"You like it."
"I really fucking do."
Clara worked his belt free, then his jeans, shoving them down with urgency, and—ohhhh heavens—he definitely wanted this as much as she did, his arousal straining against his boxers, hot and heavy in her hand when she freed him.
Jack settled between her thighs again, skin to skin now, the contact sending shockwaves through her. Clara expected him to surge forward, to claim her fully—but he didn't.
He moved down instead, his hands parting her thighs wider.
"What are you—" Clara started, surprise mixing with a thrill of anticipation.
Jack pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, his stubble scraping deliciously. "Ladies first," he said, his breath ghosting over her most sensitive skin.
Heat flooded her face, her body, everywhere. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." He looked up at her, hazel eyes dark with unfiltered want, his hands stroking her thighs reassuringly. "Unless you don't want me to?"
Did she want—God, yes. Sam had never offered, had dismissed it as "gross" and "taking too long," making her feel selfish for even thinking about it.
But Jack was looking at her like this was a privilege, a feast he craved, not a chore.
"I want you to," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible over her pounding heart.
His smile was devastating—predatory and tender. "Good. Lie back and let me take care of you."
Then his mouth was on her, and Clara forgot how to form words, her world narrowing to the exquisite pressure of his tongue, the way he devoured her with focused pleasure. He was patient. Attentive. Learning what she liked through every gasp, every twitch of her hips, adjusting his rhythm—slow circles, firm strokes—until her hands were fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, her back bowing off the couch as tension built like a tidal wave.
"Jack—" Her voice came out strangled, pleading. "I'm—close?—"
"That's it, baby, I've got you," he murmured against her, the vibration of his words pushing her higher.
And she did. Came apart under his mouth with a shattered cry, waves of blinding pleasure crashing over her, leaving her boneless, gasping, trembling in the aftermath.
Jack pressed a final, gentle kiss to her hipbone, then worked his way back up her body, his own arousal pressing insistently against her thigh. His mouth found hers, and she tasted herself on his lips—salty, intimate, intoxicating.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained but steady.
Clara laughed weakly, couldn't help it. "That's what you're asking? After that? I'm... destroyed. In the best way."
"Just checking." He nuzzled her neck, his hand stroking her side soothingly.
She pulled him down for another kiss, deeper now, the heat building anew like embers flaring to life. She reached between them, wrapped her hand around him, stroking firmly, and Jack groaned into her mouth, his hips bucking involuntarily.
"Condom," she managed between kisses. "Nightstand. Bedroom."
They stumbled to the bedroom, laughing breathlessly when Jack nearly tripped over a rumpled floor rug, the moment lightening even as the urgency simmered. Clara dug through her nightstand drawer—please don't let them be expired—and came up with a box, tossing one to him.
Jack took it, tore it open with his teeth, and?—
"Hang on. Which way does it—fuck," he muttered, fumbling.
Clara bit back a laugh, reaching to help. "Here. Let me—no, wait, that's?—"
"Is it inside out? Shit."
"I think so?"
"Jesus Christ." Jack flipped it, tried again, swore when it didn't unroll smoothly. "I swear I've done this before. It's been... a minute."
