Friction
by A.j.

***

Sam is dreaming. She has to be. There’s no other explanation for this thing that’s happening right now.

But she’s not, and that’s okay. Hot damn, is that okay...

Jack's skin is warm and tastes of salt. Like a pebbly margarita glass left in the sun too long. She runs her tongue along the axis of his neck, his adam’s apple bobbing and humming in time with his groans. His stubble catches just a bit and she can feel that down to her toes.

She keeps her eyes tightly closed. A bit of a danger considering she doesn't have years of carnal knowledge to guide her tongue or hands, and while she may very well poke him in the eye or scratch him, she wants this moment of dark. To know him with everything other than sight.

She knows what he looks like. Has done for years. She's shaking with the freedom of touch and smell and taste and sound.

His hands are on her back just grasping at her shoulders and sides and sliding down around her thighs. Calloused fingers catch here and there and run across phantom hairs. Shivers hit her spine; hot and cold, cold and hot. She wants to wriggle and squirm out of her skin.

Instead, she sucks hard on what is probably his collar bone and rubs her own hands down his chest. His skin is looser in places that previous lovers. Softer with age and time. There's muscle underneath though. Strength she feels as he levers them up into a sitting position. And she slides down him a bit, coming to rest in a precarious straddle and they both moan.

Hot and cold, cold and hot.

Then she's leaning back over his arm, the slight stubble of his jaw dragging along the skin of her breasts. His mouth hot, oh, god so hot, nuzzling and circling. Her hands find his hair, and now she’s just grasping. Short and spiky, a direct contrast to the soft spattering on his chest and stomach, it slides through her fingers. His is skull solid against her contracting palms.

His own hands are as busy as his mouth, if that’s possible. Thumbs feathering her hip bones, fingers fanning the sides of her spine. He has beautiful hands. This, along with the color of his eyes, hair, his social security number, and the size of his feet, she's known for many years. Eight, to be fussy. They're lean and strong, and wonderfully formed; nails clean and flat. In her mind's eye she can see them smoothing over tables and fiddling with random equipment. And then she sees them sliding over her body and either her brain just whited out, or she's having hallucinations again.

His chuckle is dry but hitches halfway through because she's slumped. Friction and heat and wet and her eyes are open and staring at the ceiling like it's something entirely new and fascinating. And then they're rubbing. Up and down updownupdown sliding, and it isn't the ceiling she staring at anymore. His eyes are black, skin flushed, body panting. It's too much. It's not enough. And she's kissing him again. His hair fisted in her hands, pulling and smashing, and oh god, she needs to be inside him.

He's got the same general idea.

The first thrusts are awkward, if not wasted. His skin is an odd mix of tacky and slick, and beautifully hot as she guides it where it needs to be. He moves his hips too soon, and the resulting bump of skin on skin flashes stars behind her eyes. When the bursts of color melt into the ambient lighting, she sees the white of his smile and can do nothing but grin back.

This is them. Flawed, but working and somehow, somehow laughing about it all.

And then they start to move.

-fin-