The Nookie Rookie

Title: The Nookie Rookie
Author: Mandy
E-mail: kitty_amazon@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Category: Pretend
Spoilers: yep.
Key words: nookie
Author’s Notes: Pfft. Smut biscuit. Nuff said.
Summary: Miss Parker is stalking Jarod… and the plot gets thinner.
Disclaimer: I’m offering them asylum. It’s a nookie detention center, right next to Woomera.


The Nookie Rookie


I know it can’t be this easy. It’s never this easy. That’s the whole point of the game, one I got very tired of long ago. Assuming I have him within my reach, then putting out my hand only to realise it’s just another illusion, he’s been controlling me all along. And then comes my subsequent bad mood due to humiliation, followed by his bouts of either taunting or bitterness. We both know the rules.

In fact, I don’t know why I’m even bothering, creeping up the fire escape like an armed peeping tom, being so careful not to make a noise. He’s not going to be in there, despite the doorman’s assurances he is. I wonder where he put the note/joke/trap? What expensive part of my outfit do I get to expense the Centre for this week?

In fact, this is probably all an elaborate trap – the broken down elevator, the six beefy men who are carting bulky pieces of furniture down the stairs, making them almost impossible to pass. He’s probably got a camera on me right now, filming me freeze as the creaky iron construction shudders beneath me. He would have to be on the top floor, wouldn’t he? Four damn flights is a long way to sneak for a reward of degradation.

I should have just brought Sam. Hell, even sending Broots after the perverted rat would probably provide more entertainment, and probably save me a pair of shoes, too. I just couldn’t stand to see Lyle’s smirk when he got their obligatory report. Nobody knows I’m here, so if this is an elaborate mousetrap, nobody has to know.

That means I probably can’t expense anything, either. Damn.

I can live with that. I can live with a lot, as it turns out. I can get the flu, I can be strip-searched, I can be teased with the truth, and I can dance to Jarod’s tune like Pinocchio. I can be locked in a shipping container with my evil twin, a sociopath can stalk me, and I can even watch my father jump out of a plane. And by god the little rat had better not be in that loft, because I’m working myself up into a real state. If he’s lounging indolently against a wall as a giant net drops on me, I’m going to shoot first, ask questions later.

But he’s not going to be in there, so it doesn’t matter, I tell myself again, edging up the final steps and shuffling towards the window. Hopefully there’ll be a notebook, some kind of smart-ass display or letter left behind, and he’ll call me at four am to make sure I got here. Which I’ll promptly deny. I wouldn’t want to satisfy his neurotic need for me to see everything he’s done.

Which is the whole crux of the matter really, I decide, testing the big window at one end. Every time he manages to right some wrong, he frantically tries to attract my attention. Sydney’s too, but for different reason; he wants Sydney to see what he’s capable of, how well he’s surviving on the outside, how he’s all grown up. But with me… with me, he’s just plain showing off. Look! Another damsel rescued! Worship and fawn, sign on the dotted line.

Well, no can do buddy. To my surprise, the window is unlocked, and I begin to slide it noiselessly up. Every time Jarod tries to attract my attention with his Florence Nightingale acts, I look the other way. And then, of course, he gets petulant, and does something annoying, so I’m forced to look. He’s like the kid in class who yanks the girl’s plaits because he *likes* her.

Warily, I sit on the wide windowsill, leaning into the room to look around. It’s a huge loft, taking up the whole floor, with high ceilings and many vast windows, and asides from a bed in the far corner, a spotless kitchen and a door I assume leads to a bathroom, appears to be almost completely empty. The bed is half shielded by a screen, and from this angle I can only see a mass of rumpled sheets. I doubt very much that the boy wonder is going to be in bed – unless it’s all a trap in order to get me to cross the floor.

I look up – no Acme anvils hanging from the ceiling. I look down – no sticky substances on the hardwood floor.

I mean, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve known forever. He wants me. Maybe never stopped wanting me. He’s about as subtle as a brick in that respect. I take off my shoes, placing them silently on the sill, and swing my legs over. I don’t know why I’m being quiet – he’s probably long gone. But I need to check, just in case.

