

He controlled the rhythm; she, the depth. A slow but steady and pleasant burn was started.

The feeling of him finally being in her, of being full of him, of finally getting to communicate in deeds if not words what she felt for him was such a glorious relief.

She savored every sensation, especially his hoarse of gasp of "Oh, Pe-peg-gy!"

It was that moan of aching need that sent her over the much desired edge.

She clawed at his back and bit at his lip as he attempted to swallow her own hoarse cry and tears streamed down her face.

After the final tremors ceased, the two of them laid sprawled across the bed, reveling in finally achieving a state of harmony that their relationship had hereto for never known.

She gave it ten minutes before his smirking prat-mouth ruined the moment.

~A~

Nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds later…

Three…

Two…

One…

"It's a good thing for once that Krzeminski is dead."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, or else I would have to cough up twenty bucks."

Her eyebrows rose.

His smirk spread.

She waited less than anxiously for the punch-line and was awarded with:

"You, Marge, are indeed a screamer."


A/N: If you like, please, review. Constructive criticism always appreciated.

If you want more, I am considering writing something along the theme of 'His Red Reward'. Thoughts?