ClinicallyClimax

His shoulder brushes your knee every time he shifts.

You get to the part about the venom dosage and your voice drops even lower, automatic, like you’re afraid of disturbing the silence.

He turns fully toward you then. Leans in. His face is suddenly inches from yours—ear tilted toward your mouth so he can catch every murmured word. His hair brushes your cheek. You smell cedar and coffee and the faint trace of gun oil on his skin.

Your sentence dies halfway.

“…and the—the antidote needs to uhm be administered within—” You swallow. Blink fast. Eyes flick to his mouth, then the bookshelf behind him, then the ceiling. Anywhere but the warm hazel staring at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Within, um. Forty minutes.”

Sam doesn’t move back. Just stays there, patient, waiting for the rest.

You try again. “It—it has to be—” Your voice cracks. Tiny. Barely audible.

He smiles—small, soft, the kind that makes your stomach flip—and murmurs, “You can talk quieter. I’ll hear you.”

That’s the problem. You know he will.

You nod jerkily. Finish the sentence in fragments. He nods along, serious, focused, like this is normal. Like leaning in so close your breaths mingle is just practical.

It’s not practical.

It’s devastating.

Later—hours later, after the hunt’s done, after showers and takeout and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes everything feel slow—the motel room is dark except for the bathroom light you left on. One bed. Always one bed lately.

You’re already under the covers when Sam climbs in behind you. Big spoon by default. His chest presses to your back, arm sliding around your waist, hand splaying wide over your stomach.

He kisses the nape of your neck. Soft. Once. Then again.

You shiver.

“Still thinking about that djinn?” he asks, voice low against your ear.

You shake your head. Barely.

“Good.” His hand drifts lower. Slips under the hem of your sleep shirt. Fingers trace lazy circles over your hipbone. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your breath hitches—quiet, but he hears it.

He always hears.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers.

You bite your lip. Shake your head again.

Sam chuckles—soft, fond. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

His fingers dip between your thighs. Find you already wet. He groans against your shoulder. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You whimper—tiny, almost silent.

He circles your clit slow. Teasing. “Use your words. Tell me.”

“I—” Your voice is threadbare. “Want… you.”

“Louder.”

You try. “Want you inside me.”

He rewards you—slides one finger in, then two. Crooks them just right. You arch, mouth open on a soundless gasp.

“More,” he coaxes. “Let me hear you.”

You shake your head—habit. Too shy. Too much.

Sam pulls his fingers out. You whine—small, pitiful.

He rolls you onto your back. Settles between your thighs. Big hands push your knees wide. He’s already hard, heavy against your stomach. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Eyes flicking to his, then away.

He notches himself at your entrance. Doesn’t push in yet.

“Say my name.”

“Sam…”

“Louder.”

“Sam.”

He sinks in—slow, inch by inch, stretching you open. Your head tips back. Mouth falls open. No sound.

He bottoms out. Stays there. Lets you feel every thick inch. “Tell me how it feels.”

You swallow. Try. “Full.”

“Not enough.” He rolls his hips—just enough to drag against that spot. “Tell me.”

You gasp. “So full—Sam—please—”

“Please what?”

“Move.”

He does. Slow, deep thrusts that make the bed creak softly. Every time he bottoms out you make a tiny, choked sound—barely there.

He leans down. Lips at your ear again—just like in the library. “Louder, baby. I want to hear every little noise you make when I’m fucking you.”

Your hands fly to his shoulders. Nails digging in. He picks up the pace. Deeper. Harder. Precise. You’re trembling now. Trying to stay quiet. Failing.

A real moan slips out—high, broken.

“There it is,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”

He hooks one of your legs over his elbow. Changes the angle. Hits deeper.

You cry out—sharp, surprised.

He groans. “Fuck yes. Again.”

You can’t stop now. Every thrust pulls another sound from you—whimpers, gasps, his name over and over, getting louder each time. “Sam—Sam—oh god—”

He kisses you—messy, deep—swallowing the noises. Then pulls back. “Let me hear. Don’t hide.”

You don’t. Can’t.

The sounds spill out—desperate, wrecked. “Please—harder—Sam—don’t stop—”

He gives you what you need. Pounds into you. Hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

You’re loud now. Unrecognizable. Moaning his name like a chant. Begging. Crying out when he hits that spot again and again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me hear you come.”

You shatter.

Back arching. Thighs shaking. A long, broken cry ripping out of you—his name, garbled, loud enough the walls probably hear it. He follows right after—deep, grinding thrusts as he spills inside you, groaning low against your throat.

You’re both panting. Shaking.

He doesn’t pull out yet. Just stays buried, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “So fucking good for me.”

You’re still trembling. You hide your face in his neck. Embarrassed. Pleased.

He chuckles. Soft. Wraps both arms around you.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I’m leaning in close again. Just to hear you try to talk.”

You groan—half mortified, half already aching at the thought.

He kisses the top of your head. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”

You don’t answer.

You just hold him tighter.

And hope he never stops making you break the quiet.