Jessica never waits to be announced or asks to be invited. She just barges in to Hogarth's office, because, well, she can and she likes to piss off Pam. So much. She's noticed that Pam wields a lot of power around the office—gets away with not even trying to stop Jessica anymore, like everyone's just so tired of trying that they've all agreed to just put up with it. Gets away with wearing those increasingly pretty, pliable, patterned dresses that button All The Way Up. Carelessly unbuttoned the further down one looks.
Jessica likes to barge in, but she can also be surprising quiet when she wants to. She's been observing the hours that Hogarth and her secretary keep. They're increasingly very late, very alone and, very intimate. Pam keeps telling Hogarth that she can't and she wants to but she shouldn't and she needs to wait.
And she's noticed that Pam says these things in an especially compelling way when Hogarth's fingers are knuckle deep inside her. But only that much. When Hogarth leans in, breath shallow wanting more, more, anything more— lips, tits, ass, clit—it's then that Pam simply slips away, pulling off her boss's sex-slicked hand, reaching out to steady herself against Hogarth's chest, even as she's pushing away. Says she can't, she mustn't, she wants to—she does—but they have to wait, and retreats in a swirl of hips and smooth fabric that wrinkles don't stand a chance in—by the time she's made it to the elevator, Pam is perfect. Hogarth isn't. But she's efficient, precise. Within moments, all is back in order. There's nothing to show.
Jessica especially likes this unbalanced Hogarth: so serene on the outside, so tumultuous within. Where others only see cool, contained, Unflappable Hogarth who retreats into restraint and droll urbanity the more Jessica needles her—well, Jessica senses the danger lurking there. Putting up walls and hiding behind a façade are things that Jessica is especially good at herself. So the dryer and more bored Hogarth sounds, the more she knows she's gotten to her. It feels great. It's about the only time she does feel great anymore: when she's making someone else feel worse.
Tonight Jessica feels mean, feels like taking risks. Trish is still pushing the Hero Thing, she still sees Jessica as this best version of herself, like she's some kind of rare and beautiful jewel—and it isn't true. She's busted, all sharp cuts, flaws and jagged edges and so damn angry all the time and she doesn't want to care. But she can't help wanting to make Trish proud. She wants Trish to look at her the way she already does—and Jessica wants to feel, really feel like she deserves it. But she is so, so exhausted. And so, so drunk. She'd cut back, except it's what everyone wants her to do. Shit, it's what she wants to do. So she won't.
She intends to barge into Hogarth's office, again, and pick a fight with the shark, bitch that she is. She can't wait. She can channel the anger, burn off some aggression by hassling the lawyer and if she's persuasive (or irritating) enough, maybe she can also pick up a little extra work. She needs booze money, distraction and maybe she can beat the hell up on the city's sleazy side as a bonus. If she's lucky, it might fight back. What she wouldn't give to have her body feel as damaged as her thoughts.
She's poised at Hogarth's door, ready to bust in and ruck up the woman's territory, when she realizes the door's not quite shut and there's an unmistakable moan of desire coming from deep within the office. She freezes, catches her breath and peers in, eyes adjusting to the darkened interior. She sees outlines first, reflected in an eerie blue glow from Hogarth's monitor, then details. Pam, on the desk: Hogarth seated, leaning forward. Jessica would swear on every bible Pam's ever held that Hogarth isn't capable of looking so…desperate, but there it is: her face open, her pale eyes practically begging. And Pam, undulating softly against Hogarth—who's arm is hidden by one of Pam's long, long legs. But the rhythm is clear, the way she's holding on to Hogarth's shoulder, the way her hips are canting up, the way Hogarth's lips are parted, her breath ragged, her brow furrowed. And then suddenly Pam freezes. She's gathering up her skirt, smoothing it down, grabbing her purse, leaving. Jessica barely has time to spin and flatten herself against the wall before Pam strides out, never looking back, headed for the elevator.
It's a beat, then two, before Jessica dares to peel herself from the wall. Her heart is pounding, she finds she's been holding her breath, gulps a lungful and before she knows it she's pushed through Hogarth's door and is just standing there, staring.
Hogarth hasn't moved. She's staring right back at Jessica, but her cool, clear eyes look right through her. She could be a ghost, she could be a marble statue. She still hasn't moved and if she's at all surprised that Pam's gone and Jessica isn't, it doesn't show.
Of course it doesn't.
Jessica makes the first move. She doesn't know what compels her. She doesn't know, she doesn't think, she just does. Her head's been swimming for months and anymore she just goes with where her body leads her. Usually it's toward oblivion and punishment and that feels about right, about now. She's headed for Hogarth. Hogarth who is only now beginning to shift her focus away from Pam/Jessica/the door and toward the fingers of her hand that still freshly glint in the low light from her desk. She frowns at them, betrayal. She frowns at Jessica, intrusion. She moves slowly, as though in a dream, she means to rise—
But suddenly there's Jessica, grabbing her wrist, trapping her hand, pushing her backward, back down. Hogarth wants to feel anger, she should feel shock, but all she feels is the hot, wet heat of Jessica as she sucks on her fingers hard, pulling them deep into her mouth, her tongue scraping along each digit like her life depends on it. Hogarth hears a sound, a deep guttural keening. It's electrifying and then she realizes it's coming from her own throat—and she can't stop. She tangles her hand in the younger woman's hair, grabs a fistful. She knows it has to hurt, but Jessica doesn't even react and then, as quickly as it started, it stops. Jessica's face hovers mere inches away, lips red, teeth white, eyes so, so dark. She gasps as Jessica tilts her head, lightly blows cool breath across her wet fingers. Hogarth knows Jessica reads her, knows what she wants—is going to give it to her, but is going to make her ask. She presses her lips together, closes her yes. She won't say it, she won't—
"Jeri," Her name growled like it hurts, like it's desperate, but like it matters.
"Yes," breaths Hogarth. "Yes."
And then she's violently kissing Pam off of Jessica, bruising her lips, tongue, sucking it, savoring the taste, trying to capture it, catalog it, memorize it from this awful, brilliant, disaster of a P.I. She's going to take and taste of much of Pam as she can before it fades, before she's only left fucking Jessica Jones' mouth. Before both of them wear themselves out, crashing against each other.
If there's any regret there at all, it doesn't show.