Chapter Text
Samira gags, saliva dripping past her lips and down her chin. She's long given up on any sense of composure, reveling in the mess so antithetical to her usual orderly life. She's a trooper, though, and only takes a second of recovery before swallowing Jack's cock down until the tip almost touches the back of her throat.
"Samira, fuck -!" Jack's head is thrown back and that's how she knows he's close; he can't hold his nearly unbearable eye contact.
But he knows the rules.
So Samira works her hand up and down the exposed shaft that doesn't fit in her mouth, pulling up so her tongue can lave at the vein on the underside. Any second now, she's sure of it.
He's pushing this one farther. Samira's brows start to rise. And then,
"Stop."
The word comes out pained, miserable.
Samira's hand grips hard at his base, staving off his orgasm as her lips pop off.
His head has tipped forward, heavy on his neck. He heaves in breath after breath, stomach clenching and thighs tensing at the pleasure ripped just from his grasp.
Samira grins, teeth gleaming.
"Good boy."
Samira Mohan planned the conversation from the beginning - every possible scenario, every question he might raise, every fault he might try to find in her logic. (There was none, obviously.)
They're sitting on his couch - because they do that now, loaf about in his apartment on the rare circumstance their days off align - and Samira's half on his lap. They're swapping lazy kisses, no real urgency, no concrete intention of anything happening next. Bellies are full and Samira's got a glass of wine in her, so she scrapes her nails against his throat - a move that always produces a delicious flickering of his expression - and asks casually,
"You ever tried edging before?"
Jack rears back, eyes darting over her face, searching for the joke. "What?"
"Edging." His Adam's apple bobs under her fingers - no pressure applied, she doesn't want to influence the results. "You know, like working someone up to orgasm repeatedly -"
"I know what edging is, Christ, Samira." He's got this dazed look on his face, like he can't quite believe she's real. "You wanna try that?"
"Yup." She pops the p and then immediately frowns. "To be clear, I'm talking about you being the one...edged."
His mouth twitches up. "Got it this time."
"The edgee?" He snorts and her fingers dance up to his hair, scratching at his scalp and making him pliant and comfortable.
"Can I think about it?" His voice is low, sleepy at the edges. She hasn't gotten used to it yet, getting to see him - hear him - in this way.
"Sure." She says, though she can't keep the hint of surprise out. He catches it. "No, of course you can think about it. I'm just - you didn't give the ropes a second thought."
Samira smiles, so he knows she's teasing, curious.
Jack twirls a loose curl hanging by her ear. "I have to seriously consider what this could do to my heart, you understand."
Samira lets out an uncharacteristically loud laugh. "I'll be sure to have the AED in the room if you decide we're doing this."
Jack texts her a couple of days later, a simple let's do it. She finds herself smiling at the message, goofy and uncontrolled. Not just because she can daydream about how she wants to play with him, but because he actually took the time to think it over, didn't instantly acquiesce to Samira's wants.
Growth, would you look at the two of them.
Attention returning, she notes with curiosity the appearance of three grey dots. Then gone. Appearing, gone. She considers calling to put him out of his misery when his next message comes through.
Ropes again?
She inhales sharply, clenches her thighs where she's sat on the bus. Promptly locks her phone so anyone too nosy for their own good doesn't bother her.
Samira's got some videos to study, some articles to read.
When Jack opens his door on Wednesday - a serendipitous night off that they didn't have to wait an entire month for - Samira stands with her small duffel slung over one shoulder and a plastic bag in her hand.
He eyes both bags skeptically.
"Pedialyte and ropes." She states and skirts around him.
She hears his guffaw. "Now I'm gettin' nervous."
Samira tosses a grin over her shoulder, a hint of manic ferocity underneath so she can clock his reaction. It does not disappoint.
Samira taps her foot, arms crossed, line appearing between her brows as she considers.
"Differential diagnosis, Dr. Mohan?" He's all calm and playful cheek as he lounges on the armchair. They'd kept it in the main room and she's doing mental calculations as she twists the rope around her palms.
She's decided already, of course. But she likes the way his gaze keeps straying to her hands, as if she doesn't notice. Likes the palpable expectation.
Anticipation, and all that.