The little incident on the Island of Carthis just confirmed it for me. And admittedly, I’m just as much to blame for that one as he is. The longhaired, wet-puppy, half-naked, sombre-yearning look just seems to work for him. Throw in a romantic fire, a winter storm, and a moment of weakness…

Not that anything happened. I’m not sure how I feel about that. An almost-kiss, an opportunity wasted… all alone on the island, nobody to witness a little indiscretion, nobody to tell. So maybe I’m not entirely immune to him. Can I be blamed for sexual chemistry?

But now, it’s back to the game. I’m tiptoeing across the warm floor of an empty, sunlit loft; gun in hand, knowing I’m wasting my time. He’s probably attempting to call me right now (except I’ve turned off my cell), in order to transmit his smirk to me from his lofty perch on Cloud 9! Maybe he’s confused because my phone is off, and is calling Sydney, alerting the good Dr Freud to my activities, so he too can offer benign smiles designed to-

Holy fuck. He’s asleep in the bed.

He’s sprawled on his stomach diagonally across the bed, his arms flung up around his head, his face buried in the pillow, his thick dark hair a tousled mess. The sheets, white cotton, are dragged down to his waist, and I can see one bare hip – if he’s not naked, I’ll eat my gun. His back is a broad expanse of golden skin, rippled like sand dunes with muscle. There’s not an inch of fat on him.

Two thoughts enter my end, and neither of them about capture. The first is that nobody, *nobody* knows I’m here, not even Jarod, for the moment. The second is about drizzling honey on his bare, magnificent back and licking it off. Or chocolate. Or some combination of the both.

I creep closer to the bed, chewing on my bottom lip and suddenly unsure of what to do. In all my wildest dreams (fantasies?), I have never imagined finding Jarod in a state so vulnerable as sleep. And he does look incredibly vulnerable, his face relaxed and peaceful, sunshine spilling across the toned expanse of his back, which is rising and falling slightly with his breath.

I’m starting to get a little turned on. More than a little, actually. He has absolutely no idea I’m here. I can do whatever I want, really. And the things I’m thinking I want… well. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind them too much either.

My mind is made up. In one swift motion, I climb onto the bed, hike my skirt up and straddle his waist, pressing the muzzle of my gun into his neck. He wakes immediately, lifting his head up. He stops when I push the gun into his neck forcefully, and stays there, his face hovering above his pillow. He doesn’t attempt to turn or crane aroun loo look at me, which is a little disappointing.

“Morning Jarod,” I say cheerfully, “Or should I say, afternoon?”

He says nothing. Poor boy, he’s probably trying to figure out what the hell is going on. I squeeze my thighs around his waist, to confuse him even more. I start to unbutton my blouse with my free hand, a show he’s unfortunately missing.

“Tell me, do you normally sleep til one in the afternoon?” I ask conversationally, “Or was this just a special surprise for me?”

“Today just seems to be surprises for everybody,” he says evenly, and slumps head ead forward, propping his forehead on the pillow.

He begins to bring his arms down slowly. I stroke the muscles in his shoulders, enjoying the supple feel of them rippling under my hand. God he feels good. I even let him prop himself up on his elbows cautiously. No use talking to him if the pillow muffles him.

“To what do I owe the honour?” Jarod asks.

I leave his shoulders and thread my fingers through the long dark locks of his hair, tugging, just a little bit, so he doesn’t forget with whom he’s dealing. Then I reach behind me, dragging the sheet away from his body. I look back. No tan line on that perfectly sculpted ass. Da Vinci couldn’t have made it better. I smooth my hand over one full cheek, and give it a squeeze. Jarod makes a soft sound – I think the penny is finally dropping, and it’s dropping like a lead weight. I wonder if it was the nature of his rude awakening, or my damp panties on his lower back, that gave it away.

“Well, I just had to take advantage of this beautiful day and a naked Pretender,” I say cheerfully.

I shuffle back, so I’m straddling his bare thighs, and although my gun is no longer near his neck, Jarod makes no attempt to move. I think I’ve found the one kind of capture he could finally allow. I lay my whole body on top of his back, rubbing my lace-encased breasts against him and having a nibble somewhere around his shoulder blade.

