His kiss feels like Goldschlager going down. It's not supposed to be happening, but she's pressed up against the door and his hands are in her hair and it feels so good. Outside the rain is coming down in sheets which is why she is, ostensibly, inside his house long after she should have been gone. It's been a long few days... they died, they came back to life, business as usual, but she's pretty sure it's the reason he has his tongue in her mouth. It's been too many years of it, the death, the resurrection, the sheer and aching loneliness, the hurt that comes from walking away.
He breaks away from her, his chest heaving and she realizes she was pressing against his chest, pushing him away and she thinks she was probably pushing him towards something, but he doesn't take it that way.
"Shit," he says. "Sorry." And he wipes his mouth with the back of one shaking hand.
She's not sorry, not exactly. It was bound to happen sometime, she'd just thought it would happen in the heat of some moment and not after he'd pulled her back into his house to avoid a deluge. But she understands the sentiment. She just licks her lips to see if she can still taste him there. She can.
She advances on him, backs him into the wall behind him. There's a panicked look on his face and she wonders what he thinks is about to happen. She wonders if he thinks she's going to rail at him. Blame him. Walk away from him. He's unprepared when she kisses him and their teeth clash, their tongues miss, their noses bump and she can't help but chuckle until they sync back up and get it right. Then she's swallowing her mirth because damn but he's good at this.
She feels his big hands on the small of her back underneath her t-shirt. She rucks up the front of his shirt with her fingers so she can feel the warm flesh of his belly and she thinks about what it would feel like if they were pressed together chest to chest but her fingers are so close to the button of his jeans that her brain threatens to short circuit. He sucks in a deep breath and her hands fall inside the waistband of his pants, her fingers pulling him towards her by the denim and their feet are tangling together threatening to trip them up.
It's far from perfection the way they're fitting together, but it's not like they'd planned this. Lightning lights up his entrance way and she realizes they've been standing in the near dark, the soft light from his kitchen barely filtering into the space. She wants bright lights to see him but she's afraid of what she'll see in his eyes, the unpreparedness, the angst.
"What are we doing?" he asks her and she can hear it in his voice, the apprehension. "Jesus, Carter," he says when she pulls on his waistband again. He trips into her, is pressed against her from collarbone to thigh. She likes the way he feels, hard against her. Likes knowing just her mouth and fingers have done this to him.
"We don't have to," she says but she doesn't mean it. They do have to. It's time.
He walks her backwards to his bedroom, suddenly suave on his feet after her verbal denial of the inevitable. She trips over her heels and he steadies her with his hands on her hips. She giggles, nervously. She hasn't been nervous about sex since she was a teenager but she hadn't been going to bed with Jack O'Neill, either.
In his bedroom there's wide open curtains and the raging storm and she sees, in the flashes of light, the way his bed is meticulously made and she suddenly wants to mess it up. She's kicking off her shoes before he's done little more than invite her in. But he's stripping her shirt over her head and her arms are caught in the cotton, her breasts pressed against his chest and he's pressing his hips into hers like suddenly there's a time limit. Or like suddenly she'll change her mind. He tosses her shirt to the floor.
It's his hands on the button of her jeans that makes her flood wet. Like her body had been waiting for the main event, she's suddenly ready and it's not a game of will they/won't they anymore. The inevitable has become the here and now and she lets him pop the button and peel her jeans down her legs. He drops to his knees and buries his face in the front of her underwear and she feels his tongue through the cotton, right where she wants him the most. She likes how he doesn't pussyfoot around and just gets right down to the business of tonguing her clit through the now moist-from-both-sides fabric.
She makes encouraging sounds, widens her stance to give him more room, looks down at him in the darkness of the bedroom to see the flash of silver hair between her legs. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of her panties and shoves them down. They get caught between his mouth and her skin and she's got to push his head back to get them down all the way but then his tongue is on her flesh. He swipes the wide flat of his tongue across her bikini line and she wonders if she tastes like sweat from the heat of the day or if all he can taste is her.
On his knees, he walks her backwards until the bed hits the back of her thighs and he coaxes her down and then pushes her thighs open and licks at her hungrily. It's been a long time since anyone's done this to her and it's electric the way his tongue moves over. She wonders a little at how they got so fast from a kiss in his entryway to his head between her legs, but she figures maybe it really was time and his shit, sorry had less to do with him than it had to do with her.
