Fic: this one thing is always supposed to stay (Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam)
Title: this one thing is always supposed to stay
Authors: threeguesses, ws_scribe, and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 10,064
Summary: The enormously long comment fic where they do it all night long.
Author's Note: So, you know. This is a thing that happened. It started its life as a coda to other comment fic here, but then one thing led to another--you know how it is.
So after the hockey game it’s possible she's thinking he's going to invite her over, or something (not that she wants him to invite her over, necessarily; it's just that, the way his hand was creeping up her thermal inside her jacket in front of God and 20,000 other people, it sort of felt like that's the way they were headed) only...he doesn't. Just drops her off at Traci's (and okay, okay, they make out for a little while longer in the cab of his truck, Andy half in his lap and rocking a little bit and it's possible that this time she doesn't need to look to know--whatever, whatever, nothing happens, eventually he's all, "McNally, it's late," which she doesn't really get but...okay, fine, she goes inside--where, because this is the way her life works, Traci proceeds to laugh at her for like forty-five minutes straight.)
The next day she's late to parade (ugh, it's just one of those mornings, she can't find her nametag and her bangs are doing a weird thing, also it's possible she didn't sleep very well) and she's riding with Diaz all shift, so she doesn't get to talk to him or anything.
Not that she needs to talk to him. She doesn’t. They had a good time, whatever, she fully intends to just go home and forget it ever happened.
But.
Once she's changed she goes into the men's locker room to ask Chris what happened to the paperwork on their hit-and-run from this morning, and there's Sam zipping up his jeans. "Hey," he says casually, like maybe he legit hadn't thought about her all day until she turned up right in front of his face. "You hungry?"
And like, Chris is right there. Shaw is two steps away with his head in his locker. There are people around, and Sam is-- and okay, it could be just, you know, hey McNally, let's grab a platonic burger, sorry about the random groping (only she remembers the groping - like, certain specifics of the groping - and she does not think so). But seriously. People.
Sam does not appear to be having similar thought processes. "McNally?"
"Um. Yes?" And wow, that came out a little squeaky. It's not, you know, that she wants it to be a non-platonic burger or anything. She just suspects.
"Yes to food, or yes in general?" Sam's smirking at her now (of course he is), and it's entirely possible that Oliver just hid a grin behind his locker door. Wonderful.
Cut and run time. "Both. Either. Yes to everything." Only whoops, okay, that sort of sounds like she no problems with a non-platonic burger.
"Yes to everything." Slow, like he's considering it. "Dinner it is."
**
It actually is a platonic burger, weirdly.
They go to the Penny, totally casual (she wasn't expecting not to go to the Penny, obviously. She loves the Penny. They go to the Penny all the time), a couple of other cops from the division down the far end of the bar. Epstein shows up, for a while. Jerry buys a round of beers. Sam's just his usual noisy self, knee just barely brushing hers under the table, and she's already planning what she's going to say to him if and when he tries that arm-around-the-chair thing again--which, um. He doesn't.
So. Maybe she misread.
"You okay?" he asks her once, glancing over in the middle of some stupid conversation he's having with Barber about some boring drug dealer they know.
Andy frowns. "Yes."
"Because you're scowling."
"No I'm not."
Sam raises his eyebrows like he thinks she's full of crap, but he doesn't push her. "Okay," he says, and goes back to what he was saying.
Totally platonic, then.
That's cool. That's fine.
Although, seriously, what kind of person ropes another person into a hockey game she had no intention of going to in the first place, buys her onion rings, leaves a bruise on her collarbone that she had to cover up with pancake makeup this morning Jesus Christ, and then--
"McNally," Sam says, and she gets the feeling this might not be the first time he's said her name. "You ready to go?"
And, hmm. That's-- but yeah, no, of course she'd leave with him; he drove her here, she doesn't have a car, Traci's spending the night with Barber - it's basically her only option. So. Whatever.
(Whatever, so he's the kind of asshole who buys onion rings and leaves, so what, it's not like she was expecting anything different, wanted anything different, and hey, bright side; now she doesn't have to drag out the whole 'let's be friends' routine.)
It's a relief, really.
(It is.)
She trails him to his truck (and maybe that rock really needed kicking, okay? She is not scowling.)
"McNally." Sam's wearing that bland half-smile again, holding her door open. "Your chariot awaits." Just like that, like there are no especially vivid memories of them and bucket seats.
Wonderful.
**
"Okay," he says finally, once they're on the highway. "What?"
Andy plays dumb, fiddles with the presets on the radio--God, he has awful taste in music, screamy old-guy shit. Finally she clicks it off. "What?" she repeats.
"What." Sam snorts a little. "You've had a puss on all night, McNally. If you want me to ask you about it, I'm asking you about it, so--"
"I don't want you to ask about anything," she snaps, then, a mutter: "Surprised you even noticed."
That gets his attention; Sam slams on the brakes and turns to stare at her. "What?"
"Jesus, Sam!" she says, looking behind her, but of course there are no other cars on the road--he might be a total dick, but he's not stupid. "Nothing." Ugh, she sounds like she's thirteen even to herself but she can't help it, she's just so--so--annoyed. "You heard me."
"McNally," Sam says like maybe it's just dawning on him, that low edge of humor in his voice. "Are you mad at me because you think I didn't pay enough attention to you tonight?"
"No," she says immediately. "God, no. Can you just drive, please? God."
Sam smirks, not totally friendly, and after a moment he steps on the gas. "Sure."
They drive in silence for a minute. Andy looks out the window, stewing; after a couple of miles her eyes narrow. "This isn't how you get to Traci's," she says accusingly.
Sam shrugs once, the barest lift of his shoulders. "You really want me to take you to Traci's?"
Well. Andy is-- no, Andy is completely shocked, like, good and solidly. She turns in her seat to check, but Sam's not looking at her. Apparently the empty road is super important now, and what the hell, weren't they just arguing? Didn't he just ignore her all night?
"What," she says, only it doesn't quite come out like a question.
"McNally," he's half-laughing now, like when they're on patrol and she says something inane and un-cop-like. "What do you want?" And great, perfect, this has turned into one of their stupid meaning-laden conversations, where they start off talking about sandwiches, and then Sam gets that weird fixed look, and suddenly Andy's lettuce decisions have way more meaning than lettuce should.
(Except-- no. Actually, Andy's pretty sure they're only having one conversation here, and that conversation is about whether or not she wants to go home with him. Jesus.)
"I mean," she starts, "Traci's not coming back tonight?" And yeah, that one comes out a lot like a question.
The set of Sam's shoulders relaxes (and she hadn't even noticed - the way he'd been tensing). "Exactly. You'll have more company with me." Right, yeah, because this is about company. "And McNally?" He grins. "This time I swear I'll pay attention to you."
Then they're moving again, with purpose. But they're half way to his place and she realizes she doesn't have any clothes other then the stuff she has on. And yeah, maybe clothes might be optional later, but maybe she wants her own clothes.
Only they're on his street now and she doesn't want to ask him to take her back to Traci's because she doesn't want him to think she's backing out. Because she's so not backing out. So she sits quietly as he shuts the truck off. He probably has shorts and an old shirt or something. That could work.
"McNally." And shit but she has to start paying attention, because he's standing next to her with the door open, waiting for her to get out of the truck. She can tell he's still tense, not as tense as before, but still edgy. Like maybe he's not sure she's really going to stay.
It's somewhat comforting to know he's not as cool as taking this step as he seems to be.
Andy swallows hard. “Right,” she says brightly, after a moment. “Let’s do it.” Then, cringing: “I mean-“
“Andy.” He’s grinning, again, that dimple in his cheek just visible as he heads up the walk toward the front door, saves her from herself. “Relax.”
“I’m relaxed!” she protests as she follows, although she’s blushing-she’s totally blushing, God, her body warm halfway down her ribs. Andy doesn’t know what her problem is; it’s just Sam (it’s just going home with Sam.) “I’m totally relaxed.”
“Okay,” he says around one of his gee-you’re-a-card, McNally laughs, and unlocks the door before she can accidentally euphemize any further.
“So,” she says, once they’re standing in his foyer (and yup, yup, that is totally the wall she shoved him up against that one time, no-I-don’t-wanna-talk, and oh God why is this so awkward?). Her voice comes out funny and formal; it sounds like she’s about to ask him for the time. “Okay, Sam--”
“Andy,” he says again, nudging her forward into the apartment, and okay, that does a thing to her stomach, all right. “Relax.”
Only he's not using his hands to nudge her back. He's encroaching on her personal space and in her effort to make this as awkward as possible, apparently she's taking one step back for every one he takes forward. And the last time she was here (candles, darkness, his arms around her, lifting and yeah she remembers in picture-like snapshots with sensations) she didn't really take the time to notice how he decorated it.
But she's seeing it reverse. Running shoes left by the door where he stepped out of the this morning. Jacket hanging haphazardly off the doorknob of the closet by the door. Empty bowl in the sink, spoon tilting out and into the drain. But then she's stopped in her path, and looking behind her, it's the couch. And that's convenient because the way he's staring at her has her legs wobbly. Like maybe her bones just dissolved under the heat in his eyes. So she sits when the cushions hit the back of her knees.
It occurs to her, now that she's inside his apartment, that he's a lot more sure of himself. She's still trying to maintain her personal space as she leans all the way back against the couch as he leans in. He keeps going, his arms braced against the back of the couch, until his nose brushes hers and their lips line up.
For the way she's been avoiding this, she suddenly wants him to just kiss her already. But he doesn't. Just sits there, staring the way he does. So she moves in, because dammit, okay? Fine, she wants to kiss him. And when their lips are touching, barely, he chooses that moment to speak.
"You want something to drink, McNally? I've got beer." And, God, the way his voice rolls over her has her fidgety and her hands find his belt so they have something to hold on to.
Wow, actually, being drunk would really be the best alibi-- but no, no way. Then they would be standing awkwardly in the kitchen, and Andy does not need that noise.
"Nope, I'm, um-" Jesus, their lips are literally brushing against each other. "I'm good."
"You're good." Slow, right into her mouth. She imagines biting down on the 'd', like she could taste it. "It's just, you seem a little jumpy."
Oh, for the love of-- "I am not--"
Sam kisses her then, and she's pissed, yeah, but also holy crap, finally, finally. Something unfurls in her spine, confirmation that yes, it's like that - all the platonic burgers in the world, he likes me he likes me not, it isn't like that Traci, it's just a hockey game, he's just my training officer, we're just friends - and it turns out it is like that. It is exactly like that.
