Because she was drunk, and he was drunk, and they were fucking on a picnic table in the park near his house.

At some point during the night, she knew one or both of them had mentioned regulations. But, clearly, that wasn't going to matter in the here and now. With his body on top of hers and his dick inside of her and his lips on her throat, Sam Carter is fairly certain she doesn't care what happens.

Right at this moment, Jack O'Neill probably doesn't, either.

She can feel him straining against her, thrusting and sliding and nipping and pulling (he's always had talented fingers). Can feel the cold damp of the boards at her back, the way one splinter worked its way through her t-shirt and into her back (it scrapes every time she moves against him). Her ass will probably have bruises from the way he dropped her against the bench earlier.

He's already made her come, mouth buried between her thighs, tongue working deep inside and up and around until she was biting her wrist (because even this drunk she knows they have to be quiet) to keep from crying out her pleasure.

There was a moment she wasn't sure he was up to the occasion, but Jack O'Neill is a man who can hold his liquor, and before she could truly worry he was buried inside of her.

Now he's getting close, she can tell by the way he's moving more frantically, as if racing against something he doesn't want to face.

She brings her knees up, wraps her legs around his waist, and he groans at the change in angle as she tightens inner muscles that are very damn happy to feel him.

They are not supposed to be doing this, and perhaps that's why there's such an extra, delicious edge to the way he growls as he orgasms. His mouth closes on her neck, and she makes a note to wear only turtlenecks for the next few days.

He's still inside of her, half-hard and slipping out with a slowness that makes her want to groan when she sees the lights coming towards them.

"Sir." Her fingers catch in his hair, drawing his head up off her neck. "Get up."

"Carter--" But he's moving, because now they can both hear the approaching sirens. In this small suburb, it's just possible the cops are arriving for a burglary. He scrambles off of her, nearly falling over as his pants catch around his ankles.

Sam would laugh, but she's worse off. She has to figure out where the hell her skirt went, and there's no telling if her underwear is here or somewhere along the nearby path.

It's a damn good thing she was wearing a skirt, and that's not something she wants to think about while the police are coming to arrest them for public indecency. If that's what they're coming for. She doesn't want to think about it at all. Because, suddenly, she can see what this will do to her career, what it will do to his, and she doesn't want anything to change.

"Sir--"

"Be quiet."

Her mouth snaps shut at the curt order, and she wonders why she can feel hurt at his brusqueness. Her shoes are on one side of the clearing and she retrieves them, stepping into the two-inch heeled pumps with a grimace. If they have to run, she'd really like there not to be semen dripping down her legs.

The skirt is underneath the table and she drops to her knees to get it, using the moment to wipe her thighs a little and clean her fingers on the grass. She hates to think of them using DNA testing to find out who was having sex in the park, but there are already traces of both of them everywhere, and she doesn't think they'll go to that expense. Now, if they'd killed one or two people, maybe stolen something expensive...

"C'mon." He jerks her to her feet and she stumbles in the heels, her skirt still clutched in one hand.

"Wait." It takes a second to pull the zippered fabric over her head and she begins walking after him as she settles it low on her hips and zips it up.

He's already halfway down the path that leads eventually towards the street he lives on, and she wonders what his neighbors are going to think of her (if they're watching), and almost stops and demands they find her a cab. Now.

But she doesn't want to leave this moment in time that only exists right here and now with their shared grief at Daniel's death. Not that he'll ever admit that.

They avoid the cops and make it to his house without being spotted by anyone except his crazy neighbor with the yappy little dog. And Sam hopes they're far enough away not to look out of sorts. Once inside, he pins her against the door, and she can feel the adrenaline speeding through her veins as he hitches her up and slides his fingers inside of her.

He holds her there, and she comes in minutes, crying out this time, not caring who hears her.

Daniel's memorial had left her feeling empty, she thinks dizzily as he releases her and catches her mouth again, licking and suckling at it. It's almost an attack, but she did the same to him what feels like hours ago.

"Sir." She whimpers.

And he stops. "Don't call me that." His hand slides under her shirt and his fingers brush across her breasts, tugging and freeing them from her bra as his mouth closes on an ear lobe.

"What--" she moans as his thumbs stroke over her nipples. "--do you want me to call you?"

"Jack."

Her hand slid down into his pants where she finds him beginning to recover, hardening with a soft growl at her touch. "Then, Jack," and she pauses to savor the way his name rolls around her mouth. "I need you to fuck me."

"Beg." His thumbs roll across her nipples again.

"Please." She lightly scrapes her nails on his length, almost smirking as he shudders.

He's kissing her again, and they're moving away and down the hall. By the time they reach his bedroom, her skirt is gone again, though he insisted she keep the heels. His shoes and pants come off, and for a millisecond, she wants him to take her right there, standing in the doorway, because fucking him on his bed makes it too real and too full of meaning.

But he's kissing his way around her shoulders, nipping and biting and she really can't think with the way one of his hands was stroking up and down the insides of her thighs.

"Fingers were nice." She manages, pulling him over and pushing him so he falls onto the bed. She scrambles after, moving to slide down onto him, her head falling back. "This is better."

No more words, nothing but the sounds of two people fighting against the inevitable.

He gets a smirk when she comes again, then loses it when she leans over and bites at his nipples, suckling and nibbling until his hand in her hair drags her mouth back to his.

A twist of her hips, and it's over for him, the grunt lost inside her mouth.

She sags down onto his chest and rests, feeling the cool air again, the sweat on her skin. Tasting the scent of his body at the back of her throat.

"I'll call you a cab. As soon as..." His voice trails off when she raises her head.

"You don't even miss him." Sam doesn't wait for him to reply, just moves, scrambling off of him and wondering if the sudden revulsion is his fault or hers. Or if she can lay it at Daniel's door.

"Don't go like this."

"Would you rather I cried all over you, Jack?" She looks at him, then bends over to grab the t-shirt she'd been wearing. "I mean, I suppose I could. That would make this all better, would sanction what we've just done."

A shudder goes through him, "Don't."

"I have to." She's out of the bedroom, tottering on the heels and wondering if walking would be better than waiting for the cab to arrive.

"No." Arms close around her from behind, and he's leaning his head against her neck. "Please."

"Please what." There is no satisfaction in discovering that he needs her as much as she needs him.

"Don't go."

"I thought you were calling me a cab."

The arms tighten. "Phone's off the hook."

"Ah." She still stands, rigid in his grasp. "I can't do this."

"Can't do what?"

"Let me go." Frantic words scamper across her brain. Don't let me go.

"Please stay."

A breath in. A breath out. "Ok."

They're drunk, she thinks as he leads her back to the bed and spreads a towel on the wet spot. Drunk, and they don't know what they're doing.

Sam Carter sometimes thinks she never knows what they're doing.

-f-

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