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It would be easy to seduce Jack Abbot, Samira thinks, one day when he brushes past her on his way to Trauma One. She’s not entirely sure what spurs the thought, just that it lingers.
If Samira were to guess the source of her latest contemplation, there were certainly several options: the tautness of his jaw as he made a hard diagnosis, the gravel in his voice whenever he provided her with gentle criticism, the stark intensity of his eye contact mid-shift. Or perhaps, somewhere over the past seven years her life had grown so morbidly dreary that she was desperate for anything that might spark new light into it. Regardless, Samira decides her hypothesis is one worth testing. Because what is Dr. Samira Mohan, if not a woman of science?
It starts on a Friday, like all good things do, though even Samira would admit her first experiment is entirely unintentional, though not without its fruits.
She’s packing up her things, hastily stuffing her sneakers into her bag after a brutal session of charting had unexpectedly sunk its teeth into an extra hour of her day when she catches sight of him. He’s languidly leaning against the wall beside the elevator, nonchalantly flipping through a stapled packet of papers.
“Woah there, Dr. Mohan,” comes the familiar rasp when she nearly knocks into him on her way in. “Might want to slow down a bit.”
She offers him a half-apologetic smile, “Don’t hear that often.”
He smirks, his gaze lazily registering her blazer-clad shoulders and frighteningly practical block heels as she hits the button for the eighth floor. “Headed somewhere important?”
“Running slightly late for my meeting with hospital admin,” Samira explains, procuring a red-tinted plastic folder from her bag, “I’ve been pitching some ideas to Robby on improving our patient satisfaction scores and well…”
“He thinks they’re worth implementing,” Jack supplies.
She chuckles, “He thinks it’ll keep Gloria off his back for at least the next two months, not to mention, if I go to this meeting, then he doesn’t have to.”
“Atta, girl.”
“Where are you headed, Dr. Abbot?” Samira asks, frowning ever so slightly when the doors slide open at the admin floor and his feet remain planted in place.
He shrugs, “Back down. Just wanted to see what the blazer was all about before I started my rounds.”
“I see,” she says, not entirely processing his confession as she steps out the elevator, “It looks good?”
“Looks great ,” Abbot responds, surprisingly emphatic as the elevator doors close. Samira decides it’s as strong an indication as any that her hypothesis might have legs. That, or Dr. Abbot just so happens to have a strong proclivity for dull, ill-fitting pantsuits borrowed from her great aunt’s closet.
She chooses to believe it's the former.
*
Samira liked challenges. More importantly, she liked solving puzzles, figuring out how two odd pieces could notch together to create a perfect fit. It was what made her a good doctor and an even better advocate for her patients. But in that regard, Dr. Abbot was proving to be quite the odd piece. She knew the basics: widower, vet, ect. but her current intrigue had nothing to do with learning more facts about him like his middle name or social security number.
No. What fascinated Samira was figuring out what exactly made a man like Abbot tick. Finding the crack in his composure, the fissure in his coolness. It’s there, she knows it. She’s seen his capacity for fervor in the ER and it was only a matter of time before she found a way to channel it towards more productive and well, fun endeavors.
Still, Samira quickly discovers that such experimentation requires not just patience and good timing, but audacity as well, because Abbot is nothing, if not a man of self-restraint. There are small opportunities, of course, to test her theory. There’s the soft graze of her fingertips against his shoulder when she bids him goodbye during the transfer of shifts, the devilish smile she flashes in his direction after she flawlessly executes another advanced procedure during the latest night shift she’s picked up. But none of it riles him, at least not visibly so.
She’s internally mulling the latest results (or really, the lack thereof) over drinks with Dr. McKay and Dr. Collins when she hears the buzz of her phone vibrating in her handbag. She reads the text, blinks twice, then reads it again.
Jack Abbot: Saw this. Thought of you. Might find it interesting. (StudyUpdate:IntersectionalDisparitiesInGenderBasedPatientCare.2025.PDF attached.)
His texts are always like this, short and clipped, but a far cry from impersonal. In fact, Samira would argue it’s deeply personal.
“What are you smiling at like that?” Collins presses, teasingly, “Text from a boy?”
“Yeah,” Samira shakes her head, forcing herself to relax the grin she knows is currently radiating from her lips, “If a text about a new study related to my research counts as ‘a boy.’”
