SamJanet fluff, from Janet's POV. First time.
Rated: MA
Genre: Romance
Warning: Graphic Sex
This story is not recommended for young or sensitive readers.
That being said...
Tan Lines
I guess I must’ve never actually looked before, because Sam really isn’t as pale as I think she is. At least, not all over.
Her neck, especially the back, is darker than her face, and often burned red. I know I’ve scolded her for that before, but she either never listens, or whatever she does to protect herself always fails. And then, returning to my examination, her shoulders are starkly white, a bit startling in contrast against the deep tan of her neck. Her arms darken progressively to about an inch above the elbow, then are a golden shade of brown down to her hands, which are almost as dark as her neck.
Her back, I see now that I’m looking, is pale, like her shoulders, as are her feet, her legs… Standard grey panties cover her hips and pelvis, but I’d wager the skin beneath is even paler than the rest, if that’s possible. Her stomach is the same shade as her legs, and her breasts, also covered by regulation grey, are probably milky white.
I laugh inwardly at my choice of adjective, then catch my breath as she moves, remembering that this is, in fact, a real woman I have before me. Her spine shifts in her elegant back as she turns to look at me with a questioning smile. Right, I think. A physical. Stay professional, Janet.
Easier said than done, though, with her looking at me like that. And in her underwear, too. Colonel O’Neill’s familiar expression floats through my head. For crying out loud…
I return her smile and move a little more completely behind her, where she can’t see the flush that’s starting to creep up my neck. I set my hands on her back, noting again the sharp line where tan meets pale, and feel down her ribs. Professional, professional, professional, I chant to myself. Despite it, my hands slide a little further than they need to, feeling her flesh soften in the gentle curve of her sides. So soft. I don’t know how she manages it. Even I have my share of scars, and I’m hardly in as active a duty post as she is. And yet, the jagged lines, circles, and still-red scabs don’t ruin the smooth surface. I’ll have to ask her what kind of moisturizer she uses.
I feel her small intake of breath when my fingers accidentally brush the wrong place as I withdraw them. She opens her mouth to remind me, but I beat her to it. “Sorry,” I say. “I know. Ticklish.”
She meets my eyes when I glance up from jotting down another ‘everything normal’ note on her file. I grin, and she shakes her head, smiling too.
I don’t want her to go. I wish I could feign some small anomaly, keep her here for a little longer, but I know better. She has work to do, I have work to do, and it’s that work that’s going to stop me from kissing that soft skin, from tracing a finger over the tan lines, or from even just telling her that I think she’s absolutely perfect, imperfections included.
“You’re fine,” I say, and mean it in way more ways than she knows. Or would probably care to know, I think dully.
“Great,” she says, pulling her uniform toward her and hopping off the bed. I get an eyeful as she bends down to pick up a sock that she’s dropped, and desperately fight off the blush that threatens. She straightens again, laughing a bit at herself, and pulls her shirt on. Even barefoot, she’s taller than me. “Hey.” I hear her voice from inside the shirt as she finds the arm-holes. Her head pops out a moment later, and she shakes blond hair out of her eyes. “I was thinking of renting a movie tonight. Wanna come?”
For a beat, I’m distracted by the fact that she’s sliding those ridiculously long legs into her pants. Then, I remember that she’s giving me an invitation that I really want to accept, and say, “Sure. What time?” as if I’m totally casual about the whole thing.
“I get off at five today,” she says, thinking, as she crouches to lace up her boots. “I’d drive you home with me, but I’ve got my bike. So, how about around seven? We can order pizza.”
“Do you ever cook for yourself?” I laugh.
“I try to avoid it,” she admits.
Shaking my head with a grin, I nod. “Seven sounds great. See you then?”
“It’s a date,” she says, pulling her jacket on. She gives me another brilliant smile, then walks cheerfully out of the infirmary.
