A/N: As usually, no names are named. If somehow you are a new reader, the character below is not Jack. But you'll know who he is.

Remember when the pictures from WWZ set appeared? Who didn't want to do those pants? :) Let's indulge... ;)

She has seen a lot of men in army uniforms. In fact, men in army uniforms have been what she's seen the most of for the past two decades of her life, and having all but becoming one means that she's immune to their supposed appeal. She has seen shapely male butts and big dicks, oh yeah. Testosterone-drenched air used to be her everyday life where she proved herself capable of handling heavy weapons and barking orders without having a pair of balls and without being intimidated by one. Snug camo around manly hips and… other assets doesn't normally distract her. So it's pretty damn disconcerting to realize that she has never seen BDU pants fit anyone as perfectly as they fit him. These particular pants would have been, of course, tailor-made for him if they didn't find a match, but she knows that's not the case and he just happens to fill a regular uniform like it's a porn costume. Which it de facto is, if her completely unprofessional glances to his crotch are anything to go by.

Actors, celebrities, movie stars. None of that impresses her much either. She has worked on several film sets by now but that's not what makes her completely blasé about show business and everything it represents. Looking down to all of that would be seriously hypocritical, and she can see how hard some of these people work, but the small gatherings of locals / fans / autograph hunters that follow the sets on location still rise her eyebrow. Or they would, if she wasn't trained to keep her face perfectly blank. Maybe she would also feel thankful for her own anonymity if she ever thought this fame thing over, but she doesn't. There is life out there with much more gravity than the glitzy bubble of showbiz and she's not even going to compare them.

So in that regard he could be Elvis and she wouldn't bat an eyelid. His status has zero to do with the annoying distraction she's been doomed with since day one of this job. Well, of course she's also intrigued, because he's nothing like most actors that she consulted for and he seems having no problem staying focused and professional, but when he actually turned up on the set, ready for make up (and, oh yes, she's pretty sure that Raj, the make up guy, wasn't thinking of England when powdering that distinctive nose) and ready for action, her reptile brain's instinctual response to him was making it very hard to keep her cool. She may be a Marine, but she's also a heterosexual woman, after all.

She wills herself to avert her eyes and look higher and finds that he's looking directly at her. There's a faint smirk playing on his lips that she's not sure she's not imagining. So she's been caught. It won't cost her the job – who would believe that a forty-year old serious-business army lady acts like a teenager? – but if he expects her to shy away, he's getting a surprise. She doesn't do embarrassment. She's been defiant her whole life and if she wanted something, she took it. If she wanted a man, she grabbed him by his crotch and there was no subtle flirting. Never in professional environment, true. The army is a state within a state and the unwritten rules for mating protocol are different for men and women, as infuriating as it is. And it's not even up for discussion, she would have never made it so high up if she tried to argue. But she's not in the army anymore and isn't show business supposed to be all debauched anyway? She mirrors his smirk and leans casually into her chair. Not very professional, yeah, but she doesn't do apologetic either. Besides, he must be aware of women's response to him. Not even in the army has she seen many men who walk into a room and the power equilibrium shifts immediately without a word being uttered. Alpha. Being one herself, she finds the tension between them quite fascinating.

When they first met at the shooting range where she was scheduled to start the training program with him, the intensely focused, commanding impression his presence oozed from the moment he walked through the door was ruined by the confusion on his face as he stopped in his tracks, looking around with wide eyes, blinking.

She almost snickered, remembering the email she received from the production coordinator. It had the location, the time and date, the tutoring description and both of their names – the training for the other actors was yet to come. People were usually surprised that she wasn't a burly, sweaty dude, so the puzzlement as he introduced himself and made sure the site was correct was to be expected. It took away from his obviously confident persona, though, which she found amusing.

"Captain McNeil," she offered, with her trademark iron handshake. "Samantha McNeil."

He looked at her with wide eyes before letting out a short laugh. Of course. Sam stands for Samantha, too. But he got himself composed immediately when she threw him a look. Patronizing attitude would not be tolerated. She only learnt later, down the course of the training, that he had never meant it that way and can respect a female boss perfectly fine, the pro that he is.

"Any shooting experience?" She didn't waste time handing him the training firearm, goggles and the hearing protection headphones. It's not like she'd kept up with the careers of any of the actors she had tutored, but she realizes the classes with her might not be their first time.