"Clothes off. And then I'll tie your wrists." Samira nods and stares as the apples of his cheeks start to pink up. "Nothing to attach them to, so you'll have to sit still."
"Yes, doctor." Jack stands, hovering in her space, maintaining eye contact as he strips his t-shirt off. She observes pale skin, the dusting of greying hair on his chest, the pudge of his stomach that she has the sudden urge to sink her teeth into. Glances up expectantly when his hands stop at the waistband of those fucking sweatpants.
Jack simply smirks.
Once he's stripped bare, Samira pushes his shoulder until he sinks into the leather. A hand snakes into his curls, places a solitary kiss to his lips, whispering, "Hands behind your back."
Jack doesn't move.
She bites the inside of her cheek, refrains from taunting brat in his face because she thinks he'd actually like that. Is glad for it when his hands trail down his right leg, unclasp the fastening at his calf, remove the prosthetic and the soft cover overlay, and rest them next to the chair.
"Alright?" He asks and Samira furrows her brow.
"Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" Genuine confusion. "It's what's comfortable for you."
Jack reaches for her hips instinctively but she wiggles out of his grasp. He smiles up at her, a small thing. "Ask me again."
She huffs, mostly with fondness. "Hands behind your back, please."
He follows her instructions easily, attention never leaving her face, neck craning when she steps behind and cinches his wrists together. It's a simple double knot - one he could rip his way out of with enough force if need be.
Tonight isn't about restraint - well, no.
Rather, tonight is about restraint in a different way.
Circling back, she surveys Jack's minuscule fidgeting, trying to get comfortable. His left foot keeps twitching, tendons tightening and then loosening.
Samira makes it a point to look at the whole of him.
Dr. Jack Abbot is built with all the compact strength and reserve of a man emerging from regimentation. The first time Samira saw him, she figured he was ex-military, ex-cop, something that would certainly annoy her. It was the way he carried himself: back straight, head on a swivel, eyes constantly searching.
And then he had opened his mouth and Samira's assumptions had gone right out of the window.
Former military sure, but current charismatic loser.
There's muscle packed into a solid frame, biceps bulging against his sides, stuck by his bound wrists. His chest, broad and slightly defined, his stomach only just gone loose with age. His thighs - she can't think about them for too long, if she's being honest. And his cock, already half-hard from her heated gaze.
Samira has thought about bodies for as long as she can remember: how they work, how they fall apart, the sum of more than their parts. It's her job that's often presented a block to seeing bodies - hers, others - as beyond their clinical presentation, beyond the necessities of eating, sleeping, breathing, working.
Jack might be changing that.
"Samira." He says it with a hint of warning. Her eyes snap up but she pauses, tongue heavy.
Pink marks his face. And oh, isn't this rich.
"Don't like being stared at, Jack?" She means it teasing, but it comes out as disbelief because the irony is so delicious she almost can't bear it.
The corner of his mouth twitches up. "Look all you want." He spreads his legs, knees bumping the edges.
Samira looks alright. She stays looking, even when she strips herself of her outside clothes. Even when she unclasps her bra and lets it fall between them. Even when she picks up his discarded t-shirt and tugs it on, inhales the scent of him, reveling in the deep hum he releases as it falls just right, ass cheeks peeking out. Even when she retrieves the pillow from the couch, sinking onto her knees between his sprawled legs. Even when she twirls her hair up, tucked away from her face with a clip.
Samira scrapes her fingernails against the sparse hair of his thighs, feels the muscles constrict. She wants to see how far she can take him with the first one.
"You know," she starts conversationally, "If I were a lesser person, I could throw your words right back in your face."
Jack's gaze turns questioning.
"I could say we should go for five."
There's a pregnant pause and then,
"Samira." The sound is ripped from him, wariness and a twinge of something she might call fear in anyone else except for Dr. Jack Abbot. His eyes widen and there's that twitch of his mouth like he wants to smile, but Samira thinks if the movement came to its natural conclusion, it'd be closer to a grimace. He's waiting for the punchline, for her own impatience to win out.
However Samira's feeling quite serene tonight, quite patient. More eager to see Jack fall apart in her hands than to chase her own pleasure.
But Samira Mohan is benevolent, above all else.