“Only you would beam like that at extra reading, Samira.” McKay chuckles. “Who’s texting you studies at–” she glances at her wristwatch, “2:42am?”
“Abbot, for sure,” Collins says before Samira has the chance to say anything.
“How do you know it’s not Robby?” Samira counters.
Collins frowns, “Because I can guarantee by this point in the night, Robby is fully passed out on his bed, if not his couch, snoring like a freight train with some awful, made-for-tv movie droning on in the background.”
“And how might you be so privy Dr. Robinavitch’s current sleeping habits?” Samira teases, before sipping up the last drops of her vodka sour.
“Hm. Maybe the same way Dr. Abbot is so privy to your…research interests,” Collins says, brow arched in perfect judgement.
“Please, my relationship with Dr. Abbot is entirely research-based.” Samira slings the thin strap of her handbag over her shoulder, “Goodnight, ladies.”
McKay and Collins wave her off as she walks back towards her apartment. She showers off the long day and the late night before rattling off a quick text: Thanks for the find. Will read tomorrow with fresh eyes.
She plugs in her phone and hits the light switch beside her nightstand. Sleep is about to wash over her when she hears the buzz of her phone.
Jack Abbot: Sorry. Didn’t think you would be up this late. Figured you’d see it in the morning.
Samira Mohan: I might not be on the night shift this week, but I do stay up late every now and then.
Jack Abbot: Really? What’s the special occasion?
Samira Mohan: No special occasion. Just drinks.
She sees the three dots of his typing bubble appear, disappear, then reappear once more before the next message finally comes through.
Jack Abbot: Well, have fun. Be safe. Have a beer for me.
Samira Mohan: Unfortunately, I’m already home and tucked in bed now. Raincheck on that beer, though?
Jack Abbot: You should probably go to sleep then. Goodnight, Mohan.
Samira bites her lip, inhaling twice before flexing her fingers and shooting off a final text. She doesn’t wait for his response, flicking her phone on to silent mode and closing her eyes. It’s only in the morning does she see his response.
Samira Mohan: What? No sweet dreams?
Jack Abbot: Sweet dreams, Samira. Hope they all come true.
*
Unexpected opportunity takes the form of Victoria Javadi, or at least, the form of her surprise 21st birthday, which takes place on one of Samira’s rare days off. It’s a rather odd affair at a swanky, old-fashioned bar downtown and both of Javadi’s parents are supposedly present, as is most of the hospital staff. There’s little, if any, resemblance to her own 21st (which ended with Samira having to disinfect her roommate’s nose after an impromptu diy piercing session went horribly wrong) but Javadi seemed genuinely touched by the whole thing.
Samira, for her part, hadn’t been sure how to dress. She was told to dress upscale-casual, thus eliminating half her closet while creating something resembling a logic puzzle. Eventually she had settled on a well-worn leather jacket, baby blue tank top, and a pair of black, fitted jeans that hug her thighs and gradually widen at the knee. The thick, durable fabric feels unfamiliar against her skin, but she feels good, like she's brought the part of herself tonight that is less Dr. Mohan and more Samira. She scans the bar, her eyes landing on the dance floor flooded with her colleagues enjoying a rare moment of frivolity and fun. She laughs softly as Mateo twirls around Javadi (who promptly steps on his toes and begins to profusely apologize) and chuckles when John Shen drags Mel and Langdon from their chairs and into the fray.
Samira hangs by the bar, making smalltalk with whoever comes by. It’s polite, pleasant even, so much so that she doesn’t even notice when Abbot enters the room. She’s so engrossed in her conversation with Dana about the new Moroccan restaurant that’s opening up next month that she barely hears anyone slip into the seat beside her.
“Didn’t realize you were such a foodie, Mohan.”
Her barstool swivels over at the sound of his voice so quickly that Samira nearly knocks herself off her chair. She manages to stabilize herself, pressing her hands against the glossy bartop that is so clean, it’s slippery.
“I’ve unfortunately grown intimately familiar with Pittsburgh's takeout scene,” she chuckles lightly. “I hate cooking.”
“Don’t you bake?” Dana asks.
“Baking is a science, cooking is an art,” Samira says, “And I'm a scientist, not an artist.”
Abbot runs a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry, I have a hard time believing one of the most brilliant people to walk through those hospital doors can’t cook.”
