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Samira notices when she's watching him unpack the new wine glasses he ordered. She doesn't particularly like wine, but Jack does. The sweet ones, at least, and sometimes a good red that pairs well with their meal, whatever that means.
She watches him nudge his fingers under the packing tape, follows the motion as he rips it apart cleanly. His broad hand dwarfs the first of the glasses when he picks it up after carefully pulling it loose from the packing material.
It's how he rests his hand on the small of her back. How he guides her arms into the sleeves of her jacket when she's tired. Like she's going to shatter if he presses, pushes.
He is at least as gentle with her as he is with the fragile glass in his hands. More, even.
When they're all neatly lined up in one of the dark green cupboards of Jack's kitchen, Jack turns to her and finds her watching him. He grins. "What?"
"Nothing," Samira replies. Her gaze drops to his hands laid on the granite countertop, broad and pale. She takes a sip of her tea, long gone cold, and meets Jack's eyes.
"You have 48 off," he reminds her. He doesn't, but she'll have him back by morning. "Want me to do your nails?"
Samira's lips curl into a smile. He has to leave in about an hour. More than enough time for him to paint her nails.
She doesn't often have her nails painted because most of the time it just isn't worth the effort considering she has to wipe it all off before her next shift. But the added benefit of Jack's warm, gentle hands on hers, all his focus directed onto her nails, lips pursed and tongue peeking out in concentration, has changed her opinion on it a fair bit.
"I'd like that."
Jack smiles. He bends over the counter to drop a kiss to the top of her head. "What color?"
"You decide."
"Light pink," he replies, like he already had the answer prepared.
Samira narrows her eyes at him. "That was fast," she points out.
"I was thinking about it this morning," Jack admits.
Something goes warm in Samira's chest at the thought of Jack walking out of the Pitt, curls all messed up, scrubs wrinkled, thinking of doing her nails. Go-bag slung over his shoulder, dry hands shoved into his pockets, thinking of being home with her. The image of painting her nails so clear in his mind he knows what color he wants to use.
"That makes me happy to hear," Samira blurts.
Jack's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's exactly what I'm here for."
Samira's heart stumbles and she tilts her head back, craning upwards to slot her lips over Jack's. He loves her so much. The Samira from before residency would wonder how she hasn't drowned in Jack's love yet. Samira now would tell her it's because it buoys her. He doesn't tie her down, doesn't add any weight to her, whether on purpose or by accident.
It's what Samira had been afraid of, before. In a far-removed and vague way, because, truthfully, a relationship had never been in her top priorities. It would have to wait until after residency, she told herself. The worry that a partner would hold her back or slow her down was just an extra reason to rank romance low on her list.
But being with Jack is like sinking into a warm bath. She's drifting aimlessly, yes, but peacefully in the knowledge that she's never going to sink under the water, that it's never going to do more than lap gently at her curls.
Breaking their kiss, Jack says, "I'll get the lamp."
They settle at the counter. Jack's coffee table is the perfect height for kicking up their legs or setting their drinks on it, but it's too low to do her nails at. They'd have to sit bent over the wooden table, which wouldn't be good for either of their backs.
Samira had tried to hide her smile when, the first time they'd done this, Jack had turned up with the lamp, unplugged from the outlet beside the couch. He'd seen it, of course, and rolled his eyes at her.
"What?" Samira had tried to say, acting like she knew nothing about the smile tugging at her lips, but a laugh had spilled out of her halfway through the word.
"Rude," Jack had huffed, shaking his head. When he had the lamp switched on, he settled his readers on his face, eyes big and wide, which had sent Samira into a fit of giggles. "You're lucky you're as brilliant as you are," he'd said, failing utterly at frowning at her.
Jack starts with the thumb of her left hand. She's sure he randomly chose the order the first time and now he just sticks to it.
Samira does not possess a base coat. Frankly, she thinks they're not all they're made out to be. So far she has managed just fine without one.
Said lack of base coat means Jack gets right into the most important part, pink nail polish bottle uncapped.
He's careful with it, holding her fingers steady one after the other, suspended a few inches above the granite countertop.
There's a paper towel laid out between them to catch any potential mess. The first time neither of them had thought of putting a towel down and Jack's counter had paid the price.
Jack's hands are steady, of course, but nail painting is something even surgeons aren't born talented at.
And then there's the fact that Jack refuses to marr any of her fingertips even the tiniest bit. Samira has told him she can just wash any spillover away, but Jack doesn't seem to care.
So when he shook just a little bit, that first time, while he was working on her pinky, instead of painting a swipe of deep red over her cuticle and onto her finger, Jack had dropped the brush straight onto the countertop.
Samira had raised her brows at him and Jack had gone pink.
"Sorry," he'd mumbled and picked up the brush again.
Despite how much he's improved, how good he's at it now, he's still so achingly careful. Thick fingers nimble and skilled, warm and dry against her skin.