"I grew up on a farm," he supplied.

"Not the same thing." She said. A redneck, comparing the army training to shooting at pigeons? "But let's see it."

His aim wasn't half bad and she found herself approving of his posture – admittedly, there's nicely defined musculature on those arms and shoulders – and concentration, but Sam had never showered anyone with compliments, so she wasn't going to start with the quiet, surprisingly efficient man. She just nodded silently at his scores and told him to follow her to the outside range, where she would be teaching him how to handle an M16.

Handling machine guns and doing army training still being a big part of her life after the official retirement, she didn't feel any different or nostalgic getting into the battle uniform again and have her long blond hair pulled back in a tight bun. She eyed the civilian's jeans and t-shirt – tattoos, there's some elaborate tattoos peeking from under his sleeves; interesting – and stopped herself from telling him to dress more appropriately the following day. If anything, she could probably use a more relaxed approach. However, the dress-up helped with the trainee's attitude, by immediately creating the illusion of hierarchy, but she needed to teach him how to be her, not how to subdue to her.

"As soon as you get your costume ready, I want you to wear it to our sessions," she said anyway.

After all, it's a part of being a Marine and he needed to learn every detail to be convincing. His head was already shaved, she took notice, must be some Method actor or whatever they call it, as little as she knows about it. And his tall, sculpted physique was definitely not going to hurt for the part. Sam had no idea how old he was, probably around her own age, maybe younger, but she'd had lifelong physical training, so for a civilian, he was impressively fit. The thought threw her off a bit; she wasn't supposed to get all smitten.

"Normally, there isn't any firing before training in physical fighting," she said, grabbing the M16 with twenty years worth of expertise. "A Marine is a weapon, just as effective with bare hands as with these," she explained dryly. "But this is make-believe, so I'm going to take you through the moves."

"I had MMA training."

"Being a Marine is a philosophy," she said, mildly annoyed to have any sort of punching around compared to the army elite. Maybe she should have insisted on a more comprehensive and realistic program. "Earplugs in and observe."

She assumed the position, half crouching on one knee, the easier option for a beginner, and she wedged the rifle between her knee and her shoulder, feeling his meticulous gaze on her. Of course proper practice was necessary, but she was glad that he was taking it all seriously. She fired a few shots with dead-on precision and stood up to explain proper breathing technique and its significance.

"I know this," he nodded, God, was he trying to impress her? "I shot -"

"Pigeons," she finished for him. "When you were a teenager."

"Actually… yeah," he let out a self-depreciating laugh, glancing down and rubbing the back of his head, which she later learnt was somewhat of his trademark gesture. "That's what it was."

Her smile would have been triumphant if she wasn't truly impressed with lack of any sort of cockiness in the admission. Takes natural confidence and she likes natural confidence, not many men can beat her at that.

"But I did have shooting training before," he tried, making her roll her eyes mentally. Civilian men. They always think they can outsmart her or at least have to try.

"You need to learn how to do this like it's your second nature," she told him before urging him to position, the tall man following her guidance without any further fuss. "There's no room for studied poising in the battlefield."

She corrected his grasp on the rifle, showing him how to block it with his cheek and where to put his elbow and how to align the sight on the target - There were no sparks of electricity under her fingers, but a nice tingling sensation in her lower half distracted her when she put her hand on his forearm. Maybe agreeing to do one-on-one sessions with the man hadn't been such a good idea, but how could she have known that touching him, in the most professional and impersonal way possible, was going to affect her in that way. It had been a while since she was with a man, but goddammit! she wasn't supposed to get all dreamy and thinking of what this tight body might feel like under his clothes and how damn fine the shape of his skull was.

She reigned herself in and kept it through the entire training course, when she taught him about equipment handling, uniforms, posture – admittedly, not much schooling necessary there, he was quite a natural – and tone of speech that a high-ranked Marine executes. He did remarkably well, following her orders with zero complaints, and so did she, preserving her distance. The distance that's still there, even as she's allowed herself to stare at his crotch.

From the corner of her eye, she can see him end the conversation with the set assistant girl – a flush-faced youngster Brit chick that obviously can't take her eyes off of him – and stroll toward her.

"Captain McNeil," he greets her with a nod.

"It's Sam. We're not in the army." They're not, but she certainly didn't object when he called her that way during their training. "Remember that you're acting a Captain now, too," she told him. "We are equals," she stressed the equal part. There's no gender distinction at actual war. No, that was part of the schooling and she's very pleased with the results.