“Well, we can’t have this one being beautiful, smart, and a good cook, too,” Dana laughs, patting her shoulder as Robby waves her over from the otherside of the bar and Dana disappears into the swell of people.
Abbot smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a way that is simultaneously sincere and devastatingly attractive, “She’s right, you know. It’s not fair to the rest of us.”
“What?”
“That someone could be so exemplary .”
“I’m not perfect,” she chuckles slowly, shaking her head as his compliment which causes her cheeks to warm.
“Well, I think you’re as damn close as it gets.”
They lock eyes for a moment. She’s waiting for him to look away, to draw back as he always does when they toe the line like this, but he shows no sign of faltering. If anything, his gaze grows more intense.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a terrible dancer, too,” she decides to push. She’s not sure what it is– an invitation? An offer? It doesn’t really matter, because whatever it is, he seizes it, holding out his hand. “I’d bet my Christmas bonus you’re good at that too.”
She takes his hand, allowing him to guide her to the floor and pull her in close, one hand settling around her waist, the other interlocking their fingers. She inhales deeply. A dance was uncharted territory, a far cry from the harmless quips and feather-light touches she had thus far thrown his way. Really, Samira should be at least mildly concerned about how it looks, but any concerns about propriety and appearance slip from her mind the moment he encircles her waist and dips her down low. They move together surprisingly smoothly. Their steps are a beat slower than the music calls for, but there’s no stumbling or awkward bumps, just a quiet ease brewing between them.
“Very impressive, Dr. Abbot,” she says, as he gives her a little spin out before reeling her back in with great finesse.
“Turns out, it’s hard to have two left feet when you’re missing the first one,” he jokes, the song coming to a close.
“One more?” she asks, eyes wide and daring.
“Anything for you, Dr. Mohan,” he says, with a rasp in his voice that sends shivers down her spine, “Anything for you.”
*
Samira Mohan knows what to do in a lot of situations. She knows how to approach and diagnose a patient mid-crisis. She knows when to push and when to pull. She even knows which situations call for baking powder and which for baking soda. But what she doesn’t know is what exactly to do with the enigma that is Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s a bottomless pit of mixed signals– full of endless praise and flirtations reserved solely for her– but never one to take any real action. At this point, she’d even study semaphore if it might provide more insight into the inner-workings of his mind.
Frankly, it’s all starting to feel a little ridiculous. She’s not some schoolgirl with a crush, or some boy-obsessed coed. She’s a grown woman, an accomplished doctor to boot. It’s why her curiosity is so insatiable, why she’s so determined to unspool the proverbial ball of yarn just to see where it might lead.
Samira wonders if she’s lost track of her original goal, especially when all Abbot seems to know how to do is treat her with the utmost kindness, respect, and warmth. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate it– she does– in fact, Samira’s certain it’s why she finds him so incredibly endearing and attractive, but also why she’s all the more determined to test the limits of his chivalry.
For better or for worse, Samira is on nights for the next week. Shockingly, it’s a decision that has nothing to do with Abbot and everything to do with administrative scheduling needs. Either way, amidst the throes of a long shift, Samira finds herself wired up and singularly focused on one particular attending. It was only fair she regained some semblance of control after he had all but swept her off her feet while dancing at that filthy bar. So, when she sees him burst out of a patient room shrugging out his shoulders and rolling his head around rather violently, she makes the only move she can.
“You alright?” she asks.
“Tweaked my neck last night,” he grumbles, “Think I slept weird.”
“You want me to take a look?”
He shakes his head, “I’m fine.”
“Please. It’ll take five minutes,” she says. She knows he won’t deny her, he might hem and haw some more, but he won’t say no.
As expected, no more than two minutes go by and she has him in an empty room, shirt off as she conducts her examination. He’s painfully still when she gets her hands beneath his jaw, giving his head a gentle roll before her focused fingers dance across back muscles, landing where his neck meets his right shoulder.
She has to fight the urge to bite him, right then and there.
“Well, I don’t think it’s a sprain,” she says, trying to ignore the searing sensation of his skin through her thin, latex gloves. “But there’s a bit of swelling. Ibuprofen and ice should do the trick.”
Samira pauses, biting her lip, “Light massage might help too.”
“Light massage?” he echoes, no amusement in his tone. If anything, he looked slightly pained.
