This is the third time she's fucked Baird since Dom died.
He's beneath her, head slotted between her thighs with a large, calloused hand pressed to her lower abdomen, and all she can think about is how comforting the act is. Yeah, she thinks, this is comfort. Nothing more, nothing less. His mouth and hands are spanning across her tanned skin, and she arches her back a little too theatrically, so much so that she rolls her eyes at her own actions.
His weight is heavy, stretched over her, positioned against her, and she presses her lips to his. She tastes both him and herself, and his hips are sliding against hers, coaxing her into letting her thighs fall back against the mattress. When he's at her neck, all tongue and teeth, she thinks of Clayton, naïve, loud-mouthed Clayton, mourning the loss of an entire family, suppressing that misery with a cheesy joke because it's all he knows how to do.
She hears him groan low and deep, and she grips blond strands between her fingertips as he quickens his pace. Sam thinks of Marcus and Anya, tight-lipped with their melancholy demeanors, clutching one another in silence behind their closed door, because maybe there's some comfort in that, after all. Not that she would know. Comfort is useless anyway, she tells herself.
His palm brushes over her breast and he flips them over, shifts her so that she's on top, settled on his hips and bouncing as quickly as she possibly can. Head tilted back and eyes focused on the ceiling, she thinks of Dom, imagines that perhaps he's reunited with Maria somewhere and not the viscera splattered all over Mercy.
Baird gasps her name, bucks his hips, and she feels tension accumulating inside of her. She knows what's coming, leaning forward to rest her palms on his shoulders as she rocks back and forth. His name escapes her lips in a whimper, and she bites her lower lip, grabbing fistfuls of the bed sheet as she clenches down on him so tightly that his vision temporarily goes black.
When she collects herself and lifts her head from his chest, she notices their panting is synchronized. They're both so broken, she realizes, and glances down to find that they are still connected. Biting her lower lip, she leans back down, resting her head against his shoulder as she listens to the sound of his heartbeat that matches her own.
Maybe this closeness would be enough to stitch them back together, their low moans and rapid heartbeats forming the thread to bring their ends together.
Or, she thinks, perhaps it would be enough to repair them all.