It’s a date. Wonderful, I think. Of all the times to use the wrong word…
---
Six forty-five rolls around startlingly quickly, and before I know it, I’m running late. I hop out of my chair, scribbling a final signature on the file, and dash upstairs. Quickly, I scrabble through my drawers. What do I wear? Nothing formal, obviously, but is this casual enough for jeans and a t-shirt? It is pizza and a movie… but is that casual, or semi-casual?
Shaking my head to dispel the frantic debate, I settle for dark jeans with a plain tee and a light jacket. Dressy enough for dinner, but easily changeable to casual. Figuring I’ve got it covered, I pull them on and head for the bathroom. I brush my teeth in thirty seconds flat, rinse, and spit, then peer into the mirror. Makeup? Maybe. At least a touch up on what I’ve got already.
Done, I bound down the stairs and into my shoes – high heels; simple, black; the usual – and just barely remember to grab my purse from the closet. Finally, it’s out the door and to the car. The clock on the dash, when I turn it on, reads eighteen fifty-one.
I’m late. I grit my teeth and pull out of the driveway, then boot it down the street.
I make it there in record time, but it’s still past seven when I hop up the steps to Sam’s front porch. I press the doorbell and ready an apology, despite being full aware that when she opens the door, the sight of Sam in casual civilian will blow anything I might be thinking clear out of my mind.
I’m not wrong. She pulls the door back and smiles broadly. I can’t help it – my eyes drop. She’s at about the same level of formality as I am, thankfully. There’s faded jeans and a pinkish blouse that dips low enough in the chest to make me forget to breathe, just for a second. I haul my eyes back up.
“Hi,” I say, a little stupidly.
“Hi,” she says back. I must be imagining the way her gaze jerks back up to mine. Just a projection of my own inappropriate ogling, I tell myself. Like she’d even notice what you’re wearing.
“Come in,” she says after half a beat. “Pizza should be here soon.”
I follow her inside, leaving my shoes by the door despite her claim that I can keep them on if I want. I refuse to track dirt on her floor, even if she frequently does it to mine. She motions at the couch in the living room and I sit while she heads to the kitchen. “Beer?” she calls.
“Sure,” I say easily, trusting her tastes to be similar enough to mine. I hear the distinctive clatter of glass on glass, and then the thud of the fridge closing. There are two pops, and then she appears in the doorway. She makes her way over to the couch and in pants like those, I can’t miss the sway of her hips. I don’t recognize the brand of the beer she hands me, but I gamely take a slug. Not bad, I think.
“Thanks,” I say belatedly.
She laughs. “Long day?”
“Long week,” I correct. It’s true, too. I haven’t had time off in at least ten days. Not that I can really complain, of course. She works odder, and often longer, hours than I do. But it’s Friday, and I finally have a weekend.
And, best part, I get to spend some of it with Sam. Knowing our takeout-and-movie nights, I’ll probably stay over and head home sometime tomorrow as the hangover fades.
I let my breath out in a long sigh and have another mouthful of beer, letting the carbonation sting my tongue before swallowing. Sam’s twirling hers around, watching the liquid push up against the sides and lost in thought. I smile. “Let me guess,” I say, indicating the motion that looks almost unconscious. “It behaves like an event horizon.”
She starts slightly and looks over at me. “Yeah,” she says, shaking her head. She grins. “Just thinking. The bubbles can sit on top of the surface tension, but if you can toss it—” She demonstrates and I tense as the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the top of the bottle. It falls back down again, though, and her white carpet is safe. “It folds over on itself. The bubbles float back up, but in a different place. If we could somehow fold the event horizon in a Gate, we could—”
“Ah-ah-ah,” I interrupt. “Remember what we were saying about having had a long day? Leave the physics in the mountain, Sam.”
She pauses, looking like she’s not quite sure how to feel about that, then laughs softly. Beautiful, I think, as she ducks her head. “Okay,” she says. “Sorry.”
“Just so long as you don’t try doing it again,” I say with a grin – hers is infectious. “Even in your head.”
“Got it,” she says, nodding and raising her beer in salute. I laugh and chime mine against hers.