Wordlessly, she moves behind him, her hands landing firmly on each shoulder, working the muscles. She feels him tense up beneath her touch and she smirks, “Relax, Dr. Abbot,” she whispers as her hands work their way across his body.
“I feel better,” he practically growls, abruptly standing up and cutting her off mid-motion, “Thanks.”
“Anytime, Dr. Abbot.”
*
She’s been playing her cards all wrong, Samira realizes, when she feels the pleasant coolness of the bleachers beneath her thighs as she takes a seat. Hospital softball had never been anything Samira cared to know about, but watching Jack Abbot order around the emergency medicine team has suddenly renewed her interest in sports. With the way Abbot is staring at her, even from the dugout, she’s starting to think her denim cut-off shorts have renewed his interest in casual wear. (She’s not sure it was ever waning, but she’ll take the win for what it is.)
Within the first inning Dr. McKay’s son, Harrison, brings her up to speed. Santos, Whittaker, and Walsh are the star players of the team and Dr. Abbot is probably the best coach in the league because he runs the rec team like it’s the Army.
“And who’s your favorite player?” she asks, when a well-timed hit allows Santos to slide into homebase, bringing up the score to two-to-one, with the pediatrics team still in the lead.
“Dr. Shen,” he answers without second thought.
“Not your mom?” Samira teases.
“Dr. Shen takes everyone out for ice cream, even when we lose. Who’s yours?”
Samira laughs, taking a bite of her popcorn, “Whoever is going to tie this score up.”
As it turns out, the peds team demolishes them, six-to-one, but John Shen does still take everyone for ice cream. She just nearly finished her cone of pistachio-vanilla swirl ice cream when Abbot assumes his position beside her. She’s a healthy distance from the ice shop, already mid-way through her walk towards the bus stop, but she’s not surprised he’s found her. After all, she had given him her address once to water her plants while she was out of town visiting her mother and he miraculously seemed to have memorized every bus route in its direction ever since.
“Brutal loss, Coach,” she teases, good-naturedly.
He shrugs, an easy smile forming on his lips, “The team was a bit distracted tonight.”
“The team was distracted?” she echoes, brow lifted in mock skepticism.
“Yeah, very distracted,” he mutters.
“I heard the coach wasn’t on his A-game either.”
He doesn’t reply; he really doesn’t need to. He’s watching her for several moments in silence before he finally stops in his tracks. Wordlessly, he reaches over and dabs his thumb against the edge of her mouth, where a bit of ice cream lingered. He maintains eye contact, bringing his thumb to his lips, taking just the slightest taste.
She doesn’t dare speak for fear she might melt alongside the rest of her dessert, when he suddenly begins walking once more as if nothing had happened. When they finally reach the bus stop, she gently taps a finger against the edge of the short sleeve of his jersey. “Maybe I’ll sign up next year so I can get one of these.”
“You’ve got hidden softball skills I don’t know about, Mohan?”
“I don’t know much about softball,” she says, “But I’ve got plenty of hidden skills I’m sure you’d find intriguing.”
“Oh, I’ll bet.”
The bus pulls up and she’s almost disappointed by the lack of wait time.
“Riding this way?” she asks, knowing full well the answer is no. He looks at her, really looks at her. For a moment, euphoria washes over her body and Samira is convinced he’ll say yes.
And then he inhales long and hard.
“No, no I’m the other way,” he waves her off, and Samira nods, though the disappointment reverberating through her body is palpable.
“Bye,” he says rather wistfully, as the bus doors close behind her.
*
That was it, Samira decides that evening, the official end of her experiment. If ice cream, softball, and her best fitting shorts weren’t going to do it, then Dr. Jack Abbot certainly wasn’t as easy to seduce as she had theorized months ago. She could live with just his friendship, with his flirtations, with that final boundary staying up between them. If anything, it was probably better that way– easier even.
It’s nearing midnight when she hears a brisk knock on her door. Assuming her late-night takeout has finally arrived, she swings her legs off the couch and scrambles for the door, fisting several one dollar bills in hand to tip the poor driver who’s had to slog half-way over town at such a late hour.
She gazes through the peephole for a quick moment, only to realize the man at her door is decidedly not some half-lost delivery driver.
“You’re not my kung pao chicken…” she comments, jaw working open and shut as she steps aside allowing Dr. Abbot to stride in.
“No,” he says, darkly.
A beat of heady silence fills up the air. She won’t speak first, not when he’s the one to step into her space unannounced.