Sam's still got his hands planted on the couch, is kissing her slow and careful, like maybe he's worried she's going to bolt. She tugs on his belt, worries his lip a bit, and suddenly boom, they're in business - serious, tongues and hands and his knee in strategic places business.
Andy doesn't know if she leans back or he nudges her that way or maybe a little bit of both but somehow she's lying faceup on his sofa, head on a throw pillow (and Sam has throw pillows? Seriously? They must have come with the couch, like maybe he got one of those full living room sets for five ninety nine, love seat and end tables and--oh, yup, that's his palm against her rib cage, thumb sliding along the underwire of her bra) and her chin tilted up to give him access to her neck. "Is that from me?" he asks, tongue sliding over the mark on her collarbone, makeup long since worn off and a shiver rolling through her whole body at the gentle scrape of his teeth.
"I mean--" and she's rolling her eyes into the dark, because duh--"I haven't made out with anybody else since last night, if that's what you're asking."
She feels his crooked grin against her shoulder. "Sorry," he mutters.
Andy tilts her hip up into his, two layers of denim between them and still he feels so, so warm. She hooks one leg around his to keep him where he is. "No you're not."
Sam laughs. "You're right," he says, pulling back a little bit to look at her, and his eyes are a lot darker than she remembers them being. "I'm not."
Only, okay, for someone who's not sorry he's paying a lot - like, a lot - of attention to that spot. Like he wants to make it darker or something, wants to mark her more, and um, yeah, okay, she should really stop him, there is only so much makeup in the world--
"Sa-am." Except, hey, that's more like moaning, isn't it?
He takes it as an invitation to rock his hips down.
Definitely, definitely making some involuntary noises here.
"Okay, okay, lay off." She shoves at him, laughing. "I have to be able to make arrests without telegraphing my sex life to every perp on the street."
"Your sex life, McNally?" His hips still, and he is really just ridiculously warm, and right there, right there, crap, Jesus, she really needs him to move. "That what I'm a part of now?"
Andy drops her head back onto the throw pillow. Like - he's in between her legs, there are not a lot of other ways to interpret this here. "Maybe."
“Maybe," he mutters, sliding his hand out from under her shirt (and Andy whines a little, she can't help it; his thumb was doing a slow little figure eight over the cup of her bra and it just--it did not feel bad, is all) and down her side, palming the back pocket of her jeans and hitching her up against against him, as close as humanly possible without--well. As close as humanly possible for two people making out on a couch with all their clothes on, anyway.
It's like Sam reads her mind--which shouldn't actually surprise her, given that's basically what it's like on any other day--and he pulls back a little, biting her lip one more time before he lets go. "McNally," he says quietly, half-order and half-question. "Come to bed."
And just. The way he says it--like he's really, really done fooling around with her in cars and one couches--like he's really, really done fooling around--just. Um. There are a lot of things happening right now.
"In bed, huh?" Andy tries to cover, stretches her arms out over her head and pretends to be considering it. "Never thought you'd be the old-fashioned type."
"Oh yeah?" Sam grins fast, a lightning strike. "How'd you think I'd be?"
So, okay, she walked right into that one, but still. Probably she'd be blushing if she wasn't already about a thousand degrees. "Shut up," she manages, laughing.
"Yeah," Sam says, and before she can even register what's happening he's off the couch and throwing her over his shoulder, her hands grabbing at the muscle in his back as he heads out of the living room. "That's what I thought."
He tips her onto the bed like a sack of potatoes - he has to lean way far forward, she's clutching at his back and shrieking, like it's a game, like they're playing - then follows her down, arms on either side of her head in a push-up position.
"There." He's still got his grin, sharp and quicksilver bright. "Now I'm part of your sex life."
"Now? Now?" She's like, inappropriately breathless. "In what universe is dropping someone on a bed a sex act?"
"Mine." He shifts his weight, palms a hand down down her body - all the way down, and wow, that's-- wow. "I'm old fashioned, remember?"
"You're something," she says, mostly to make a noise that isn't involuntary. The edge of his hand is just-- wow.
"So are you, McNally." And yeah. Hmm. His tone is, like, serious. This may or may not be one of their meaning-laden conversations about lettuce. (Which, okay, she cannot, cannot handle with his fingers rubbing at the seam of her jeans, no way, no how. There is absolutely not enough blood left in her brain.)
She tries on a cocky smile she doesn't entirely mean, arms crossed behind her head. "I know I am."
Sam's eyes go dark. "Right," he says lightly (except, um, not), weight shifting back onto his knees so he can grab her wrists, one in each hand, and yep, pinning. She is being pinned.
"Sam--" Andy struggles for half a second against his grip, perfunctory, but already there's a sharp little thrill building in her belly and she lets him hold her there, the warm weight of his body above her and her hips coming up off the bed. It occurs to her to wonder, for a brief and terrifying moment, at how reflexively she just...trusts him. "Jesus, Sam."
Sam hums at her a little, transfers both her wrists into one hand and pushes her shirt up with the other, callused palm scraping over her ribs. He thumbs at her nipple 'til he he gets another noise out of her, then works his way around her back toward the clasp on her bra and tugs the whole outfit over her head, a tangle of cotton and the warm slide of skin on skin. She's half naked on his bed and he laces his fingers through hers but still he won't let her move her arms and it's Sam, it's Sam, and the way he's looking at her, oh God, it's just--it's a lot, is all. It's a lot.
"I think," Andy says--and flips him, straddling his hips and rocking until she's not the only one making involuntary sound. "I'm part of your sex life, too."
"Oh yeah?" As cool as you please, like it's maybe just occurring to him (only then she shoves down with her hips, hard and harder, and he loses it in a gasp). He closes his eyes for a minute, collecting himself, and it's just-- everything is so new. Andy gets preoccupied with his eyelashes. When he opens his eyes again she's caught off-guard. "You know," he starts, and it's pleasant, it's conversational, only then there's this edge. "I think you might be right."
He curves a hand around her shoulder, pushes until their hips are no longer touching. She bears down, but it's like trying to hit someone who's holding you at arm's length--a Three Stooges gimmick, where Curly's swinging and swinging, only Moe's got a hand planted on his forehead and he's punching air. (Worse, it feels exactly that ridiculous.) Andy whines a bit, because, hello, sex-- but Sam seems way more interested in looking at her.
And looking at her.
And looking at her.
It's um-- huh. She rolls her shoulders back, straightens out her spine. God, it's not that she's one of those girls who worries about her boobs or anything, she's not, she's definitely not, she just-- wants very much for him to like what he's looking at. So.
Either way, the move seems to catch his attention; he lets go of her shoulder and raises his knees, scoots her up with him towards the headboard. Then he folds himself up, accordion-close, and oh. Hmm. That's his mouth.
He's gentle at first, the wet flat of his tongue and one hand kneading at the back of her neck; Andy works her fingers through his dark, messy hair, yanks a little, smells shampoo and Sam. Then, almost lazily, like he's got all night and just wants to see what she'll do, he closes his teeth around her nipple, biting down just the tiniest bit--and tugs.
What she does is gasp and arch against him, all kinds of embarrassing whimpers coming out of her mouth. "Sam," she says, and God, her voice sounds ridiculous, like one of those stupid movies where people shove all their dishes onto the floor to get at each other on the dining room table (although, she guesses if a dining room table was the first available flat surface right now, and if that was the only way to get him to keep doing exactly what he's doing--). "SamSamSam."
She can feel him grin against the curve of her skin. "That okay?"
"Yeah. Um." She glances down and wonders again about his eyelashes, if something like that might run in a family--then immediately stops wondering. "That's good."
It occurs to Andy, belatedly, that she's totally lost whatever shred of upper hand she might have been trying for when she climbed on top of him, and that the best way to get it back might be to--hmm. She bites her bottom lip for a second before she pulls back, sliding down his body and yanking at the waistband of his jeans 'til he gets what she's after and scoots down flat on the mattress.
(She wants to, is the other thing, and she can't believe she's even admitting that but it's---she just wants to see how he'll react, is all. She wants to know what she needs to do to wipe that smirk off his face.)
Sam's watching her with interest, one hand tucked behind this head and the other trailing over her shoulder, and his dark eyes widen just the slightest bit when she goes for the buckle on his belt. "McNally," he says quietly, almost warning, but it's not like he's trying to stop her, so.
"Hmm?" She unzips his jeans and gets her hand around him (and ha, she knew it--not that she spent a lot time time hypothesizing or anything but he just kind of carries himself with that swagger, you know, like a guy with--whatever, whatever, she just, she can work with this), then gathers her hair out of her face with one hand and swipes her tongue once, experimentally, across the very tip.
Sam almost jumps out of his skin, so.
Andy grins.
And okay, yeah, it's sort of--she has a vested interest in this now, in making him sweat. She starts at the bottom and drags her tongue, all the way up; slides her lips around the head, wet and sloppy. Sucks. Just a little, just lightly. (And it's always felt a bit awkward, eye-contact during a blowjob, but when she looks up again he's staring right at her, so. So-o.)
"Andy--" and ha, given names, score one for the home team. "Jesus." His hand trails across her shoulder, makes a loose fist in her hair (so he can see her mouth better probably, and okay, okay, that's hot).
She hums an answer (only she does it with her mouth half-full, warm weight resting heavy on her tongue, so). Sam's hips come up off the bed.
Yep, definitely winning.
She gets serious about it then, gets into a rhythm. Fist around the base and free hand on his abdomen, so she can feel the muscles tighten and release. Sam lets his legs fall apart slightly, curves one knee up to hug the side of her body. His knuckles grind into her scalp (but no real pressure, no sirree--it's actually really, um, polite).
She wonders what she'd have to do to get him to stop being polite.
Andy keeps going for another minute, memorizing ridges and curves and the clean, slightly salty taste of him, then pulls back and glances up, curious. Should I stop?" she asks, teasing.
She feels his muscles tense and relax under her palm, her fingers worrying at a scar on his belly she'll have to remember to ask him about later. "Andy," he mutters again, and she thinks if she can just keep getting him to say her name like that--well.
"Hm?" Andy raises her eyebrows--relaxing her hand a little, loosening her grip. "You know, for a guy who's supposed to be my training officer, those aren't really very clear instructions."
Sam's eyes widen for half a second that was...not what he was expecting (and all right, Team McNally, way to be, keep up the good work). He gives her this look like he can't believe she just went there, like he knows exactly what she's after and he honestly can't believe she's going to make him--
yeah, well. She is absolutely going to make him, so. Suck on that, Swarek.
"I'm serious," she says slowly, and oh, she's enjoying herself now. "Without proper guidance I don't know how I'm supposed to. You know."