“So,” I say after we’ve both had another drink. These are disappearing fast, I notice. “What movie did you rent?”
She reaches for the box, lying on top of the VCR, but is interrupted by the doorbell. Her face brightens. “Pizza,” she says, and hops to her feet.
I scramble after her, nowhere near as elegant. “I’m paying half,” I declare, rummaging in my purse for my wallet.
She kicks up as much of a protest as she can before she gets to the door, which isn’t much. It is, indeed, the pizza. The delivery boy looks a little awestruck by the woman who takes it from him, and I snatch the moment to hand him the money before Sam can balance the box in one hand and get her bills from her pocket with the other. She sends me a glare as I smile at the kid and close the door again, and I shrug.
“Fine,” I say, waltzing back to the living room. “You can keep the change, if it really bugs you that much.”
When I glance over my shoulder at her, she’s grinning and shaking her head, and I suspect I may find an extra twenty in my wallet tomorrow. I don’t mind terribly – for the moment, I have my victory. And besides, I can always tuck the bill into her uniform’s pockets when she isn’t paying attention, next time she comes in for a physical.
Another reason to look forward to that. I feel a slight flush returning.
She sets the pizza down on the coffee table and we both drop onto the couch. I pull back the lid and feel my salivary glands kick into gear. Seven hours is much too long since lunch, and this looks good.
As is her custom when we order pizza, it’s a large. Pineapple and Italian sausage litter the top of the cheese, concessions to both her sweet tooth and my slightly pickier taste buds. She asks if I want a plate. I respond by lifting a heavy slice off the cardboard and taking a bite. She laughs. This is, I think, the side of me she likes to see once in a while: the one that doesn’t care quite so much for detail, that is a little more laidback, and that often seems to surface when I’m with her. It is, I think, also part of the reason I enjoy these girls’ nights so much.
We spend a few minutes just eating, and then Sam unfolds herself to push the movie into the player. It clicks and whirrs as she snatches the remote from atop the TV. She returns to the sofa and turns the screen on just as the copyright warning fades.
It starts up and we keep eating, gripped by the opening sequence. The movie is an action-thriller, and Sam offers an explanation that all the good chick flicks were already rented. Or we’d seen them already, I point out. She nods, raising her beer to that.
When it lulls, about half an hour in, she pauses it and we pack the left over pizza away in the fridge. She pulls out two more beers and cracks them open, closing the door with her foot as we head back out to the living room. She passes me one, and we sink back down. The movie starts up again.
It’s a good one, I have to admit, even though thrillers aren’t usually my favourite. I find myself getting engaged, fingers twitching in the tenser moments. Sam looks totally relaxed, slouched against one armrest, her feet up on the coffee table, next to mine. I’m a little less horizontal.
Though, if I keep slugging the beer back like I am, I’ll be just as, if not more so, pretty soon.
The movie draws to a close with a bang and the typical action-thriller romance finish. The bad guy dead, the good guy a hero, and the girl saved – not to mention an elevator, a bus, a plane, and a subway exploded – the music mounts to a first kiss amidst the wreckage and the credits roll. I sit for a moment, brain a little slow to realize it’s over, then take my feet off the table and stretch.
“Careful!” cries Sam, lunging across to take my beer as, unthinkingly, I tilt it. She sets it down on the table gingerly and regards me as I giggle guiltily.
“Sorry,” I say, still laughing, and reach for the bottle again.
She blocks my hand. “No more for you,” she says, looking amused.
I pout and she laughs, an affront to which I respond by thumping her arm. “Ouch,” she exaggerates. “The doctor turns evil.” Obviously, I’m not the only one drunk. She makes a show of examining her arm, then holds it out to me. “Kiss it better,” she instructs jokingly.
Without thinking, I do.
The feel of her soft, half-tanned skin on my lips triggers something somewhere in my foggy brain and I freeze, jerking away. I stare at her, wide-eyed. What have I done? What will she do?
