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It doesn’t start innocently, that’s for sure. It starts when Jack grabs her by the waist when she goes inside to refill her cup with ice from Robby’s freezer. The party’s gone on for some hours now, the sun low in the sky, the ice dumped from ten pound bags into hard-sided coolers at the start of it mostly water. Samira is tipsy, but not fully drunk—a little lightheaded, a little uninhibited, and more than a little suggestible. So she lets Jack clamp his hands on her hips, nudge her in the direction of the stairs to the second story of Robby’s home, and fasten his mouth to her neck as she’s steered into a bedroom.
Belatedly, she realizes once her back has hit the mattress, that Jack has steered her into Robby’s bedroom. Onto Robby’s bed. Pressing her down onto Robby’s duvet, slipping his tongue past her lips on top of Robby’s sheets.
“We shouldn’t,” she moans, limbs loose, legs just too short for her feet to reach the floor. “Jack, we shouldn’t, it’s rude—”
But his hands are already reaching up under her t-shirt, fingers hooking into the neckline of her bralette, pulling it down past her nipples, and then down even further, until the elastic is caught on the underside of her tits. Eyes hungry, he pushes up the hem of her shirt as high as he can, feasting on the sight of her pliant and soft against the unfamiliar duvet.
“Robby is fucking rude,” Jack counters, planting his hands down on either side of her hips and stooping to suck one nipple into his mouth, rolling and flicking it with his tongue until the flesh is tender and budded before releasing it with a pop. “I’ve been standing back and watching him be rude to you for fucking months. Years, baby.” He moves to her other breast, nipping at the perky mound before pulling the dusky nipple between his lips. Sucks harder this time, sucks until she writhes, one hand coming to cradle the back of his skull. “And I haven’t interfered, because you’ve asked me not to. But it drives me fucking nuts, Samira. It’s driven me nuts for years.”
Another bite, another suck. He loves to mark up her tits. Likes to know that hidden under her scrubs, under her impeccable professional countenance, her perfect Disney princess demeanor, are bruises she’s begged him to leave behind. Hickeys that she’s asked for with pouted lips and a bratty little please until he’s sunk his teeth into her, fucking her deep and filthy.
“So,” he says, fingers pinching open the button on her denim shorts, “I don’t really give a fuck. I’m gonna make you come right here, so the next time Robby mouths off at you I can remember that I got mine on his bed while he still can’t fucking make it work with Collins.”
He reaches his hand into her shorts, cursing under his breath.
Samira grins, stretching and arching her back on Robby’s cheap Target bedroom set. “That was supposed to be a surprise for later.” Groaning, Jack slides his fingers through her folds, slicking himself up at her entrance before moving to circle her clit. “I’m not gonna warn you that I’m not wearing underwear.”
“Baby girl,” he pants into her neck. Finds her pulse, presses a mouthy kiss over it, tongue circling the vein. Tilts his head a little, rubbing his stubble over sensitive skin. “My sweet baby girl.”
“I’m not that sweet,” she protests, a little breathlessly.
Jack’s retort is to slip two thick fingers inside her, angling his wrist deep in her shorts, thumb rubbing over the hood of her clit with a precision that makes her bite her lip and moan. Huffing a laugh, he nips at the hinge of her jaw. “Sweet for me. Perfect for me. Wet for me.”
Somehow, she manages to get her shorts down to her knees without dislodging him from the open angles of her body. Manages to crook one knee up and to the side, sliding one foot free even with her sneakers laced tightly to her feet. “Maybe,” she exhales, rolling her hips in time with the deft thrusts of his fingers. “Maybe that’s because you’re a better teacher than him.” Thrust, press, roll. They find a rhythm easily. They always have, even the first time they hooked up in the back of his car a week after PittFest, both reeling and adrift. “A better man than him.”
He’s going to make her come. He’s going to make her come right here, on Robby’s bed, with Robby downstairs and just outside his backdoor, flipping burgers and hot dogs and staring a hole through the back of Heather’s head, as if that will stop Heather from leaving next month for an attending position in Raleigh that will get her closer to her family.
Samira gasps, clenching her fingers around Jack’s wrist. “A better doctor than him. Better in—better in every way that matters.”
If Robby was a man capable of having friends, Jack Abbot would be his best friend.
If Robby wasn’t such a fucking misogynist, Samira Mohan would be his protégé.
