A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.

You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that. 

Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.

Wait. 

Alone.

Where is your boyfriend?

You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.

You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”

You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass. 

Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.

Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?

But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.

He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.

Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.

That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.

Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you? 

Oh, you could take his house tour.

Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.

“Why haven't we fucked?”

You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.

“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.

You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.

You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.

“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.

“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back. 

You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.” 

His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”

“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin. 

Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”

You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”

You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”

“Thought or hoped?”

“Desperately wished you would.”

The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.

You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.

He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.

“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”

“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.

The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”

Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”

Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you. 

“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”

“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”

“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.

“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.

As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.

“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes. 

“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”

“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”

His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.

“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men. 

Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.

“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.

“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.

“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?

Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.

Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.

Oh, he's taken over you.

“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.

“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”

Well, if he puts it like that.

You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.

You're in freefall.

He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”

You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”

“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.

You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm. 

“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses. 

“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”

“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”

“Jack…” you softly whine. 

“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”

Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?

“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

A long suffering sigh from him.

“Okay, princess.”

7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.

You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”

Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.

You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.

“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”

“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.

You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.

It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.

His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.

“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly. 

You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.

“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.

“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed. 

“Rude. But…do you remember?”

“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.

“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.

“Eyes on me, honey.”

You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.

“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”

“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”

“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”

You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”

You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.

“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”

Your cheeks burn.

“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”

You gulp.

Or, what?

You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.

Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”

His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”

He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.

“Tell me,” he softly commands.

“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.

Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”

And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.

Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.

“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.

You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.

“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.

“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”

The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.

“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.

“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.

“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”

“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”

Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.

“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”

“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.

“Really? Feels like you should be.”

You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky. 

A pause.

“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.

He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.

His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique. 

When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.

“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.

“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.

“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”

“Trying new things.”

“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.

The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”

“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.

“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.

“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.

“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”

But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over. 

You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.

“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”

“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.

“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.

Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”

You nod.

“Words. Big girl words.”

“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”

“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”

“Uh, no,” you dictate.

“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”

You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.

Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”

Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress.  A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”

You nod. 

Jack arches a brow.

“Still green. Now what?” 

“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.

“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”

“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.

“You're about to know why.”

He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.

“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.

His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.

“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.

His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.

He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.

His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache. 

His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.

“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.

Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”

You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.

“I asked if you trust me, honey.”

The excitement wins.

“Yes, please, take it off.”

“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”

Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.

Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.

“Green?”

“Green.”

“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.

Oh, this is what it feels like.

“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.

“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.

He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”

Without thinking, you oblige.

“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”

You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”

With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.

He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.

“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”

You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”

Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.

“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.

He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”

“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.

“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”

Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.

He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.

He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”

His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.

“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”

“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.

“Where, baby? I don't understand."

“Between my legs, Jack.”

“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”

The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”

Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”

“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”

The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.

God, you want to do that for him.

“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”

You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”

“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.

He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.

He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.

“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.

“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”

“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”

“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.

Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.

“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”

“You should find out.”

“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.

You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.

“Jack…”

Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man. 

“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”

For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.

You wonder if he's in freefall too.

“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh. 

The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”

“Watch what?”

“You fucking yourself on my face.”

Oh, he's good.

Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.

You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material. 

“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion. 

For the first time, you don’t lock up. 

“Yes, please.”

He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.

“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”

You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.

“I didn't really think of shavin —”

“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”

It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”

He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.

“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt. 

“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”

“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”

“Stop kidding around, oh my —”

Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.

“— God…”

“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”

His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”

“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.

Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.

Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”

His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more. 

“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”

Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive. 

“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.

He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.

Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.

“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.

Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.

“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”

Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.

Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air. 

You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.

“Jack, I'm so —”

“Happy?”

“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.

“Do you wanna come on my face?”

You can only cry out in response.

“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1

The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.

“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.

You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.

His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.

Wait, is he saying something?

You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.

You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.

You nod, “but in a good way.”

He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.

“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”

You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.

He smells like you.

He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.

He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.

“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches —  a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.” 

He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth. 

“Jack, get under the covers with me.”

“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”

Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”

“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”

“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”

“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.

Oh.

Shit.

This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.

Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.

He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.

“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”

“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”

“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”

“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”

You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”

“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.

However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.

“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.

“Everything was perfect.”

“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”

“How the hell do you know what that is?”

He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”

“More next time.”

He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.

“Names? The praise work for you?”

“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”

Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”

“Maybe…”

“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.

“Hey.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Your initials are J.A.”

“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”

“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.

“Think I heard you the first time.”

“You're a Jackass.”

“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”

“My Jackass.”

Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.