She feels cradled when he does this. Held, even if he's only ever holding a finger or a hand. Respected, in a dizzyingly intense and direct way, borne out of his absolute denial to mess up her hands, to sully the soft skin of her fingertips.
"Should we go to a movie theater?" Jack asks, breaking the silence as he switches to her middle finger. He gracefully avoids her already painted, still wet nails.
"Sure." Samira keeps still for him, eyes roaming the parts of his face she can see, forehead, eyes, and most of his nose hidden behind gray curls. "What do you want to see?"
Jack shrugs. He raises her hand, directs it closer to the lamp. Eyes narrowed, he makes sure the color is fully opaque, no streaks of her nail flashing through. "I don't know."
Satisfied with his work on this nail, he puts her hand back onto the table and moves to the next one. Her ring finger, now.
"It's just that we've never been," Jack explains. "And it is kind of a staple when it comes to dating."
Samira hums. "I think we're a bit beyond dating."
Jack pauses and raises his head, flashing her a smile. "That so?" Either Samira is seeing things or his ears are getting just a tiny bit pink.
Samira nods. "I don't tell people I'm dating you. And I don't call you my boyfriend."
"What do you call me, then?" There's curiosity on his face and impatience.
"You're my partner."
"In crime?"
Samira snorts. "Sure, that too." She taps his head with her free hand.
"Hey, careful," Jack admonishes, looking up. His eyes are dark and beautiful in the low light. "I just painted those."
"I'm being careful," Samira assures him. "In life," she adds, now that she's got his gaze on her, "is what I mean when I say you're my partner."
Jack lets out a hitched breath. "You sure know how to sweet talk a man."
"A man, he says." Samira shakes her head. "You know they voted me most likely to die alone in high school."
"Jesus, that's mean." Jack caps the nail polish for now, then carefully guides her hand back to the counter and lets go of her, which is the exact opposite of what Samira wants. But before she can complain, Jack instead gathers her other hand, the one with already dried nails, in his to hold.
Samira bites her lip, an old ache blooming at the memories. "I tried to wear it as a badge of honor. Of sorts."
"Didn't really work, huh?"
Samira can only offer him a sad smile. "No, not really."
"Well, you can tell Jenny and Mackenzie and whoever else that you are going to die less alone than any of them," Jack vows, stroking over her hand with his light, thick fingers.
Something that rushes through Samira gathers then, small streams flowing into each other, growing and growing until all the affection, all the respect, the care, and love flows out of her in three short words. "I love you," she breathes, like she's relaxing into the feeling.
Jack's eyes are wide and adoring when he says, "C'mere."
Samira surges forward, bringing her mouth to his.
Jack makes a squeaking noise into the kiss, grabs her hand where she's trying to bury it in his curls. "Not dry, Samira. Not dry," he mutters against her lips. "That hand isn't dry yet."
Samira lets out a groan. "Get to it, then," she demands as she pulls away.
Jack laughs, deep and raspy. "God, you're perfect," he crows, darting forward to drop a kiss onto her nose. "I love you, too. But we already knew that, didn't we?"
"Some of us sooner than others." Sometimes regret snags in Samira, sharp and acrid thorns hooking into the soft parts inside her. She could have had Jack, could have had everything he brings, all his support, all his faith, all his kindness so much earlier if she'd only opened her eyes.
And, what might be worse, Jack could have had her. He might have worried his coworkers less than Samira, but Jack wasn't doing all that well either.
"We'll make up for it by living past a hundred twenty," Jack murmurs. "Just don't grow out of having your nails painted, yeah, baby? I'd miss it."
Samira rolls her eyes, fondness in every facet of the expression. "Alright," she promises. "Now back to work, soldier."
"You'd make a great drill sergeant," Jack lies. "Very impressive."
But he does go back to painting her nails, sinking into quiet concentration again.
Samira draws a hand over her face with a sigh. She squeezes her eyes shut like one very forceful blink is going to make up for the hours spent under cold lighting and in front of flickering computer screens. It doesn't work, of course, and her eyes remain dry.
She blinks rapidly a few times, which doesn't help matters either, but at least now she can say she tried.
With another sigh she gives up on the blinking and allows the world around her to come into focus again.
The first thing she sees is a bruise.
No, wrong—it's multiple bruises, small but clustered together so tightly she thought it was just one at first glance.
Samira's eyes widen as she stares across the hub at Kim's neck.
She might not have ever had a hickey personally, but she knows one when she sees one. Although the red, purple mottling on the nurse's neck might be verging into animal attack territory. For a beat, Samira feels bad for staring, but, to be fair, Kim clearly made no attempt to cover even a single one of the bruises. She wonders if whoever made those did it on purpose or if they just got very carried away.
It must have been on purpose, right?
Jack always gets carried away the second he notices that she's looking at him a certain type of way.