She's trying to figure out how to finish that sentence, if she can follow up with get better at my job or if that's really awful and lame and over the line, but while she's thinking she grazes her teeth really, really lightly against a spot she's pretty sure he likes and just like that his fists tightens in her hair and he's pushing her head down and thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, you've been wonderful, she'll be here all week.
"So," she says, a minute later, and it feels like her face is going to crack from her grin. "I shouldn't stop, then."
Sam's gazing down at her, mouth slightly open, with that vaguely incredulous, darkly amused look he gets when she thinks she's done some awesome piece of police work and is actually in really, really hot water. "You're impressed with yourself, huh?" he asks quietly, and oh, crap, Andy thinks it's possible she's in trouble now.
She has a feeling they're about to hit the gotcha moment - the one where she's all psyched about arresting a perp on her first day, only whoops, okay, that's an undercover officer - so she lowers her head back down, trying to preempt it (like maybe if pays enough attention to that spot, distracts him just enough--), but yeah, nope, that's a no go--Sam blocks her, knees pushing at her shoulders and the hand in her hair pulling up, and yep, yep, she's completely in trouble here.
"So, now I should stop?" she tries, but he's having none of it--like, hands under her armpits, dragging her to where he wants her, having none of it. (Where he wants her, apparently, is on her back on the bed, so. That's happening.) He stands up for a second, strips off his shirt and jeans (and wow, wow, that is a naked Sam Swarek, right there) and then he's back on top.
"No fair," she whines, shoving at him a bit, because, okay, she wants to look. He got to look. He got to look a lot.
"Yeah, see, McNally--" Back to surnames now, wow, yeah, she really is in trouble. He lifts up a bit, works at the button of her jeans, taking them and her underwear down her legs (and yep, nudity, nudity is happening, right now). "I never said anything about fairness."
They've basically been messing around since last night, is the thing, and whatever, she's worked up--he slides two fingers inside her with no problem at all, stretched out alongside her on the mattress with his free hand in her hair. Andy pulls her knees up to give him access, tilting her mouth in the general direction of his, except then two seconds later he's halfway down the bed, biting at her thighs and sliding his tongue--um. Um.
And okay, see, that is not something she normally--on top of which she worked all day and she hasn't showered since this morning and-- "Sam," she starts, nudging at his ass with one bare foot (and damn, that is a solid ass he's got, she's been eyeing him in those jeans for a year now, wanted to look for exactly this reason). "I'm probably, like..." She squeezes her eyes shut, opens them again. "Salty."
Sam gives her this look like he really, really couldn't care less about the last time she showered, then (slowly, slowly) adds another finger and pushes her legs further apart and just, um. Wow. Andy squirms against him, gasps, then squirms a little more, her toes curling into the muscle in his thigh.
"Sam," she says again, propping herself up on her elbows, reaching down to tangle a hand in his hair. It's just--it just feels a little like maybe she's going to fly apart at her joints, is all. "That's--oh, God."
"You know," he mutters into her hipbone. "For somebody who's supposed to be a rookie, you're shit at taking orders."
"What?" Andy pouts, peering down at him, hands still moving in his hair. "You didn't tell me to do anything."
"McNally," he says, in a voice like he's handing her a pair of boxing gloves, offering himself up. "Let me."
Which--crap, there are like, pros and cons here, and Andy cannot weigh them when his fingers are-- Crap.
"It's just I, you know--" and her voice, Jesus, it's like a lifetime of smoking in a matter of minutes. "Might, uh, taste bad." Only then Sam crooks his fingers, rubbing, and shit, ladies and gentlemen that is a pro, that is a pro.
"McNally." He presses his face into her stomach, leans into her hand (scritching now, at the back of his neck like she knows he likes, and oh christ, she knows what he likes, she knows and now she's never going to be able to forget, she's going to look across the squad room at him and just--). Sam nips at her abdomen, just this side of painful. "Shut up."
And yeah, um. Turns out Andy really is bad at following orders.
(Like, for instance, Andy is maybe really, colossally bad at following orders when her sometimes-boss spreads her open with his thumbs, licks a broad stripe across her--yeah. Yeah. Not so much with the shutting up.)
After a second, experimental lick, Sam pauses, mouths along the line of hair. "So, good news, McNally--you do not taste bad." Only, um, he says it in a way that implies she maybe tastes the opposite of bad, so that's--that's good. His chin is already shiny. And just--it has been a while, okay. A while.
Andy's knees thud open against the bed.
Sam grins. "Good girl."
She comes once, hard and sloppy, right against his mouth.
She's not trying to--the opposite, actually, because oh God that's embarrassing, her hips shoving down at him like that, involuntary and demanding --but he's so patient and he like, knows how to do shit, and. He slides lower, exploring a little; bites. Andy whimpers.
"Good girl," Sam mutters again, right into her skin; there's an outside possibility it's the praise as much as anything else that does it for her, and ohGodohGod this is happening. This is happening now. His fingers move inside her, slow and thick.
"Sam," she says, before it's even totally over, little shocks still running through her body. She tugs frantically at his shoulder, at his arm. She just-- "Sam. Come up here. Come up here."
"You okay?" She's shaking a little, which, Jesus, McNally, pull it together, it's not like she's never had an orgasm before.
(It is, um. Possible. That she's never had an orgasm like that before.)
"Yeah. Yeah." She just really wants to get her arms around him, is the thing, wants to feel the full warm length of his body against her, and she might actually tackle him a little bit in pursuit of that particular goal. "I'm good."
"Good." Sam grins and kisses her, pushing her hair back off her face. Andy can taste the sharp tang of herself in his mouth which is not a thing she ever liked to do before but whatever, apparently now it's a thing she likes to do, so. She curls into him a little, runs a hand down his stomach, and.
He's hard. Like, really, really hard, like getting her off just really did it for him hard, which. Um.
"Sam." He jolts a bit, when she palms him, but otherwise seems focused on her mouth, on the line of her jaw and gathering her hair into a ponytail, blowing on her neck (and he might have a slight thing for her hair actually, at least that she's noticed, which is nice, but--essentials). "Sam."
"Yes?" Dry and amused, what now, McNally, and Jesus, okay, her neck is, um. Really sensitive right now.
Mmm-hmm.
Only whoops, no, time to base up here. "Sa-am." She muscles him closer, locking her arms and legs, and yep, that should line their lower bodies right up, just. like. so.
Sam groans, face turned into her neck.
Andy's a freaking genius.
"So, um." She nips at his ear, at the hinge of his jaw. "Do you..." Only apparently she can't finish that sentence, can't say the word 'condom', even though it's Sam and she just came against his mouth (because it's Sam and she just came against his mouth), and wonderful, wonderful, she is twelve.
"Sam," she says again, low and urgent, like maybe that'll be enough to--only apparently Sam takes it as a command to move, because suddenly they're fitting together more closely--not inside, thank god, but closely, and Jesus it feels. Oh. Andy arches her back, which maybe doesn't help anything.
"Sam!"
"Yeah, I know." But then he lines their bodies up again, pushes against her in a slide, and wow, okay, it's possible Andy's pretty worked up. Again. This soon.
"Come on, Sam, quit fooling around." This is nice, this is great, but she really needs him, like, inside, and. She's primed to bolt, is all, keeps clenching on nothing, and all this wanting is starting to hurt.
"Yeah," he repeats, only this time he reaches over, and of course, condoms in the bedside table, just like every other guy, and Andy does not, does not care about the amount used or left or the expiry date. No. She is not that girl.
(But she is the girl, apparently, who loses her breath watching Sam Swarek practicing safe sex. So. Dignity is a slippery slope here.)
She takes the ten or so seconds he's distracted to conduct a quick, hungry inventory of his body, jutting wedges of his shoulder blades and the long, graceful pleat of his spine. She wants to spread him out on the mattress and have a good long stare, is what she actually wants to do, but there's no time for that now because he's back and on top of her, elbows on either side of her body and tilting her chin up to get at her mouth.
(Next time, she thinks with surprising clarity, and oh, she is getting ahead of herself here.)
"Hey," he says, and grins a little. Her heart is slamming away inside her chest.
"Hey."
She's so wet he slides in almost all at once, surprising. Andy breathes in, sharp. "You okay?" he asks again, immediately, and she manages to nod once in response, but oh Jesus, ohoh, this is. Um. She feels very, very full.
She shifts her hips, the initial shock turning into a kind of slow, pleasant stretch, pulling her legs up to accommodate him a little. Sam lets out a ragged, shaky breath. "Fuck, Andy," he mutters, so quiet she thinks maybe she imagined it, and it's a full ten seconds later before he starts to move.
And god, the way her heart's going it's just--it's ridiculous. Like having a panic attack, really, internal organs tripping over themselves and that swoop at the top of the roller coaster, it's Sam it's Sam it's Sam beating a tattoo in her chest, and she actually has to calm herself down a bit, remember to focus.
She plants both feet flat on the mattress, tries to stand it.
"Andy." Sam's eyes are scrunching up around the edges, like he can't decide whether to smile at her or grit his teeth against the feeling. Andy hmms an answer, slides slippery fingers across his mouth. The rhythm he's got going on isn't fast, but um. It's insistent. He's watching her face for what she likes, she can tell, and normally she hates it when guys do that, only--well. He's picking up on some things.
(Like that angle, right there right there, the one that makes her--)
She arches into him, stomachs pressing together, his n' hers teeth marks, and wow. Wow. She pants her way through a moan.
She has her second orgasm with him like that--and she doesn't, is the thing, not normally, but he's--with his hips and his slow and steady rhythm--and she can't, she really can't. She slides her legs up further, knees against his ribcages. And then he slows down even more, finds out what's making her grimace, shallower strokes and how he's never not in her, never not a thick hot pierce, and Jesus.
(He watches the whole production, is the other thing. Like. She tries, okay, she tries not to, but she can't help it, is keening over her orgasm and he won't even let her turn away, gets his forehead right up against hers and just looks. She knocks their noses together when she comes.)
"Okay," she says when it's over, because he's still moving, and she's slippery and swollen, and it's--um. It's a lot. "Just. Hold on for a second."
"Sure McNally." And oh, come on, no way is he smirking at her right now. That's so not cool. (Only, okay, it isn't, like, a mean smirk or anything, it's--well. Yeah.) But: principle of the thing.
"Right," she announces when she gets her breath back, gripping his hips with her knees and flipping them over, and frick, he is still grinning at her and just--whatever. Whatever. Andy will see about that.