Then, I realize she’s laughing. This is a joke, I remember. She’s kidding. Teasing. And I just fit the bill perfectly. With that in mind, I laugh too, and thankfully, the moment passes unmarked in her memory.
“You’re staying over,” she declares, setting her empty bottle beside mine, still half-full. “You can’t drive like this anyway.”
Rational Sam is still in there. This is both a good and bad thing.
I nod acceptingly at the invitation. It’s what I’ve been hoping for.
Once she’s assured herself I’m not going to make another try to my beer, she slouches back on the sofa. I follow suit, my sock-clad feet on the table again. I nudge the bottle carefully out of the way, wary of spilling it.
She watches me lazily, both of us filled with end-of-the-movie stupor mixed with a little too much alcohol. After a moment, she pushes herself up on her hands and moves closer to me, lying with her feet dangling over the arm to rest her head on my shoulder. I feel warmth flood through me. She reaches up with her right hand, the one closest to me, and holds it open expectantly, palm flat. Hoping she won’t notice the slight tremor in it, I give her what she’s looking for: my hand. Her fingers close around it and she tucks it into her chest, holding it snugly between her breasts and covered by her other hand.
There are major arteries in my abdomen, right next to her ear. She has to be able to hear my heart hammering. There’s no excuse I can make for it, either. She’s half-asleep, as was I, a moment ago. Now, I’m so wide-awake I doubt even another beer could put me out of it. I can feel every bit of my body, from the tips of my toes to the tips of my fingers, which hover just inches from her breasts.
I could twitch, brush against the warm skin, and claim autonomic reflex. She might buy it. She might not.
But I know better.
So I just stare. She has her eyes closed, thankfully. She can’t see the deep shade of pink staining my cheeks and burning my ears. In the way she’s lying, her shirt is shifted slightly towards me, exposing the joint of tan and pale skin at her shoulder. How cute, I think with a smile, and lift a hand to trace it. Then, remembering that while having her eyes closed might prevent her from seeing, it doesn’t affect her sense of touch, I drop the hand back down. I rest it gently on her stomach, just below her bent elbows. I can get away with that, I figure.
She wriggles slightly and I wonder if I woke her up. She is ticklish… “Mm,” she murmurs. “Let’s sleep here.”
“No,” I say flatly. Cute she may be, but not cute enough to persuade me to wake up tomorrow morning with not only a headache but a brutally sore back. “C’mon, Sam.” I jiggle one leg, disturbing her. “You’re going to fall asleep, and there’s no way I can carry you upstairs.” She doesn’t make any indication of moving, and I push at her uselessly. “Actually,” I amend, “I don’t think there’s anyway I can even get you off me.”
Her lips quirk at that and I stare at them until I realize her eyes are open. I quickly look away, but she’s in the process of sitting up and doesn’t seem to have noticed. Off me now, she blinks a few times and swings her legs off the couch. “Fine,” she says, a bit irritable at having been moved. Apparently, I was a comfortable pillow. “Let’s go.”
She heads toward the bedroom and I pick up the collection of empty bottles, ignoring the ‘leave them’ she tosses over her shoulder at the clatter. Bringing them out to the kitchen, I set them as quietly as I can into the bin she’s got tucked off to the side of the fridge, then make my own way after her. I’ll borrow her pyjamas, I muse vaguely. And her toothbrush? No, I have my own here. I laugh to myself at that. After the fourth time I’d ended up staying the night, she’d given in to my determination to clean my teeth, even if it meant using a finger, and handed me an unopened brush.
When I enter the bedroom, I freeze. Oh dear lord, I think. She’s taking off her pants. I try not to watch. I really do. I walk as casually as humanly possible into the room, eyes flitting between the increasing amount of exposed leg and anywhere else. It’s a useless effort. I could never completely ignore a sight like that. But, I try to tell myself, at least I tried.
