Libido

Sam sat there, considering how she wanted to answer his question. What did she dream about? She dreamt about him, about her CO, Colonel Jack O'Neill, his face, his hands, his shoulders... and yet, not him. When Sam dreamed it was Jonah who filled her head with images of his scruffy beard, his easy good humor, his strong arm and gentle manner. He protected and cherished her, and he loved her. He all but told her so. Their friendship blossomed into mutual respect, but there was chemistry, too, a deep longing within her for him... and, as Thera, she wondered how she might spend more time with him, be his mate.

In one particularly disturbing dream, Thera (for in these fantasies, Sam was never Major Samantha Carter... she was always Thera), slipped away from the sleeping room to meet Jonah in a darkened corner of the steam tunnel, wrapping herself in his arms, their rough clothing no impediment to their need for each other. And when he pressed her against the wall, his muscled chest against her soft breasts, his stiffening length poking into her belly, she forgot everything, but him. Her world was defined by his arms. The air she breathed was filled with the smell of him. The hiss of the steam and the dull roar of the machinery shrank from her hearing, leaving only the sound of his breathing, and then of his voice.

“Thera, we could get in serious trouble here,” he said, stroking the hair from her temple, his lips so close to hers.

“I don't care, Jonah,” she said. “I only care about being with you.” And he kissed her long and hard, his beard scraping her sensitive skin, the sensation maddening.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing hard, palming her breast under the crude fabric of her worker's habit. She arched back, giving him better access, his scruff and lips making her skin electric with need, the callouses on his cunning fingers layering sensation to her breast. She held him to her, cupping his head, fingers running down the long, hard expanse of his back. Abruptly he pulled out of her embrace, his hands restricting her upper arms. He faced her squarely, looking into her lovely face, the amber light of the tunnel turning her skin copper, her hair gold, her eyes lapis. He kissed her, taking her mouth powerfully, a prelude to his possession of her body.

“Are you sure, Thera?” he asked, in a rough whisper.

“Yes,” she said simply, without hesitation.

He stripped off his trousers, his erection tight and hard. When he went to pull hers off, she felt his hands shake. She put her cool fingers on top of his and together they freed her. He followed the path of her trousers down to the floor, tossing them out of the way. He squatted in front of her, his face level with her sex. He pressed his nose to her curls, inhaling deeply, tongue flicking out to taste a bead of arousal. She moaned softly, grasping his hair, pulling it hard. He pushed her thighs farther apart, his tongue slicking into her, rasping across her clit. Her body bucked, a spasm ripped through her. “Jonah!” she cried.

He stood, ignoring the crepitus in his knees, dragging a hand up her long leg, fingers catching in the sensitive skin behind her knee, to tug her leg up and out, opening her. She hooked her ankle around his waist, angling her hips. He fisted his cock casually, placing the blunt tip at her opening, her folds slick and swollen with need. He pressed into her, feeling her muscles twitch and her flesh give way to his intrusion. The effort to go slowly became too much. In one powerful thrust, he buried himself in her.

Both of them gasped at the tight fit, the sensation of joining rushing through their bodies. She could feel the pulse of his blood in the big vein on his underside, and the swell of his flesh within her. Even before he moved her muscles began to quiver, the feel of him deep in her belly, pressing into her most sensitive and intimate places making her muscles twitch uncontrollably.

Her fingers curled into his shoulder. Her head thumped back against the wall. “Thera,” he whispered, holding her, his hands on her hips. He drew back, eliciting a small mewl of objection, followed by an explosive cry of pleasure as he thrust deeply back. His mouth covered hers, as much to kiss her, as to silence her cries. Their rhythm seemed to mimic the surge and draw of the machines around them, and as their need grew, he moved more powerfully, pounding into her, twisting his hips to create a delicious, intimate friction.

She grew tighter and slicker with each penetration, her arousal climbing. He released her mouth only to allow them both to breathe, but he buried his face in her neck to compensate. His fingers sought her breast, and he pinched and twisted her nipple, until she sighed over and over, her hips thrusting back at him. Her muscles began to spasm in pleasure.

His own release began, his cock pulsing and swelling as he spilled his seed in her. Her spasms became convulsive, a deep and rippling, rhythmic clenching. “Sir!” she cried. And then Sam woke up, her world dissolving into a harsh reality, where Jonah was no more and Jack O'Neill was her commanding officer.

As she became fully awake that night, her body still reacting to his touches, spasms ripping through her flesh, she sat up shakily. In that moment she realized that her earth-shattering orgasm was the result of a dream, heightened by the residual effects of the mind stamp. It was just a dream, even though it felt as real, the tremors just beginning to calm, as any orgasm she'd ever had... maybe even better. It wasn't real, or even possible, and it never would be. She began to cry... for the loss of her love, for the impossibility of ever holding him, for wanting what she could never have. The realizations grabbed hold of her mind, and pushed her into the tailspin of her present predicament. Knowing that she couldn't ever have him, she shut down so thoroughly that her libido, the essence of her femininity, her spark, died, and no matter what she did, nothing could bring it back... until now.