"We'll save that for another night."
His shoulders drop instantly and she has to laugh as the visible relief spreads through his body. He shakes his head at her, torn between wanting to scold for her torture and delight in her want to tease him of all people.
"Four should make us even."
(Benevolent, to a point.)
Jack's head whips up at Samira's words, as her fingers finally reach his cock. He inhales sharply at the feeling, though her touch remains light.
"I gave you four orgasms, Samira." Jack explains, hips quivering but staying firmly planted against the cushion. "You're tryin’ to take four from me."
"Take?" She asks, incredulously. "As if you were entitled to them in the first place?" There's a hint of something in her tone - not meanness, not cruelty. But a factual assertion, a reckoning of the truth. It’s the same tone she uses with patients who question her credentials.
Jack gasps as her hand grasps his cock fully, gives it one slow pass. She spreads the beads of pre-cum with her thumb, wetting her fingers so they can slide a little easier. Not enough yet, but this first round is going to be all experimentation. Samira is good at observing, good at noting things down, good at changing tactics based on data and evidence. Tonight is a class for her as much as it is an exercise in discipline for Jack.
He doesn't open his mouth, though she can tell he’s vibrating with want at her cadence, at her boldness. There's something about exploration, about learning and discovery, about new partners and new wants and new desires and -
Samira's getting ahead of herself.
Her hand pumps with a loose grip. She wants to catalogue each of his sounds, his movements, his facial expressions. Samira wants to be good at this. Jack tracks her as she hovers her face over the head. Samira opens her mouth and lets saliva dribble from her lips directly onto his slit.
Jack moans, brow furrowing.
She collects the spit and uses it to coat her palm, his cock. Her speed picks up slightly, other hand gripping at the crease of his hip - grounding for both of them. Jack's left foot slides as he attempts to readjust, to move his hips closer to her mouth.
She pulls back immediately. His body freezes, and then his hips sink into the chair once more. She smiles, says nothing, and her hand picks up again. Jack’s a gifted learner.
It's a short time before his breath starts to come quicker, before his hips start to flex, before his head dips down, eyes blurry but focused.
"You remember the rules, don't you, Dr. Abbot?" Samira is playing dirty because that was the plan since the beginning. It was built into this demonstration, part of the back-and-forth. It's what they both wanted.
"Yes." He manages before his mouth flattens into a thin line. Samira shrugs, lets another thread of saliva spill down and cover his cock. Jack groans through gritted teeth, but she trusts him.
Another minute and then he interrupts, "St - stop."
Samira's hand releases his cock immediately, letting it drop heavily against his stomach. She grins up at him and he huffs out a weak noise. "That's one down, Jack." She pats at his thigh, keeping her touch present but soft. "See how easy it is?"
He attempts a laugh, but it’s more of a wheeze. "One was already too much."
She pouts. "Where's that night shift stamina you told me so much about?"
Eventually, Jack’s breathing evens out and he loses the wild sheen in his eyes that’s always dialed up when he’s close.
Samira decides to take her time. She shifts on her knees, the pillow cushioning against the hardwood and massages fingers deep into the tops of his legs, into the muscles of his thighs. Jack tenses again, but then relaxes as her thumbs work out sore knots. She follows her fingers with her lips, reverent kisses placed atop overused limbs.
"You don't..." Jack starts, swallowing audibly, and when Samira checks, she's delighted to see the pink has made a riotous return.
"If you tell me I don't have to, I'm going to chuck a journal at your head." Samira says plainly.
He rolls his tongue in his mouth, shrugs in an almost self-deprecating way.
"I don’t do anything I don’t want to do, Jack, at least here. Can we both agree we're on the same page about that?" She’s surprised at the offense she feels, concerned that they haven't managed to get over this hill.
Jack catches her tone - because naturally he does - and sits up straighter, gives her a sharp nod. "Yeah."
"Good." She sighs, reassured, and then circles a hand around his cock without further warning.
A hiss is ripped from between his teeth. "Menace." She'd take him seriously if his eyes weren't gleaming.
"But you knew that." She quips right back and then resolves to put the banter on a temporary hold. With no small amount of glee, Samira’s lips find the head of his cock once more and she swears she can hear his teeth clack together.