It’s fairly dark in the room, and she’s occupied with her own clothing. My staring seems to have gone unnoticed. I sit on the bed to wait for her to finish so I can have pyjamas too, and in my attempt to not look, my eyes fall on the clock. It’s nine thirty.
I laugh aloud, and she looks over at me. “What?” she asks. Her voice is fully awake again – clearly even relaxed Sam can’t shake off all that offworld experience.
“The time,” I say. Her eyes follow my pointing finger to the clock, and she laughs too.
“Nine thirty?” she questions as if she doesn’t quite believe it. “What are we, twelve?”
“We’re overworked,” I say with a tired laugh.
She nods. “Here, want pyjamas?”
No. But I’ll take them anyway. “Sure.”
And as she walks to the closet to get them, I realize she’s only wearing her underwear. Get a grip, I say to myself, as firmly as I can. It’s not like you’ve never seen her in less.
Yeah, my mind says back, but then I wasn’t alone with her, in a bedroom, or drunk. Now, I’m all three.
She returns from the closet, long bare legs ending in slender feet that pad almost silently across the carpet toward me. Only half-knowing she can’t see my eyes in the darkness, I follow the lines of her sleek form, up from her feet to the swell of her hips, and then the dip of her sides…
She reaches behind herself as she tosses me the pyjamas, and her bra falls away.
My breath sticks in my throat, and doesn’t unstick for far too long. I feel the heat clench in my belly, and my hand moves mechanically pick up the clothing she’s given me. Am I supposed to undress now too? I don’t want to look away. I can’t look away.
She picks up the top she’s laid out for herself and slides it on, breasts bouncing slightly with the movement. I realize my mouth has fallen open and slam it shut. The spell is only partially broken now that she’s got a shirt on again, but I’m functional enough to get started on changing.
I’ve got on the tee she’s lent me, and I’m halfway through tying the string on the large borrowed pants, when I hear her say my name. I pause and look over at her.
She’s just standing there. Has she been watching me change? I doubt it, but it’s a nice thought. “Janet,” she says again when I don’t respond.
“Hm?” I say. Had she asked a question.
I see her open her mouth and shut it again. “I just wondered if you were going to brush your teeth,” she says, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what she’d originally intended to. She holds something out, a small stick it looks like in the dark. I take it; it’s my toothbrush.
“Thanks,” I say, and manage to finish tying the pants, despite my clumsy fingers.
She nods. “I just finished mine,” she says. “Turn the light out when you’re done, okay?”
“Okay,” I say easily, and head out to the bathroom. I splash a bit of water on my face, rinsing away at least some of the makeup, and then make a haphazard job of my teeth for the second time this evening. Having her out of my sight will drive me nuts, I’m pretty sure, and so I finish up as quickly as I can. I remember the light switch on the way out and slip back into the bedroom.
She’s already in the bed, with the covers thrown back for me. I crawl in next to her and wonder if I’ll manage the whole night without snuggling. I pull the blanket up, and she rolls onto her side, facing me. Her eyes are open.
“You were staring,” she says. It’s not accusing, but to me, the accusation is there. You’re gay, she says. Does she want me out of her bed? But then why would she have opened the covers for me?
I’m not sure how to answer, so I try to duck the question. Naturally, me being rather drunk, it doesn’t really work. “When?” I ask. D’oh.
“When I was changing,” she says. Her voice is calm, steady. I wonder if she can see me trembling. “You were staring.”
“I…” I what? I wasn’t? But I was. “Sorry,” I say, and try to mean it.
“Janet,” she says quietly. Is it my imagination, or did she just get closer?
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and debate getting out of the bed. I could. I could just get out, and grab my clothes, and leave. I could drive all the way home, despite the beers, and sleep in my own bed. I could cry myself to sleep, knowing I’d ruined our friendship.
But it’s definitely not my imagination. She’s getting closer. Why? She should want to get farther away, not closer. Maybe…
“Janet,” she says again, more firmly. I realize my chin has started to wobble and there’s a tear sliding sideways, over my nose.