Her plan is to brace herself on his chest and sit all the way up (since that was, you know, a view that seemed to be working for him earlier) but it’s just, Jell-o, all her limbs are like--it’s a minute before Andy’s sure that her arms will hold her. In the meantime she pushes herself as far down as she can get, lazy and deep, knees bent on either side of his body and her chest pressed flush against his.
Sam growls.
Seriously, it’s like-it’s a growl, there just is no other way to describe it, and okay. Ooo-kay. Change of plans.
Andy does it again, slow and steady; Sam’s hands drift down to palm her ass. Her nipples brush the planes of muscle in his chest and she’s pretty sure she’s got him now, the way his breathing’s changing, like he’s holding air in for longer and longer before he remembers to let it out. Andy smiles.
(She tries to mix it up at one point, leveraging herself into a push up, but he gets her behind the neck and pulls her back down against him, keeping her right where she is, and he kisses her messier than he’s kissed her all night.
So.)
She works herself down onto him again, harder this time; already she knows she’s going to feel this in the morning and already she really, really doesn’t care. Sam’s hips crash up into hers. “Andy,” he tells her, the pad of her thumb against the sharp ridge of his bottom teeth. “Andy, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, he says, in all sincerity.
Oh, yeah.
(She’s totally got him.)
Sam’s hands have gone restless on her, back and arms and ass, everything he can reach. Andy kisses him for the pleasure of watching him break away, pull in air (the second time she does it, he pants into her mouth, and-yeah). Her hair curtains them in, falling around their faces; Sam pushes it messily behind her ear.
Sweetheart.
That, plus two orgasms and well--Andy’s feeling generous now. She pushes herself down again, gets him deep, and hey, maybe Traci has a point about Kegels-Sam’s ribcage expands against her sharply. “Andy. Christ.” He keeps putting his hands on her face, sweaty palms sliding along her jaw, which would normally be gross, but um. Isn’t.
(Generosity is starting to feel a lot like that rollercoaster, a hot bloom of something in her chest and the urge to bury her face in his neck, lock her arms around his chest and just-well. But that’s not really conducive to her goal here, so.)
(Sweetheart. Just-who says that?)
When Sam finally comes-hips up off the mattress, back bowed-his head snaps back, long lines of his neck working against a groan (only then he brings it up again, like, before he’s even finished, so he can look at her, and that-that, um. Huh.
Generosity. Right.)
Andy is really not a spooner or anything, okay, and normally once everybody gets what they have coming to them she's bounding out of bed toward the bathroom, full of post-sex energy and ready to move on to whatever's next. Which is where she's headed in a minute, seriously: she's just...a little worn out, is the thing. She's tired. That's the only reason she's still lying in his bed with their limbs all tangled together, her head resting heavy on his chest. She can feel the sweat cooling on her skin.
Not like Sam seems to mind, to be honest. He's trailing one lazy hand down her spine to her tailbone; every time he traces a finger across the place where her thigh meets her ass her whole body shudders a little, so of course he keeps doing it.
It feels...huh. It feels.
Andy sort of has to pee, though. And she's, um. Really sticky. Like. Everywhere. Probably she could use a shower. And also--what time is it? There's no clock on the nightstand that she can see--seriously, how does he know when to wake up in the morning, what a weirdo--and she guesses she could roll off him and look around the room for one but as soon as she moves they're going to have to start having conversations about things, so.
(Like, for instance: Andy's not really the sleep over on the first date kind of girl. And, okay, technically she guesses this is their second date, or their date-and-a-half, but either way he drove her here, so it's not like there's some graceful way to make an exit. Does Sam think she's going to sleep here? In Sam's bed? With Sam? Does he even want her to sleep here? What if that's not even what he wants? And oh God, they're going to have to work tomorrow, they're going to have to ride in the car and catch bad guys and she is sorry, but there are not enough hambulence jokes in all the land to take the edge off what is almost certainly going to be the most unbearably awkward--)
"McNally."
"Hmm?" Andy startles and raises her head to look at him, chin resting on his sternum. He's got his free hand tucked behind his head. "What?"
"You're spiraling out."
Okay, what? "I didn't say anything," she protests, frowning.
"I can feel your heart."
And that is--wow, that is a statement of empirical fact, is all that is. That is a statement of empirical fact.
(Lettuce, though.)
She huffs a breath out onto his chest, frustrated, thumbs it away like she’s fogging up a window. She can feel his heart too, actually (slow and steady, damn him) and she’d mention it, but-well. She can’t handle the layers of meaning at the best of times. So.
(And oh god, they’re totally going to have a conversation, aren’t they-like, A Conversation--only it’s going to be about bed sheets or towel sets or linens and Andy’s going to say the wrong thing about duvets, and they’re going to be back where they--)
“McNally.” He jostles her a bit this time. “Come on now. Stay with me.”
(Back when they were still rookies, Andy and Traci dubbed this his no crying in baseball face.)
“I’m with you,” she says, and yep, lettuce conversation. Wonderful. Only then Sam slides his hand up her back, warm and heavy, and whatever, she just-she yawns a bit. (She’s tired, okay?)
Sam smirks again, hand creeping up to cup her neck, work the muscles there, and she yawns again-“Shut up,” she mutters, face smushed against his collar bone.
“I didn’t say anything.” He’s still smiling at her, wry. He shakes his head a bit, like he can’t believe she ran into the alley without backup, then his hands are at her hips and he’s boosting her up and off. “Stay,” he tells her.
Andy stays. (And she wouldn’t, really, it’s just he doesn’t bother so much with clothes and um. Well.) She’s not really surprised Sam’s a naked guy, actually. Luke was a boxers-on guy, and that’s fine too-like, who doesn’t like a nice pair of boxer briefs, seriously-only she, uh. Likes this view as well.
Sam notices almost immediately, of course. He comes back from what Andy assumes is the bathroom and stops at the end of the bed; quirks an eyebrow. And then they’re just, like, staring at each other, and wow, it is different when sex is not actually taking place, alright? It is different.
Sam chuckles when she ducks her chin, climbs back onto the bed. He’s got a washcloth that he runs up one of her legs, then between, and huh. That’s…thoughtful.
He does her other leg, gentle and efficient, then flips the washcloth and gets the creases of her elbows, the dips between her fingers and her thumbs. Andy watches, intrigued. It feels cool and a little rough and really, really personal--which, yeah, hello, she gets it, they just had a bunch of sex (the best sex of her life, possibly, if you want to know the truth, and oh God she is never ever going to tell him that as long as she lives) but this. This is...not that. This is different than that. This is something else entirely, a thing you'd do for somebody if you--
if you what, exactly?
Her heart's making moves again, rowdy, a dozen different impulses warring in her chest.
"How do you know when to get up in the morning?" she demands.
Sam looks at her for a second, his hands stilling; he's got the washcloth at the base of her neck. "How do I--I set the alarm on my--that's what you're worried about?" He looks like maybe he's going to laugh. "Seriously?"
"I'm not worried about anything," she says, defensive. "I'm just saying, you don't have a--"
"Okay." Sam nods, drops the washcloth on the nightstand. "Lie down."
"Sam--"
"Lie down for five minutes, McNally. If you still want me to drive you home after that, I'll drive you home."
Andy frowns. "Who said I wanted you to drive me home?" And okay, it's possible that's somewhere in the general wheelhouse of what she was maybe possibly trying to navigate, but just--ugh, it's like he just assumes he knows what she's thinking all the time, seriously, what the hell.
Unless--
"Unless," Andy says, a second later, and oh God she sounds so stupid and unsure. "Unless you, I mean. Do you want to drive me home?"
Sam gets that look on his face that he gets sometimes out in the field--less often than he used to, actually, come to think of it--when he's given her a set of instructions using every linguistic variation he can think of and still somehow she doesn't quite understand. "No, McNally," he says, after a minute. "I don't want to drive you home."
Oh.
Well then.
Andy lies down.
Only, okay, five minutes is like, a surprisingly long time. Andy has a real problem with still, is the thing-when she was a little kid and her dad wanted to punish her, he’d make her stand at the bottom of the stairs, no moving, for three or five or ten minutes, an extra minute for every twitch. It was probably the most effective punishment ever. (Incidentally, she was also really bad at freeze tag.)
When she vaults up onto her elbows, Sam sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “McNally, it’s only been-”
“No, no, I just-I have to pee. Pause the clock.” She levers herself up and over him, pads to the bathroom. (No clothes and um, he’s probably looking--but Andy McNally is absolutely not the girl who has a bunch of sex and then gets shy, so.)
He’s got a pretty clean bathroom, for a boy. Matching towels and soap in the soap dish. After she washes her hands she pokes through his drawers a bit, mostly because she can. Swishes out her mouth with toothpaste. Rubs the soap under her arms. (And yeah, okay, those are like-going to bed motions, so. So-o.)
“Done,” she announces, bellyflopping herself back into bed. “Start time.” Only yeah, she flops a bit closer than she means to, elbows and thighs brushing. Sam rolls on his side, and then they’re even closer.
(It could be like, an I’m too tired to drive I don’t want to take you home. Andy doesn’t know.)
“How come you don’t have an alarm clock, but you have guest soap?” She turns her head towards him, and Sam’s giving her a look, like, what? which-fine, but that was some decorative soap. Her hands smell like Irish Spring. If she stays, she’ll have to borrow his deodorant in the morning, spend the whole day smelling of boy.
“McNally.” He pushes her head back down to the pillow, gently. (Only then he leaves his hand in her hair.) “Four minutes to go.”
“What, I can’t talk?” Except he’s doing that thing, that tracing the edge of her hairline thing, and it comes out smushy and consonant-less.
"Oh, you wanna talk?" Sam asks, in a voice like he's making fun of her--only, his eyes are all crinkled up on the sides and his fingers are still rubbing at her scalp, so. He's not, like, being a jerk about it.
Except--ugh, no, that is not what she meant. "I'm just asking," she says--into his shoulder, sort of, her mouth just brushing his skin. "Inquiring minds." She peers up but he's already gazing down at her, like he's curious. The stubble on his face scrapes her chin. "Have a lot of guests, Swarek?"
She means it to be, like, funny, only it comes out weird and loaded, like she cares if he has a lot of guests--which, for the record, she does not.
(Well. A little bit. She would care a little bit if he had a lot of guests. She just--she wonders about Sam sometimes, about who he's been with and if he loved them and all the lives he lived before she accidentally tackled him in an alley one random morning, and-- )
just--
possibly she'd hate it, okay. She'd hate it.)
Sam's eyebrows go up, like a challenge. "Not lately," is all he says.
Well.