Determined to savor the feeling, she starts with kitten licks to his tip, his slit. Her other hand holds his base steady, pressure to keep him contained but not enough for any real stimulation. He tastes salty and warm on her tongue, like skin, like heat. She suckles lightly at the head, watches in fascination as his stomach clenches, as he attempts an aborted roll up.
"Sorry." He gasps out, expecting her to retreat due to his lack of self-control. And maybe she should, except his easy compliance is giving her a heady sense of power that's going right to her brain. So instead, Samira swallows his cock down in one go.
"Shit -" Jack tosses his head, left foot stamping down into the floor. When Samira pulls off, a single cough escaping her mouth, his eyes bore into her. "You're insane."
She frowns. "What, you don't like it?"
Jack's mouth drops open. "No, no, that's not -" Cuts himself off when she smirks, disappointed for being so far gone he missed her sarcasm. "Where's that AED again?"
"In the kitchen, don't worry." She laughs, resting one elbow on his thigh as her other hand pumps him lazily. His focus flickers between her eyes, her lips, and her hand, unsure where he wants to land. It’s a new effect for him, indecision. "You're not as talkative tonight, Jack."
"I'm tryin' to remember how to breathe." He sounds winded. "It's distracting."
"What is?" She tilts her head, fingers following the vein on the bottom of his shaft. His entire body shudders and Samira files that information away for later.
"You." He replies. "Lookin' like that."
"Looking like what?" She leans into the ribbing because rarely does she get to exert this kind of power and control over the man before her, rarely does she feel the confidence to ask the questions and not want to shy away from the answers.
"Fishing for compliments?" He aims for roguish, ends on anguished as her fingers slide down and cup at his balls. "Fuck, I'm gettin' close."
Samira sucks at the head again as she hums in acknowledgement. Jack's biceps flex and she can imagine him pulling at the ropes. Can imagine them snapping, in fact, if he's pushed enough and that thought sends a shiver down her own spine.
Jack doesn’t miss a single thing about her.
"What are you thinking about, Samira?" Panting out, he ducks his chin. She blinks up at him, coyish in a way she’s not accustomed to but knows he’ll get a kick from. And then she readjusts her grip, slides another inch of his cock into her mouth. Pokes the tip deliberately into her cheek, bulging.
Samira Mohan loves being right.
Jack stares at her for two seconds before slamming his eyes shut.
“Stop.” He says, brow flattening, jaw clenching hard. Her hand stills and she reluctantly releases, taking a deep breath.
“I was thinking about what it would get for you to break free of the ropes.” She whispers, fingertips running across his abdomen, watching the muscle jump. “Probably wouldn’t take much from you, would it?” She’s only half listening to herself, squirming as heat pools between her legs. The way he would strain, desperate to touch her. “The way you’d have marks on your wrists and everyone would know you like -”
“Samira, stop.” Jack begs, chest heaving and body trembling as he fights against the restraints, against his body’s inclinations, against her words.
His cock twitches and pulse, and she licks her lips without thinking.
“Could you?” She gasps out, mouth watering, suddenly delirious with need. “Untouched?”
Jack groans and she’s enraptured as the struggle plays out on his face: how his eyes keep opening and closing, wanting to stare at her, always. How his forehead scrunches up, his jaw tightening to bring himself back in check. How he takes slow, deliberate breaths through his nose.
She takes pity on him, remaining silent.
The tension seeps out in slow waves and his cock shifts back from a less angry red.
“I need a minute before we go again.” Samira’s own eyes flutter shut as his voice hits her, gravelly and high at the same time, like he’s still on the verge and could fall off at any moment.
As he collects himself, eyes unable to meet hers until he’s sure he won’t spill into oblivion - and that notion is inviting, making her veins sing beneath her skin - Samira begins to register Jack Abbot for all he is, for all he gives her. There is something to be said about a single, fixed point of attention. There is something to be said about your own pleasure emerging from the visceral pleasure of your partner. There is something to be said about tearing someone down to their bare bones, to their most vulnerable - about being trusted, fully and with no questions, to do so.