“What are you doing, Samira?” he finally snaps. There’s no anger there, just confusion, maybe desperation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responds, evenly, folding her arms across her chest.
“Like hell you don’t,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “We both know you're too smart for that.”
“You want me to stop?”
“I want to know what you’re getting at.”
“I’m not getting at anything.”
Whatever he’s going to say next is cut off by the sound of her doorbell ringing, which this time, is thankfully her Chinese and not another rapidly unravelling attending. (One is fine, she could probably manage two, but three would be a bit much). She drops the neatly tied plastic bag on her countertop before turning to face him.
“Look,” she says taking a step towards him, where he stands in the smack middle of her hallway, “It was just a bit of harmless flirting…I just had this silly thought in my head but it doesn’t really matter because I realize I’ve misread the situation and I promise we can go back to keeping things professional, alright?”
“What was the thought?” he asks.
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
“What was the thought, Samira?” he repeats, his jaw clenching.
“That I could seduce you,” she relents. There’s no bashfulness or embarrassment in her confession, but she purposely avoids his gaze. “This is going to sound ridiculous but it really only came from a place of respect and I just thought with…everything between us…”
She trails off. In all honesty, she doesn’t really know where she was going with it in the first place.
“You thought what?” he says, “That’d we’d fuck?”
It’s so blunt, blunt in only the way Jack Abbot can be.
“Yeah, Jack,” she says, steadily, “I thought maybe you’d want to fuck me. Really, I swear it’s okay that you don’t want to but I don’t think I’m crazy for thinking about it.”
“I didn’t say that, Samira,” he says, looking more strained than she’s ever seen before, “I– fuck– you’re not crazy, Samira…Do you even know the thoughts I’ve had about you?”
“Jack–”
He cuts her off, “If anything, I’m the crazy one for even being here right now. I should go.”
“Jack. Why did you come here?”
“I don’t know. I just couldn’t sleep. And…and you’re just so fucking special , Samira. I’ve been telling myself all day what an absolute asshole I am for even thinking about you the way I do, but I can’t help it. Every last neurological pathway in my brain has been rewired to bring me back to you. But I don’t want to ruin your life, Samira.”
“You’re not going to ruin my life, Jack,” she says with deep certainty, moving towards him, her hands landing firmly on his well-formed biceps. “I am an adult with full agency. I can make my own decisions and I can promise you that one man is not capable of ruining my life. I think you’re giving yourself a little too much credit there.”
He laughs, humorlessly, but she can see a weight lifting from his shoulders, a hint of relief washing over him.
“And if you really want to ruin something, ruin my night, Jack.”
He kisses her slowly, torturously, like he’s trying to savor every second. Samira responds to his touch with more urgency and teeth. She bites his lower lip, hard, and he growls. Her tongue, determined and seeking, flicks his lips apart with equal parts passion and precision, as one of his hands moves up to gently caress her head and the other slides up her back, beneath her t-shirt.
“This okay?” he whispers, nipping against her lip.
“Yes,” she groans back, “More than okay.”
His lips move to the sensitive spot where her jawbone meets her neck, as her eyes flutter open, pupils blown in sheer bliss. She’s certain her lips are already swollen and red, a warm heat rising to her cheeks. She releases a breathy moan when his lips descend down her neck and he tugs at the neckline of her t-shirt.
“Bedroom,” Samira manages to groan into his ear, as she fists his shirt, pulling them in the direction of her room.
“You really are perfect,” Jack murmurs, his deft, well-trained hands making quick work of her t-shirt before gently guiding her down on the bed. She feels his gaze settle hungrily on her breasts, already perked up and hard. He wastes no time exploring her body with his eyes, his tongue, his hands and it isn’t long before he leans over taking a nipple in his warm, wanting mouth. She gasps out loud, louder than she expects, looking down at him with doe-dark eyes. He glances up and she can feel him smirk against her breast as he moves down, kissing every inch of her torso.
She props herself on her elbows. From this angle she can see everything, she watches Jack slide his fingers to the edge of the waistband of her sweatpants, watching her reflection in the mirrored door of her closet, hair entirely askew, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. It’s fucking erotic.
“May I?” he asks, before removing her sweatpants and underwear in one fell-swoop. The ‘yes’ that tumbles from her lips is far pitchier than she’d ever care to admit, but she doesn’t dwell on it. Not when she can dwell on the faint brush of his stubble against her inner thighs.