She feels a slight ache in her hips from the wide angle of her splayed thighs and she shifts, hooking one leg over his shoulder and digging the other heel into his mattress. He sucks her clit into his mouth and she groans, feels the way her wetness is smeared over his face and wonders if he's okay with that. But he doesn't move away. He just releases her bundle of nerves and drags the flat of his tongue from the bottom to the top and makes a hungry noise.
It's that noise that makes her want him inside her. She pulls him up off the floor by his hair and he growls his frustration at being ripped away from her.
"Uh-uh," she says, "Next."
She can't see his face, exactly, until another flash of lightning brightens the room. His eyes are heavy and hooded, his face is shiny with her pleasure. She pokes at the button of his jeans with her toes and he takes the hint. He strips his shirt over his head and shucks his pants and underwear in record time and she remembers how he'd been barefooted earlier in the evening and how she hadn't been able to take her eyes off his feet.
Naked, he crawls onto the bed, looming over her. She reaches for his erection and palms him from base to tip, barely taking the time to enjoy him before she directs him inside her. He slides into her with one slow thrust. He stalls above her like he soaking her in. Soaking in her, more like, she feels the way she's wet and sloppy, so fast she'd turned.
He pulls out and pushes back in and the hungry sound she heard she realizes has come from her own throat. His next thrust is hard and a little wild, noisy in the quiet of his room. She can hear thunder, his breathing, and the wet sounds of his flesh pushing into her over and over again. She searches for his mouth, finds him with the tip of her tongue and they kiss, sort of, open mouthed just a dueling of tongues.
She likes the feeling of him over her but she's starting to realize the limitations. She pushes at him until, with a surprised sound, he rolls onto his back, his erection smearing her wetness along her thigh with his movement. She climbs astride him and with the aid of her hands sinks back down onto him and she sighs. He's deep now, deeper than he was before and it feels right the way she can feel her body adjusting to the intrusion.
From her place over him she sets a punishing pace, fast and hard she slams down onto him. This is what she wanted, something hard and a little wild. From his place on his back he reaches up to her breasts. Her head falls back with the pleasurable feeling of her nipples in the palms of his hands. She clenches around him and he hisses out a, "Fuck, yeah," so she does it again and again until he groans. He pinches at her nipples and she cries out. She knew they'd been good at this but the pleasure that's shooting through her body is intense. She reaches for her clit.
She takes up a fast rhythm, not really wanting it to be over, but wanting to feel. He's so good inside her, stretching her. He surges up inside her when she falters over her pleasure and she grunts. His hands fall to her thighs and begin to help her lift up and then slam back down. She appreciates the gesture because they're taking their time about it and she doesn't want to get tired.
When he starts making noises each time he bottoms out inside her she realizes he's close. She encourages him on with her body and a quiet, "Come on, that's right."
He drops his hand down between them and knocks her hand out of the way. "You first." His fingers on her clit are like lightning. "You should have let me... you know, before."
"Why?" she wants to know as she pants. "You're doing fine right now."
Lightning flashes and she can see his toothy grin. "Yeah?"
"Oh" she says with a moan when his fingers hit her just right. "Yeah. Like that."
He's a quick study and he repeats his actions until the clenching she's doing around him is completely involuntary. "You gonna come?"
"Yes," she hisses. "Just..." her eyes slip closed. "Oh, god." He sits up and latches onto one hard nipple and sucks, hard. And she's coming. She's making a sound she's never heard come out of her before and then he's coming too, she can tell by the sounds he's making and the way he's pushing up into her. She hangs on, stays upright for him when all her body wants to do is sag down, curl up against him.
When they're both done she does slump down onto him, boneless and he chuckles. "You okay?"
"God, yes," she moans, her body still sending aftershocks of pleasure shooting through her.
"I was kinda hoping we'd be bad at this."
"Me too," she confesses. "Would have been easier to make it a one time thing."
He trails a hand up and down her back. It was the hand he'd used on her clit, she can feel the way he smears wetness over her skin. He pats her ass and she realizes he's asking her, politely, to move. She shifts off him, feels the way he slides out of her and she realizes that it's definitely not going to be a one time thing.
"Next time," she says, "we do it with the lights on."
"Next time?" he says hopefully.
"Oh, there's definitely going to be a next time."
He pulls her to him, insinuates on of his thighs between hers and she knows she's leaking on him but he doesn't seem to care. "Good to know."
She lies there for a while with her hand on his chest. "Why tonight?" she finally asks him quietly.
"Well," he says slowly like he's really thinking about it, "I guess it was just time."
She remembers thinking the same thing herself, back in his entryway. "Yeah, I guess it was."