Author's Note: This one is basically just porn. So, if you're like me and prefer a little buildup with your sex, you might want to go read the other stories in the Fire Collection (hint: check out AO3 for an easy to follow version, otherwise, all the titles are somehow fire related). If you don't mind a smutty little stand alone with absolutely no other value, read on.
It takes him three rings to answer but when he does, it's her name as a harsh groan and she can practically feel the way he tightens his hand around his erection. Her belly goes taut and a warm tingle spreads through her because there's something about being the right person on the other end of someone's phone line.
"Jesus. Fuck." A sharp inhalation, a gritty exhale. Her name from breathless lungs, "Carter."
She doesn't want to, but she smiles when he get this way. One word sentences that shorten everything into epithets.
She just hums in the back of her throat and slides the pad of her middle finger down over her clit. They don't usually do this together, but it seems like tonight, great minds think alike.
She settles for a groan, mostly Ns and As, because she's never sure what she should call him when she's imagining his tongue inside her. If she goes with Jack it mostly works, but if she goes with Sir it speaks to the parts of themselves they try to deny they have. When she calls him sir he comes differently, in a way that suggests that maybe part of the allure of the two of them together is the power differential.
While that's a little true for her she likes to think it's not that true for him because she's not sure she likes what that says about her.
So she slides a finger around the slick ring of her entrance. The deep, chuffing breaths he releases are not enough. Not tonight.
"I don't know if I can do this anymore," she begins.
She can almost hear his hand stop tugging against himself. "Carter," he says in a slightly worried tone.
"No," she hastens, "I was going to say I don't know if I can do this anymore without knowing what you're doing."
"Christ," he mutters. "You damn well know what I'm doing, Sam."
"Exactly. Tell me exactly."
He groans again but this time there's a hint of relief. "Are you -"
"I'm sure. It's time."
"It's fucking time."
She knows he doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but it makes her smile nonetheless. They've never quite talked to one another while they did this and it seems both surreal and downright predictable that instead of the filthy conversation they could be having they're really just talking about talking about it.
It takes him a little while and he's not exactly editing his monologue for her pleasure, but she learns how he grips himself tightly and that he's got a bottle of lube on his nightstand and that he's not one of those guys made of copious amounts of precum that leave you wondering what the hell you're supposed to do with all of it.
She learns the way his voice shudders when he swipes the pad of his thumb across his frenulum and that he's business-like and perfunctory and ignores his testicles for the sharper, more immediate pleasures of the head of his penis and how he can make himself shudder if he runs the pads of his fingers up the bottom side of his shaft over the thick vein there.
She learns the way he grunts and how he sounds when he licks his lips and that he likes the way she says wet, and too tight for three, and fuck, I can't reach like that, why the hell are you so far away right now?
He chuckles when she get exasperated by her own limitations and she loves that for all the darkness they started with that he really does enjoy this thing between them. The sick parts of her she only cops to when she's alone get off on how the danger and demons make it all feel so raw. But she likes knowing that if he were in her bed he'd be smiling at her. He'd laugh. He'd tease. And then, when all that was left was for her to come, he'd tell her to stop. Wait. And then whisper all kinds of dirty things in her ear like how he had to physically restrain himself from reaching across the console of her car and fingering her while they sped across the desert of Kansas.
She can hear his languid strokes, sticky and smacking with almost-useless lube. She loves how she now knows he likes it that way, that the slight pull makes him harder. And when he diverts to telling her what he wants her to do to herself she thanks her lucky stars her almost-lover is almost fifty because damn if it doesn't feel good to do this with a man who can keep going and going and going.
When she gets to that point when she's embarrassingly wet but still making tight, fast, frictionless circles on her clit because he's asked her not to stop, she's jarred by his request for her to "Hush, Carter, let me just listen to what I do to you for a minute, okay?" Suddenly she's not embarrassed and she's really, really getting off on the less-than-usually-effective strokes her fingers are making. The sloppy sound apparently translates over the phone quite well and she likes the labored breathing she gets in reply.
"You gonna come soon?" he finally asks her.
"Not like this," she admits and finds she doesn't really care.
But he does and he tells her to clean up a little and by the time she's done she can hear the clip in his voice that tells her, based on the prior experience, that he's pretty damn close himself.
He tells her so many details that she can see the way he strokes himself from base to tip, fast up, slow down, hips pushing off the bed. She know his features well so she can imagine the cut of his forearms, the furrowing of his brow, the slight parting of his lips.
She finds herself waiting for him, not because she has to and not because she isn't desperately ready, but she wants to imagine that it's his come splashing against her fingers and clit that finally pushes her over the edge. And she tells him that, in her fantasy, he's kneeling between her spread legs, stroking himself, and it's that visual that, finally, forces his orgasm. He groans and this time it's Sam not Carter and she comes so hard that his name - his actual name - is bitten in two inside her hungry mouth. She clenches first around emptiness then two fingers just so she can draw it out a little further.
When they're done, they stroke languidly, boneless, satiated, and smiling.
She starts to thank him and he laughs at her, "Don't ever thank me for an orgasm, Carter. Don't ever thank me for doing my job."
It rubs her right and it rubs her wrong to hear him say something like that. Because she's the master of her own orgasmns, thank you very much, but at the same time there's something really nice about the way he thinks it's his responsibility to give her pleasure. She boxes that something nice up with the part of her that gets off on the power play and shelves it nicely in the area of her brain designated for When Jack and I Are Finally Together.
"Next time, you're going to have to tell me how you taste," he says offhandedly. She wonders how you get to be offhanded about such a declaration, but she thinks she going to enjoy finding out.
"I've never not had sex with someone this long," she mentions.
"Me either," he says. She can hear him lever himself off the bed, grumble goodnaturedly about how he came all over himself he hopes she's pleased with herself - she is. "But you've got to admit, it's a little bit fun."
"It's like being a teenager again," she agrees. "But better."
"Yeah?" he asks and damn if he doesn't sound a little boyish and it's revving her up so she tells him.
"Sorry, Carter, I can't go again. But I'm willing to hang out if you want to."
All of a sudden he's Colonel O'Neill again. It's both comforting and frightening how easy it is to break every rule they've sworn to follow.
She begs off. She wants to, but she doesn't need to, and it would be more fun with him anyway.
She'll wait.