Kissing Jemma is easy. It's only been 24 hours since it became an integral part of their interaction repertoire, but they've taken it it stride, learning each other's lips with the same methodical comprehensiveness they would apply to anything else.
Kissing Jemma when they're lying on top of each other in a strange bed halfway across the world, with no imminent threat and nobody looking to disrupt the natural course of events, is a different matter entirely.
Her body is soft and pliant, her hands are finally warming up against the burning skin of his torso underneath his open shirt, and the room is filled with her soft moans and sighs. Every time their mouths part, it's only to recapture each other's the next moment with renewed neediness.
As much as he's dreamt of this, he'd long renounced the hope for it, realistically, and although his odds have steadily improved over the course of the past day, the moment is still coated with a sense of surrealness that doesn't really assuage the thrill of it.
Jemma pulls back, straddling his thighs, and reaches for the hook of his pants in an impatient gesture. His mouth dries as their eyes meet and her smile growing a little toothier. She's approaching uncharted territory and he should tell her so, probably. Just as a fair warning. She either knows or suspects it anyway. Still, he's not a little boy genius anymore and hasn't been for a long, long time. At his age, the admission feels awkward and a little humiliating –at least in his head, like being the last one to be picked for the team– but it's no secret he never quite managed to sustain more than a passing interest in any woman that wasn't her.
"Jemma–" His voice comes out in an embarrassing groan, and her face registers both amusement and delight as her hands settle over his bare stomach.
"Yes, Fitz?" When her reply comes, it sounds throaty and breathless, a pornographic fantasy coming to life, and if the look in her eyes wasn't matching her tone perfectly, he would suspect she was riling him up.
He closes his eyes briefly, savoring it– how many times has he imagined her saying his name this way over the years?– before he manages to focus again.
"I feel there is key information you might be mis–"
He gasps loudly when her brightly painted nails softly scratch down the fine line of hair that trails down from his navel to the open fly of his dress pants, as reason and logic begin to fail him completely. Whatever he meant to say feels irrelevant now. She knows everything significant there is to know about him, doesn't she?
"You were saying?" she asks with a slightly smug grin.
Satisfied with his dumbfoundedness, Jemma raises a defiant eyebrow before reaching behind her neck to unzip her silky top. She shakes it off her shoulders and swiftly discards it, planting her expectant gaze in his own once more.
Fitz knows her well enough to discern the bravado and nervousness that flash on her face and he wonders briefly if he should say something –crack a joke, maybe, anything to relieve the tension that's seized her– but all he can do is stare at the expanse of creamy freckled skin she's just bared for him. She's wearing something made of sheer mesh and white lace that does a very poor job at concealing the curve of her breasts and the deeper shade of pink at the tips.
This is it, this is what he's been dreaming of forever, she's here and she's ready and she wants him. It doesn't feel quite surreal anymore now, but perhaps that's only because he's tumbled past rational thinking.
He rolls them over until he's on top again and pecks down her slender neck until he reaches the strap of her bra. From there, he starts trailing kisses down the thin material, only pausing when his mouth meets puckered skin and he can ear her breathing catch. When he starts sucking on her nipple, her whole body tenses for a beat before she pushes him away, maneuvering them until she's straddling him once more.
She reaches back again and the next moment, a flash of white glides down her arms and then Fitz's hands are covering her breasts, feeling their softness, tracing the freckles, softly pinching a nipple until Jemma's back arcs.
"I'm not gonna break," she informs him, her expression daring.
"I hope not," he widens his eyes in mock concern, "you're the only one who understands your demented filing system."
Before she can swat him, he does it again, massaging the sensitive bud of flesh between his fingers, revelling in her gasps of pleasure, the most erotic sound he's ever heard in his life.
When he sits up and catches her other breast in his mouth, she lets out a cry of pleasure that startles him, and he's about to ask if she's okay when she bends down for another languid kiss.
This, he thinks, is something he would gladly do for hours on end, if not for the increasingly uncomfortable erection straining between them. Perhaps sensing his desperation, Jemma mumbles something about his state of overdress, and watches with a gleam of interest as he shrugs off his shirt. She gets up just long enough to peel down her pants before reaching for his.
If he's ever gonna make a joke about the final frontier, now is the time. He rakes his brain in search of a coherent thought, but his inquiry comes to a halt when Jemma's hand slides inside his underwear.
"I don't think–ah–" he gasps as her fingers curl around his length, pressing lightly. "Maybe we should– take care of you first?"
"Oh, don't worry," she grins, pulling down the last remnant of his clothing until he springs free. "I think this might work better for the two of us, actually."
"No, really, you don't have to– oh."
His words of protest are wasted the moment her tongue touches him. For a while, his entire vocabulary reduces to a single word –Jemma– as his academy mate, old chem lab partner, former flatmate, current best friend and girlfriend, proceeds to completely shatter his mind.