Samira feels powerful, and in control, and alive in ways she only ever feels in the ED. But she also feels an alarming sense of relief. Of witnessing, of being witnessed.
Something tugs in the pit of Samira’s stomach and all that flashes in her mind is,
Found you.
And what makes it all the more profound is that if she vocalized this, Jack would know exactly what she meant. Inevitability, or something like that - if you believe in fate. But Samira and Jack are people of medicine and science. So some hard work and perseverance has to be thrown into the mix as well.
Jack Abbot is a hard worker, no doubt about it. He is a diligent man, a doctor with endurance for days. Samira is beginning to wonder, though, if four might have been a tad outside of his scope.
She licks a stripe from the base of his cock up to the very tip and then slides down about half of him. She uses her hand to cover the rest and starts stroking in earnest. Like Jack, she’s a fast learner. Listens for the hitches of breath, the whines he tries his damndest to suffocate. Watches his thighs move, his hips jump, his head loll this way and that. He’s antsy and uncoordinated - so unlike his usual countenance.
Samira feasts on it.
The blowjob is sloppy and she doesn't hate it, focuses on building a rhythm, something she can really work with.
Jack is a mess above her.
“Jesus, Samira. You’re incredible. You’re fucking incredible.” She’s not sure how conscious he is of what he’s saying, but the praise settles into her skin. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”
She sinks lower, swallows around his cock, and Jack makes a sound like he’s been punched.
“Samira, fuck -” He’s fighting the urge to fuck up into her mouth and while the thought is deeply arousing - and maybe they can add face-fucking to the list at some point - she hopes he hasn’t forgotten himself.
Samira and Jack both want similar things, in the end. But Samira knows that he’ll kick himself if he doesn’t get to four. Workaholic, overachiever, all that stuff.
She tries to get her nose as close to his navel, ends up gagging in the process, and that drags a long groan from Jack, has his chest pushing upwards and head shaking, before,
“Stop.” It’s miserable, and it’s dragged from somewhere deep within him - from a place where he desperately wants to do a good job, a good job for her.
So when Samira immediately pulls off, she rewards him with a, “Good boy.”
She’s glad for the foresight of a hard grip at his base because she thinks he might have come from the words alone if given the opportunity.
A helpless moan escapes and the tremors start to subside. He’s muttering something under his breath - just curse after curse, Samira’s pretty sure. Jack hunches his shoulders, his normally perfect posture defeated by three interrupted orgasms. The flush on his face is permanent, spread down his throat and onto his chest, skin mottled and warm to the touch. His nipples are hard, his abs are tight, and his cock wavers in front of her face - oh so tempting if Samira was any more devious than she already is.
Samira is sidetracked when Jack lifts his chin. His eyes are staring - as they always are - directly into her, pupils blown, focus unwavering. But they’re red-rimmed at the edges, glassy and wet, and Samira can provide no rational reason as to why this drags a moan from her own lips.
Jack shudders, full body, and has to curl toes on his foot - is probably digging fingernails into his palm - to maintain his last shred of control.
"This is equitable to you, Samira?" Jack asks bewildered. He loves to toss her words back in her face, doesn’t he?
Samira mulls over the sentiment she’s aching to convey. His eyes are hooded, glazed over with want and desire and a yawning vulnerability and -
Jesus, he really doesn't get it.
(Samira will recognize the irony, later on. She will realize that this has been Jack Abbot’s mission from the inception, to have her see herself through his eyes. Will understand the why, in the after.)
Samira slips one hand from his thigh to her own, under her panties, dipping into her folds. She gathers the pool of wetness, slicks her fingers up. Holds them up so Jack can see. Separates two of her digits, a slick string connecting them.
Jack's mouth drops open and he grunts, pants, demands.
"Let me taste."
She doesn't think when she brings them to his lips, just watches as he sucks on her fingers, a man feverish and starved.
“Samira, Samira, baby girl, please god -” Jack chokes her name out over and over as she bobs her head, as she twists her wrist on the upstroke and he keens, high and breathless. Jack’s past reservations, any lingering notions of that pesky thing called willpower. He is pure embodiment and agitation, spiraled into a single, overstimulated body.
Samira wants to put him out of his misery. He's done such a good job, after all.