“What?” I respond, a little more sharply than I’d intended.
“Don’t cry,” she whispers, sounding pained. “Please.” Her hand brushes my cheek. It only makes me cry harder.
“I’m sorry,” I say for the third time, almost a sob. “I didn’t want—I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable—” I shake my head, wiping at my eyes as more tears fall. “I just—”
She gathers me to her, her larger frame surrounding mine. “Sh,” she murmurs in my ear, stroking back my short hair. “It’s okay.”
I shake my head again, mutely this time, and I feel her small chuckle vibrate through her chest.
“Do I look uncomfortable?” she asks, her voice now holding a distinct note of amusement. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react, so I don’t do anything. She pulls me away from her. “Janet? Do I look uncomfortable?”
I still don’t know what to do. No, she doesn’t look uncomfortable, but what does that mean? So, I go with the safe bet. “I’m sorr—”
Apparently, that wasn’t the right answer, because when she cuts me off by pressing her lips to mine, she feels a little annoyed.
Then, I rethink that statement.
By the time I can actually think enough to kiss her back, she’s pulled away. “No,” she says. Yep, definitely some annoyance there. “No, I don’t look uncomfortable.”
But, I guess the annoyance isn’t that important, because she’s suddenly kissing me again, and my mind is still racing to catch up. Not uncomfortable. She doesn’t mind? She even…
Well, she is kissing me.
Right. She’s kissing me. With that realization in mind, I let my mouth open, tongue finding hers. We both taste like toothpaste, and consequently, she tastes like almost nothing. There’s a slight hint of beer in there, but only barely. Somehow, despite the mint, she manages to be velvety, a bit sweet, and seductive. Though, that might also have something to do with the way she’s just caught my bottom lip between her teeth and let it go, a smile greeting me when I stretch over to find her mouth again.
Her hands curl around my back and pull me the few inches she’d left between us. I can feel her body against mine, soft and strong and very warm. She shifts, rising on one arm and turning me over with the other, and then she’s above me, her mouth pressing insistently down on mine. My hands slip into her hair, gripping the short strands and keeping her close. Her breasts graze mine as she brings her leg over to straddle me, and I arch my back shamelessly, aching for another contact. She doesn’t seem to mind, and slides a hand down from my face to cup my left breast through the thin fabric of the sleep shirt. She grunts faintly and her hand moves again, this time sliding up beneath the shirt to meet with bare skin.
Her fingers are cool, at contrast to the rest of her, and I feel goosebumps rise. She toys with the peak, already hard, and then tugs on the hem of the shirt. I sit up obligingly and she pulls it over my head. Boldly, I reach for hers, and she yanks it off for me. Her hair cascades down from it, short pieces now sticking out from her head, and she’s absolutely beautiful.
Her lips are dark in the almost non-existent lighting and slightly parted. Her breasts, free now, are pale, like I’d thought. I smile at the reminder of her tan lines and the fact that I can now do exactly what I want with them.
So, just because I can, I kiss her wrist. She looks at me oddly, but I’m not deterred. I pick the other one up and kiss it too, then move up to her shoulders and lay a gently kiss on each one. Then, as close to the back of her neck as I can reach. She tips her head back with a sigh, not understanding what I’m doing but enjoying it. My fingers skim down, over her collarbones, and trace the very faint contrast that dips down her chest. It’s probably from a bathing suit, I reflect vaguely, or maybe just a low-cut tank worn for too long out in the sun. I don’t have to bend much to kiss it, and I follow it down. It goes over the swell of her breasts and then curves back up, but I lose patience for that and glide downwards instead.
I feel her hands grab at my head as my mouth closes over a nipple and I smile, circling it with my tongue. I graze my teeth over it and then draw it into my mouth, savouring the slightly salty taste of her skin. She’d probably worked out this morning, knowing her. I like the flavour.