But Michael Robinavitch is emotionally stunted and haunted by the ghosts he’s invited in, buckling under the weight of a million particles of grief and trauma he refuses to offload, folding and bending and twisting himself into bias after bias after unexamined bias.
In a better world, a fairer world, Jack Abbot and Samira Mohan would not be so desperate as to cling to each other in the backseat of a Jeep. They would not think of each other as the only tether back to the world that exists outside of the emergency department, they would not need each other to feel understood. In another world, Jack Abbot would be Samira Mohan’s teacher, and the rest would come later, once she’s grown into a doctor with a flourishing career and he’s done two more years of EMDR therapy. In this world, they are a hasty, secretive mess. In this world, they are making it work. In this world, they are the one good thing each other has, and they will hold onto it with tight, defensive fists.
In this world, Robby has come inside to snag a flannel shirt from his closet as the temperature drops with the setting sun. In this world, Robby is standing at the top of the steps, watching the second most senior member of his department wring a quiet orgasm from the resident he’s deemed most likely to be a pain in his ass.
++
There’s a full-length mirror in his upstairs hallway, hanging just outside the bathroom on the wall opposite his bedroom. So even though Jack closed the door to the primary bedroom most of the way—and Robby knows what happened, knows that Jack probably did pull it all the way shut, knows that he’s been meaning to fix the latch for well over a year, because this happens—with the angle of the mirror and his place on the fourth step from the landing, Robby can see everything.
Almost everything.
He can see everything important.
He can see the light wash Levi shorts Samira wore to the party hanging off her ankle, her legs long and lithe and dark against his white bed linens. He can see Jack’s compact frame, leaning over her. He can see the expression on Jack’s face darken as he puts his fingers in his mouth, sucking the taste of Samira’s cunt onto his tongue. Can see Samira reach for the seams at the sides of Jack’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
Distantly, in what few neurons continue to fire in his prefrontal cortex, Robby knows that he should turn back around, quietly find his way back down the stairs, and go back outside. He should disengage, he should forget this scene, he should pretend it never happened. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he feels rooted to the stairs, hand clutching the railing.
He feels helpless not to watch as Jack undoes the fly of his jeans, as Samira curls her toes into the waistband and pushes his pants and boxer briefs down below his ass. From this angle, he can see the curve of Jack’s cock, thick and half-hard. Samira arches her back, wiggles down until her hips are flush with the edge of the mattress.
“We’re gonna make a mess,” she murmurs, only the facsimile of a protest. “Jack—”
“Yeah, and?” Jack replies, working himself with his dominant hand until he’s fully erect. Robby has seen Jack’s dick before. Robby has had Jack’s dick down his throat. Robby met Jack in 2005, in the aftermath of Katrina when the Army deployed medical students straight from USU to a room full of FEMA cots at Big Charity. There is no good reason that Robby does not consider Jack a friend. There is no good reason that he has always shut Jack out too, even before Adamson’s death started darkening the corners of his conscience. “Robby never gives a shit about the messes he makes. I just have to clean them up.” Jack notches the head of his erection in Mohan’s pussy. She shivers, reaching for him. “Maybe it’s his turn.”
She doesn’t reply. Not verbally, at least. Jack fucks into her instead, slow and considerate on the first thrust, hitching her thighs high against his waist. He makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat, before snatching one of Robby’s pillows and shoving it under Samira’s hips.
“Oh,” she says when Jack is fully seated inside her, when he pulls back an inch or two, when he slams his hips back in. “Oh, this is a punishment. I see.”
“Yeah, ‘cause if I gotta walk into work one more time and find you on the verge of tears, I’m gonna break his nose. And I’m not allowed to do that anymore,” Jack rasps, bracing his hands on Robby’s mattress, shuttling his cock into her with short, forceful thrusts. “So I’m gonna fuck you right here. I’m gonna leave a mess for him. But more importantly, I’m gonna make sure you feel good.”
Robby doesn’t want to think about the last time he went on a date.
The last time he took a woman home, the last time he fumbled with someone in the dark interior of a car, or in a hotel room at a conference. Heather was five years ago. Janey was close to six. During Covid there was no one, just the free pornography available to him on the internet and his hand. But even after the worst of the pandemic, once hospital administrators started ignoring new strains and waves of admissions in favor of saving money on PPE, once the world collectively decided to ignore precaution and move on, there hasn’t been anyone. No one has gotten close.
He thought, perhaps foolishly, that Jack and Samira were like him in this way.