Samira has never been more aware of how expressive she can be than when Jack merely throws her a cursory glance while walking by, only to turn right back around and offer her a wicked grin.
"At 10 am, Samira?" he asks then, halfway to incredulity. Or, "I'm literally dripping sweat onto this carpet," and once, "You're going to ruin my suit."
And then? Then he always indulges her by pulling her close and letting himself get lost in her.
But he doesn't do this. Would never suck and bite at her neck until she was red and purple, then yellow and green.
Jack, when he hugs someone, has this habit of tilting his head down onto their shoulder. It's why Samira couldn't smell apples without thinking of him for weeks after the first hug they shared that made her catch a whiff of his curls, crisp and green. Months she spent working and pining and being so embarrassed about the pining that she worked even more, which never helped because the more she worked, the more she saw Jack and the more she smelled the fresh, green scent of his shampoo.
And there were apples everywhere, inexplicably. Apple pie in her favorite bakery, dried apple chips in the break room for the staff to snack on, fresh apple juice being sold at the farmer's market she went to in a weak effort to feel connected to her community.
Samira couldn't escape it, and whatever the knowledge of what Jack Abbot smells like rustled up within her only settled when she buried her nose in his apple-fresh curls, approximately five minutes after waking up in his bed for the first time. It woke him, of course, vigilant man that he is, but any judgment beyond a vaguely bemused look in her direction was absent.
Jack still does the head-turning thing, but nowadays his head isn't turned away. Nowadays, his face is tilted right into the soft expanse of Samira's neck and his lips are pressed to where her pulse is beating a too-high but steady heart rate of 84 beats a minute.
When they're close, when he's nuzzling his face into her throat, he breathes hot and heavy like he just ran a marathon, like he just can't get enough of her and every heaving breath he takes is just damning him evermore.
And when he's turned on, when his erection is pressing insistently into her hip and his cheeks are ruddy, he gets messy.
He presses open-mouthed kisses to her collarbones, tugs her shirt aside, down, away to kiss more of her, and when he deems it enough or when he finally loses the fight to drawing anything out in the name of anticipation, he lays the flat of his tongue onto her skin and licks up the length of her throat all the way to her ear.
The skin turns cold immediately, and goosebumps race down Samira's arms as Jack's saliva cools, only to be warmed right back up by the next lick, again and again, until he's happy with how many shivers he's chased down Samira's back.
Biting or sucking is no part of it. If she feels Jack's teeth on her neck, it's a quick slide against the skin, a stumble without intention.
Samira can't pinpoint why she's so sure of the fact that she's never going to show up to work with a chain of hickeys down her neck, only that she is.
But then she thinks about the bold, red letters stamped across the package Jack's new wine flutes came in. Thinks about the word fragile and about how carefully he'd picked up the glasses.
Huh.
During the first few weeks of their relationship, Jack had never seemed particularly invested in oral sex with himself on the receiving end.
In time, Samira had realized that this was simply because Jack never actually asked her to do anything for him.
He fucked her because she wanted him to. He let her jerk him off because she wanted to.
It wasn't that he hadn't been interested or not into it, he'd admitted, when she'd brought it up. It was just that he'd wanted her to set the pace.
They were still working together; he was still technically her supervisor on shared shifts; he was nearly two decades older; he was significantly more sexually experienced—the list went on.
When Samira had assured Jack that she would like to suck his dick, please, and not only for his enjoyment but also for her own, he'd flushed and agreed, suddenly very interested now that he was allowed to be.
Unsurprisingly, he'd been gentle.
Perhaps more surprising is the fact that now, months later, he remains just as careful with her as he was that first time.
When Samira quietly, with a small smile on her face, picks a pillow off Jack's couch and throws it onto the floor next to his foot, he raises his gaze to hers. His phone is too bright for the low light of his apartment and he's wearing his readers. They make his eyes look big and surprised.
"Do you want to?" Samira doesn't sink to her knees just yet; instead, she waits for Jack's answer. Sometimes he's too exhausted, sometimes he's too wired, sometimes he has a migraine that an orgasm will worsen. There are a lot of things that keep Samira from having Jack's cock in her mouth as often as she wants to.
Jack drops his phone onto the couch. It's still on, but he doesn't seem to care as he lets a smirk spread over his face. The readers are discarded next and Samira almost tells him to keep them on, but she doesn't really want them to slide down his nose like they sometimes do and hit her in the face while she's sucking his cock.
"I'm game," he drawls and Samira's lips twitch upwards. She steps closer. Like instinct, he spreads his thighs for her to step between them. The sweatpants he's wearing do absolutely nothing to hide the size of his quads and Samira can't wait to get her hands on them. Ostensibly, she'll be holding onto them for stability, but she also just really likes to feel the width, the power of them under her hands. And the way Jack starts twitching when he's close.