Andy doesn't really know how to respond to that--she's going to make a joke about dry spells, or something, but then thinks better of it, so they're just kind of looking at each other, their faces super close like a standoff, and--this was it, she realizes. This was her totally screwing up over duvets.
Except--Sam's hand is still moving in her hair, tracing the curve of her ear so like--really. Who the hell knows.
Andy reaches down and tugs the sheet up over them--it doesn't mean she's staying, doesn't mean anything except that she's naked and cold, now that she's not performing fourteen different kinds of cardio. She can't really ogle him anymore like that, though, which is a problem--which actually bothers her more than she might have thought it would--so she settles for flattening one hand against the muscles in his stomach, thumb brushing up and down the line of hair beneath his navel.
(It's not cuddling, okay. It's just, like, compensating for the loss of the view.)
"How many minutes?" she asks, around another yawn.
Sam gives her his blink-and-gone grin (and Andy does blink, actually, only then she doesn’t open her eyes for a little bit). “Two.” His lips brush against her forehead.
Two. Well, Andy can handle two. Everything smells like Irish spring and linen and she’s not, you know, freezing anymore. Sam’s hot like a furnace; when she tucks her icy feet between his ankles he doesn’t even say anything. Which is nice. He’s really being pretty nice, considering, and whatever, it’s probably the afterglow, but Andy’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth (count her chickens? crap, what is that idiom) and his hand’s cupping the back of her neck and his stomach is warm warm warm under her palm and if she can just manage to keep still there won’t even be any extra minutes added on…
Only--wait. That’s not--
“McNally.” Sam’s voice is very close and very quiet. “One minute.”
“Right, yeah. I got it.” She pats his stomach so he knows she knows. “Minute.”
“McNally.” Then, after a beat: “Thirty seconds.”
“Uh-huh,” she tells his shoulder. “No worries. I’m alllll over it.”
There’s some shifting, and then she’s settled in the crook of his arm. “I’ll count it down for you.” He’s got his mouth in her hair now, lips buzzing against her cranium. Andy stops listening so she can feel. “Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…”
When he gets to five he taps it out, four fingers on her wrist, then three, then two, like they’re going through a door, stealth entry.
“One.” He reaches down, and suddenly there’s a heavier weight on her hip and oh, maybe this is the duvet conversation (but no- okay, that’s a real duvet, Andy completely knew that) and she’s totally going to get up in like, two seconds-
“Yeah,” Sam says from somewhere far away. “That’s what I figured.”
Authors: threeguesses, ws_scribe, and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 10,064
Summary: The enormously long comment fic where they do it all night long.
Author's Note: So, you know. This is a thing that happened. It started its life as a coda to other comment fic here, but then one thing led to another--you know how it is.
So after the hockey game it’s possible she's thinking he's going to invite her over, or something (not that she wants him to invite her over, necessarily; it's just that, the way his hand was creeping up her thermal inside her jacket in front of God and 20,000 other people, it sort of felt like that's the way they were headed) only...he doesn't. Just drops her off at Traci's (and okay, okay, they make out for a little while longer in the cab of his truck, Andy half in his lap and rocking a little bit and it's possible that this time she doesn't need to look to know--whatever, whatever, nothing happens, eventually he's all, "McNally, it's late," which she doesn't really get but...okay, fine, she goes inside--where, because this is the way her life works, Traci proceeds to laugh at her for like forty-five minutes straight.)
The next day she's late to parade (ugh, it's just one of those mornings, she can't find her nametag and her bangs are doing a weird thing, also it's possible she didn't sleep very well) and she's riding with Diaz all shift, so she doesn't get to talk to him or anything.
Not that she needs to talk to him. She doesn’t. They had a good time, whatever, she fully intends to just go home and forget it ever happened.
But.
Once she's changed she goes into the men's locker room to ask Chris what happened to the paperwork on their hit-and-run from this morning, and there's Sam zipping up his jeans. "Hey," he says casually, like maybe he legit hadn't thought about her all day until she turned up right in front of his face. "You hungry?"
And like, Chris is right there. Shaw is two steps away with his head in his locker. There are people around, and Sam is-- and okay, it could be just, you know, hey McNally, let's grab a platonic burger, sorry about the random groping (only she remembers the groping - like, certain specifics of the groping - and she does not think so). But seriously. People.
Sam does not appear to be having similar thought processes. "McNally?"
"Um. Yes?" And wow, that came out a little squeaky. It's not, you know, that she wants it to be a non-platonic burger or anything. She just suspects.
"Yes to food, or yes in general?" Sam's smirking at her now (of course he is), and it's entirely possible that Oliver just hid a grin behind his locker door. Wonderful.
Cut and run time. "Both. Either. Yes to everything." Only whoops, okay, that sort of sounds like she no problems with a non-platonic burger.
"Yes to everything." Slow, like he's considering it. "Dinner it is."
**
It actually is a platonic burger, weirdly.
They go to the Penny, totally casual (she wasn't expecting not to go to the Penny, obviously. She loves the Penny. They go to the Penny all the time), a couple of other cops from the division down the far end of the bar. Epstein shows up, for a while. Jerry buys a round of beers. Sam's just his usual noisy self, knee just barely brushing hers under the table, and she's already planning what she's going to say to him if and when he tries that arm-around-the-chair thing again--which, um. He doesn't.
So. Maybe she misread.
"You okay?" he asks her once, glancing over in the middle of some stupid conversation he's having with Barber about some boring drug dealer they know.
Andy frowns. "Yes."
"Because you're scowling."
"No I'm not."
Sam raises his eyebrows like he thinks she's full of crap, but he doesn't push her. "Okay," he says, and goes back to what he was saying.
Totally platonic, then.
That's cool. That's fine.
Although, seriously, what kind of person ropes another person into a hockey game she had no intention of going to in the first place, buys her onion rings, leaves a bruise on her collarbone that she had to cover up with pancake makeup this morning Jesus Christ, and then--
"McNally," Sam says, and she gets the feeling this might not be the first time he's said her name. "You ready to go?"
And, hmm. That's-- but yeah, no, of course she'd leave with him; he drove her here, she doesn't have a car, Traci's spending the night with Barber - it's basically her only option. So. Whatever.
(Whatever, so he's the kind of asshole who buys onion rings and leaves, so what, it's not like she was expecting anything different, wanted anything different, and hey, bright side; now she doesn't have to drag out the whole 'let's be friends' routine.)
It's a relief, really.
(It is.)
She trails him to his truck (and maybe that rock really needed kicking, okay? She is not scowling.)
"McNally." Sam's wearing that bland half-smile again, holding her door open. "Your chariot awaits." Just like that, like there are no especially vivid memories of them and bucket seats.
Wonderful.
**
"Okay," he says finally, once they're on the highway. "What?"
Andy plays dumb, fiddles with the presets on the radio--God, he has awful taste in music, screamy old-guy shit. Finally she clicks it off. "What?" she repeats.
"What." Sam snorts a little. "You've had a puss on all night, McNally. If you want me to ask you about it, I'm asking you about it, so--"
"I don't want you to ask about anything," she snaps, then, a mutter: "Surprised you even noticed."
That gets his attention; Sam slams on the brakes and turns to stare at her. "What?"
"Jesus, Sam!" she says, looking behind her, but of course there are no other cars on the road--he might be a total dick, but he's not stupid. "Nothing." Ugh, she sounds like she's thirteen even to herself but she can't help it, she's just so--so--annoyed. "You heard me."
"McNally," Sam says like maybe it's just dawning on him, that low edge of humor in his voice. "Are you mad at me because you think I didn't pay enough attention to you tonight?"
"No," she says immediately. "God, no. Can you just drive, please? God."
Sam smirks, not totally friendly, and after a moment he steps on the gas. "Sure."
They drive in silence for a minute. Andy looks out the window, stewing; after a couple of miles her eyes narrow. "This isn't how you get to Traci's," she says accusingly.
Sam shrugs once, the barest lift of his shoulders. "You really want me to take you to Traci's?"
Well. Andy is-- no, Andy is completely shocked, like, good and solidly. She turns in her seat to check, but Sam's not looking at her. Apparently the empty road is super important now, and what the hell, weren't they just arguing? Didn't he just ignore her all night?
"What," she says, only it doesn't quite come out like a question.
"McNally," he's half-laughing now, like when they're on patrol and she says something inane and un-cop-like. "What do you want?" And great, perfect, this has turned into one of their stupid meaning-laden conversations, where they start off talking about sandwiches, and then Sam gets that weird fixed look, and suddenly Andy's lettuce decisions have way more meaning than lettuce should.
(Except-- no. Actually, Andy's pretty sure they're only having one conversation here, and that conversation is about whether or not she wants to go home with him. Jesus.)
"I mean," she starts, "Traci's not coming back tonight?" And yeah, that one comes out a lot like a question.
The set of Sam's shoulders relaxes (and she hadn't even noticed - the way he'd been tensing). "Exactly. You'll have more company with me." Right, yeah, because this is about company. "And McNally?" He grins. "This time I swear I'll pay attention to you."
Then they're moving again, with purpose. But they're half way to his place and she realizes she doesn't have any clothes other then the stuff she has on. And yeah, maybe clothes might be optional later, but maybe she wants her own clothes.
Only they're on his street now and she doesn't want to ask him to take her back to Traci's because she doesn't want him to think she's backing out. Because she's so not backing out. So she sits quietly as he shuts the truck off. He probably has shorts and an old shirt or something. That could work.
"McNally." And shit but she has to start paying attention, because he's standing next to her with the door open, waiting for her to get out of the truck. She can tell he's still tense, not as tense as before, but still edgy. Like maybe he's not sure she's really going to stay.
It's somewhat comforting to know he's not as cool as taking this step as he seems to be.
Andy swallows hard. “Right,” she says brightly, after a moment. “Let’s do it.” Then, cringing: “I mean-“
“Andy.” He’s grinning, again, that dimple in his cheek just visible as he heads up the walk toward the front door, saves her from herself. “Relax.”
“I’m relaxed!” she protests as she follows, although she’s blushing-she’s totally blushing, God, her body warm halfway down her ribs. Andy doesn’t know what her problem is; it’s just Sam (it’s just going home with Sam.) “I’m totally relaxed.”
“Okay,” he says around one of his gee-you’re-a-card, McNally laughs, and unlocks the door before she can accidentally euphemize any further.
“So,” she says, once they’re standing in his foyer (and yup, yup, that is totally the wall she shoved him up against that one time, no-I-don’t-wanna-talk, and oh God why is this so awkward?). Her voice comes out funny and formal; it sounds like she’s about to ask him for the time. “Okay, Sam--”
“Andy,” he says again, nudging her forward into the apartment, and okay, that does a thing to her stomach, all right. “Relax.”