Maybe they used to be.
Samira whimpers, reaching one slender hand down between her rounded thighs. Robby knows she’s applying pressure to her pubic mons, knows she feels full, feels the stretch, feels the slide and heat of Jack’s body against hers. He wonders how she likes to get fucked; has wondered this before. Has wondered it at the end of the day when he’s had too much to drink alone in his house, when she’s pissed him off with a deft save and a cunning tone. Does she like it rough? Does she like to be flipped onto her belly and fucked hard? Does she like pain, does she put up a fight? Or is she delicate and soft, does she want loving words delivered in a gentle tone, does she want her orgasms to wash over her in a tremor? Or does she want to claw and scream and cry, gripping at hair and biting at skin? Does Samira Mohan like sucking cock?
Is she quiet because she doesn’t want to get caught, or because she’s repressed? Is she rubbing her clit because she doesn’t trust Jack to get her off, or because she wants him to focus on making sure the tip of him hits her g-spot with every stroke? Is he jealous of Jack, who gets to render Samira Mohan limber and loose and speechless, or is he jealous of Samira, who is able to tolerate being the center of Jack’s intense focus, his unrelenting affection?
“You gonna come?” Jack asks, breathing hard through his nose. “You close, sweetheart? I can feel you clenching down around me. I know you’re close. Tell me what you need.”
Samira doesn’t respond with words.
Whatever her response is, it’s etched clearly on her face for Jack to read without further context or instigation. Nodding, he hitches her legs over his shoulders and pushes forward, bending her in half.
“Fuck,” she cries out quietly. “Fuck—like that. Exactly like that. Don’t stop.”
“Not gonna,” Jack grunts. “Not gonna stop, baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Not until you tell me.”
“Jack—”
Robby doesn’t know why he’s still standing here, still watching two of his subordinates flagrantly defy at least four major Human Resources rules and regulations regarding conduct between an attending and a resident. He couldn’t explain why it’s sending blood to his dick, why he’s straining against the zipper of his shorts. Does he want to be one of them? Does he want one of them? Or does he want to remember what it’s like to be loved and trusted and defended? Does he stand here in the hope that some of the devotion that passes between them spills onto him?
Samira reaches climax with another little cry, one that rattles around the back of her mouth until it’s thick and strained and desperate.
Robby stares at the birthmark on Jack’s right ass cheek, unable to examine why he’s angered and aroused at how Jack strokes her face, turns his head to kiss and nip at her calf, how he fucks her through it until her breath hitches in anticipation. When was the last time he knew someone’s body like that? When was the last time he let someone render him helpless with pleasure?
“Look at you,” Jack groans. “So good for me.”
Samira is not good for Robby. He lost that privilege long ago, and he cannot remember when. Sometime between her second and third years of residency she stopped seeing his approval as something she could attain. She could only feel the lack, and resent him for it. Samira Mohan is not good for Robby. But she is good for Jack, making pretty sounds and helpless gasps that make Robby cup himself through his clothes. He wants a brilliant woman under him, squirming on his cock. He wants to know what it’s like to be the safe harbor for a woman with a spine of steel, a will that cannot be broken.
“What a good girl you are. You’re gonna come again for me. I know you, Samira. I know you can come again, and you’re gonna.”
“Fuck, Jack, please—”
“You are. You’re gonna take exactly what I give you. Because you can. Because I’m never gonna ask you to do more than I know you can do.” Something in the timber of Jack’s voice changes, the hue shading from playful and conniving to loving and urgent. “You know I only give you what you can handle.”
Robby wonders if they can hear his pulse hammering in his chest. If he opened the fly of his shorts, would they hear the teeth separating as he pulled down the zipper? Would they hear the choked off sound punching out of his mouth as he fists his dick in his hand?
The sounds Samira is making turn from almost desperate to truly desperate. “I’m gonna—no, I can’t, not here—”
“You can and you are.”
Has anyone ever cared so much about his orgasm? Did he ever feel this way about Heather? In the bedroom, in the shaping of her medical career, in her training? Did he ever look at her or any other human with this kind of totalizing focus, this monomaniacal pursuit of her best interests? Or is he just a selfish bastard to his core, unable to face the consequences sown by what was once only a latent obsession with grief.
“Jack, please, please, I’m gonna—”
“I know you are. You’re gonna do it right here. You’re right where I want you.”