“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.

Your giggle.

Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.

When you bring Samira her forgotten badge, you clip it on for her and smooth your hands over her scrub top. Your fingers linger as you breathe out “there. Now you’re perfect.” 

Or especially when one of those weird overlaps where Samira and Jack are given a patient together. He’s showing her how to do an incision and drainage in a spot she’s never seen before. The embarrassment of admitting she doesn’t know how is quickly replaced by a flutter in her stomach where Jack stands close behind her. His big hand envelopes her as they begin to make the incision. 

Or when a patient lunges at you during night shift. There’s no injury but your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of you. Once the patient is taken care of, Jack takes you to an empty call room and insists he does a full check-up. 

Like stated, charged situations that were disrupting the harmony of it all. 

And something was bound to snap. 

A scheduled coworker outing mixed with copious amounts of alcohol was basically a recipe for a disaster. 

You pregamed with Samira and Santos. It was fun and flirty and once Santos pulled out the tequila for shots, you knew you were fucked. 

Samira was all dolled up, curly hair pooled around her shoulders, and dressed in a top that was flowy enough to expose the maroon lingerie underneath. 

It didn’t help that Samira kept checking in the whole time. She would rest her hand on top of yours and push out her bottom lip to ask “You okay?” 

Yeah. You were okay. Except you trying to hide the wetness pooling in your blue lacy panties that you picked specifically to wear out tonight. 

The bar is crowded when you arrive. Santos disappears almost immediately leaving you and Samira to battle the sea of people. You reach to lace your hands together, effectively gluing you together. And then you squeeze, just slightly to make sure she’s still with you. She squeezes back. 

Strike one.

The various members of PTMC were scattered across the bar. You already said hi to a couple unfamiliar faces before spotting your exact target. 

Jack has positioned himself in one of the booths while he nurses a beer. He has one of his plain black shirts on that you swear he buys in a size too small. 

Samira leans down close to your ear. “Mind if I split off? Wanna say hi to Clem from pedes.”

You nod. “Come back to us.”

“Always will.”

You cross the bar before sliding into the booth next to Jack, knees bumping against his but make no effort to move. 

“Hi Jack!” you giggle. 

“Woah sweetheart. You drink before this?”Jack places a hand on your knee to settle you. 

You nod. “Sami and Trin and I did shots. Didn’t know the vibe. You know you gotta drink sometimes to make it through these things.”

Fuck, you’re drunk rambling. 

“You want something else? I’m buying,” Jack offers. “For you and Samira.”

Oh. 

“Drinks on Dr. Abbot tonight?”

Jack leans down to whisper in your ear. “Only for my favorite girls.”

Strike two.

Warmth climbed up your neck and reached your face in one rush. Favorite girls. 

“What’re you gonna drink?” 

“Maybe a tequila and soda?” you offer sheepishly. 

Jack shakes his head with a smile, patting his hand on your knee twice before sliding away. 

“With lime!” you call out. 

Jack returns with your drink. His hand instinctively finds itself back on your leg. 

It’s a blur after that of people who stop by to say hello or chat for a bit. Dana brings you another drink and Whitaker and Santos sit to talk about the insanity of the earlier day shift. HIPAA approved, of course. 

A bit into the conversation, you made the move to interlock your fingers with Jack’s under the table. 

Innocent enough. 

You're giggly, flushed, and holding hands with Jack. What else could you want? Well, there is one thing. 

Samira floats through the room, somehow making the dive bar glow with her presence. Your silent prayers are answered when she makes a turn towards your table. 

“Was wondering when you’d show up Samira,” Jack huffs out. 

Samira rolls her eyes. “I’m being social, Dr. Abbot. Wasn’t that what we talked about?”

“I can maybe recall that information.”

“Besides,” Samira starts. “Heard drinks were on you tonight.”

You press your lips together to hide your smile. “Said he was only buying for his favorite girls.”

Busted. 

“Dr. Abbot,” Samira gasps. “I thought attendings weren’t supposed to have favorites?”

Jack leans forward. “Only on the clock.”

You feel Jack’s hand tighten in your grip, a tell-tale sign of the effect her words are having on him.

“Mind if I steal your girl?” Samira inquired. 

There it is again. A possessive little word. Hers.

Jack puts both his hands up as you blush. 

“You wanna dance?” Samira inquires. 

You nod eagerly. “Why not?”

Samira grins and reaches down to tug your hand away from Jack’s. “Sorry Dr. Abbot.” 

Once you get to the dance floor, Samira’s hands rest gently on your hips, fingers fully splayed against your ass. 

