Smile Like You Mean It
by ALC Punk!

There was once a time when she would never have done this. A time when she would have objected to the hand that had clipped under her elbow. When the regulations, or her own reticence would have stopped her. She would have pulled away.

Except that in that time before now, there was no way in hell he would be doing this.

He had always made it clear that he wouldn't jeopardize her career.

So what were they doing now?

His lips grazed along her jaw and tugged a moan from inside because the slight stubble gliding along her skin feels ten times better than the smooth-shaven cheek from this morning.

Oh. Right.

Because she has a boyfriend she spends the night with and some part of her is happy about making him hate her.

If you can hate someone while they're making you scream silently (and it has to be silent, since there ARE people somewhere on base who might hear) in ecstacy.

He slows down, suddenly, leans away from her and smirks.

Frustration dances along her skin. She doesn't want this slow. She wants it fast and hard, leaving bruises to match those contained in her emotions. "Jack."

The smirk deepens. "Something you want, Carter?"

Bold words spill out before she can consider them, "Fuck me."

His hand slides down her hip, and he flexes slightly, driving in a bit more. She whimpers. "Does he do this?"

The question slams into her, spinning her brain wildly around, while his nails drag along her side. "No."

"Good." His head drops and he captures a nipple, sucking hard for a moment before releasing it and looking up at her, his eyes glittering darkly. "Does he do that?"

"Sometimes." Bare honesty, makes her add, "but it's not as good."

"I know," he says, beginning to slide slowly out of her, "that he does this." And he slams forward, and she feels like he's trying to dig a hole through the store-room wall with her pelvis. And then doesn't care, because that added pain just makes it work that much more for her.

Her hand finds its way into his hair, and she tugs at him, pulling his lips to her, biting at them. His hand grabs hers, and before she can figure out what he's planning, he's got both wrists pinned above her, the concrete biting coldly into the left one as he releases her lips. The movement has changed the angle of penetration, and she instinctively drags a leg up and wraps it around his waist.

The free hand begins playing with the skin of her thighs, dipping between them to suddenly caress her. The sudden jolt causes her to slam her head back into the wall and jerk her hips into his.

He groans, his head falling back, his eyes suddenly focusing on the ceiling above them. "Don't. Move."

Ignoring him, she tightens her leg, shifts her weight slightly.

"Carter, I said--"

A twist of her hips, and they're suddenly falling, her leg entangled with his and his hand still clasping hers. They land, hard, the breath driven from both. But he's still inside of her, and she takes advantage of his momentary shock to pull her hands free and straighten up.

This angle is definitely fun.

"Jack," she finds herself purring as she flexes around him, "You should have fucked me when you had the chance."

It's not about pleasure, anymore. It's about who is in control of this fiasco, and she's suddenly certain it's neither of them. But then he moves, and she has to keep them from rolling, one leg locked around his. And he taught her some of these moves, but they weren't for sex.

Unfortunately, he has a slight advantage in weight. And before she can drag an orgasm from his (at some level) quite willing body, he's dislodged her and they're rolling. She ends up with her back cold (again), his lips and fingers trailing along her neck and shoulders. The pleasure is now mixed with something that wants to be pain, but merely builds into the pleasure until it's too much, and he's dragging them both over the edge.

Her teeth leave dimples in the juncture between neck and shoulder as she fights down her instinctive cries.

Jack's mouth leaves suction marks.

For a moment, they simply lay there, bodies recovering from this sudden abuse.

Then he's moving off of her, shoving back to lean against the wall, his head down. "Christ."

"Don't." She hasn't moved, and she doesn't want to hear him apologize in that rusty, suddenly hate-filled voice.

His head jerks up and he pins her with his eyes, "Carter--"

"Shut up, Jack. Just shut the fuck up." She rolls and struggles to her feet, discovering that there are a hell of a lot more twinges and aches than she's used to. "I don't want to hear it."

The hand that touches her shoulder catches her by surprise, and she jumps. "Sam."

She doesn't want to hear this sudden tenderness from him. Doesn't want to feel the arms carefully fitting themselves around her. His front presses into her back, the sweat clammy on both their skins. "Jack, don't..."

His lips trail along her shoulder, and his breath whooshes out in a sigh. "Don't what?"

From somewhere, she drags out the strength to step away from him, to begin pulling on her hastily scattered clothing. The BDUs almost mock her as she dresses.

"Carter," She looks at him to see him pass a hand over his face. "Christ. I never--"

Her boots aren't tied yet, but she approaches him, anyway, ignores the fact that he is still standing there naked and vulnerable. "I know you didn't, Jack."

Their eyes hold for a moment, then she bends down and ties her shoes.

She doesn't look at him again, tries not to notice as he eventually brushes past her to gather his own clothing. Definitely doesn't look at the pattern of bruises forming on his back from their tumble to the floor. That's going to be painful in a few hours. But she's not thinking about that.

When she's done with her laces, she moves to the door, careful not to let her own sore muscles give her away (and thank god BDUs cover everything). Once there, she pauses, her hand on the knob.

One more bit of courage filters into her hands and she turns to face him. He deserves this, at least. Deserves the honesty even if it's painful. "Jack..."

His eyes meet hers again, shadowed, as if he has an inkling of what she's planning to say.

"You didn't intend this. But I did."

And then her temerity registers, and she bolts, hand dragging open the door, body moving as quickly as possible. Once in the corridor she pulls the door closed.

He doesn't follow.

-finis-

Back to index

© 2005 ALC Punk!