Only he's not using his hands to nudge her back. He's encroaching on her personal space and in her effort to make this as awkward as possible, apparently she's taking one step back for every one he takes forward. And the last time she was here (candles, darkness, his arms around her, lifting and yeah she remembers in picture-like snapshots with sensations) she didn't really take the time to notice how he decorated it.
But she's seeing it reverse. Running shoes left by the door where he stepped out of the this morning. Jacket hanging haphazardly off the doorknob of the closet by the door. Empty bowl in the sink, spoon tilting out and into the drain. But then she's stopped in her path, and looking behind her, it's the couch. And that's convenient because the way he's staring at her has her legs wobbly. Like maybe her bones just dissolved under the heat in his eyes. So she sits when the cushions hit the back of her knees.
It occurs to her, now that she's inside his apartment, that he's a lot more sure of himself. She's still trying to maintain her personal space as she leans all the way back against the couch as he leans in. He keeps going, his arms braced against the back of the couch, until his nose brushes hers and their lips line up.
For the way she's been avoiding this, she suddenly wants him to just kiss her already. But he doesn't. Just sits there, staring the way he does. So she moves in, because dammit, okay? Fine, she wants to kiss him. And when their lips are touching, barely, he chooses that moment to speak.
"You want something to drink, McNally? I've got beer." And, God, the way his voice rolls over her has her fidgety and her hands find his belt so they have something to hold on to.
Wow, actually, being drunk would really be the best alibi-- but no, no way. Then they would be standing awkwardly in the kitchen, and Andy does not need that noise.
"Nope, I'm, um-" Jesus, their lips are literally brushing against each other. "I'm good."
"You're good." Slow, right into her mouth. She imagines biting down on the 'd', like she could taste it. "It's just, you seem a little jumpy."
Oh, for the love of-- "I am not--"
Sam kisses her then, and she's pissed, yeah, but also holy crap, finally, finally. Something unfurls in her spine, confirmation that yes, it's like that - all the platonic burgers in the world, he likes me he likes me not, it isn't like that Traci, it's just a hockey game, he's just my training officer, we're just friends - and it turns out it is like that. It is exactly like that.
Sam's still got his hands planted on the couch, is kissing her slow and careful, like maybe he's worried she's going to bolt. She tugs on his belt, worries his lip a bit, and suddenly boom, they're in business - serious, tongues and hands and his knee in strategic places business.
Andy doesn't know if she leans back or he nudges her that way or maybe a little bit of both but somehow she's lying faceup on his sofa, head on a throw pillow (and Sam has throw pillows? Seriously? They must have come with the couch, like maybe he got one of those full living room sets for five ninety nine, love seat and end tables and--oh, yup, that's his palm against her rib cage, thumb sliding along the underwire of her bra) and her chin tilted up to give him access to her neck. "Is that from me?" he asks, tongue sliding over the mark on her collarbone, makeup long since worn off and a shiver rolling through her whole body at the gentle scrape of his teeth.
"I mean--" and she's rolling her eyes into the dark, because duh--"I haven't made out with anybody else since last night, if that's what you're asking."
She feels his crooked grin against her shoulder. "Sorry," he mutters.
Andy tilts her hip up into his, two layers of denim between them and still he feels so, so warm. She hooks one leg around his to keep him where he is. "No you're not."
Sam laughs. "You're right," he says, pulling back a little bit to look at her, and his eyes are a lot darker than she remembers them being. "I'm not."
Only, okay, for someone who's not sorry he's paying a lot - like, a lot - of attention to that spot. Like he wants to make it darker or something, wants to mark her more, and um, yeah, okay, she should really stop him, there is only so much makeup in the world--
"Sa-am." Except, hey, that's more like moaning, isn't it?
He takes it as an invitation to rock his hips down.
Definitely, definitely making some involuntary noises here.
"Okay, okay, lay off." She shoves at him, laughing. "I have to be able to make arrests without telegraphing my sex life to every perp on the street."
"Your sex life, McNally?" His hips still, and he is really just ridiculously warm, and right there, right there, crap, Jesus, she really needs him to move. "That what I'm a part of now?"
Andy drops her head back onto the throw pillow. Like - he's in between her legs, there are not a lot of other ways to interpret this here. "Maybe."
“Maybe," he mutters, sliding his hand out from under her shirt (and Andy whines a little, she can't help it; his thumb was doing a slow little figure eight over the cup of her bra and it just--it did not feel bad, is all) and down her side, palming the back pocket of her jeans and hitching her up against against him, as close as humanly possible without--well. As close as humanly possible for two people making out on a couch with all their clothes on, anyway.
It's like Sam reads her mind--which shouldn't actually surprise her, given that's basically what it's like on any other day--and he pulls back a little, biting her lip one more time before he lets go. "McNally," he says quietly, half-order and half-question. "Come to bed."
And just. The way he says it--like he's really, really done fooling around with her in cars and one couches--like he's really, really done fooling around--just. Um. There are a lot of things happening right now.
"In bed, huh?" Andy tries to cover, stretches her arms out over her head and pretends to be considering it. "Never thought you'd be the old-fashioned type."
"Oh yeah?" Sam grins fast, a lightning strike. "How'd you think I'd be?"
So, okay, she walked right into that one, but still. Probably she'd be blushing if she wasn't already about a thousand degrees. "Shut up," she manages, laughing.
"Yeah," Sam says, and before she can even register what's happening he's off the couch and throwing her over his shoulder, her hands grabbing at the muscle in his back as he heads out of the living room. "That's what I thought."
He tips her onto the bed like a sack of potatoes - he has to lean way far forward, she's clutching at his back and shrieking, like it's a game, like they're playing - then follows her down, arms on either side of her head in a push-up position.
"There." He's still got his grin, sharp and quicksilver bright. "Now I'm part of your sex life."
"Now? Now?" She's like, inappropriately breathless. "In what universe is dropping someone on a bed a sex act?"
"Mine." He shifts his weight, palms a hand down down her body - all the way down, and wow, that's-- wow. "I'm old fashioned, remember?"
"You're something," she says, mostly to make a noise that isn't involuntary. The edge of his hand is just-- wow.
"So are you, McNally." And yeah. Hmm. His tone is, like, serious. This may or may not be one of their meaning-laden conversations about lettuce. (Which, okay, she cannot, cannot handle with his fingers rubbing at the seam of her jeans, no way, no how. There is absolutely not enough blood left in her brain.)
She tries on a cocky smile she doesn't entirely mean, arms crossed behind her head. "I know I am."
Sam's eyes go dark. "Right," he says lightly (except, um, not), weight shifting back onto his knees so he can grab her wrists, one in each hand, and yep, pinning. She is being pinned.
"Sam--" Andy struggles for half a second against his grip, perfunctory, but already there's a sharp little thrill building in her belly and she lets him hold her there, the warm weight of his body above her and her hips coming up off the bed. It occurs to her to wonder, for a brief and terrifying moment, at how reflexively she just...trusts him. "Jesus, Sam."
Sam hums at her a little, transfers both her wrists into one hand and pushes her shirt up with the other, callused palm scraping over her ribs. He thumbs at her nipple 'til he he gets another noise out of her, then works his way around her back toward the clasp on her bra and tugs the whole outfit over her head, a tangle of cotton and the warm slide of skin on skin. She's half naked on his bed and he laces his fingers through hers but still he won't let her move her arms and it's Sam, it's Sam, and the way he's looking at her, oh God, it's just--it's a lot, is all. It's a lot.
"I think," Andy says--and flips him, straddling his hips and rocking until she's not the only one making involuntary sound. "I'm part of your sex life, too."
"Oh yeah?" As cool as you please, like it's maybe just occurring to him (only then she shoves down with her hips, hard and harder, and he loses it in a gasp). He closes his eyes for a minute, collecting himself, and it's just-- everything is so new. Andy gets preoccupied with his eyelashes. When he opens his eyes again she's caught off-guard. "You know," he starts, and it's pleasant, it's conversational, only then there's this edge. "I think you might be right."
He curves a hand around her shoulder, pushes until their hips are no longer touching. She bears down, but it's like trying to hit someone who's holding you at arm's length--a Three Stooges gimmick, where Curly's swinging and swinging, only Moe's got a hand planted on his forehead and he's punching air. (Worse, it feels exactly that ridiculous.) Andy whines a bit, because, hello, sex-- but Sam seems way more interested in looking at her.
And looking at her.
And looking at her.
It's um-- huh. She rolls her shoulders back, straightens out her spine. God, it's not that she's one of those girls who worries about her boobs or anything, she's not, she's definitely not, she just-- wants very much for him to like what he's looking at. So.
Either way, the move seems to catch his attention; he lets go of her shoulder and raises his knees, scoots her up with him towards the headboard. Then he folds himself up, accordion-close, and oh. Hmm. That's his mouth.
He's gentle at first, the wet flat of his tongue and one hand kneading at the back of her neck; Andy works her fingers through his dark, messy hair, yanks a little, smells shampoo and Sam. Then, almost lazily, like he's got all night and just wants to see what she'll do, he closes his teeth around her nipple, biting down just the tiniest bit--and tugs.
What she does is gasp and arch against him, all kinds of embarrassing whimpers coming out of her mouth. "Sam," she says, and God, her voice sounds ridiculous, like one of those stupid movies where people shove all their dishes onto the floor to get at each other on the dining room table (although, she guesses if a dining room table was the first available flat surface right now, and if that was the only way to get him to keep doing exactly what he's doing--). "SamSamSam."
She can feel him grin against the curve of her skin. "That okay?"
"Yeah. Um." She glances down and wonders again about his eyelashes, if something like that might run in a family--then immediately stops wondering. "That's good."
It occurs to Andy, belatedly, that she's totally lost whatever shred of upper hand she might have been trying for when she climbed on top of him, and that the best way to get it back might be to--hmm. She bites her bottom lip for a second before she pulls back, sliding down his body and yanking at the waistband of his jeans 'til he gets what she's after and scoots down flat on the mattress.
(She wants to, is the other thing, and she can't believe she's even admitting that but it's---she just wants to see how he'll react, is all. She wants to know what she needs to do to wipe that smirk off his face.)
Sam's watching her with interest, one hand tucked behind this head and the other trailing over her shoulder, and his dark eyes widen just the slightest bit when she goes for the buckle on his belt. "McNally," he says quietly, almost warning, but it's not like he's trying to stop her, so.