“This okay?” Samira murmurs. 

You press your body to hers. There’s a lot of places you want to touch her but unfortunately the resident got her first pick. You lace your hands around her neck. 

Your eyes haven’t left hers. She’s impossible to read. You hope you aren’t making a fool of yourself with how needy, how desperate you’re feeling. 

Thankfully the bar is crowded enough that the entirety of PTMC doesn’t have their eyes on you.  

Samira glances down at your lips. Your gloss has faded as the night went on. 

You twist your fingers around the curls at the nape of Samira’s neck. She was intoxicating. 

“You look so beautiful tonight,” Samira finally speaks. 

You blush, head falling to hide the flush in your cheeks. It doesn’t help that the alcohol already has casted a rosy hue over your skin. 

“Stop,” you giggle. “Making me wanna kiss ya.”

The confession spills out easily from your lips. 

Samira squeezes your hips almost instinctively. “Do it.”

Strike three. 

Jack still sits in one of the booths, now half listening to Santos argue with Whitaker and Robby about something unimportant. 

But his eyes remain locked in the center of the room where through the sea of people, he can spot Samira pressed up against you. 

To his shock, Jack watches as you surge forward to kiss Samira hard. 

Her heart is beating out of her chest. She’s finally kissing you, soft lips messily and hungrily slotting against hers.  

It couldn’t have been more than five seconds the two of you were kissing but the damage was done. His face heated the second the two of you touched. 

Samira leans down to whisper something in your ear before two heads promptly turn and meet the eyes of the already staring attending. 

Uh oh. Busted. 

Jack can’t remove his gaze. He feels like a pervert for getting half-hard from watching you two kiss. An otherwise private moment. 

Samira brings a finger up to wipe the corner of her mouth, her look as intense as when she takes lead on a trauma. 

And you? You wink at Jack. 

For a second, the tension stretches tight across the space between you, heavy with the weight of being caught in the act. But instead of pulling away, the thrill of his undivided attention only feeds the fire.

You break the heavy silence with a soft laugh, untangling yourself from the intimate hold to close the physical distance between the three of you before the spell can break.

Samira slides in the booth, hand tugging yours to follow in after. 

Jack greets you both right away. He clicks his tongue. “You ladies have fun?”

The resident beside you leans forward to fix something on Jack’s shirt, her fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of his chest. 

“We were actually thinking about heading out,” Samira murmurs. 

You loll your head off or hers to meet Jack with a look that is already driving him crazy. 

“You coming?” 

Jack’s jaw clenches. “You sure?”

You shoot him a coy smile. “Positive.”

An irish goodbye is silently decided. People have been slipping in and out of the bar all night. Besides, the three of you getting caught leaving together was bound to spark some questions. 

The second the first breeze blows outside, you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you forgot a jacket. 

Your personal space is enveloped by the attending. His fingers run over the cold bumps on your arms. Jack drapes his big jacket over your shoulders. 

“Coulda told you it’d be cold,” he states. 

You purse your lips. 

“Jack,” you whine. “Jackie.”

Samira’s off to the side, holding Jack’s phone as she handles booking the ride home. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You lean out to reach for his hand. “Will ya kiss me? Been thinking about it alllllllll night.”

“You seemed to have plenty of fun on the dance floor,” Jack chirps back. 

Your face flushes. “Just wanna kiss you.”

The older man takes his face in your hands, thumb swiping across the top of your cheek where some of your mascara has started to run. 

“Not here baby,” Jack starts. “Wanna kiss you properly at home.”

You deflate as you drunkenly pout. “Not even a little something to hold me over?” 

“Don’t be a brat,” Samira interjects. “Uber will be here in five minutes.”

It had been a mutual agreement to go to Jack’s place. No roommates, big space, big bed. All you needed. 

The uber might be Jack’s own personal hell. 

In a desperate attempt to reduce awkwardness, Jack opens the back door for you and Samira. He himself takes the passenger seat. 

As Jack makes small talk, you can’t help yourself. It’s dark, you're buzzed, and the mere thought about the situation you found yourself in was really getting you going.

Jack hears the shuffling in the backseat as you slide over to the middle seat. Naively, he thinks it might just be the fact that you classify yourself as a clingy drunk. 

That thought goes right out the window as he watches your nails ghost over Samira’s leg. 

“Sami,” you whisper. 

The resident grabs your hand before you can move it any closer to her danger zone. 

“You’re a problem, you know that?” 

You grin. “You gonna punish me?”

“Careful,” she clicks her tongue. 

As if sensing what you need, Samira’s lips attach to your neck. Your fingers interlock with hers as she works her away up your jawline until she finally finds the spot that makes your breath hitch. Bingo. 