“You’re very wet,” he remarks, two fingers skating over her folds. He looks up, when she doesn’t respond, noticing her attention is caught by the mirror behind him. “You gonna watch yourself come for me?”
“Only if you stop talking and start working,” she teases back.
The grin he responds with is utterly wicked. Really, he doesn’t have to do much to get her to come, not when he’s already worked up so much. She shudders hard when he flicks his tongue hard and flat against her clit, holding pressure there for a moment before suddenly starting to suck.
She watches in the mirror as her hands slam on to the bed, fisting the comforter before exchanging the plush fabric for his curls. She practically whines, clawing and arching off the bed as Jack maintains his momentum, holding her hips down, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. “Fuck,” she pants out, when the orgasm hits. It runs through her body so hard, so fast, she forgets where she is, launching higher and higher off her bed until she hears a grunt of pleasure that pulls her back to the land of the living.
“Jack,” she mutters shakily, regaining her bearings as he rises up to kiss her. She knows there’s other words in the dictionary than “fuck” and “Jack” but she’s long forgotten the rest, given these two seem to be doing the job.
“Hi baby,” he says in between kisses, “Again, Dr. Mohan?”
“Again,” she says, feeling pleased she’s acquired a third word to include in her post-orgasm lexicon.
This time, his lips stay with hers as he trails a single hand down between her legs. He runs his fingers through her folds again, as she shivers, still sensitive from moments ago. She moans into his mouth as two strong fingers thrust a punishingly steady rhythm inside her and his thumb finds her clit. She’s soaking, aching, and thoroughly turned on, so it’s no surprise when the second orgasm hits harder or faster than the first. Her body tenses, muscles locking up before her blood melds with her bones and she floatingly regains her senses.
“You’re wearing an awful lot of clothes, Jack,” Samira says, remembering she can, in fact, form full sentences.
“I don’t see the problem,” he chuckles, lowly.
“It’s actually a really big problem,” she says. “But I can solve it.”
She starts with his shirt, pulling it over his head, enjoying the reveal of skin and muscle but she doesn’t linger long, working his belt off and tossing it to the floor, hoping the soft ‘ding’ she hears isn’t the buckle denting her nice hardwood floors. She’s quickly distracted, however, by the hardening bulge against his dark wash jeans. She palms his clothed erection, watching his face contort into all sorts of delicious expression as she teases him mercilessly.
“Samira, baby, you’re killing me.”
He says it so earnestly, she decides to take pity on him and finally free his length from its cloth cage.
Samira had seen her fair share of penises. There were the live ones– the college hookups, the one high school boyfriend– and even the ones possessed by the nude models in the random figure drawing class she took to complete her art credit requirement in undergrad. There were the less than alive ones too, but she quickly decides cadavers shouldn’t be a part of her count. But Jack Abbot? He was really something else. He’s more girth than length (truthfully, how she preferred it) with a slight curve. She takes her time to really absorb the image before her, still reeling from awe by the time she finally wraps her lips around his tip.
“You really don’t have to–” he starts, shakily, when she gives him the look.
“Be selfish for five minutes, Jack,” Samira says, pumping his length, with one hand, “Just enjoy. But if you really do want me to stop for any reason at all, just say the word, okay?”
“Samira Mohan,” he grits out, struggling with each syllable, his eyes practically rolling back into his skull as her hands and tongue go to work in tandem.
“What?” she asks innocently, looking up at him doe-eyed as she works her lips off him with an audible ‘pop.’ “You want my full government name?”
“Forget it, sweetheart. I think I’ve lost any and all thoughts,” he groans, throwing his head back as she gets back to her movements, building up a pleasant rhythm. She feels like she’s just entered a flow state when he gently fists her hair, guiding her off of him and out of her trance.
“You got protection?” he asks before she can say anything, as her thunderous heart rate finally seems to reach its plateau, rattling against her ribs as she slowly catches her breath.
“On your left,” she mutters, rolling on to her side to watch him as a new haze of anticipation melts over her.
He’s fishing through her drawer, when his fingers graze something cool and silicone. He frowns for just a second before pulling out the bright teal vibrator, giving Samira a look she can’t quite read, “Cute.”