"Wanna make out first?" Jack asks and waggles his brows.
Samira can't honestly say she's not into the move. She shrugs. "I was just going to jump right in."
"Yeah, alright," he says, whatever you want written on his face. He'd told her once that the fact that she wants to touch him at all probably makes him the luckiest man on earth. He'd swiftly retracted the probably when Samira had actually wrapped her hand around him, crossing from imagination into reality.
Samira carefully drops to her knees between Jack's spread thighs, who doesn't seem too hung up on missing out on her tongue in his mouth.
Samira figures that's the beauty of sleeping over at his place—they'll be making out plenty before falling asleep and Samira has never not wanted to kiss Jack right after waking up to his sleepy, rumpled face. Once, she licked the pillow marks on his cheek, surprised at how clearly she could feel the divots and dips. It led her to extensive wondering about what kind of valleys and marks she could map with her tongue, going off feel alone, not letting herself be distracted by taste, warmth, or smell.
But right now she allows all her senses to come into full focus. Allows herself to feel the warmth of his thighs under her hands, the smell of his body wash that reaches out to her when she pulls his pants and underwear off, and the warm taste of his skin when she drops a kiss to his belly, just below the waistband of the shirt he's still wearing. Normally, she prefers him as naked as possible, but there's something about the implied urgency of him still half-dressed that makes her feel all shivery and warm at the same time.
Jack is half-hard by the time she properly gets a hand on him. She strokes him light and fast, the way he likes to be guided into sex, until his cock is straining up towards his belly. That's when the modus operandi changes, when she slows down so he can properly relax into it.
Eyes on him, Samira takes him as far into her mouth as she can and rests him there for a moment, swallowing around him and waiting for his shoulders to relax. It's then that Jack raises his hands to her hair. Samira cranes upwards without thought, used to the weight of them on her head when she's in this position, when she has him hot and heavy on her tongue.
Jack hums and begins carding his fingers through her curls.
He doesn't pull. Not to make her move, nor to make her keep still. Instead, he tucks the fly-away curls at her temples behind her ears, cups her face for a moment, strokes gently over her cheeks, then goes right back to playing with her hair for no apparent reason beyond wanting to.
Samira lets him slip almost all the way out of her mouth to tongue at his frenulum. He shivers into it, makes a vaguely approving noise, and mumbles something she can't hear but knows the shape of because she's familiar with the praise, the kindnesses he likes to heap upon her in bed.
It feels like he's braiding her hair, almost. He's carefully pushing his fingers through her curls, separating them into strands that curl the same way, winding them around each other before he lets them go only to do it again with different strands.
When Samira starts bobbing her head, a hand circling Jack's shaft to keep him steady, he gathers her hair in his hand and moves it all to the left side, lets it fan out onto his thigh. He trots his fingertips over the bared skin of Samira's neck and shoulder, then returns to her hair.
Thighs starting to twitch under Samira's ministrations, Jack artfully arranges her hair. She doesn't know what kind of patterns he's looking to create, but she doesn't need to. His fingers on her scalp are just the right mix of firm and gentle that sends pleasant little shudders down her body, and he somehow manages to untangle any knot he finds without tugging. It's nice. It feels like he just wants her to be comfortable and feeling pretty, hair untangled, scalp scratched, the weight of his hands cradling her without pushing or holding her in place.
Samira knows she can't take his cock all that deep on her own. Maybe she could get it down her throat if he pushed it there, but he doesn't, so Samira can relax into this, too. Can focus on lapping at his slit on every pull, then down his frenulum and shaft on every push, without having to be ready for her breathing being disrupted or her gag reflex being triggered.
Being this close to coming doesn't stop Jack from talking, but it does rob him of most of his eloquence.
"I want to—" he starts, then trails off into a hitched breath. "Want to braid your hair."
Samira hums and Jack swears above her. She half-smiles around his dick and Jack huffs, the noise too shaky to impress.
"Don't make fun of me," he complains, faintly. His thighs are tensed, shaking slightly, and Samira knows so is his core as he pushes his hips down into the couch, keeping them there so he doesn't jerk and fuck up into her mouth.
Samira just hums and goes back to what she was doing, redoubling her efforts now that she knows Jack is close.
He starts trembling then, full-body shivers instead of just his thighs under her hands. When the first spurt of come hits Samira's tongue, she pulls away with one last hollowing of her cheeks.
Jack's hand goes to his dick. He holds it up towards his stomach, comes over his black shirt in big, white ropes. "Fuck," he breathes, making eye contact with Samira, whose eyes are open again. "That was really good," he says.
Samira smirks up at him, ignoring the musky aftertaste of his semen on her tongue.
She doesn't like the taste, which she told him before she ever sucked his dick. When she did it for the first time, he had her pull away and finished into his hand.