“I need to move,” Jarod says in a strained voice. I pause. There’s no way he can *not* be enjoying what I’m doing here. He clears his throakwarkwardly, “I’m, uh, lying in a very uncomfortable position in which to get an erection.”

I grin to myself. He sounds so shy. It’s cute. I rise up on my knees, crouching above him, alng hng him to raise himself up. One of his hands slips discretely beneath himself to adjust, and as he goes to lower himself back onto the bed, I slip one hand beneath his torso, releasing my gun and bracing myself with that hand.

Jarod freezes. I push my fingers across the ridges of his stomach, intrigued by the soft, curling trail leading to his bellybutton and below. I pluck at a few hairs. This is better than I could have thought, I decide, and slip my hand lower, taking his erection in my hand. He’s hot, hard and heavy, and it feels like he’s well on his way to a ball-breaking erection. I give him a light stroke, and he shudders.

“This is a hell of a wakeup call, Miss Parker,” he mutters, and drops his head forward as I squeeze him in my hand.

I begin to stroke, gently at first, building up a slow rhythm. Jarod gives a soft rumble of pleasure, his body rocking in time to my beat, rubbing against me with every move. In the sunlight, in possibly the weirdest and most arousing position ever, I smile cattily. It would seem five years was well worth the wait to have him exactly where I want him. I should have done this years ago.

“I don’t want to orgasm yet,” he says slowly, his voice thick. A light sheen of sweat is forming on his back, and I lick with deliberate slowness up his spine, increasing the pace a little. The boy tastes like pure sin.

“Yet? Are you presuming that this *isn’t* the main event?” I ask.

What the hell. I slip my other hand under his hips too, laying my full weight on him and resting my cheek on his back – he holds both of us up with his elbows and those glorious muscles that are flexing beneath me. With my other hand I investigate the full weight of his balls, palming them gently. He grunts with pleasure.

“I doubt that you could be so selfless in such a circumstance,” Jarod gasps.

Damn him anyway. He knows full well that I’m turned on like all hell. I turn my face, and bite at his skin, hard enough to leave marks. I find the gentle well of moisture at the tip of his erection and smooth it around with my thumb, and continue to expertly stroke him. I’ve got years of experience on him, and I intend to make full use of that advantage.

“What’s a hand job between adversaries?” I ask breathlessly.

He’s starting to actively thrust into my hand now, almost rocking me right off my precarious perch on his back (broad and fabulous as it is). I release his balls and use that hand to cling to his hip. Jarod is panting, now. It’s beautiful music we’re making here.

“You’re right,” he grunts, “I should have approached Lyle with the idea long ago.”

Well that’s a mental image I didn’t need.

Jarod uses my moment of surprise to flip me right off him, twisting his hips and sending me sliding onto the mattress beside him, my skirt up around my waist, my blouse unbuttoned. I reach instinctively for the gun, and grab it at the same time as him. He throws one thick, heavy thigh over my legs to hold me down. We stay like that for a moment, neither releasing the gun. He watches me with a gleam in his eyes.

“Is the safety on?” he asks.

I look down at his erection. “No,” I quip, “But the one on the gun is.”

“Good,” he says, and flashes one of his cat-with-canary, mega watt grins. He yanks the gun out of my hand and throws it over his shoulder.

“Now that you’ve got me, what s yos you think you know what to do with me?” I taunt. I have more than a few ideas about what *I* want him to do with me… or to me.

“I have been in the world for almost five years now,” Jarod says gravely. He catches my hand when I try to push at his shoulder, and holds it to his chest, “I’m sure I can figure something out. I read the Kama Sutra 43 times.”

Somehow, I believe him.

“You can’t learn everything in a book, lab rat,” I sneer. He presses my palm flat against his bicep, so the little hairs on his chest itch at my palm. I just want to grab great chunks of him and chew. Or suck, yeah, suck.

“I have had *some* experience,” Jarod says, and leers, “I think I’m about to get more.”

“You’re still a little wet behind the ears,” I whisper. If I could manage a normal voice right now, I’d use it.

