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It wasn't working. Fuck.
Alex shoved a fist into the pillow next to her, trying to squash the frustration. Her right hand, still down her knickers, rubbed uselessly at her clit, and she gritted out a whine. If she could just - fuck. Still not working. She'd been hovering right at that edge between aching arousal and being able to do something about it, and at this rate, she's going be giving herself nail burn if she keeps it up.
Bugger Gene Hunt straight to whatever corner of her subconscious he'd crawled out of. This was all his fault - crashing into her flat at two in the bloody morning, curling up next to her on the couch, drinking her last bottle of Chianti, giving her those "I could shag you into next week, Bolls" eyes of his . . . and then patting her bum and waltzing right out the door.
"All good little Inspectors need their beauty sleep," he'd murmured, slamming her door on his way out.
And all the usual tricks hadn't helped. Calling up the rumble of his voice and the burn of whiskey on her lips that time they'd been locked into that storage facility. The feel of his hand on her breast that first day in 1981. His arms around her, heartbeat thudding against her skin when she thought she was going home. Even constructed phrases, dirty bits of filth she imagined he might say in bed.
None of it worked, because none of it was the real thing. Christ, at this rate, she was going to jump Luigi. Stupid sodding Gene Hunt, with his idiotic, pigheaded, blind-as-Helen-Keller-
"S'weird, isn't it? The way everything in your head starts to sound like him?"
Her eyes snap open. No fucking way. No, there is no way that DCI Sam Tyler is lying on his stomach next to her, chin propped in one hand. It cannot be happening, because this is her world, and of all the times she wished Sam would show up and give her some advice, now is not the time.
"Oh, Alex," he says, shaking his head. "Don't you know that nothing in this place works the way you think it does? Not me and especially not Gene Hunt."
She refuses to look at him, thumb resolutely sliding back and forth over her clit in her usual rhythm. He's just going to disappear anyway.
"It doesn't matter how it works, because you're not here."
His hand closes around her wrist, and she can't breathe. It's like getting hit with the defibrillator paddles, the way his fingers burn, long and thin, gripping hard enough for her to feel the pen calluses on his thumb and ring finger. He tugs her hand out of her knickers and raises it to his mouth.
"But I am. And so are you. We're all a little mad here."
He closes his mouth around her fingers and oh, fuck, she'd been wet before, but she can feel the slow, thick throb in her cunt and feel the wetness trickle onto her thighs. Sam's mouth hollows, sucking the taste of her from her own fingers, and the moan he lets out is just gorgeous and abandoned. She can't hold in her quick, reedy cries - again and again, every time she can draw breath, because the feel of his mouth is going straight to her cunt. His eyes glint up at her as he slings one long leg between hers. Pressed tight against him, she realizes he's taller than she'd thought - it's hard to judge when you're in three-inch heels and your interviewee never stands up.
"Don't - not here, Alex. That wasn't us and you know it. Colorless office drones? Glorified paper-pushers? Please, we were meant for better things."
His face is buried in her hair now, mouth having moved to the pulse in her neck. He bites down just the way she likes - sharp, hard, not arsing around - and her hands are pushing his vest over his head. Next to Gene's bulk, he's like a shadow, all planes and angles, and he moves like one. Sneaky as hell, one moment he's got a hand on her arse, the next he's stripping her shirt off.
She keens as he brushes a finger over the soaked fabric of her knickers, then slides them down her legs. He's kissing the bone of her ankle when she remembers what he'd said.
"Better? You can't tell me that Maya wasn't better than this. That Molly isn't better than this."
He stills, midway down her body, and the certainty in his eyes burns bright through the dark of her flat. "Can't fight destiny, Alex. There are twelve steps on the road to recovery. Twelve numbers on a clock. Card number twelve - the Hanged Man. Self-sacrifice. What time were you shot?"
12:12 pm.
Sam's mouth touches her stomach, then her navel, before he looks back up at her again. "Everything happens for a reason. You just need to listen. And speaking of listening . . . I heard you say his name. The Guv. You want him bad, don't you?"
She tries to deny it, even though this isn't actually Sam, so it doesn't matter what he thinks of her. "No, I-"
"Come on, Alex. I know. Believe me, I know. Imagine it's him when I put my mouth on your cunt, if you want. Call me by his name, if you have to. I just want to hear you come."
Her mouth opens in a shocked wail as his fingers spread her open and his tongue swipes hot and wet over her slick flesh. Jesus, he's good; patient and completely thorough, the way he slowly rubs a thumb over her clit as he licks and sucks her. He speeds up and slows down, searching for the rhythm she likes best, and his laugh vibrates right up when he finds it. She's gasping and crying out and shuddering around him soon enough, dripping onto his tongue, and he does something with his teeth to the knot of her clit that drags a full-blown howl out of her.
"Fuck all, you're loud," he says bemusedly, fingers still buried in her cunt, mouth slick with her wetness. "Don't the neighbors complain?"
"Don't - oh fucking hell, please - don't have - any. Luigi lives around the corner. OhmyfuckingGod, just like that."
An unexpected grin, sharp and wicked, crosses his face, and he fucks her harder with his fingers. "Good. Cause I want you to come for me so loud the sodding Guv hears what he's missing."
Ohfuck. Absolute fucking hell, her brain's just shorted out and all she can feel is the burn in her cunt. Sam's got three fingers in her and his mouth sucking her clit between his teeth and it's just this side of painful, but she loves it. She hasn't fucked like this since . . . since a really long time ago. Longer than she likes to dwell on. And it's not as if Gene's obliging her in that department, though he'd do just as lovely a job as Sam's doing now. He'd fuck her well and good, probably calling her a dirty tart, a posh-girl slut-
Just as she's about to come, Sam raises his head. "If you fuck him, you'll never be able to leave."
She's too far gone to care, though, and shoves her hips up against his mouth insistently. She comes harder than she has in years, and she's sucking in oxygen, remembering which limbs are hers when she notices Sam's gone.
His voice cuts through the buzz of the test card, feedbacking through her flat, and she shivers.
"Lived this ten times or more, you know. Nice to have seen you again. Give the Guv my best, yeah?"