He chuckles. "You certainly made it very realistic earlier, Sam."

"That's my job. So that you can make it realistic now."

"Appreciated," he grabs a chair next to hers and makes himself comfortable, stretching his long legs. She can see the outline of the hard muscle in his thigh underneath his BDUs.

"Cigarette?" He offers.

"I don't smoke."

"Of course," he puts one in his mouth, lighting it up. "Are you also one of those health freaks that run four miles every morning and never touch booze?" He blows out a cloud of smoke and Sam thinks that it has never looked sexy to her before.

"I was in the army, in case you missed it," she reminds him for an umpteenth time. "I could probably drink you under the table any time."

"I wouldn't count on that," he flashes her a grin, actually turning his head to look at her for the first time since he sat down. "Want to put your theory to the test?"

It's her turn to chuckle. "What, are you offering a date?" She throws him a look like it's the single most ridiculous idea ever, but mentally bites back a smirk: a drinking game with him may lead to interesting results.

"If you're into soccer at all, then the game's tonight and beer is on me."

"I'm not."

She's not going to make it easy for him. It's not the first time she's been perceived as one of the guys and invited to join their night out, but if he's too intimidated by her, then he's not worth her time.

"Fair enough," he draws a lengthy drag on his cigarette, possibly taking her answer for rejection. The silence that falls between them is charged with unspoken suspense; she can tell he wasn't expecting her to play hard to get, he's probably not used to that. Or maybe a part of him did, familiar with her take charge attitude by now. The wheels turning in his head are almost audible. Possibly, he actually likes the thrill of the chase and is getting excited for it, but too bad: she likes it a lot, too.

"I'll see you around, Sam," he nods at her, getting up and stomping on his cigarette butt. The outline of his firm behind underneath the khaki fabric makes her decide that around is going to happen sooner than he thinks.

Contrary to what many men she meets assume, Sam is perfectly capable of letting her hair down and having fun. Especially if it involves hunting her prey down. By the time he's done for the night and the crew is packing, she strides in the direction of his trailer, a brown paper bag in hand. She's trying hard to ignore the feeling that this is a ridiculously college-camp situation and that ideally they would be at some dark bar, but there's only a couple of pubs in this dump of a town and she doesn't feel like having audience of local drunks or soak up the smell of fish and chips. Besides, she's kind of impatient now that she's made up her mind.

She spots him from the distance. Leaning against the laminate wall, smoking another cigarette, the army vest gone, but still wearing his costume BDUs. He's supposed to be clean-shaven for his part, but at this hour the five-o'clock shadow is evident on his face. If he's surprised to see her, he's not showing it. The intense, work-mode focus is still coming off of him in waves. She raises a questioning eyebrow at his cigarette.

"They said no smoking inside," he shrugs, making her smile at his good-boy behavior. She should see how long that lasts. "I thought you didn't care about soccer?"

"I'm not saying we're going," she extends her hand with the paper bag.

"We, huh?" With his patented little smirk, he accepts it, pulling the bottle out of it. "Glenfiddich single malt," he looks it over appreciatively, before unscrewing the cap and taking a swig.

"My father is Scottish," she watches him watch her curiously as she takes a swig of her own; she can tell he's intrigued by her, coming from a world so different from his and being nothing like the females he meets in his line of work.

"Isn't that violating some regulation?" He cocks his head and throws her an insolent look.

"You don't seem like a man who only plays by the rules," she grins, pleased with the effect her words have on him. He drinks some more Scotch straight from the bottle and pushes the door ajar.

"Do you wanna come inside?"

"Do you?" She mentally rolls her eyes at the juvenile comment before it's fully out of her mouth.

He chuckles and lets her climb up first, which she knows is one part chivalry and two parts helping himself to the view of her ass.

"You're more fun than I thought," he puts the bottle aside on a counter-turned-table in the constricted space of the trailer and turns the faint lighting on. Slowly, he comes up to her, like a wildcat male not sure if the female is in heat and won't punch him instead.

"I hope you're just as much fun."