"Hmm?" She unzips his jeans and gets her hand around him (and ha, she knew it--not that she spent a lot time time hypothesizing or anything but he just kind of carries himself with that swagger, you know, like a guy with--whatever, whatever, she just, she can work with this), then gathers her hair out of her face with one hand and swipes her tongue once, experimentally, across the very tip.
Sam almost jumps out of his skin, so.
Andy grins.
And okay, yeah, it's sort of--she has a vested interest in this now, in making him sweat. She starts at the bottom and drags her tongue, all the way up; slides her lips around the head, wet and sloppy. Sucks. Just a little, just lightly. (And it's always felt a bit awkward, eye-contact during a blowjob, but when she looks up again he's staring right at her, so. So-o.)
"Andy--" and ha, given names, score one for the home team. "Jesus." His hand trails across her shoulder, makes a loose fist in her hair (so he can see her mouth better probably, and okay, okay, that's hot).
She hums an answer (only she does it with her mouth half-full, warm weight resting heavy on her tongue, so). Sam's hips come up off the bed.
Yep, definitely winning.
She gets serious about it then, gets into a rhythm. Fist around the base and free hand on his abdomen, so she can feel the muscles tighten and release. Sam lets his legs fall apart slightly, curves one knee up to hug the side of her body. His knuckles grind into her scalp (but no real pressure, no sirree--it's actually really, um, polite).
She wonders what she'd have to do to get him to stop being polite.
Andy keeps going for another minute, memorizing ridges and curves and the clean, slightly salty taste of him, then pulls back and glances up, curious. Should I stop?" she asks, teasing.
She feels his muscles tense and relax under her palm, her fingers worrying at a scar on his belly she'll have to remember to ask him about later. "Andy," he mutters again, and she thinks if she can just keep getting him to say her name like that--well.
"Hm?" Andy raises her eyebrows--relaxing her hand a little, loosening her grip. "You know, for a guy who's supposed to be my training officer, those aren't really very clear instructions."
Sam's eyes widen for half a second that was...not what he was expecting (and all right, Team McNally, way to be, keep up the good work). He gives her this look like he can't believe she just went there, like he knows exactly what she's after and he honestly can't believe she's going to make him--
yeah, well. She is absolutely going to make him, so. Suck on that, Swarek.
"I'm serious," she says slowly, and oh, she's enjoying herself now. "Without proper guidance I don't know how I'm supposed to. You know."
She's trying to figure out how to finish that sentence, if she can follow up with get better at my job or if that's really awful and lame and over the line, but while she's thinking she grazes her teeth really, really lightly against a spot she's pretty sure he likes and just like that his fists tightens in her hair and he's pushing her head down and thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, you've been wonderful, she'll be here all week.
"So," she says, a minute later, and it feels like her face is going to crack from her grin. "I shouldn't stop, then."
Sam's gazing down at her, mouth slightly open, with that vaguely incredulous, darkly amused look he gets when she thinks she's done some awesome piece of police work and is actually in really, really hot water. "You're impressed with yourself, huh?" he asks quietly, and oh, crap, Andy thinks it's possible she's in trouble now.
She has a feeling they're about to hit the gotcha moment - the one where she's all psyched about arresting a perp on her first day, only whoops, okay, that's an undercover officer - so she lowers her head back down, trying to preempt it (like maybe if pays enough attention to that spot, distracts him just enough--), but yeah, nope, that's a no go--Sam blocks her, knees pushing at her shoulders and the hand in her hair pulling up, and yep, yep, she's completely in trouble here.
"So, now I should stop?" she tries, but he's having none of it--like, hands under her armpits, dragging her to where he wants her, having none of it. (Where he wants her, apparently, is on her back on the bed, so. That's happening.) He stands up for a second, strips off his shirt and jeans (and wow, wow, that is a naked Sam Swarek, right there) and then he's back on top.
"No fair," she whines, shoving at him a bit, because, okay, she wants to look. He got to look. He got to look a lot.
"Yeah, see, McNally--" Back to surnames now, wow, yeah, she really is in trouble. He lifts up a bit, works at the button of her jeans, taking them and her underwear down her legs (and yep, nudity, nudity is happening, right now). "I never said anything about fairness."
They've basically been messing around since last night, is the thing, and whatever, she's worked up--he slides two fingers inside her with no problem at all, stretched out alongside her on the mattress with his free hand in her hair. Andy pulls her knees up to give him access, tilting her mouth in the general direction of his, except then two seconds later he's halfway down the bed, biting at her thighs and sliding his tongue--um. Um.
And okay, see, that is not something she normally--on top of which she worked all day and she hasn't showered since this morning and-- "Sam," she starts, nudging at his ass with one bare foot (and damn, that is a solid ass he's got, she's been eyeing him in those jeans for a year now, wanted to look for exactly this reason). "I'm probably, like..." She squeezes her eyes shut, opens them again. "Salty."
Sam gives her this look like he really, really couldn't care less about the last time she showered, then (slowly, slowly) adds another finger and pushes her legs further apart and just, um. Wow. Andy squirms against him, gasps, then squirms a little more, her toes curling into the muscle in his thigh.
"Sam," she says again, propping herself up on her elbows, reaching down to tangle a hand in his hair. It's just--it just feels a little like maybe she's going to fly apart at her joints, is all. "That's--oh, God."
"You know," he mutters into her hipbone. "For somebody who's supposed to be a rookie, you're shit at taking orders."
"What?" Andy pouts, peering down at him, hands still moving in his hair. "You didn't tell me to do anything."
"McNally," he says, in a voice like he's handing her a pair of boxing gloves, offering himself up. "Let me."
Which--crap, there are like, pros and cons here, and Andy cannot weigh them when his fingers are-- Crap.
"It's just I, you know--" and her voice, Jesus, it's like a lifetime of smoking in a matter of minutes. "Might, uh, taste bad." Only then Sam crooks his fingers, rubbing, and shit, ladies and gentlemen that is a pro, that is a pro.
"McNally." He presses his face into her stomach, leans into her hand (scritching now, at the back of his neck like she knows he likes, and oh christ, she knows what he likes, she knows and now she's never going to be able to forget, she's going to look across the squad room at him and just--). Sam nips at her abdomen, just this side of painful. "Shut up."
And yeah, um. Turns out Andy really is bad at following orders.
(Like, for instance, Andy is maybe really, colossally bad at following orders when her sometimes-boss spreads her open with his thumbs, licks a broad stripe across her--yeah. Yeah. Not so much with the shutting up.)
After a second, experimental lick, Sam pauses, mouths along the line of hair. "So, good news, McNally--you do not taste bad." Only, um, he says it in a way that implies she maybe tastes the opposite of bad, so that's--that's good. His chin is already shiny. And just--it has been a while, okay. A while.
Andy's knees thud open against the bed.
Sam grins. "Good girl."
She comes once, hard and sloppy, right against his mouth.
She's not trying to--the opposite, actually, because oh God that's embarrassing, her hips shoving down at him like that, involuntary and demanding --but he's so patient and he like, knows how to do shit, and. He slides lower, exploring a little; bites. Andy whimpers.
"Good girl," Sam mutters again, right into her skin; there's an outside possibility it's the praise as much as anything else that does it for her, and ohGodohGod this is happening. This is happening now. His fingers move inside her, slow and thick.
"Sam," she says, before it's even totally over, little shocks still running through her body. She tugs frantically at his shoulder, at his arm. She just-- "Sam. Come up here. Come up here."
"You okay?" She's shaking a little, which, Jesus, McNally, pull it together, it's not like she's never had an orgasm before.
(It is, um. Possible. That she's never had an orgasm like that before.)
"Yeah. Yeah." She just really wants to get her arms around him, is the thing, wants to feel the full warm length of his body against her, and she might actually tackle him a little bit in pursuit of that particular goal. "I'm good."
"Good." Sam grins and kisses her, pushing her hair back off her face. Andy can taste the sharp tang of herself in his mouth which is not a thing she ever liked to do before but whatever, apparently now it's a thing she likes to do, so. She curls into him a little, runs a hand down his stomach, and.
He's hard. Like, really, really hard, like getting her off just really did it for him hard, which. Um.
"Sam." He jolts a bit, when she palms him, but otherwise seems focused on her mouth, on the line of her jaw and gathering her hair into a ponytail, blowing on her neck (and he might have a slight thing for her hair actually, at least that she's noticed, which is nice, but--essentials). "Sam."
"Yes?" Dry and amused, what now, McNally, and Jesus, okay, her neck is, um. Really sensitive right now.
Mmm-hmm.
Only whoops, no, time to base up here. "Sa-am." She muscles him closer, locking her arms and legs, and yep, that should line their lower bodies right up, just. like. so.
Sam groans, face turned into her neck.
Andy's a freaking genius.
"So, um." She nips at his ear, at the hinge of his jaw. "Do you..." Only apparently she can't finish that sentence, can't say the word 'condom', even though it's Sam and she just came against his mouth (because it's Sam and she just came against his mouth), and wonderful, wonderful, she is twelve.
"Sam," she says again, low and urgent, like maybe that'll be enough to--only apparently Sam takes it as a command to move, because suddenly they're fitting together more closely--not inside, thank god, but closely, and Jesus it feels. Oh. Andy arches her back, which maybe doesn't help anything.
"Sam!"
"Yeah, I know." But then he lines their bodies up again, pushes against her in a slide, and wow, okay, it's possible Andy's pretty worked up. Again. This soon.
"Come on, Sam, quit fooling around." This is nice, this is great, but she really needs him, like, inside, and. She's primed to bolt, is all, keeps clenching on nothing, and all this wanting is starting to hurt.
"Yeah," he repeats, only this time he reaches over, and of course, condoms in the bedside table, just like every other guy, and Andy does not, does not care about the amount used or left or the expiry date. No. She is not that girl.
(But she is the girl, apparently, who loses her breath watching Sam Swarek practicing safe sex. So. Dignity is a slippery slope here.)
She takes the ten or so seconds he's distracted to conduct a quick, hungry inventory of his body, jutting wedges of his shoulder blades and the long, graceful pleat of his spine. She wants to spread him out on the mattress and have a good long stare, is what she actually wants to do, but there's no time for that now because he's back and on top of her, elbows on either side of her body and tilting her chin up to get at her mouth.
(Next time, she thinks with surprising clarity, and oh, she is getting ahead of herself here.)
"Hey," he says, and grins a little. Her heart is slamming away inside her chest.
"Hey."
She's so wet he slides in almost all at once, surprising. Andy breathes in, sharp. "You okay?" he asks again, immediately, and she manages to nod once in response, but oh Jesus, ohoh, this is. Um. She feels very, very full.