She moans, low in her throat, as I move over to the second breast, and she leans back, resting on her hands behind her. It gives me slightly easier access, and I can wrap my own hands around her, feeling the perfect skin and the scars it houses. I feel her sigh again, a breathy sound, and tug a little harder at her nipple. I draw it into my mouth and then release it, moving back up to drop a brief kiss on her neck before stretching a little to find her lips.
The elegance of the moment vanishes as she presses me back into the bed, mouth hard and insistent. She wants me, a part of my mind sings happily. She wants me.
She wants me. It’s clear. Her lips leave mine and I miss the absence, but she moves down my chest to return the favour. I gasp and my hands clench, sensation soaring from my nipple, now firmly captured in her mouth, to the pit of my stomach. I thrust upward, needing more, and my nails drag along her back. One of her thighs finds its way between mine and I push against that, almost desperate.
She pulls away. No, my mind screams. I reach after her, and she laughs. She’s only taking her pants off. I sigh with relief and then remember to take off my own. When she returns to me, I slide my hands down her sides, finding not panties but only bare skin. A pleasant surprise, though I think dimly that I’ve still got my own on. My fingers find their way around to the front of her pelvis and glide over the soft hair, slipping between her legs with a thrill of delight.
She’s warm and slippery on my fingers, and as I brush past her centre she catches her breath. Her hips press down and I press back up, too happy to tease her. She groans, her face in my neck, and I press again. “Oh god,” she whispers, her breath hot on my skin. “Janet…”
There’s no way I could ever resist a voice like that. My fingers move further between her thighs, finding their way amongst her folds, and then push into her in one swift motion. She cries out, back arching and head flying back. I can’t help my grin.
She lets me roll her over and I sit below her hips, one leg on either side of hers. From here, I can stretch up to her breasts, and I do, taking on into my mouth while my fingers work between her legs. She gasps and arches, hands grabbing at my back, my head. She’s so beautiful – if I weren’t so in love with her I’d be jealous. And she only seems to get more so. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth open, her brows drawing together. I stretch up as far as I can to kiss her, gently, while my hand moves quickly against her. I feel her clench, tighter and tighter for a moment, and then she releases. Her hips buck and her head pushes back into the pillow, her eyes squeezed shut. She gives an inarticulate cry and I see her hands grasp at the sheets. Beautiful, I think, and let her come gently down.
Her eyes open and meet mine. She gives a shaky smile and lets her breath out with a whoosh. “Wow,” she says. I almost laugh, but kiss her instead.
It takes me long enough to realize that she’s flipped me over that by the time I do, she’s pulled my underwear clear off my legs. Somehow – maybe her arms are longer than I thought – she hasn’t stopped kissing me. Now, she does, but only to press her lips against my throat, my chest—
She pauses there, giving a longer moment to each breast. Then she moves on, down my stomach and over my hips. My legs are already open – did she do that? – and she leans down to bury her face between them. I think I call out, but nothing else my body’s doing suddenly seems to matter. Her tongue is on me, pushing and circling and feeling exactly right. In what seems like seconds, I can feel myself climbing, teetering on the edge, and then plunging. She holds me steady as I spasm, and this time I’m sure I cry out. It might be her name. I don’t know. I just feel her tongue against me, and the waves of pleasure seizing my body.
As it fades, she comes back up beside me, tongue briefly flicking one nipple as she passes. She’s smiling as she kisses me – grinning, in fact. I can picture it, even if I can’t quite see it in the darkness. She’s beautiful. The thought runs again and again through my head. I’m so lucky.
I lie with my head tucked securely beneath hers, her arm around me and mine around her. Vaguely, sleepily, I think back over the day, and realize I’ve done everything I wanted to do, except one. I’d kissed that soft skin, I’ve traced the tan lines. I haven’t, however, told her…
“Sam?” I question.
“Mm?” she murmurs, half-asleep again.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her. I’m not sure if she’s really listening. “Absolutely perfect.” I pause. She hasn’t responded. Pressing a quick kiss to the pale skin of her chest, I grin and add, “Even with the tan lines.”
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