She lets him make the first move. His large hand curls around her hip and wanders toward her back, like he's planning to pull her into him gently. But it doesn't make it very far. She grabs him by his hips and pushes him roughly to the side, where his butt smashes into the counter and he's forced to half-sit and half-lean against it, giving her the advantage of leveling their heights. He lets out a surprised grunt, but accepts the weight of her body as she rests against his torso and in between his splayed legs. Without a word, she grasps his t-shirt around the neck and yanks, tearing the garment in half down his chest.

He looks at her with dark eyes. "Feisty," he speaks. "I like that."

With most other men, she would snicker and tell them just how much she cares about what they like, but the truth is she missed those occasions where she didn't have to because the man would just reach for it and take it. Domineering in the field, domineering in bed, most men simply can't measure up to her and those who tried, made it look ridiculous.

When this one slams her right back into the door and rips her simple shirt apart in response, she doesn't laugh. Her breathing quickens and she claws at the leftovers of the black cotton on his shoulders, forcing them off completely. No, this one gets it. Judging by his hairy forearms and all the hair on his head – albeit shaven – she was expecting a hairy chest and is surprised to find a smooth one, but doesn't say anything, just rakes her short fingernails down the muscular plane; she was right about him being all tight and lean. Also, there's a lot more ink than his clothing revealed. And his skin smells like spices and warm wood; maybe it's cologne.

His touch is firm, but not rough as his hands climb up her ribcage and stop at her breast, thumbs teasing the undersides through the cups of her plain bra. She's not opposed to lingerie, helps with the mood, but seems that no aid will be necessary under his blazing gaze. His neck bends and he captures her mouth with his in an aggressive kiss that's more teeth than lips. She responds in kind, pleased with his boldness, but not ready to give up control.

She doesn't know what he'd imagined her sexual style to be, if he did; dubbed her frigid possibly, because when she playfully catches his tongue between her teeth while getting a good grope of the bulge she was eyeing the whole day, he ducks his head away and gives her a look of pure fascination. He doesn't seem distracted at the slightest, too.

"At that shooting range…" Slowly, he pulls down the straps of her bra, before unclasping it with suspicious ease. "I imagined you'd straddle my face and tell me to eat you out." He lowers his head to graze his teeth over her earlobe. He imagined? Impressive case of divided attention. She wants to laugh at the stereotypical dominatrix image everyone's seemed to have of her. "That would be hot, no denial," he circles the rim of her earlobe with his tongue. Bastard obviously knows full well how to operate a woman and even the toughest of them, like Sam, respond well to spoken word.

"But you know what I wanted to do?" He cups her bared breasts in both palms and squeezes them together. "I wanted to cut that camo shirt open and fuck your tits."

"I'm not saying it's granted," she smirks. "But if you know how to get it, you will."

One expert push of her arm and she has him stumble backwards into a chair across the cabin and follows him into it. This is going to be a battle of commands, she thinks. She's as not used to play the submissive part as she wants him to show some character. For now, he complies and lets her bestride his lap.

"Suck them," she instructs in a firm tone.

"Making demands, huh?"

He goes for one breast first, kneading the other in his hand; he's obviously a boob man, going by his eagerness to obey. Hers aren't big, but at her age it's a plus and she also knows men don't really care for size being presented with a willing pair. His mouth is hot and wet and he obviously knows what he's doing when he sucks in a nipple, hard. Her hips grind into his instinctively, to find some sort of stimulation. Sam sighs in pleasure, pressing on the back of his head, drawing her fingers across his bristly crew cut of dark hair.

"There's something hot in knowing you could snap my neck," he mutters in between tugs on her flesh. His stubble feels exquisite scraping her chest.

"Only if you really screw this up."

He chuckles and lifts his head. The poor fluorescent light gives him a rugged appearance via shadows playing on his face. Looks good on him.

"Let your hair down. Please," he smiles, stressing the word.

So he's going to play a good little sub now? Doesn't really go with what she's seen so far, but she humors him, pulling the elastic off of her ponytail and shaking her head. Wordlessly, he weaves his fingers in her long tresses and before she has time to wonder if he's going to make a corny comment, the fingers clasp and yank. Not painfully, but strong enough for her head to fall back.

"You've been a good teacher, too." He speaks into her exposed throat.

There's nothing she can do – not that she'd want to struggle – but hold on to him when he gets up from the chair gathering her by the ass; as trained for combat zone as she is, she's still much smaller than this strapping man and her schooling paired with his natural streak for dominance is paying off beautifully, as far as she's concerned. The weak structure of the trailer wobbles and squeaks when he throws her on the bed at the back of it.