He pushes her further onto the mattress, jams their pelvises together even more tightly, his good knee moving up onto the bed as the prosthetic foot remains braced against the floor. Robby reaches into his boxers; there’s no way either of them will notice him. Not now. Not this close to the object of their pursuit. He will never be able to watch them work side by side in a trauma bay without thinking of this moment.
Jack Abbot can make Samira Mohan squirt.
He can do it fairly capably, from what Robby can tell, jerking himself off with long, uneven strokes. He pulls his dick out of her once, at the start, and Robby watches an arc of clear ejaculate leave Mohan’s cunt and splash onto his bedding. Watches Jack slip his length through her folds, moaning at the look of distraught satisfaction gripping Samira’s angular features.
Samira Mohan is biting down on the corner of the duvet that she’s tugged free before deciding that it’s not enough to tamp down on the sounds Jack is wrenching out of her, grabbing another one of his pillows to smother a quiet scream as Jack fucks her through it with a slow, relentless slap of skin against skin.
“That’s it,” he says soothingly, air heaving through his lungs. “That’s it honey, ride it out. That’s it, I’ve got you. I’m not gonna drop you. I’m not gonna let go.” His hands smooth up and down her thighs, her abdomen, her arms. He removes the pillow from her face, cupping her cheeks, wiping away tears with his thumbs. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for letting me make you feel good.”
“Fuck,” she chokes out. “I’m—oh I’m too sensitive, I don’t think I can—”
“It’s okay.”
“My tits,” she says, voice wobbly. “I want you to fuck my tits.”
Robby wonders if it means anything that Samira doesn’t call Jack by any terms of endearment. Maybe it’s something her parents never did, maybe the notion is unfamiliar to her. Jack is free with them. Liberal and sweet and Samira seems to flourish with it, opening up until her body is lush and waiting. She blooms, called baby and sweetheart and honey and asks Jack to degrade her, to slide his dick between her perky little breasts and come on her face.
With a huff, Jack swings his other leg up on Robby’s bed, straddling Samira’s body. Kneels over her chest, face open and vulnerable when she pushes her tits up and together, nodding. Trembles when he pushes his cock between the soft mounds of flesh, under the band of her bralette but angling so the head of his cock pushes up over the bottom of her shirt, a moan emanating from the back of his throat. There’s a bobble to his head that makes Robby think that Jack wants to throw his head back. But he won’t. He doesn’t want to. He wants to keep his eyes locked on Mohan’s, dark and deep.
“That’s it,” she whispers, husky. Fucked out. Raw. “That’s it, I want you to feel good. I want you to use me. Show me.”
Jack grunts, hands uncertain where to land. In the end, Samira plants her feet on the bed, spread just enough that Robby can see the wetness that coats the inside of her thighs. Jack grasps his fingers through hers overtop her tits, squeezing once before bracing one hand on each side of her head. It’s an obscene tableau, vulgar in every way. It should be humiliating. But instead it somehow feels loving, the way Jack’s eyes rake over Mohan’s face, the adoration in how he watches her tits bouncing and rippling as he works himself towards his release.
“Where do you want it?” he asks.
“You close?”
Exhaling hard, he nods once.
“My face. I want your cum on my face. Make a mess of my face, just like you made a mess of my pussy. Make a mess in Robby’s bed.” The words are raunchy, but her voice is sweet—adoring, even, in how she gazes up at him as his movements start to stutter.
“Oh shit, baby—”
She tilts her head up, tucking her chin towards her chest so she can tongue his slit. “Please?
Jack’s spine curves, thighs tightening, glutes flexing hard as his orgasm is ripped from him. He’s not loud, but he’s not self-conscious either, threading his hands through Samira’s inky curls as he grunts and whines his way through his orgasm. Pitiful sounds, really, not the deep masculine throes of passion Robby expected, or the taciturn, restrained expressions he thought were coming. Samira peers up at Jack’s open expression, licking his cum off her top lip.
Robby almost whites out in pleasure, gripping the base of his erection with his thumb and forefinger.
“Shit,” Jack wheezes, crawling backwards.
“Fucking deviant,” Samira laughs as Jack flattens himself down on top of her, licking at her face and neck. “You freak.”
“You like it,” he teases. “Need me to clean your thighs, too? You haven’t let me taste your pussy today.”
“We’ll never get back to the party.”
“And?”
Samira snorts, curling one leg up to plant her foot on Jack’s abdomen, pushing him up and off her. “Put your pants back on. People are gonna wonder where we went.”