The next time, when he warned her a split-second before coming, Samira expected him to pull out of her mouth and paint her face. He didn't, though. The thought seemingly didn't even cross his mind. Instead, he just pulled out and, like now, pointed his cock at himself, coming into the sparse hair that trailed from his belly button down to the hair at the base of his dick.
Not a drop ever touched Samira.
But she prefers what they do now: she sucks him off until he comes, then pulls away as soon as his dick kicks up to shoot his spend into her mouth. This way she gets to feel him come without having to take his whole load.
Jack lets his hand fall from his dick with a quiet, "Damn," and tilts his head up to the ceiling as he catches his breath.
Samira lays her head onto his thigh, a small smile playing on her face.
"By the way," she says, "yes."
Jack is still looking at the ceiling. "What?" he manages.
"You can braid my hair," Samira elaborates.
That gets him to look at her. "Fuck yeah." He tugs off his shirt, rolls it up to throw it more or less in the direction of the laundry bin. "What do you want? Two braids?"
Samira contemplates it for a moment. "Three?" It's like they're negotiating.
"It's a deal."
When they have sex, it's almost always Samira initiating it.
Jack fell first, but Samira fell harder. One day she respected night shift attending Dr. Abbot and perhaps wouldn't say no to being his friend, and the next she was head over heels for her kind, steadfast, and very handsome friend Jack.
It makes sense, then, that Jack is much more used to pushing his attraction for her down into a box to be folded up and taped shut.
Samira has no such defense mechanisms, so when Jack returns from a run all sweaty curls and flushed cheeks, shoulders pink because he keeps forgetting to put on sunscreen, there's nothing she can do about the familiar tug between her legs. About the awareness that pulses to life at the sight of her partner's freckled arms and the satisfied look on his face that tells her he's content with his performance.
"Hi, baby." He always looks so happy when he comes home to her in his apartment, whether she's lounging on the couch, scrolling through case studies at the kitchen counter, or napping in his bed. Samira wonders if he's always going to be as explicitly happy about her in his space. Probably.
"Hey," she responds, putting her phone away. "How was it?" His farmer's tan looks somehow even worse with the added sunburn from today. Inexplicably, it's doing something to Samira.
Jack rocks back on his heel, the running blade he's wearing as impressive as ever. "Good. Bit warm, but, eh," he answers, waving it off. He sits down on the edge of the bench in the hallway so he can keep looking at her as he blindly levers off his prosthetic. "What have you been up to?"
"Nothing interesting," Samira admits, eyes fixed on his thick fingers. She'd been aimlessly scrolling on her phone, then she'd made tea, and after that, she'd considered taking a nap but had instead checked her emails to check if the editor she was working with on the case study she'd written over the past few weeks had sent her draft back with notes and feedback for her to implement.
Jack hums and gets up, leg off, crutches in hand. "I'm gonna go take a shower. Stir fry after?"
Samira does not care about stir fry right now.
Instead of agreeing, she gets up from the couch and pads over to him. Her feet aren't cold here anymore. Jack had turned up the temperature in his apartment for her somewhere along the way. Samira isn't sure if she noticed it immediately or if he had done it even earlier than a mere month into their relationship.
Either way, it means she doesn't have to bring her wooly socks every time, bare feet on Jack's tiled floors.
Jack accepts her kiss readily when she reaches him. Despite how fast his heart is beating, pulse racing notably under Samira's fingers, how wired he still is from his run, frame tense, ready to bolt, he meets her gently. Kisses her tenderly.
He doesn't nip at her lips, doesn't squeeze or scrape. Just meets her in the middle, presses his lips solidly, steadily against hers.
One of his crutches clatters to the ground and then there's an arm winding around Samira's waist. His palm settles on her hip, wide and warm.
The apartment is quiet and when they pull apart to take a breath, gazes tangled, entwined, the only sound is the rush of air passing between them.
Jack leans back in first. His stubble presses into her and after a moment, he slides his tongue against her lips, soft and wet.
Jack likes making out. He likes the drag of his tongue against hers, yet he never plunders her mouth with his.
He waits for her to reach out, waits for her to slip her tongue between his lips to slide gently against his.
There's something about it Samira had falsely labelled as goading the first few times they'd kissed like this.
It's not him provoking a reaction, it's him asking for one. Asking her to allow the kiss to turn wet, hot, mouths open. Asking her to acknowledge his invitation, his offer and decide what to do with it.
And when she gives in, when she sticks her tongue into his mouth, or when she sucks his tongue into her own mouth, he keeps kissing her with that perfect blend of solid but soft. All steady but rounded angles, an insistent press but one that never scratches or chafes at her.
It makes her melt, makes pleasure flow through her until she's soaking through her underwear, pulling back from the kiss to find both their chins shiny, breathing labored.
Jack's cheeks are flushed and Samira finds that her hand has slipped into his sweat-damp curls at some point. The air between them is hot and her gaze keeps unsubtly wandering in the direction of Jack's bedroom.
