We're Only Science
by ALC Punk!

Oh, god. She was going to regret this. But it felt so damn good.

"Sam." His mouth whispers the word against her neck and she moves, suddenly frantic for skin on skin contact.

It's been way too long since this sort of thing happened to her. And the last three guys who were anywhere near close are now dead (not that she wants to think of that while he's shoving her pants down around her ankles). And, shit, her boots are in the way.

Shivering at the way his fingers so easily find exactly where to go, she arches back against the bulkhead, almost slamming her head into the wall. He smirks, then moves down her to untie her laces, his lips and tongue playing across her suddenly naked waist and thighs.

One boot off, then another, and her pants and panties follow. Then he's sliding his fingers inside her.

Regret may not be a part of her after-glow diet after all.

He stands back up, hand still moving in and out of her. His mouth finds that spot behind her ear, and she keens softly, shuddering at the sensations he's producing (dear, god, this shouldn't feel like this. Maybe she should have gotten new batteries last week).

"Now." She growls, suddenly tired of the teasing--and she knows it's been too long, and not long enough. And so doesn't care. Because she needs this, needs him deep inside her now. Now.

She hits her head harder against the bulkhead as he jerks her against him, sliding his hips between hers, guiding himself inside.

It hurts for a moment, her flesh not quite slick enough. He pauses as if sensing this, and so she nips his neck before he can slow down. She so doesn't want this slow. She wants it fast and hard and. right. now.

She wraps a leg around him, using the other for stability until he shifts and there's something that could be a shelf underneath her ass. Then she's got both legs around him, and she's leaning back further. Some small part of her records this angle of penetration (and maybe that trip to a sex toy shop with Janet might not be such a bad idea, after all).

Corso's hands slide under her shirt, pushing the fabric practically to her throat before he bends over (and that has to be uncomfortable) and bites down gently on one bra-clad nipple.

Maybe she shouldn't have asked him to continue giving her compliments if it was going to turn her head like this. Of course, she could easily have turned him away when he kissed her. Could have placed space between them instead of stepping in and grabbing for his hair. But she was tired, and he was so her type. Dangerous, with that edge that told her she would so regret crossing him.

But, then, he'd regret crossing her. If he does.

And if he doesn't stop teasing her, maybe she can find out about chains and whips.

"Carter?"

The Colonel's voice breaks into this sweaty little tangle, and she automatically reaches for the radio, pushing Corso up to stand straight between her legs again, and clicks it on (after fighting it out from under her arm). "Sir?"

A devilish smirk crosses Corso's face, and he doesn't stop moving. Her body is really happy with this.

"How're those repairs coming?"

"They're--" she has to take a deeper breath, dear, GOD. Her eyes should be rolling back in her head at this rate. "Fine. Sir." Her voice squeaks on that last because lips have closed on her now naked nipple.

"You okay, Carter?"

For a nano-second, she considers telling him just HOW okay she is. But that wouldn't be fair, or particularly kind, or even-- "Fine. Sir." Another squeak, this time because fingers have found their way down to her thighs, and she's definitely going to have to make sure Janet's got a curtain closed when she does her post-mission check.

"Right. We'll check back in an hour. O'Neill out." He sounds only vaguely worried. Which is fine. Because he shouldn't be worried.

Not unless he'd object to his second in command getting herself fucked well against the wall of this ship by her captain.

Actually, he might. But this is not his decision, it's hers. And she's not going to regret it.

But she could. And a sudden spasm of guilt steals through her. And it's the last thing she thought she'd feel before Corso's body slides in that extra milimeter, and dear GOD she can see the stars exploding. Her head slams back into the panel behind her one more time, and she's hoping there's not a sharp edge anywhere (yeah, Janet, I hit my head while orgasming. That would go over well.)

Her inarticulate cry is lost in his shoulder as she bites down, hard, afraid of what she might actually be screaming.

Five years ago, she so couldn't have done this without hating herself in the morning. Hell, one year ago there would have been remorse. But right now, she doesn't care. Because she's still covered in sweat and other fluids, and Corso still has his dick inside of her.

And this is human contact on a level she's avoided for nearly six years.

Maybe she's harder now? The thoughts are drifting back, now that she's floating and relaxed.

Corso chuckles smugly, and then holds her hips tight as he slams in and out several more times. She helps, clenching inner muscles that are still bouncing happily.

Then it's all over and he's bucking against her, his climax breaking his stance. And they slide down the wall to the floor, into a tangle of limbs that leave him breathless. "That..."

Her hand covers his lips. "We've got to finish getting the ship repaired."

For a moment, she could swear something cold and angry flashes in his eyes. And then it's gone, and he's helping her up to her feet, handing her a cloth to clean herself with. And she's compartmentalizing again, pushing things this way and that. Blocking out the thought of what this could mean, what it could bring. That it might be something she does regret.

There's a job to do.

She pulls her pants back on, buckles them, and steps into her boots. Corso has already readjusted himself (except that he really should put pants on that aren't damp in front), and comes over to kneel at her feet.

"No." She smirks down as he looks up in surprise. "I might get ideas."

"Would that be bad?"

"The ship needs to be repaired."

"Hrm. Good point." The smirk returns, "But after..."

Sam lifts an eyebrow, smirks more, "We'll see."

And they would, probably. But there were panels to fix, a machine to restore to working order. And sex was going to have to take a backseat. For now.

-end-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!