“That’s not a condom, Jack,” she teases, though she feels a momentary wave of self-consciousness washing over her bare body, “Don’t be judgmental. Just because I’ve been single for almost a decade, doesn’t mean I don’t want to get off every now and then.”
“A travesty,” he says, with the same seriousness he might deliver bad news to a patient. She’s not sure if he’s referring to her singleness or the need for the vibrator itself but any shred of mild embarrassment evaporates from her body the moment he smirks and softly tosses the vibrator on the bed beside her, “You gonna show me how this thing works?”
“You’re joking.”
“Never, darling. Never about this,” he grins, finally fishing out a condom and making quick work of the foil packet.
His eyes are locked on her as Samira reaches over for the little machine. She watches him lick his lips like a parched man and can tell immediately that she has his full focus. She’s enthralled with the way he watches her as she idly grazes her fingers over the power button a few times before buzzing it to life. She hedonistically groans, dragging the vibrator down her body, teasing her breasts, stomach, then thighs, before gently pressing it against her still-throbbing clit.
“Fuck,” she bites outs, squeezing her eyes shut, as her toes curl involuntarily at the pleasure. She’s not entirely inexperienced in the bedroom, but this is new– pleasuring herself like a performance for someone else to watch. Except this is anything but a performance. Every moan, every whine is gut-wrenchingly real, curling from deep within her ribs and echoing through her lungs with explosive resonance.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from her face, before drawing his hand on top of her own. He takes control of the vibrator from her, keeping the machine pressed consistently against her clit, but fiddling with the intensity settings in a way that’s starting to drive her close to madness. “Good girl,” he groans into her ear, as her body starts to writhe against the machine, “Such a fucking, good girl.”
“In me, now , Jack,” Samira pleads as she feels her pleasure peaking, desperate to know what it might feel like to lose herself around his length. Jack, for his part, obliges her with no complaints. Maintaining pressure with the vibrator, he adjusts his body over her own, rubbing himself at her wet opening a few times before slowly pushing in. His pace would be tortious, if not for the fact that Samira realizes she very much needs the time to adjust to his sheer size, which stretches her oh-so-deliciously. It was one thing to have him in her mouth, another to have him inside of her.
“Watch yourself, sweetheart,” he says, nodding over at the mirror, as she throws her head to the side to look over, “I want you to see how beautiful you are when you come.”
She feels wonderfully full and looks it too. Not just physically (that, of course), but full in every sense of the word. Like any more pleasure might send her overboard and astral project her soul straight into the stratosphere. It is in that exact moment that Jack decides to move, dastardly dragging himself in and out in a manner that has Samira making noises she doesn’t even recognize as coming from herself.
It’s utterly divine .
“There she is,” Jack whispers gruffly in her ear, his thrusts picking up pace. He flicks the vibrator up to its max intensity, the competing sensations crashing against her all at once as a new fire rages through her.
“Jack!” she cries out as her body starts to clench, her neatly trimmed-nails breaking skin when she finally falls apart in a throaty crescendo. Her entire body shivers and shakes through the aftershocks, as Jack fucks her through them, his pace unrelenting. The following moments are blurry– she’s not exactly sure when he comes or when he finally switches the vibrator off– just that both things happen at some point. Her head is cradled by the plusheness of her pillow as she looks up at the ceiling in a daze that is downright epicurean. It takes a minute, but she slowly starts to regain feeling in her legs, then the rest of her body as Jack nuzzles himself into the crook of her neck, pressing soft, slow kisses against her sweat-slick skin.
“Shit, you’re bleeding,” Samira groans, when she notices a few beads of red dripping from the crescent moons she’d dug into his back. She winces but Abbot just laughs.
“Nah, don’t be, sweetheart. This is nothing. I’ve got far worse battle scars,” he says, glancing over his shoulder for examination, “It’s pretty hot.”
“Still, I didn’t mean to rip you up,” Samira sighs, as she reaches over to gently soothe his back.
“You can scratch me up any day, any time.”
She glances up at him, through her thick lashes, “Is that a promise?”
He barks out something resembling a laugh, “It’s a polite request.”
“I wish you’d be less polite.”
“I’ll try,” he says, with a wry smile.
“Speaking of being impolite…” Samira hums, “You should go down on me again.”
“Yeah?” Jack asks, looking a little too pleased.
“For research purposes, of course. I’ve got a few more hypotheses to test.”
“What other reason could there possibly be?”