"Is that a no to the stir fry?" His voice is playful but raspy. Heavy with something warm that exists between them, that pulls them together.
"It's a later," Samira clarifies, focused Jack's flush and his slightly parted lips. "When you've touched me."
Jack's eyes darken and something pulls at the edges of his mouth. "You want me to?" he asks, unnecessarily. Samira sees his eyes drop to her lips, then lower when she swallows, like he's completely enraptured, like he can't help but follow even her slightest movement.
Samira presses closer and Jack's arm goes tight around her waist again, picking up the cue perfectly. "If you're not too tired," she mumbles against his cheek before their lips meet again.
Jack hums, interrupting their kiss to move down her cheek, nosing along the line of her jaw, leaving wet, soft kisses on her skin. "Today was," he rasps and Samira can feel the grin he hides in the warm space just under her ear as he says, "quiet."
Samira laughs into his hair, burying her fingers in his curls. She breathes him in, keeping him close to her for a beat longer when he tries to pull back.
When she lets him go, he finds her gaze immediately.
"Go ahead." He nods to the bedroom.
Samira does as asked.
She's already lying on the bed when Jack enters the room. He looks down at her from the foot of the bed, eyes roaming her form on the mussed sheets, as he takes a step back to lean against the wall. He discards his remaining crutch, the other presumably still in the hallway, and then his hands are wandering to the hem of his shirt.
Samira's join them, mirroring his movements, layer after layer, until she has an uninterrupted line of sight of his sturdy frame, his strong arms, and the interest his cock has clearly taken in the proceedings.
He pushes off the wall, a practiced move Samira has grown familiar with, and waits for the edge of the mattress to hit his knees. Following gravity down, he crawls onto her, knees carefully avoiding hers, settling with their legs tangled, his erection pressing into the valley between her hip bone and pussy.
"So beautiful," Jack breathes. The sheets beside Samira's head rustle under his hands. "Waiting for me."
Samira is not going to dispute that and instead elects to kiss him again. She can feel his cock twitch when she pushes her tongue into his mouth, can feel him rumble happily under the hand she's scratching through his hair, across his scalp.
That tight, snappy tension Jack often brings home is slowly seeping out of him, replaced by arousal, by want in its warm waves. It carries him closer to her, makes him push his thigh down against her cunt.
Samira shivers, gladly taking the offered help.
Jack keeps his leg where it is and licks over her cheek, down her throat, until he arrives at her collarbone; lips, tongue mapping the dip above it, the skin below it.
When he reaches her breasts, he fits his open mouth over a nipple, smears the wide pad of his thumb over the other. He doesn't pinch, just circles the nub steadily as tiny pulses of pleasure drip down to Samira's pussy.
Happy with the goosebumps trailing down her belly, Jack abandons the nipple he was just petting over to cradle her breast in his hand. There's no squeezing involved, just his palm holding her, thumb almost instinctively stroking over her skin.
He pulls off, lips shiny and pink, to offer her a sweet peck before he moves down her body to put his mouth on her.
Jack loves eating her out. Samira gets it, understands why he groans into her pussy, why his hips twitch the way he never allows them to when she has his cock in her mouth.
When she lets him indulge, he doesn't pinch her cunt either, doesn't ghost his teeth along her clit.
It's his tongue first, broad and wet, licking all of her over and over again in unhurried passes. Then his lips, spit-slick, softly sucking her clit into his mouth, strumming his tongue over the peak.
It gets messy, sounds messy, feels messy—the wet and slick sound of Jack between her legs making out with her cunt, raspy when he groans into her, breath growing increasingly irregular when he fucks his tongue into her, trying to reach as deep as he can, licking like he wants to drink from her, like he's coaxing all her arousal out of her pussy and into his mouth.
Sometimes he slips his fingers inside her, rests them there just to hold her.
And Samira fucking loves it. Grinds herself into Jack's face, clenches around nothing to offer him more of herself, hands buried in his curls.
She loves coming like that. Loves trapping Jack against her when she comes, thighs tensing and pressing him closer, closer.
But her best orgasms are always those with Jack inside her and tonight she's impatient. For hours she has waited for the sound of Jack's key in the lock, his ever-so-slightly uneven gait after a shift, no matter how quiet it might have been, and she's had enough of waiting.
So just as Jack gets into it, thumbs spreading her open to push his tongue into her as far as he can, she pulls him away by the hair.
Jack resists for a second, the hesitation all instinct, then pulls back of his own accord, brain processing that she wants him to leave.
He assesses her, eyes roaming, trying to find a furrow between her brows, tension in her shoulders, anything that would tell him what changed or what he might have done wrong.
"I don't have the patience for oral right now." Her breathing is a lot heavier than she thought. "I want you to fuck me and then I want to go to bed."