The sheets smell of him: musky and spicy. He probably sleeps naked here, she thinks, and the mental image turns her on even when that very man in flesh is currently hovering over her. He detangles her legs from around him and pins her arms to the bed by her sides. Her breath comes in heavy, jagged pants as he just holds her there and looks, like she's a feral animal that needs taming. Which, in a way, she guesses she is.

"Stay still," he says and moves back, but only to maneuver her legs so that they're trapped between his. She sighs in frustration looking at that impressive bulge he's seemed to be ignoring. She wants, but is curious to see what he'll do.

He strokes her stomach before unbuttoning her jeans. But they are a snug fit and pulling them down over her hips and thighs is not an easy task and she laughs a little watching him work.

"I could do it myself, you know."

He seems amused when he finally succeeds freeing her legs completely out of the garment, then throws it to the floor. But when he inches up until he's almost lying on top of her, the intensity is back in his eyes.

"My women only undress by themselves when I tell them to."

"Yours, huh?" She passes up on the plural; with a man like him, it's kind of obvious. And she has no intention of ever becoming his, but the possessiveness suits him.

Also… sneaky bastard knows she won't go all feminist on him now that his fingers move closer and closer to where she wants them, stroking the inside of her right thigh, a breath away from the edge of her panties.

"Fuck, you're really wet," he states in a low tone, the discovery clearly arousing. Of course she is; she bucks her hips up for more contact with his fingers that are rubbing her through the soaked fabric. He keeps looking at her face, for some reason, propped on one arm and not trying to get between her legs other than with his hand. A hand that's as much explorative as it is experienced, she concludes, closing her eyes against the delightful sensations. His fingers find their way into her panties and in between her folds, surprisingly – or not so – gentle. She has to grab his wrist to correct the pace, but that is all the tutoring necessary, he obviously knows how to navigate his way around female genitals. His thumb tries a couple of different moves, until he gets a sound from her, and settles on that, his finger probing gently at her entrance. Oh, yes, she likes that; she lets out a lengthy breath and feels two long fingers slide inside her and curl up.

"Oh fuck!" She huffs, arching off the bed. His fingers press inside her rhythmically and his thumb is still on her clit and it feels too damn to good to contemplate why isn't he doing anything else but finger-fuck her. Her hips move on their own accord and it's like she's riding his hand now and who knows if he's still watching her, she's too focused on the build-up inside her. She can feel perspiration on her chest and the slight trembling of her legs -

And then it all stops and his hand is gone. Sam's eyes snap open to find him multitasking between a sly grin and sucking on the pad of his thumb.

"You bastard!"

With dexterity perfected over years of practice, she has him rolled over beneath her and trapped in seconds. The smugness written all over his face is a clear indicator that that's what he wanted, but it only fuels her aggressive, rushed actions. Buckle, belt, zipper - His arms back to where they were, her hair out of her eyes; aha, so he's not wearing any underwear. That's going to give her interesting thoughts on set from now on. She's not even aware that she's licking her lips when her hand dives in and she pulls his cock out. Hard and reddened and heavily veined, just like his arms. And of an impressive overall size.

She wraps her hand around it, experimentally. It's hot to the touch and throbbing with blood, like a creature with its own life. She considers licking it, but the need to have him inside her is stronger. He's lying very still, breathing audibly, probably having decided that messing with a woman who's that determined, capable of physically overpowering him through skill and who's currently handling his dick may be dangerous. Sam has decided that she wants to fuck his BDUs.

She bends over to reach for her jeans, where she packed a couple of condoms in her pocket.

"Good thinking," he notes.

"What, you don't have any?" She wants to roll her eyes as she rolls the latex onto him.

"Suitcase," he chuckles. "It's under the bed."

On an impulse, she moves forward and kisses him, to retrieve the interrupted levels of heat. She can feel his hand on her buttock, not exactly urging, but kind of …reminding. She rubs her still clothed crotch over his cock and makes him groan, the hand cupping her behind clasping the flesh. She reaches between their bodies to free his balls out of his pants – she doesn't mean for him to be that uncomfortable – then shoves the crotch of her panties to the side and grabs his cock to put it in position. There's a mingled Fuck! from both of them when she sinks on top of him, inch by pulsating inch, feeling her walls flutter and stretch.