Robby sees Samira’s feet hit the floor. Body flooding with adrenaline, he shuffles down the steps as quickly and silently as he can, ducking into the half bathroom under the staircase. Yanks the door shut behind him, twisting the lock until he hears the click. Pumps a handful of Jergen’s onto his palm, and leans in a half-squat against the wall. Less than a minute later, thinking of the smell of sex and the stench of arousal clinging to his duvet, he jerks his cum into the toilet bowl.
Still breathing hard, he listens to Jack and Samira’s footsteps overhead.
++
“Do you want me to take you home?” Jack asks, handing her down the last few stairs, back down into the little hallway that joins Robby’s kitchen to his living room.
Samira’s lips, kiss-bitten and swollen, curve up into a smile. A thrill of satisfaction bolts down his spine at how clear her eyes look, how relaxed the lines of her face have become. “If you make me go back out there, I’m gonna sit on your lap.”
It’s one way to make Robby focus on something besides her perceived slowness. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugs.
“It’ll solve a few problems.”
“It’ll make a few others.”
Staring at each other in the dim light spilling inside from the candles and torches out on Robby’s back deck, they both seem to consider it. Then, a moment later, they both start to laugh in that easy, companionate way that some couples seem to be able to achieve without any sort of effort or affect.
“My place or yours?” Jack asks, holding out his hand again.
“Yours, so we can keep having the not-discussion about my lease for next year that I still haven’t signed and won’t be tempted to sign if we’re at your apartment.”
Samira allows herself to be tugged by the door, watching as Jack confidently pulls her purse out from the pile of bags and personal belongings sitting on the bench next to Robby’s front door. They’ve had this discussion multiple times. Jack would be happy to marry her tomorrow, but believes that tomorrow will never come. Samira would be happy to marry him tomorrow, but believes that tomorrow he cannot possibly love her as much as he loves her today. And they can be both kind to each other about it, as much as it sometimes stings like a sleeping limb brought back to life.
“I don’t need you to sign your lease for next year,” he says, lifting the back of her hand to his mouth. Presses a kiss to her knuckles like a promise.
“I know,” she replies, grinning. “But there’s a whole dance we do about it now that I find enjoyable.”
Jack pulls her out the door, letting the screen door shut with a thwap. They do not say goodbye. They do not worry about what others will say. No one has seen them in at least twenty minutes, and no one has come looking.
“Hmm… the one where I wash the underwear you leave at my place and then conveniently never send home with you?”
She regards him with a toothy smile, unawkward and unabashed. She has always been confident in taking what other people need. She’s getting better at asking for what she wants. “I was specifically talking about the part where you remove my underwear so you can wash it.”
Quirking a single brow up towards his greying curls, Jack looks at her. “Already?”
She shrugs, climbing into the passenger seat of his Jeep. Closes the door behind her, buckling her seatbelt as he walks around to the driver’s side.
“It’s a twenty minute drive,” she says by way of explanation
“I’m not complaining. I’m just pleasantly surprised.”
The key slips into the ignition. Jack doesn’t trust remote starts, and since he was already paying for the left side pedal modifications, he was absolutely paying for the key ignition. The engine turns over smoothly, and he braces one hand behind her headrest as he maneuvers the vehicle out of the tight spot he somehow put it in in front of Robby’s townhouse.
“Glad I can still manage to surprise you after eight months,” she says with a smirk, rolling down her windows. It’s a lovely June night, warm and not too humid.
Neither of them notice Robby lingering behind his curtains, watching them from the front window. Even if they did, neither of them would be able to read the expression on his face. Neither of them would be able to place the shame, or the exact nature of his curiosity and confusion.
“Dr. Mohan,” Jack says, lines of his face deepening with his fondness for her. “You’ll be happy to hear that you always manage to surprise me.”
Samira rolls her eyes, swallowing down the desire to needle him about the little stunt he just pulled. It was what she needed. She’ll never admit it out loud, but she doesn’t have to. He’s right: Robby gets carte blanche to toy with her emotions, to ruin her days and nights, to spin her up with outright panic that he will end her career before it ever truly starts. Robby can be mean, and self-absorbed, and cruel. And she just got thoroughly fucked in his bed. She just violated the one nice thing he’s tried to do in months.
She feels fucking amazing.
“Dr. Abbot,” she replies, voice droll, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a ridiculous flirt?”