Jack tips his head to her. "Whatever you want." He sits back on his haunches, quads tensing.
Samira swallows.
Jack's lips twitch. Bastard.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she's going to ride Jack's thigh until she comes. But right now she directs her gaze to his cock.
His erection seemingly hasn't flagged even a little bit. Not new in the least, but still makes the sweet ache between Samira's legs pulse.
Already reaching for the lube, Jack watches her as she moves up the bed a bit. Head on their pillows, she sighs contently.
"Good," Jack says. "Make yourself comfortable, yeah?"
Samira nods.
"I'll take care of the rest, sweetheart," he adds and Samira's chest goes warm and bright. Fuck, she loves this man.
And she is comfortable like this.
That hasn't always been the case. Samira doesn't have any particularly special complexes about being naked. Like to many people, nakedness simply feels vulnerable to her.
But Samira has not felt the exposed, the stinging kind of vulnerability for even a split second under Jack's gaze.
Part of it is that she became used to Jack's stare long before they ever kissed.
The rest can be traced back to how incredibly clearly Jack conveys the sheer amount of respect he has for her when she's in his bed.
That's what remains in the end.
It's what she feels when he slides his tongue sweetly across her bottom lip instead of nipping and tugging at it, instead of pushing inside her mouth just because he wants to.
It's what she remembers the morning after, when there are no hickeys trailing up her neck, just unmarred, sheltered skin.
What he draws onto her skin when he's tenderly circling her nipples, the warm drag of his thumb sending tiny shivers of pleasure down Samira's body.
It's all she feels when he licks into her, his tongue warm and wet and soft, like it's an honor to drink from her.
And as she watches him stroke himself, slow and languid, getting himself ready to fuck her, she knows that in this, too, he treats her with respect.
He reaches back to grip her ankles, gently directing her feet flat on the bed.
Jack does all this very thoroughly, very thoughtfully. It seems to be something of a routine for him.
They're well beyond condoms, so Samira watches with half-lidded eyes as Jack pours entirely too much lube directly onto his cock. He makes a mess every time, gets them slick, shiny, wet, makes absolutely sure that the drag of him inside her is never anything other than smooth and pleasant.
The lube is already warm by the time he cups his cunt with his hand, smearing it all over her vulva, dipping his fingers just the tiniest bit inside her.
Then, one wide thumb at the base of his dick, he slides it against her, bumping the tip into her clit again and again. Samira revels in the intimacy of it, his most sensitive spot against hers, pressed together so sweetly.
"You want it?" Jack asks, and Samira almost laughs because the words should be goading, teasing, should be him depriving her of what she wants to make her ask for it, but they're not. Jack is being genuine. He's asking if she wants it, not to make her beg for it, but to make sure, to check in with her.
It doesn't mean that he doesn't grin at her, eyes dark and intense, when she says, "Yes, I fucking want it."
One broad hand wanders to Samira's hip, the other remains on his dick to notch it at her entrance, pushing in just enough to keep it there as he folds himself down over her, always looking to be close to her when they do this.
Jack's eyes on hers, his warm, broad frame above her, him pushing inside her, filling every empty, lonely part of her—the first time they'd done this had been the single most intimate experience of Samira's life and to this day it robs her of any breath or sense she might have once had.
Jack pushes into her as slowly and carefully as always, brows knotted together with the conviction that not a single fucking thing will be uncomfortable for her.
He's quiet, but that doesn't mean they're not communicating: his hand finding hers, fingers intertwining; head tilted in question when he's pushing the widest part of himself into her, waiting for a shallow nod to keep doing; hazel eyes on her face, taking in every little twitch.
When his pelvis meets hers, when she can just feel his balls against her, the breath he's been holding leaves him, trembling, strained.
Samira pets his hair, gives them a moment to adjust, draws her free hand down his shoulder. She can feel the muscles of his back, can trace their dips and valleys. Abruptly, she thinks about a mirror on the ceiling and something molten drips through her at the image that unfolds in her mind.
"How you feeling?" Jack rasps.
Samira closes her eyes, takes stock of her body. "Good," she tells him, opening her eyes to focus on his face. "Full."
Jack twitches at the word and bows his head with a curse, forehead meeting her collarbone. He just breathes for a moment, then laves a wet kiss over her skin. When he pulls back, he blows on it softly just to watch her shiver with a chuckle.
Samira hikes a leg up onto Jack's hip and presses her heel to the small of his back, pulling him in. "I think I was promised something."
Jack nods. "Yeah," he breathes. "Do you want it—"
"—as usual, yes, please," Samira interrupts.
Jack opens his mouth to say something, but right now she just wants to feel him, so she cranes upwards, tilts her head back, lips parted. Jack, immediately caught, changes course and abandons whatever he wanted to say in favor of pressing his lips to hers.
Samira sighs into the kiss and Jack squeezes her hand once, twice, thrice.