It’s all enthusiasm, little real skill utilized, as Samira hollows her cheeks and sucks, as her hand gives a particularly brutal yank of his cock. He’s rocking - unconscious and uncontrollable - breath coming in short, staccato bursts, face flaming.
Samira wonders if she could come untouched, just from the sight of him. Maybe not, but it’ll be a close fucking call.
Her knees might be starting to twinge, her jaw might be aching, her wrist might be cramping, but Samira knows a mighty payoff when she sees one barreling towards her.
“I’m - Samira, I’m -”
She’s already aware, cognizant of the thundering of his heartbeat in his throat, the vibrations of his stomach, the trembling of his thighs. Drawing back, a string of saliva connects her lips to the tip of his cock. She breaks it to say,
“Let go, baby. You earned it.”
She uses her forearms to keep his lower body down as she works him over with two hands, a steady, relentless pace - the same kind he uses with her. His whole body is wracked with tremors as Samira witnesses the dissolution of control, the total collapse of restraint.
Jack stares, eyes narrow slits, brows scrunched together. She’d suspect he was in pain if she didn’t know better. She meets his gaze, doesn’t let up because she thinks he might need this, might need to see her own want and desire reflected back up at him.
Jack inhales sharply, his chest caves in, and his head ducks so low she thinks it would be much more comfortable if he just let himself close his eyes. He won’t though, not until it’s too much to bear.
“Samira.” Is what Jack manages to wheeze out at the last second as his orgasm slams into him. His entire body attempts to buck her off; she doesn’t let him. His cock jerks in her palms and then his release is shooting in hot, thick ropes against his stomach. His groan transforms into a whimper as his eyes finally slide shut, as he tucks his chin to chest.
He doesn’t stop coming.
Samira’s lips part, eyes unblinking as his cock pulses a seventh, eighth time. White lines paint his skin and he’s making a mess and Samira bites her own lip, hard, to stop the mirroring of his sounds.
Fuck, it’s so hot.
His cock kicks a last time - there’s nothing left, but he’s giving it a fighting fucking chance. The tense line of his body starts to crumple and he flags into the armchair as if his bones have all but melted away.
Samira’s hands remain on his softening cock. She’s sort of dumbstruck, brain rebooting. Jack releases one wickedly pitiful sound and that snaps Samira out of her daze. Her fingers go slack - and they’re streaked with his cum, she thinks idly, before remembering that she did plan for everything. She grabs the small towel sitting next to the armchair, right beside the bottle of pedialyte.
Once her hands are cleaner, she reaches for his legs again. He jumps at the contact, still hypervigilant. One hand rubs up his side - giving his cock a wide berth - and the other presses into his internal thigh.
There’s a beat of silence, and then,
“Are you checking my femoral, Dr. Mohan?”
His voice is devastated and Samira’s core spasms because, fuck, this is going to haunt her subconscious for a very, very long time.
“I have a right to be concerned.” She sniffs and uses his body to leverage herself up, wincing at the numbness of her knees, the stiffness in her legs. Her own discomfort is a far off concept, though.
Jack hasn’t opened his eyes yet and that tells Samira all she needs to know.
Her hands skitter up, so he knows exactly where she is, until she reaches his lower back and shifts - he’s malleable in her hands and she’s more than a little endeared, but also he’s kind of heavy. Her fingers search for the knots, wondering if she remembered the lotion for his wrists.
As soon as the ropes have come loose, his hands snap forward and haul her into his chest.
Her yelp morphs quickly into a low whine as her still-clothed core meets his pelvis, and he hisses at the overstimulation. One of Jack’s hands slips under her underwear, finds her soaked pussy, and pants out a gasp.
“Jack.” She says.
His fingers slide through her wetness but Samira reaches down and grasps his wrist, yanking it away.
“Jack, please stop.”
His eyes open immediately and find hers.
She’s smiling. Of course she is, how could she not? Samira just gave this man the orgasm of his lifetime - she’s feeling pretty confident about this assessment, will have to verify later - and the first thing he wants to do when he’s free is get her off too.
But Samira wants to revel in the afterglow a bit longer. She’s horny as fuck all, but she’s -
She’s content. Content to sit with him, content to breathe him in, content to put her own pleasure to the side for the time being because she rarely sees him with the dazed expression on his face, with his body devoid of tension.