Sam likes sex. And she likes it with men, so it really isn't about anything she has against them that she likes to control it. But she also likes it when she finds a man, as rare as they are, who fights her for that control, like this one does. He seems okay with her riding him and grinding herself into his pubic bone and gnawing at his arms like she's in a trance, but then he breaks her rhythm by grabbing her by the hips and thrusting into her from beneath. Until she gains an upper hand again and stills his pelvis, like she's breaking in a horse. She likes that. There's animalistic passion in him and coupled with the sensations his cock triggers inside her, she feels wild and spinning out of her beloved control.

She would build up to climax quickly if not for his constant intervals, but she realizes this way they both last. She's all sweaty and so is he. She has no idea how much time passes; in and out, he's giving her hard, measured pushes. And then she rolls her hips against his, the friction rippling through her body in delicious waves.

"Jesus… please!" She pants, desperate to get to the finish line this time. He lets her arms brace themselves against his chest as she finds her pace. And then her limbs shake and quiver and her mouth falls open in a silent moan and if she knew it was going to be one good orgasm, it goes beyond any expectations as her universe shrinks to here and now and the center of her body.

Too overcome by pleasure to care, she lets him flip her to her back and go at her with renewed ferocity. The bed starts squeaking underneath them, or maybe she can only hear it now. She finds that every unforgiving push of his cock is an extension of the blissful sensations and that his weight on top of her and his hot, exhorting breath on her neck feel good to give into. She moves her hand over his sweaty back, tracing the flexing muscles. It's been a while since she was with a man capable of fucking her as much as she's fucked him.

Her hands find his taut buttocks where she sneaks them past the khaki pants that are still only half way down his ass. Those will need dry cleaning, she thinks randomly.

"Show me," she mutters, pushing at his shoulder. "Show me."

She doesn't think he's capable of processing her words right now, or what is he supposed to show her, but he lifts his head and blinks at her, the frown of concentration on his sweat-sprinkled brow. It's his face when he comes that she wants to see, so that'll do.

When he does, she watches in fascination as his eyes shut tight and his neck tenses up while he picks up his already frantic pace only to still seconds later. It's such an erotic sight, it's almost a shame it marks the end of sex. But she's pleasantly exhausted, too, no actual need for seconds just yet.

He takes a moment to calm down his breathing before rolling off of her.

"You give quite a cardio, Captain," he exhales with a light laugh.

"It's Sam," she rolls her eyes.

"Just kidding," he turns his head to look at her. "But the workout's fantastic," he grins.

She shakes her head in exasperation, but smiles. Men. Overgrown kids. "Let's just say it's customized to suit the trainee's stamina."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Maybe." She gets up from the bed and finds her rumpled jeans.

"Hey, where are you going?" She looks over her shoulder; he's still sprawled there, seemingly completely uncaring about his state of undress. To be honest, as hot of a specimen as he is, he looks kind of ridiculous with those pants down to halfway through his thighs and his feet sticking out on the other end in just black socks.

"I need to get some sleep and we both know there wouldn't be much sleeping if I stay," she pulls her jeans on. Her bra, it must be somewhere by the door.

"So sure, huh?" He smirks.

"Positive. I know myself and my appetite," it's her turn to be smug.

"You sure have a lot of restraint," he rolls off the bed too, finally zipping up his ruined BDU's and finding some shoes. He pulls out a new t-shirt from a tiny closet.

"It's necessary," she says, hoping he's not going to act all weird and awkward on her tomorrow on set. No, he should be used to casual hook-ups by the looks of it. "Hey, I need one too!" The t-shirt is freshly washed, but mysteriously so, still smells of him. That's for how long he must have owned it. She wraps herself in the scent that will stand for sex now.

He leans against the counter, thumbs hooked around the belt loops of his pants, and watches her fix her hair before she places her hand on the doorknob.

"Hey," he closes the distance between them and pulls her chin up for a quick peck on the lips. How sweet, a goodnight kiss, she mentally mocks. He looks her face over. "You really are an exceptional woman."

"I know."

And with a polite smile, she's out. Walking straight and composed, and pretty damn pleased with herself. If he's worried about anyone seeing her leaving his trailer or wearing his t-shirt, that will be his problem. Samantha McNeil does not apologize for having sex with whomever she chooses.

THE END

A/N: If you are interested in darker themes and my take on the character of the Alex Cross villain, I posted a story in the books section, here's the link: s/8182633/1/