She stays there the remainder of the ride, kissing and sucking and grinning as she watches you writhe. 

“Ladies,” Jack interjects. “We’re here.”

There’s a charged energy as you and Samira stumble into Jack’s place. He silently leads you both through the house until you finally reach the main bedroom. 

It’s silent for a moment. You had done all the foreplay and flirting to get here, now someone has to act. 

“Time for that kiss Jackie?”

“Told ya she’s greedy,” Samira hums.

Jack takes one big stride before grabbing your face between his big hands. He finally presses his lips to yours, setting a slow passionate rhythm. He was savoring this. 

Samira slinks up behind you, stomach pressed to your back as her hands roam your body.

It’s a mutual agreement that you’re all wearing too many clothes. 

Jack breaks the kiss to reach for the hem of your shirt. He pulls it off quickly, a groan leaving both his and Samira’s mouth at the sight of you. You want to flush with embarrassment at being undressed but then their hands are back on you grabbing and squeezing and kissing.

“So beautiful,” Jack muses, hand coming up to cup your breasts that are already spilling over your bra.

Jack’s thumb brushes over your nipple through the lace, his heat grounding you even as your mind starts to spin. Across from you, Samira catches your gaze, her breaths coming just as short, her eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors your own. The weight of both of them pressing into you is almost overwhelming, desperate desire takes over.

Leaning back from Jack’s touch with a breathless murmur, you slide off the edge of the cushions, dropping to the floor between them.

You're on your knees, slowly pulling Samira’s jeans down her hips to expose the most gorgeous set of panties you might have ever seen. It’s impossible to resist. 

You kiss her everywhere: thighs, stomach, hips.

“God Sami,” you groan. “So fucking beautiful, isn’t she Jack?”

“Never been so angry I can’t kneel,” he murmurs. 

You look up at him, offering a small, knowing smirk at the raw frustration in his voice. Samira lets out a soft, breathy laugh from above you, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks between the two of you, clearly thrilled by the undivided attention.

“Go,” Jack commands. “I wanna watch.”

You don't need to be told twice. Slipping her panties down her long legs, you press your hands firmly against her inner thighs, pushing them wide to open her up completely for both you and Jack.

You lean in closer, the scent of her arousal hitting you instantly as you press a soft kiss to her sensitive inner thigh. She trembles under your touch, letting out a soft sigh that only makes you hungrier to taste her. You part her gently with your fingers, exposing her softest skin to the cool air of the room before finally leaning down to press your lips against her.

Your face is buried in Samira’s cunt soon after. Her thighs are a mess with the mix of your saliva and her arousal. She was sweet and you were absolutely taking your time swirling your tongue through her folds. 

Samira hips stuttered, her fingers tangling tightly into your hair as she arched off the surface beneath her. A sharp, breathless cry broke from her lips as her muscles suddenly clamped down, shaking violently with the intense wave of her orgasm. You stayed right there, drinking in every shuddering tremor of her release until her breath finally slowed to a ragged hum.

It’s a silent agreement between you and Samira that it’s Jack’s turn. 

You crawl up to him first, hand grabbing his chin to pull him in for a bruising kiss. He hums when he tastes Samira’s release on your lips.

Samira makes quick work of his belt. She tugs his jeans down, cock springing free against his stomach. The tip is already glistening with precum.

His breath hitches as the cool air hits his bare skin, his hips twitching slightly in anticipation. You slowly break the kiss, leaving his lips wet and flushed, your gaze dropping down to the length Samira has just freed. Jack lets out a ragged exhale, completely at your mercy. His eyes turn dark as he watches the two of you. Samira looks up, offering a quick, wicked smile that says everything you need to know

You slink back to kneel beside the resident. 

And then both your mouths are on his cock. 

Jack almost finishes right then and there when you grab the base and tap it on Samira’s waiting tongue.

Samira takes him first, eyes fluttering shut as she begins sucking. Her mouth is full of his cock, her head bobbing up and down in a desperate attempt to take all of him. You focus on what she can’t take, tongue sliding up and down the shaft.

“Fuck, god, fuck” Jack groans. 

Jack grabs a fistfull of your hair, pulling you away from his cock to bring you to him.

“Come on baby. Please ride me.”

You tilt your head just slightly. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

You position yourself so that your knees are slotted on both sides of Jack’s head. You’re facing Samira, arousal growing as she takes Jack’s cock deeper.

A gasp escapes you as he wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling your dripping pussy right down to his waiting mouth. He was relentless. His tongue was somehow everywhere.

Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, riding the intense waves of heat his tongue is driving through you. Every lap and swirl makes your knees tremble, forcing you to lean heavily over him just to stay upright. You arch into his mouth, completely undone by the friction, but your eyes remain wide, hopelessly locked onto Samira.

She meets your blown-out gaze, a low hum vibrating in her throat as she picks up the pace. Watching her take him while he worships you sends a sharp spike of adrenaline straight to your core. The sheer sensory overload pushes the tension in the room past the breaking point, and Jack's hands tighten their grip on your thighs like a vice, his muscles coiling dangerously tight beneath you.

The relentless friction of Jack’s tongue paired with the intoxicating sight of Samira finally snaps the last thread of your control. Your vision blurs as a fierce, blinding orgasm crashes over you, pulling a loud, shattered cry from your throat as your hips arch helplessly against his mouth. You clench your fists in his hair, riding the explosive waves of your own release just as Jack’s hips jerk upward, his choked grunt indicating that your undoing has nearly pushed him right over the edge alongside you.

Jack clenches his jaw, head thrown out as Samira takes his full length. There’s something so beautiful about seeing her plump lips take all of him. 

“M’ not ah!” Jack grunts. “Not gonna last much longer.”

Samira rests her lips on the tip with a smile. He’s absolutely wrapped around her finger right now. 

“You wanna cum?” She bats her eyelashes up at the older attending. Sickening. 

You’re still eating her out relentlessly. You lick up into her, collecting all of her wetness on your tongue. She feels you everywhere: her clit, her folds, her hole. 

“Maybe you should make him say please,” you murmur. The vibration on her cunt sends sparks throughout Samira. God she’s close too. 

Your tongue flattens against her as you circle her clit. Samira tightens around your head. 

Being suffocated between Samira’s thighs might be your ideal place to die. 

“I think-“ Samira starts. “Ah!”

You insert two fingers into her, curling up at the knuckle point. 

“Come on Dr. Mohan. Tell Dr. Abbot what he needs to do.”

You slow down to forgive her swollen clit. You keep your fingers inside of her, instead flattening your tongue against her pussy to drink her in. 

“I think,” Samira starts again. “Dr. Abbot needs to say please.”

You hum. “Good girl.”

Jack feels like he’s gonna explode. He’s been in war, lost his leg, and seen the horrors of the emergency room. But somehow, watching the dominance of you and Samira was absolutely killing him. 

And all he needed to do was say please. 

Jack reaches forward to pull Samira closer. She twists her body to allow you access while still making Jack finish. 

“So? You wanna cum?”

The attending’s hips buck. 

“God. Yes. Yes please.”

Samira pats his leg before taking the tip of his aching cock in her mouth, tongue swirling around the slit. 

It doesn’t take long after that for either of them to finish. Samira is already immensely overstimulated and cums all while sucking down Jack. 

Jack lets go with a bitten off moan. His eyes squeeze shuts as holds Samira’s hair with one hand and the bedsheets with the other. 

Samira takes every drop, continuing to work Jack through his orgasm with a mix of her mouth and hand. 

Finally, she sits back on the heels of the foot just as you slither in to kiss her. 

First her hips, then her stomach, and finally her boob. You wrap your lips around her nipple, a whimper leaving Samira at the sensation. 

You’re perfectly fine to stay latched where you are, swirling your tongue around the buds and grabbing at whatever you can. 

But when Samira grabs your chin and lifts your head up to face her, you’re putty in her hands. She presses her thumb down on your bottom lip. 

A silent ‘open up’.  

Your lips part. 

Samira spits Jack’s release, gravity taking it down right into your waiting mouth. 

You accept it eagerly, waiting until the lost drop for you to close your lips and swallow. 

Jack strokes his softening cock at somehow the freakiest but hottest thing he’s ever seen. 

Samira pats your cheek. “Good girl.”

The exhaustion begins to creep in. You were all spent. Multiple orgasms and a long night of drinking was taking a toll. 

You finally clamber up to the top of the bed. 

Jack’s arm loops around you as you duck down to kiss his bottom lip. 

The mattress shifts once more as Samira’s weight is added. You rest your head on Jack’s chest as the resident opts to curl around you. Samira kisses the back of your neck as she reaches over to hold Jack’s hand.  

The resident ducks down close enough she can whisper. “You know I own a strap.”

The confession mixes with the haze of the room. Jack’s head snaps over. He lets out a low whistle. 

The words send a delicious shiver straight down your spine. Your mind races with the mental image, already aching for how wild the next time will be.

But for now, clean-up can wait.