Damn it, Jack Abbot was right all along. It’ll be an eternity before she admits it willingly.
Eventually, Samira forces him to drink his electrolytes as she wets the towel and cleans his stomach. She’s as gentle as she can around his cock, but she doesn’t smother the grin as he whimpers when her hand gets too close.
She drags him to bed and he knocks out the second his head hits the pillow. She considers herself a pretty good person - the bigger person, if you will - when she decides not to tease him in the morning.
Samira wakes with light streaming in through semi-sheer curtains and an arm heavy across her stomach. She yawns into the room, stretches, and smiles as the hand tightens around her waist, keeping her exactly where she is. She turns her head, is met with a nest of curly hair directly in her face. She’s half-conscious as she runs fingers through, trying for order amongst the chaos.
Jack nuzzles further into her throat and she runs her other hand up and down his forearm, matching the motions of the fingers at his scalp. He purrs, she swears she hears it, and she’s about to tease him - the bigger person thing forgotten - when he beats her to it.
“If I’m dead because of a heart attack, I have no regrets. And I’d prefer you didn’t tell me.” His voice is muffled by her skin and Samira starts laughing, jarring his body along with her own.
“You think anyone in the pitt would believe me if I told them what a drama queen you are?” She tugs at his scalp so his head raises a little, yelps at the pinch he gives in retaliation.
“Yeah, because they’re all insufferable gossips.” He kisses a line along her neck.
“I bet you’re the worst of all.” Yanks on his elbow.
“I plead the fifth.” Bites on her pulse point.
Samira hiccups but he hears it, and she doesn’t need to use the handle on his hair to get him to move this time. Jack releases her waist, presses into the bed to lift himself, and -
Samira’s stomach clenches, not from want, but from deep affection.
He looks so…warm. Happy to be waking up to bantering and teasing and soft pets against his scalp. His eyes don’t hold the same intensity, made sluggish with sleep and a well-earned orgasm. But they still seek her out, always.
Something twists in Samira’s chest but it doesn’t hurt. Sort of feels like something slotting into place.
Samira beams and Jack’s mouth goes slack.
She hauls him in, a first kiss of many. Languid, calm. A waking up. A relaxing. The lack of urgency feels special, acute in a way she’s not sure how to describe. Jack wraps her into his arms, she cradles his head in her hands. It is comfortable, it is fulfillment personified.
It is sacrosanct.
Jack cups the base of her neck, presses his tongue against hers.
Samira slides nails down his sides, rearranges their bodies.
At some point, she loses the panties and t-shirt. Jack reaches fingers down, but she shakes her head, murmurs assurances against his lips as he settles between her legs. She doesn’t want the anticipation, doesn’t want the slow build-up. Samira wants him, now.
He lines up, she tilts her hips, and they meet in the middle, a gasp passed back and forth between their lips. There are no words that need to be spoken; they’ve discussed this all before. (Her birth control, his vasectomy, their shared test results.)
Samira sinks fingers into the meat of his scapula, drags him so they are touching everywhere. Jack hooks hands under her thighs so he can scoop them up, press his pelvis in that much closer. Returns to cradling her head, foreheads pressed together.
It’s a slow roll, no desperation. Jack doesn’t try for a coherent rhythm, just presses in deep, over and over again. Their lips rarely part, only to breathe and barely at that. They’re not chasing orgasms, as has been their righteous goal in all the times before. They are simply trying to be as close to each other as possible, for as long as possible.
Jack may mumble things into Samira’s cheek, into her neck, she’s not entirely sure. Perhaps she mutters things back. Words - their varied meanings - are unimportant, she finds for the first time in her life. Samira feels, completely. Thinks about an essay she read, years ago, by Audre Lorde. Thinks about eroticism, about deep feeling, about the sacred and the quotidian. Thinks about all that exists within the in-between.
Thinks about what exists in the in-between for her and Jack.
(Little, perhaps - or maybe, everything.)
When Samira does come, it is with a soft cry and a sniffle and kisses littered against her face. When Jack comes, it is with an exhalation from his lungs and a shaking of interlaced hands and kisses littered across his face.