Then he starts moving.
It's not so much a thrusting as it is a slow, small pulse of his cock inside her. He rocks his hips into her, grinding his pelvic bone over her clit, again and again. Her tits are rubbing over his chest, their bellies pressed together, and Samira could almost cry with the perfect harmony of the things she's feeling. He's so warm, so solid, and his cock fills her just right, sending soft waves of pleasure into her bloodstream with every inching drag over her g-spot, every press of his pelvis onto her swollen clit.
It's not that Samira doesn't like the long, deep strokes she knows Jack is capable of—she simply prefers this. Prefers having him close like this, having the stimulation of her g-spot be just right instead of verging into the overstimulation she's prone to.
It also makes her last longer, which in turn means Jack lasts longer because the man categorically refuses to come before she does. Samira has no idea how he acquired this measure of control over his body, but he did.
So he tenderly, languidly guides her into her pleasure. Holds her hand, kisses her deeply, nudges a hand between their bodies to strum a thick but gentle finger over her clit and waits his turn.
"I love you," Jack whispers, right into her ear. Samira revels in the warm shudder it chases down her body. "I don't think I say it enough."
Samira's scoff trails off into a moan. "Yes, there—fuck." She's close and they both know it. "You say it enough. But I don't mind you saying it too much," Samira confides, winding her other leg around his waist, wanting him closer, and Jack stutters for the first time, impeccable rhythm failing him.
"Careful," he manages, and the next roll of his hips has force behind it. "You're gonna tip us over."
"Sorry," Samira laughs. "You just feel so good inside me."
The way Jack trembles at her words is the sole reason for her increased chattiness in bed and Samira buries a satisfied grin into a sweet kiss placed on Jack's cheek.
"You just gave me permission to be absolutely insufferable," Jack nuzzles into her throat. "So, let me say it again: I fucking love you."
"I love you, too," Samira murmurs, tugging her partner back to her mouth. "I think I'm going to ride your thigh about it tomorrow." She says it like it's not already a done deal, like she didn't expect Jack's groan at the words, like she didn't see the way his fingers slip off her clit coming from a mile away.
"I should quit my job. I could just stay here full time to entertain you," he says, fingers nimble, quick, finding their way back to her clit.
And they both know Jack could never; they both know he needs his job almost as much as it needs him, but Samira nonetheless likes the idea of Jack in this bed always and forever.
"A bit faster, please," she urges. "Make me come, baby. I want my eight hours, but I don't want to miss half the day."
"I love how reasonable you are," Jack admits. "So sensible, my girlfriend. Or should I say partner, hm? In life and crime."
"We should rob a bank together." Jack laughs and Samira smiles into his neck, tilting her hips up to meet his, taking small, shallow breaths until she can feel how the pleasure bubbles up inside her, all the little zings and pulses Jack has so readily shepherded into her gut drawing together, growing brighter and brighter. With a shaky sigh, she falls apart on Jack's cock, something warm and sparkling radiating out into every last cell of her body.
Jack hums. "Yeah?" he asks, as if he didn't feel her clench down around him.
And only when she confirms that yes, she came, and yes, she's satisfied, does Jack allow himself to come.
He doesn't change his strokes, knows that she's even more prone to overstimulation after an orgasm than she already is. Instead, he just keeps rolling, grinding down into the cradle of her hips, cock dragging smoothly inside her in small, gentle motions.
He doesn't ever need more anyway.
The only indication that he's working for his own pleasure now is that his movements are faster, jerkier.
When he comes with a groan and a whispered, "Fuck," Samira can feel it. Can feel how his cock twitches inside her, how warm his come is.
He carefully lowers himself onto her and a deep sigh escapes Samira when his weight finds home on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, covered by his bulk.
"W's that good?" Jack mumbles, words muffled against her neck.
Samira plays with his hair, lightly bucks her hips just to remind the both of them that he's still inside her. "Yeah," she whispers, satisfied and sleepy after her orgasm.
"Good." He slips out of her and rolls onto his back next to her on the bed. Samira knows he's looking at her, but her eyes have fluttered shut and she can't find the energy to open them again, entirely at peace lying next to him, shoulders brushing, breath finding a shared rhythm.
Only when the mattress dips around her, his weight moving down the bed, does she crack open one eye.
Jack is nudging his way between her legs again, raising his hand to her thighs, encouraging her to wrap them around his head. "Let me clean up my mess," he asks.
"I might fall asleep," Samira admits. Exhaustion is tugging at her, sweet and sticky.
"That's okay," Jack assures her, licking a wet stripe from the crease of her thigh to her cunt.
Samira stops him with a tap of her heel.
He stills immediately and looks up at her, head tilted.
"Be thorough," she tells him.
Jack's mild confusion morphs into a wide grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. There's focus on his face now, the urge to succeed, to impress. "Of course," he vows, and then he's licking into her.