What did she dream about? How could she possibly tell him?

“Carter?” She'd been staring off into space for some time now, and he was beginning to get a little wigged.

She turned to him, as if she'd just woken up. “Sir?”

“Jack,” he said, infusing his name with some urgency, as if she'd forgotten, somehow, to call him by his first name. And as he looked at her, a stain of color crossed her cheek, and he saw something flare in her face. She looked away from him, her mouth set grimly. “Are you... are you mad about something?” he asked, putting his hand on her forearm. She wrenched it away from him.

“Ya think?” she responded sarcastically over her shoulder.

He sat up, looking at the side of her face. “What?” he asked. “What did I do?”

“You call me by my last name, because it allows you to distance yourself from me, keep me in my proper place in your world,” she said through gritted teeth. “And then you want me to call you by your first name, as if you're inviting me into your private space, when ... really ... it's just manipulative bullshit.”

He was stunned. It took him a moment to process what she was saying. She thought that when he called her “Carter” he was distancing himself? He called her “Carter”, because that's who she was to him... a nickname ... a ... Then it dawned on him. In a way she was right... of course, she was, because by calling her by her last name he was making her one of the boys, a member of his team, his subordinate in the chain of command. He'd never thought of it that way and he was ... stunned... again.

“Sam,” he said softly. She refused to look at him. He put his hand on her shoulder and she twitched, but he kept his hand there. “Sam,” he repeated, keeping his voice soft. “Come on, Sam,” he said, “look at me... please.”

She thought about just getting out of Daniel's bed and leaving, but she was wearing this peachy negligee and it was just so absurd. She turned back toward him to find his handsome face stricken. Her heart nearly left her body with concern for him, before she remembered how angry she was. She crossed her arms over her breasts, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “What?” she asked, still somewhat belligerent.

“I'm sorry,” he said. To her amazement his voice broke slightly. He cleared his throat. “I'm really sorry.” He took her hand in his. “I didn't realize what I was doing. I could make excuses, but they're lame and you deserve more.” He looked down at their entwined fingers. “You deserve a lot more.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “I don't want more,” she said. “I want you.” And then she sucked in a deep breath, astonished at her own audacity. His eyes flicked up to her face, but she couldn't look at him just then, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.

“You mean that?” he asked hopefully.

She let out the breath. “I've been unable to focus since we returned from P3R-118. I nearly got us killed today. After several months of mind and body-numbing distraction, ten minutes with you in this bed and the deadness inside me is gone... so, yeah, I mean that,” she said, finally able to look him in the eye.

Slowly, but surely, a smirk overtook his features. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss that smug look off his face. She wanted to shove a brick of C-4 up his ass and detonate him. She didn't know what she wanted, but she knew, with a certainty she'd never experienced before, that she wanted him... So she opted for plan B, and kissed that smirk off his face, leaving him breathless.

He reached for her face. “Sam, we could get in serious trouble here,” he said. She pulled away from him and looked at him, an expression of shock on her face. “What?” he asked, a little defensively.

“You...” She found herself swallowing convulsively for a moment. “You said the very same thing ... in my dream.”

“Well, let's face it, I'm not that complicated,” he said, smirking again. She blinked at him. This was getting weird... but then he was kissing her, and all thoughts fled at once, leaving only the taste of his lips, the heat of his body and his hand wandering the peach satin to cup her breast to ignite shards of need in her belly. “There's one thing, though,” he said. She waited, wondering what he had in mind. “We need an empirical test.”

“What are you talking about, Jack?”

“An empirical test!” he said, moving over her, threading his knee between her thighs. “I mean, you think you're all better, right?” He didn't wait for her acknowledgment. He dipped his head to put his mouth right next to her ear. “Let's put that to the test,” he rumbled, the vibrations making her shiver. “Let's make you come.”

He planted his lips on the pale skin beneath her ear, pressing his body into hers, brushing his mouth across the sensitive flesh, the combination of soft lips and scratchy beard after a day's growth creating a thrill that gave her gooseflesh. She squirmed beneath him, her hips restless and angling into him, needing more contact. After months of need and no way to relieve it, she was anxious and impatient, and she whimpered as he moved slowly over her.

“More, Jack,” she whispered, her fingers clutching in his hair. “Faster...more...” And he smiled against her skin, because his brilliant astrophysicist couldn't put together a sentence, and he was the cause of it. She began pushing and pulling at him, her hands restlessly caressing his back, his shoulders, his arms, his ass. She arched her back to press her aching breasts into his hard chest. And still he murmured into her neck, nipping her skin gently, barely moving until she thought she would go absolutely mad.