“What’s that mean?” Samira points at the small piece of art atop Jack’s dresser, leaning against the wall (still nothing affixed to the walls, she smirks). Her eyes flicker closed for a second and she releases a grunt as he digs his thumbs into the base of her scalp, the smell of coconut in the air. God, he’s good at this - but that’s no surprise.
He shifts fingers up her scalp, massaging in the oil. “An donas amach is an sonas isteach.” The words come out clunky on his tongue. “Basically: out with the bad, in with the good.”
She hums, both in acknowledgement and from his attention to her hair.
“My sister bought it from one of those kitschy tourist shops in Dingle. Ireland. She knows I love a good affirmation.” He deadpans and Samira snorts, loudly.
“Yeah, with your morning sun salutations?” The sarcasm hits him in the chest and she can feel him chortling against her back. "I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Mhm. And three nieces.”
“Oh, I know you spoil them rotten.” She rolls her eyes.
He sounds fiercely adoring in his reply, “Yeah.” A pause. “You’re an only child?”
“Yup.” Samira rolls her neck. “The one and only.”
“There could never be another Samira Mohan.” He whispers into her ear and she hides a smile.
When he’s covered her scalp, Jack easily follows her directions in twisting her hair and looping it into a bun, securing it with her big clip. He hops out of bed, uses the furniture to maneuver towards the bathroom to wash his hands.
Samira checks her phone, finds it likely she'll be spending the rest of the day - and maybe the night, again - if their current lounging is anything to go by. Finds she quite likes the idea, in fact.
Jack returns and glances at her phone. “Work?”
“No, thank god.” Samira pats the empty space beside her in the bed and then freezes.
When has Doctor Samira Mohan ever willingly passed up an opportunity to go to work? When has Doctor Samira Mohan ever been relieved - nay, elated - to find that work was not knocking on the door of her spare time?
It’s the most startling revelation she’s had in months.
And then Samira looks up and Jack Abbot is rearranging himself into the sheets, doing that charming thing he does with his mouth, and Samira thinks -
Ah.
(Found you.)
Samira licks at her lips. Samira feels a buzzing under her skin. Samira places a heated palm to his cheek and kisses him once, with all her might.
“Hi.” Samira says.
“Hey.” Jack says.
She leans into his side and exhales shakily, mind racing.
And then,
“You said something. Uh, last time.” Jack starts and Samira can hear how his heart kicks up when he starts talking.
“Did I?”
“Yeah, about -” He cuts himself off. Clears his throat. “About not going on dates. Anymore. Or implying it. Um.”
Jack Abbot is nervous and Samira feels a strange sense of vindication boil up, quickly tamped down by the realization of what he’s getting at.
Samira sits back up and turns around. Jack is already staring at her, cheeks dusted pink.
“I just let you come in me.” She states, matter-of-fact.
Jack chokes on air. Nods. “That you - yup. Yeah.”
The silence lasts a minute too long.
Samira sighs. “I’m not very good at this.” Reluctant to admit her flaws, her inability to be perfect at everything she tries her hand at, valiant effort or not.
Jack gestures at himself. “And I am?”
Samira snorts again. “We’re kind of oblivious, aren’t we?”
“Good thing we’re badass at our jobs.” He runs a hand through his curls. “Plus you gotta save all that beautiful brain power for your patients. They need you.”
“What’s your excuse then?” Except she’s beaming.
“I’ve got none.” Except he’s got this small, helpless smile on his face. “I’m sort of crazy about you, if you couldn’t tell.”
Samira’s heart beats, loud. “Yeah. Me too, sort of.”
“Yeah?” Jack asks.
“Again, I just let you come -”
“Jesus, Samira.” He scrubs at his face. Except he’s laughing.
Except she’s laughing. “I can save some of that brain power for other important things, you know. Like you. Maybe.”
She nudges his hip with her outstretched foot. He grabs at her ankle, finds her posterior tibial pulse. Eyes clear, her pulse steady against his fingers.
“I’m good, if you are.” Samira Mohan says, an echo from months ago.
Her heart beats.
Jack Abbot’s mouth twitches up. “I’m good, if you are.”
Steady, sure.