Learning From Experience

"You finishing up for the night?" Jack asked. Claire looked up from the papers she was putting in her briefcase.

"Yeah, I think so – unless?" She made a gesture meant to encompass the whole range of tasks the EADA might have for an ADA at 8 pm on a Tuesday night.

"No," Jack said. "Go on. See you tomorrow."

He could have stepped forward, out of the doorframe. He could have stepped back. He did neither. Claire turned sideways to slide past him through the door and for a second Jack felt her breath on his cheek, the heat of her body through his shirt, her hair brush his shoulder. He took an involuntary sharp breath, tasting the subtle intoxicating scent of her perfume.

Jack felt as if he had been plunged in fire, as if he'd run up a flight of stairs, heart pounding, struggling for breath, knees weak. His mind went blank of everything except how close Claire Kincaid stood to him, how pale her skin was, the shadows of fatigue under her eyes and how much he wanted to smooth them away.

Claire looked up and met his gaze, steadied herself with a hand on his arm, and was past him and heading down the hall before he could be sure he'd seen the colour rising in her cheeks, her eyes darkening.

"Night, Jack," she said, walking quickly away.

Even after he heard her get in the elevator and go he couldn't move. His arm burned where she had touched it. He replayed the moment, only this time it ended with him taking her in his arms, hand flat on the small of her back, bending his head to touch the smooth column of her neck with his lips…

It was harmless fun, a casual flirtation. That was what he told himself. Claire was so much less worldly than she liked to think she was – Jack found the temptation to tease her almost irresistible. And she was attractive, hell, gorgeous.

But he had learnt his lesson. Third time the charm. He had made that mistake three times, he wouldn't make it again.

It was no more than a harmless flirtation, a little fun.

Jack leaned against the doorframe and shook his head. Liar.


This short. Short enough? she'd asked, and he'd stared transfixed at the hem of her skirt, and the edge of lace he could see beneath it. If he slid his hand up her skirt he would feel that lace on the stocking and then beyond it skin, smooth and soft. Short enough? His mouth was too dry to speak.


Try it, she said. Coward! Here. She held out the smoked eel in her chopsticks, laughing. McCoy felt the imp of mischief, leaned forward, holding her gaze. Deliberately, he opened his mouth, took the eel right off her chopsticks, slowly, watching her eyes darken, watching the flush rise in her cheeks. I could have you for the asking, he thought, amused at his power, and then the amusement vanished in a rush of raw desire at the idea of having her, for the asking, for the begging, there in the office, tender or forceful, however she wanted – Jack looked down and turned away before she realised that she too could have him for the asking.


Liar, Jack thought, and Fool.

How many times do you have to make the same mistake?