Abruptly he pulled up from her neck, separating their upper bodies. Both of them felt the heat loss acutely. He looked down at her. “Patience, Sam,” he said in full smirk.

Her eyes were wild as she looked back at him, her skin flushed and damp, her nipples hard, begging for his attention. But as he watched, something else, a different emotion, crossed her lovely face. It sharpened her features, made her eyes sparkle. It was the first time in several months he'd seen that look... she had an idea! And now she was smiling at him, that big, bright Carter smile, tinged with mischief. “You wanna go slow?” she asked. Ooooh... he thought... a full sentence... He nodded.

Without any warning, he found himself flipped onto his back, as she tangled her legs with his and flexed, pushing him, until she rolled them both. She rose above him, straddling, then sitting on his thighs, the tent of his boxers in front of her. He could feel heat coming off her as she studied him. This is what one of those gizmos she works on feels like, he thought, her eyes raking his form from spiky, messed up hair, to looming erection. She stroked the back of her hand up the length of his cock, the cotton of his boxers smooth and cool against his heated length. Then she fisted him, twisting her upward pull, circling her thumb around the head, until his mouth fell open, slack.

She leaned forward, trapping his length between their bellies, taking his wrists in her hands. Both of them knew that if he so desired, he could free himself from her grasp, but neither of them wanted that just yet.

Sam kissed his mouth, sucking his lips between hers one at a time, the soft bottom lip, the firmer top one, flicking them with her agile tongue. He opened to her, wanting to hold her, but she held his arms fast, her slick, wet tongue invading his mouth, sweeping along his gums, hard palate, the super-soft skin inside his lips.

When she let up, they were both breathless. “Want to touch you,” he said, voice rough, trying to gesture with his entrapped hands.

“Not yet,” she said, a big grin on her face, “Patience, Jack” mimicking his earlier words. She scootched up his body, settling so his length was tight to his abdomen, and pressed under her heat. She watched his eyes roll back, as she ground down on him.

She released his hands, then, and he instantly reached for her, bringing her down for more kissing. His hand splayed across her lower back, fingertips just resting on the swell of her ass, holding her tightly to his body. She arched into him, her breasts almost spilling out the top of the peach nightie. When he pulled back to catch his breath, her cleavage immediately caught his attention. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, burying his face between the creamy mounds.

He pulled hard on the top, snapping the spaghetti straps, baring her. He rose on one elbow and looked down at her. “I'll have to get you another one,” he said, unable to look anywhere but the two firm globes topped by tight, coral nipples. His hand closed around one breast, holding it firmly, lips closing over it, teeth tugging, tongue tip circling, and Sam moaning, beginning to squirm. He smoothed a hand down her toned body, his rough skin catching on the satin, making a scratchy sound, and then his fingers slipped into the heat between her thighs, and there were no more sounds, no more sights, just feelings. Sam was gone. She was caught in the spiraling sensations of his mouth on her breasts and his fingers in her pussy, stroking and rubbing, her slickness gathered and smoothed through her folds, his fingertip pressing down and around and around on her clit. She throbbed and quivered and then she came... hard... several months of frustration ending in an explosive, mind-bending orgasm.

She curled into a ball, trapping his hand between her thighs, her breathing and her cries synchronized. It seemed to go on forever, the pulsing of her pussy, her body quivering, but she slowly relaxed, and he regained use of his hand, pulling her into his chest. Her heartbeat, at first pounding, slowed to normal. “Oh, Jack,” she said softly, mostly a sigh, than words. He held her tightly, rejecting the insistent temptation to stroke her skin or kiss her, knowing she would be over-sensitive for a little while longer. He waited, patiently, a tactic he was used to, the strategy he'd adopted regarding her for quite while now. Father Andrew's words echoed in his head. “If this woman is the one for you, Jack, she's worth waiting for. Be patient, my friend.”

He thought about how these words helped his through those dark weeks after leaving P3R-118, when he literally ached for her, woke in the night reaching for her. Now she was tucked against his side, her head on his chest, the smell of her sex on his hand ... yep, he could wait a little longer for her.

He listened to her breathing, her hand curled under her chin, soft breasts pressed to his side, nestled against him. He could tell she was drifting off to sleep. Moment of truth, Jack, he thought. Do I wake her and fuck her, or do I wait? If he let his body dictate his actions, Sam would have been on her hands and knees, his dick buried in her from behind, long ago. He sighed and kissed her forehead gently. Trying not to jostle her too much, he reached for the duvet, pulled it up, and covered them both, trying to settle into sleep, patently ignoring his hard-on, which twitched and ached and wept for her. He could almost hear it talking to him, asking him a question it often did, “What are you, fucking nuts?”