27
"What did you want to tell me before?" Sam asks. She smiles. "Was it that you love me?" It is over an hour later, and they have eaten some of Jack's delicious stew and cuddled some more—this is getting decadent! she thinks happily—and are relaxing naked (almost dissolute!) on the couch, under a light blanket. Jack is stretched out, with pillows behind him, and Sam is lying beside him, pillowed comfortably on his chest. The only light in the room is the flickering of the fire, and a faint glow from a small bulb in the kitchen. She reaches up and nuzzles his jaw as she is talking.
He bends his head, searching for her mouth, and kisses her softly, and for so long that she begins to lose her concentration, and is really not much interested in the answer to her question any more. When the kiss ends she settles in deeper under his chin, and rubs her cheek against his chest. When he speaks it takes her a moment to connect the dots in her mind.
"Well, what I wanted to say wasn't exactly that—I mean, 'course I wanted to say that, I've wanted to say it for years, but not just then because I thought it wasn't the time, but I guess it really was, wasn't it, because I did, and I'm glad, and 'specially 'cause you said it, 'cause if I'd tried to plan that out I'd've prob'ly botched it up every which way..."
"Okaaay…" she says, trying to work out where the subject and verb in that sentence are hiding, and wondering just how drunk he is. "Just how much of that whiskey have you had?" she finally asks.
"What? Oh, enough… uh, not since we ate. I'm not sober, I know… But tha's your fault!"
She pulls back and looks at him. "Exactly how is that my fault? Sir!"
"It's your fault 'cause you got me drunk on love." He gives her a lopsided grin. "And that's Sir Jack t'you!" Then he laughs at her expression and raises himself on one elbow above her and leans down and kisses her until she is breathless and making those tiny little sounds in her throat that he loves so much.
Avoiding, she thinks through the flood of sensations; he's avoiding the question. Typical Jack. He always avoids what he really doesn't want to talk about. Always has a distraction in reserve to bring up—oh, and this is one heck of a distraction, she admits, as he deepens the kiss and brings his tongue into play; she's not able to think much further as he strokes a hand up from her hip across her bare belly and cups her breast, rolling the nipple gently between thumb and finger. She may never find out what it was he wanted to say and right at the moment she doesn't care, but only wants what he seems perfectly willing to give.
The kiss goes on and on, and she feels herself sinking helplessly deeper and deeper under the spell of excitement that it brings. Jack presses her nipple more firmly, causing sharp frissons of pleasure to shoot through her body, deep into her core, and she groans against his mouth, opening her lips wider to accept his kiss more deeply. His own growl answers hers, as he releases her breast and, shoving the blanket aside, slides his hand down to stroke her belly, slowly, sensuously, and he moves his mouth across her cheek and down to her throat, leaving a trail of sweet kisses in its wake.
Her hands are spread against his chest, against the coarse hair and hard muscles, against the erect nipples; her stroking fingers bring a grunt from his throat. He pushes her hand aside so he can bury his face between her breasts, kissing and tasting his way to first one inviting bud and then the other. He feels her trembling, groaning jerkily, as he takes his time savoring the flavor of her skin, licking and sucking until she is straining toward him, and saying his name over and over.
He slides his hand slowly down her belly, over her hip, and grasps the curve of her buttock, enjoying the perfect shape of it, pulling her closer. His hand slips along her thigh, finding the soft inner flesh, exploring, kneading and stroking sweet sensitive nerve endings until she is panting and begging. "Jack—please! ...please!"
The length of his erection is pressing firmly against her thigh, and she pushes her hand in between their bodies and closes her fingers around him, feels the hardening and faint throb that tells her he is almost at the limit of control. The excitement translates up her arm and suffuses her entire body, and she knows she has nowhere else to go, but up... "Now Jack! Now now now now..." as she strokes him firmly. He pulls her leg across his hip and slides into her welcoming warmth, fast and hard, again and again...
The torrential surge of pleasure obliterates his thoughts and senses; somewhere in the distance he hears her shriek of release; and the repercussions go on and on, until they vanish into the darkness.
xxx
He awakens slowly, stiffly. His back is crammed against the back of the couch, and Carter is attached to his front like a barnacle. By the feel of air on the parts of him that are exposed, he can tell that the room has grown chilly. The fire has died down to a glow, and through the window he can see that the moon has climbed much higher in the sky, telling him it is around midnight. The fact that he actually sees two moons tells him that he is still somewhat drunk. Well, he did enjoy quite a lot of that excellent whiskey! And he's happy to note that he does not feel any other unpleasant physiological effects of the alcohol. He is usually able to throw off such side-effects quickly anyway, but if you're gonna drink, drink the best!
He's pretty comfortable the way he is, but he thinks Sam must be cold with her entire back—(and back-side; he is momentarily distracted thinking about Sam's...hmmm!)—exposed like that. So he decides he really should make an effort to find the blanket and maybe build up the fire, or even get them into the bedroom, where they can both be warm. He tries for a few minutes to unglue her skin from his, but each time he frees a few square inches, she shifts and mutters and tightens her grip. After a while, he's tempted to abandon the effort, but when he touches her back, he finds it is really quite chilled. So he decides to try a new tack; wrapping his arms around her, he shifts and twists so she is on top of him, and then rolls her over to the inside of the couch, where she nestles down into the warm place that he just left. This, of course, leaves his own rear exposed to the chill, but also makes it possible for him to get up to find blankets and rekindle the fire.
When he attempts to rise to do these things, however, Sam's arms clamp tightly around his torso, and a tiny sound, like a chuckle, emerges from her throat. "That was a nice maneuver," she says, wrapping a leg around his hips. "I liked that."
"You stinker," Jack grouses, smiling. "You've been awake the whole time."
"Mmmm... Pretty much," she admits, rubbing her thigh up and down his lower belly—causing something else to happen.
His is shocked that he has enough energy left to react, but within a few moments he is no longer feeling the cold. This time it is slow and sweet and easy. He can see her face in the moonlight, and he watches her expression change, her lips fall open and her eyes lose focus, and he is content to take his pleasure from seeing hers.
Afterward she is limp and relaxed and makes no protest when he rises, finds the blanket on the floor and tucks it around her.
"Come back soon," she murmurs.
"As soon as I get the fire going again," he promises.
By the time he does that, and retrieves more blankets from the bedroom, she is asleep, but she cuddles into his embrace when he lies back down. He kisses her cheek softly. "God! I love you," he whispers softly, and within a few minutes, he also drifts off to sleep.