There are some things that are still entirely new to her. Things she discovers daily without even trying; like the fact that she prefers black coffee over white, that people tend to walk on the right or that green means go in most cases. Other things are thrust upon her by Tasha or Patterson; like which pizza toppings should they always order or is she any good at shooting ball. She thinks that she has got a handle on most things this new life is trying to throw at her now. Her muscles know how to shoot a gun, how to write, how to deflect an assailant or lock a door. Her mind knows how to catalogue new experiences into things she wants to try again, things best left behind and things- like tequila- that she wishes she could erase the memory of. Still, Zapata likes to throw her the occasional curve ball.
'You sucked his dick yet?' Tasha was at her crudest after four whiskeys.
She thinks about it, constantly. Trying to formulate a picture in her mind of what it would be like. She knows the feel of his hands on her skin, his lips on her breast, him filling her up as they explore one another in the night. But this, this she never would have thought of. Now she can't stop. He catches her looking, strangely he says, at his crotch, her tongue resting gently on her lips. He laughed when she repeats Zapata's question, tucks her hair behind her ear and cups her chin gently.
'Does it feel good?' He chuckled and kissed her and she got her answer.
He doesn't mention it again- even though she knows he thinks about it- and she tries to quell the growing curiosity inside of her. Theirs is a fragile trade off- he is closed off, less so with her than with others, but still largely unknown to her. She, by her very existence, returns the same; she cannot offer him more because she has nothing more to give, and what she does have is fraught with flashbacks and body memories of torture and having no choice. So he gives her choices, relentlessly. They do nothing without her expressing a desire- he does not have Oscar's knowledge of her past, or the years she presumes it took to build up their physical relationship- and he is patient, always patient.
She wants to give back to him, but she still needs him to teach her how.
Zapata gives her sordid tips every so often after their conversation in the bar; tells her how to use her tongue and her hands for maximum effect. But she still lacks pieces of the puzzle, still doesn't know how to begin or what to do. So she dives in, doesn't overthink and lets her body and his body guide her. He is ready for her, and she for him, but she interrupts their usual flow to kiss his chest, his stomach, trails her lips over the bone of his hip.
'Jane-' he jolts, shocked, then he realises what she is doing.
'I want to,' she hushes him, squeezes his hand, 'Please, show me how.'
He nods and shifts up on the bed without breaking eye contact, props himself up slightly on the pillows so he can watch her. His hand spreads out along her jawline and she lets him guide her face down, put himself in her mouth and stroke the curve of her cheek. She thinks back to everything Tasha said before she realises that she knows how to do this, she knows how to make him feel good. He guides her pace but the rest comes naturally; the feel of him under her tongue, the clean smell of him, the shake of his thighs under her palms all seem too intimate, too familiar, to be the first time.
His hips buckle under her touch, his breaths are loud and laboured; when she looks up he is staring at her, serious and solemn before breaking out into a grin and resting his head back against the pillows. His grip on her face loosens and he buries his hands in her hair instead. She enjoys the feel of his fingertips against her scalp, of hard flesh against her lips and she brings him to the brink with flicks of her tongue and moans at the back of her throat.
He tastes good. He feels good. He is good. And when he draws her back up to taste himself on her lips she melts into him. It's another new experience, to feel him exhausted and spent beneath her palms while her mind spirals and replays. The tension that is always present in his body during the day is gone, spent at her touch of her lips, and she feels a jolt of pleasure when he smiles against her mouth.
'So where does this fall,' he murmurs between kisses, 'In your catalogue of experiences?'
She should never have told him about that. He laughs at her discomfort and ruffles his hair with his hand and a kiss.
'Pretty high,' she says eventually, feeling the blush rising in her cheeks, 'I think I'd like to try that again sometime.'