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It should bother Chuck more, the fact that he doesn't have any choice about anything anymore. Ever since Bryce sent that email --

Well, maybe that's not quite true. Maybe it was since she walked into his life and made him want to be the guy Bryce would send that email to, the guy who could handle the Intersect.

They both seemed to conspire against him, Ellie and Sarah, and he wasn't entirely sure how but their honeymoon destination of Paris had been determined without any of his help. Ellie was pregnant and found the story of their actual real honest-to-God relationship incredibly romantic, and she argued that it was only fair that they go back there.

There are ghosts for him there (the first time he set out to and actually did (almost) kill someone, the image of Sarah limp with her hair over her face, her blue eyes clouded with confused fear) and he would protest, but he has a feeling they won't be seeing the outside of their disgustingly expensive hotel room.

Sarah finishes what has to be her fourth flute of champagne, and her eyes are sparkling. She leans over, sliding one hand down his arm, a smile curving her lips. "Mr. Carmichael?"

"Yes, Mrs. Carmichael?" It is verboten for two CIA agents to go on their own honeymoon under their own names. Part of him idly wonders what her last name really is, under all the strata, but most of the time it seems less than important.

She sets her flute down a little too hard. The diamond flashes on her left hand. One slender finger traces his jawline. They were so busy with missions and planning and the security for the wedding (Chuck kept having flashes of Ellie's first attempt, Roark and parachuters and shattered ice sculptures and dead caterers) that they hadn't slept in the same bed in well over a week, and parts of him instantly respond to the intimacy of her touch.

"My fingers," she's putting on that outrageous Southern accent she had during their train ride, after Paris, after their first trip to Paris, "seem to be a little fumbly and I need help with my skirt." Her voice drops to a breathy whisper at the last.

"Help doing what, exactly, ma'am," he tips an imaginary hat, "with your skirt?"

She smoothes his ridiculous tie. "Come with me and I'll show you."

Despite how she does it, the way one knee gently bumps his inner thigh, the way her fingers tighten with unmistakable intent against his shoulder as she tilts forward, her cleavage on a clear line with his very interested gaze, he bites his lip and watches her close the door behind her and waits a full two minutes before following.

The most difficult thing is walking to the back of the plane without his cock leading the way.

Her perfume is subtle but it's the first thing he picks up on, over the distinctly unromantic quasi-antiseptic smell of the bathroom, all brushed metal and tiny compartments. The roar of the plane promises to make conversation difficult.

So instead he starts at her feet and draws his gaze up, over the low sand-colored heels, her bare legs so smooth that they shimmer, the relatively demure hem of her skirt, the tight low-cut navy shirt that brings out the blue of her eyes. His lightweight summer suit and white button-down are standard issue, but the paisley tie is something straight out of a screwball comedy; after all the secrecy part of him wanted to leave some rice in his hair, tie a few cans to his shoe, stick out like a sore thumb for the sheer joy of it. Not that Sarah Walker (Bartowski, now) ever blends in.

"And what was this... problem?"

He breathes the words, so close he warms her skin and so low she has to read his lips; she lifts a well-sculpted eyebrow and turns around, hooking a thumb under the waistband of her skirt, drawing it toward the button and zipper at the back.

Chuck leans down, closing his eyes and breathing her in. Her shampoo is vaguely floral, her perfume slightly musky, but her body seems to meld to his, her hips snug against his just before he hooks his fingers under the hem of her skirt and begins to shimmy it up. With deft fingers he unfastens it and follows the trail of his fingers down with his gaze. Too much skin.

She's not wearing any panties at all and her skirt is hiked up above her waist.

With increasing desperation he seeks buttons down her shirt, finds none, and yanks it up impatiently. She's wearing a bra, of course, but then her hands are snaking behind her and it's loose under his palms and he shoves it up, feeling rather than hearing her sigh as he cups her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers.

"I can't do much about the fact that you forgot to wear underwear." He nips at the join of her neck and shoulder. "Mrs. Carmichael."

"You could at least take yours off."

They've done this so many times. In the dark, in surveillance vans, in his bed, in unfamiliar hotels. She turns and their gazes lock and hold as she flips his belt open, and a few glancing touches later he can feel the cooler air against his entirely unsubtle erection.

"That's better."

It takes a few tries, and he thinks, If I were James Bond, but if he were James Bond this would be a private aircraft and she'd be a stewardess and there would be shag carpeting. He traps her between his hips and the edge of the sink, bending to hit the right angle, and she wraps her legs around his, encouraging him with her mouth against his neck as he sighs and finally pushes inside her, tight and hot and slippery as pearly silk. He braces one hand against the small of her back, pushing with his rhythm, the other covering her breast as his lips graze her temple, her cheekbone.

"I want to break something," she pants.

"I think we might."

Being inside her is amazing. He watches her face, the way her lips part, the hazy half-lidded eyes, the prickly flush that heats her cheek. He starts to maneuver between her legs, to find her clit, but the fabric is bunched between them and she nods to his right.

With a moan he sits down and slides forward and she seats herself more firmly on his cock, tossing her hair back out of her face as she inches the skirt up. He fans his fingers over her belly, squirming his thumb up between her thighs until the short sharp edge of his nail brushes her clit and she lets out a shuddering sigh. She uses his shoulders for leverage and pushes herself up until only the tip of his cock is still inside her, and he catches her nipple in his mouth for a sweet instant before she lets herself fall back down. He groans in impatience when her bra half-covers her breasts again and she's spread wide, impaled on his cock, her entire body trembling with desire as he yanks her shirt over her head, yanks her bra off. One heel hits the floor as he sucks a nipple hard between his lips, his thumb finding her clit again.


When she first starts to come he plants his feet on the floor and pushes up until all her weight rests on him, and she's trembling as her inner flesh clenches him in rippling waves, her groans rising into a mewling pleading cry. She kicks out to gain some hold and fucks him back just as hard as he is, until he gathers her in his arms and slams her against the bathroom door.


Distantly he hears the cry of an irritated stewardess, but Sarah is whispering "Fuck me, now, hard, now, oh God yes" into his ear and he cups her ass in his hands and plunges into her, over and over again. She tilts her head back and lets out a sharp gasp and suddenly she's writhing against him and he can hear the wet sound of them, but the sudden hot gush between them leaves him boneless with relief.


She is naked save one shoe and the bunched fabric of her skirt, reduced to a senseless belt around her hips. She has to blink a few times before she reaches for her bra, tossed carelessly over the towel dispenser.

"So this is what it feels like."

She swiftly fastens her bra, a grin on her face. "To have sex with your wife?"

"That, and." Chuck tosses a towel into the bin and pulls his pants back up. "To join the mile-high club."

Her smile twists. "Such an exclusive club. Filled with jackasses of the highest order." She pulls her shirt on. "And impatient newlyweds."

She gives her reflection a quick glance and turns back to him. "And?"

He traces a fingertip down her cheek. "It's just gonna keep getting better, isn't it."

She holds his gaze, their hair mussed, faces still a little flushed, knees still a little weak, and melts a little, all over again. "Yeah," she whispers. "Yeah, it is."