He trails one light finger over my panties, right over the swollen folds beneath, like an invisible, electrified seam. “Well somebody’s wet,” he says huskily, his mouth beside my ear. The little fucker learnt innuendo when I wasn’t looking. AND learnt how to do the most erotic thing to my ear with the tip of his tongue.

Damn. I should have done this a long time ago. I shove my chest up, about as subtle as a brick, and thankfully, the boy wonder complies, trailing his finger up my bare belly to my crimson lace bra. He pauses between the healthy swell of my breasts (thank god for wonder bras) and rubs his finger back and forth, back and forth.

I growl at him, and he chuckles, his hot breath on my ear sending shivers through me, and the tip of his finger inches under the lacy cup. God, if he doesn’t do something SOON I’m going to-

Oh sweet Jesus. He shoves his hand right under the bra, pushing it out of the way and squeezing my breast in his big hand and massaging *hard*. His thumb brushes roughly over my nipple and he works the mound of flesh with his hand, squeezing, pushing, moulding, as though he knew all along that I liked things a little rough around the edges – or in this case, dead on centre.

“Ohh that’s good,” I moan, arching into his touch. My hips arch up, and he leans forward even more, pushing his thigh tightly between mine. I grind down on him with my hips, rubbing against him sinuously. Ohh yes.

“More?” Jarod asks. The bastard is in complete control.

“More,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

He pushes my bra up completely, his hand still working one breast, and lowering his mouth to the other. His mouth closes around my nipple, and Hoover couldn’t have done it better. He sucks the hard peak into his mouth, pulling it against his teeth and nipping, so a current of sharp pleasure runs through me. His thigh pulses against me, and I swear I can feel my clit rubbing against the top of his hard thigh, liquid heat settling in the front of my pelvis. I curl my hands into the raspy hair on his chest and cling to him, letting out one long groan of pleasure.

Jarod lifts his head, his dark golden eyes glittering. “Ready?” he asks. I nod helplessly. Fast enough to make my head spin, he pulls away and rolls me over, lifting my hips to shove a pillow beneath. I sprawl on my stomach, a little dazed, as he pushes my skirt up around my hips and yanks my panties down smoothly. My naked ass is raised in the air, my thighs parted, and he throws my panties somewhere near the bed. I could care less, at this stage.

And then his hard thighs are nuzzling in between miand and he guides the hard length of his cock to my moist folds and thrusts inside me in one slick motion. He’s thick, and very, very hard, and I feel like I’m being pierced by a broadsword. I slump forward, my hands thrown up around my head. Jarod braces his hands flat on the mattress on either side of my waist, draws back, and thrusts.

Mary Mother of God. Nothing has ever felt this fucking amazing. Every nerve in my body is drawn tight as Jarod starts to move inside me, his movements hard, controlled and beautiful, pleasure spiralling through my tightening body and focusing on him. He shoves forward, again and again, and I clench my hands into the sheets, moaning steadily and hanging on for dear life. When the pressure inside me builds to a climax I give a tiny sound of strangled, intense release, pure heat shimmering through me and shattering somewhere behind my eyes. Jarod follows a moment later, giving a hoarse cry, his body stiffening, and then slumping over me, spent.

I think I’ve died and gone to hell, because nothing this spectacular belongs in heaven. Jarod is a heavy, hot weight on my back, breathing hard into my hair. He rolls away a moment later, dragging me to twine his sweat-slicked limbs with mine, my head on his damp chest.

“Wow,” he says after a moment.

Understatement of the millennium.

“Wow,” I echo.

He tilts my head up to his, his grin of the shit-eating variety. “Not bad for a rookie,” he says cheerfully. Before I can verbally molest him, he touches his lips to mine in a warm, gentle kiss, his tongue stroking against mine briefly before he pulls away. Our first adult kiss. A few minutes too late, but who’s counting?

“You were… okay,” I say, lying through my teeth. He knows it, and his grin gets bigger.

“Would you like me to try again?”

His hand wanders down, skating across my hip, sliding through the crisp curls below and exploring my velvet folds.

“Who says you get more than one shot at the big time?” I say coolly, although I’m feeling anything but. Jarod kisses my cheek.

“What’s a hand job between adversaries?” he es, es, and proceeds to find out.


The End.