She shifts her hips, the initial shock turning into a kind of slow, pleasant stretch, pulling her legs up to accommodate him a little. Sam lets out a ragged, shaky breath. "Fuck, Andy," he mutters, so quiet she thinks maybe she imagined it, and it's a full ten seconds later before he starts to move.
And god, the way her heart's going it's just--it's ridiculous. Like having a panic attack, really, internal organs tripping over themselves and that swoop at the top of the roller coaster, it's Sam it's Sam it's Sam beating a tattoo in her chest, and she actually has to calm herself down a bit, remember to focus.
She plants both feet flat on the mattress, tries to stand it.
"Andy." Sam's eyes are scrunching up around the edges, like he can't decide whether to smile at her or grit his teeth against the feeling. Andy hmms an answer, slides slippery fingers across his mouth. The rhythm he's got going on isn't fast, but um. It's insistent. He's watching her face for what she likes, she can tell, and normally she hates it when guys do that, only--well. He's picking up on some things.
(Like that angle, right there right there, the one that makes her--)
She arches into him, stomachs pressing together, his n' hers teeth marks, and wow. Wow. She pants her way through a moan.
She has her second orgasm with him like that--and she doesn't, is the thing, not normally, but he's--with his hips and his slow and steady rhythm--and she can't, she really can't. She slides her legs up further, knees against his ribcages. And then he slows down even more, finds out what's making her grimace, shallower strokes and how he's never not in her, never not a thick hot pierce, and Jesus.
(He watches the whole production, is the other thing. Like. She tries, okay, she tries not to, but she can't help it, is keening over her orgasm and he won't even let her turn away, gets his forehead right up against hers and just looks. She knocks their noses together when she comes.)
"Okay," she says when it's over, because he's still moving, and she's slippery and swollen, and it's--um. It's a lot. "Just. Hold on for a second."
"Sure McNally." And oh, come on, no way is he smirking at her right now. That's so not cool. (Only, okay, it isn't, like, a mean smirk or anything, it's--well. Yeah.) But: principle of the thing.
"Right," she announces when she gets her breath back, gripping his hips with her knees and flipping them over, and frick, he is still grinning at her and just--whatever. Whatever. Andy will see about that.
Her plan is to brace herself on his chest and sit all the way up (since that was, you know, a view that seemed to be working for him earlier) but it’s just, Jell-o, all her limbs are like--it’s a minute before Andy’s sure that her arms will hold her. In the meantime she pushes herself as far down as she can get, lazy and deep, knees bent on either side of his body and her chest pressed flush against his.
Sam growls.
Seriously, it’s like-it’s a growl, there just is no other way to describe it, and okay. Ooo-kay. Change of plans.
Andy does it again, slow and steady; Sam’s hands drift down to palm her ass. Her nipples brush the planes of muscle in his chest and she’s pretty sure she’s got him now, the way his breathing’s changing, like he’s holding air in for longer and longer before he remembers to let it out. Andy smiles.
(She tries to mix it up at one point, leveraging herself into a push up, but he gets her behind the neck and pulls her back down against him, keeping her right where she is, and he kisses her messier than he’s kissed her all night.
So.)
She works herself down onto him again, harder this time; already she knows she’s going to feel this in the morning and already she really, really doesn’t care. Sam’s hips crash up into hers. “Andy,” he tells her, the pad of her thumb against the sharp ridge of his bottom teeth. “Andy, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, he says, in all sincerity.
Oh, yeah.
(She’s totally got him.)
Sam’s hands have gone restless on her, back and arms and ass, everything he can reach. Andy kisses him for the pleasure of watching him break away, pull in air (the second time she does it, he pants into her mouth, and-yeah). Her hair curtains them in, falling around their faces; Sam pushes it messily behind her ear.
Sweetheart.
That, plus two orgasms and well--Andy’s feeling generous now. She pushes herself down again, gets him deep, and hey, maybe Traci has a point about Kegels-Sam’s ribcage expands against her sharply. “Andy. Christ.” He keeps putting his hands on her face, sweaty palms sliding along her jaw, which would normally be gross, but um. Isn’t.
(Generosity is starting to feel a lot like that rollercoaster, a hot bloom of something in her chest and the urge to bury her face in his neck, lock her arms around his chest and just-well. But that’s not really conducive to her goal here, so.)
(Sweetheart. Just-who says that?)
When Sam finally comes-hips up off the mattress, back bowed-his head snaps back, long lines of his neck working against a groan (only then he brings it up again, like, before he’s even finished, so he can look at her, and that-that, um. Huh.
Generosity. Right.)
Andy is really not a spooner or anything, okay, and normally once everybody gets what they have coming to them she's bounding out of bed toward the bathroom, full of post-sex energy and ready to move on to whatever's next. Which is where she's headed in a minute, seriously: she's just...a little worn out, is the thing. She's tired. That's the only reason she's still lying in his bed with their limbs all tangled together, her head resting heavy on his chest. She can feel the sweat cooling on her skin.
Not like Sam seems to mind, to be honest. He's trailing one lazy hand down her spine to her tailbone; every time he traces a finger across the place where her thigh meets her ass her whole body shudders a little, so of course he keeps doing it.
It feels...huh. It feels.
Andy sort of has to pee, though. And she's, um. Really sticky. Like. Everywhere. Probably she could use a shower. And also--what time is it? There's no clock on the nightstand that she can see--seriously, how does he know when to wake up in the morning, what a weirdo--and she guesses she could roll off him and look around the room for one but as soon as she moves they're going to have to start having conversations about things, so.
(Like, for instance: Andy's not really the sleep over on the first date kind of girl. And, okay, technically she guesses this is their second date, or their date-and-a-half, but either way he drove her here, so it's not like there's some graceful way to make an exit. Does Sam think she's going to sleep here? In Sam's bed? With Sam? Does he even want her to sleep here? What if that's not even what he wants? And oh God, they're going to have to work tomorrow, they're going to have to ride in the car and catch bad guys and she is sorry, but there are not enough hambulence jokes in all the land to take the edge off what is almost certainly going to be the most unbearably awkward--)
"McNally."
"Hmm?" Andy startles and raises her head to look at him, chin resting on his sternum. He's got his free hand tucked behind his head. "What?"
"You're spiraling out."
Okay, what? "I didn't say anything," she protests, frowning.
"I can feel your heart."
And that is--wow, that is a statement of empirical fact, is all that is. That is a statement of empirical fact.
(Lettuce, though.)
She huffs a breath out onto his chest, frustrated, thumbs it away like she’s fogging up a window. She can feel his heart too, actually (slow and steady, damn him) and she’d mention it, but-well. She can’t handle the layers of meaning at the best of times. So.
(And oh god, they’re totally going to have a conversation, aren’t they-like, A Conversation--only it’s going to be about bed sheets or towel sets or linens and Andy’s going to say the wrong thing about duvets, and they’re going to be back where they--)
“McNally.” He jostles her a bit this time. “Come on now. Stay with me.”
(Back when they were still rookies, Andy and Traci dubbed this his no crying in baseball face.)
“I’m with you,” she says, and yep, lettuce conversation. Wonderful. Only then Sam slides his hand up her back, warm and heavy, and whatever, she just-she yawns a bit. (She’s tired, okay?)
Sam smirks again, hand creeping up to cup her neck, work the muscles there, and she yawns again-“Shut up,” she mutters, face smushed against his collar bone.
“I didn’t say anything.” He’s still smiling at her, wry. He shakes his head a bit, like he can’t believe she ran into the alley without backup, then his hands are at her hips and he’s boosting her up and off. “Stay,” he tells her.
Andy stays. (And she wouldn’t, really, it’s just he doesn’t bother so much with clothes and um. Well.) She’s not really surprised Sam’s a naked guy, actually. Luke was a boxers-on guy, and that’s fine too-like, who doesn’t like a nice pair of boxer briefs, seriously-only she, uh. Likes this view as well.
Sam notices almost immediately, of course. He comes back from what Andy assumes is the bathroom and stops at the end of the bed; quirks an eyebrow. And then they’re just, like, staring at each other, and wow, it is different when sex is not actually taking place, alright? It is different.
Sam chuckles when she ducks her chin, climbs back onto the bed. He’s got a washcloth that he runs up one of her legs, then between, and huh. That’s…thoughtful.
He does her other leg, gentle and efficient, then flips the washcloth and gets the creases of her elbows, the dips between her fingers and her thumbs. Andy watches, intrigued. It feels cool and a little rough and really, really personal--which, yeah, hello, she gets it, they just had a bunch of sex (the best sex of her life, possibly, if you want to know the truth, and oh God she is never ever going to tell him that as long as she lives) but this. This is...not that. This is different than that. This is something else entirely, a thing you'd do for somebody if you--
if you what, exactly?
Her heart's making moves again, rowdy, a dozen different impulses warring in her chest.
"How do you know when to get up in the morning?" she demands.
Sam looks at her for a second, his hands stilling; he's got the washcloth at the base of her neck. "How do I--I set the alarm on my--that's what you're worried about?" He looks like maybe he's going to laugh. "Seriously?"
"I'm not worried about anything," she says, defensive. "I'm just saying, you don't have a--"
"Okay." Sam nods, drops the washcloth on the nightstand. "Lie down."
"Sam--"
"Lie down for five minutes, McNally. If you still want me to drive you home after that, I'll drive you home."
Andy frowns. "Who said I wanted you to drive me home?" And okay, it's possible that's somewhere in the general wheelhouse of what she was maybe possibly trying to navigate, but just--ugh, it's like he just assumes he knows what she's thinking all the time, seriously, what the hell.
Unless--
"Unless," Andy says, a second later, and oh God she sounds so stupid and unsure. "Unless you, I mean. Do you want to drive me home?"
Sam gets that look on his face that he gets sometimes out in the field--less often than he used to, actually, come to think of it--when he's given her a set of instructions using every linguistic variation he can think of and still somehow she doesn't quite understand. "No, McNally," he says, after a minute. "I don't want to drive you home."
Oh.
Well then.
Andy lies down.
Only, okay, five minutes is like, a surprisingly long time. Andy has a real problem with still, is the thing-when she was a little kid and her dad wanted to punish her, he’d make her stand at the bottom of the stairs, no moving, for three or five or ten minutes, an extra minute for every twitch. It was probably the most effective punishment ever. (Incidentally, she was also really bad at freeze tag.)
When she vaults up onto her elbows, Sam sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “McNally, it’s only been-”
“No, no, I just-I have to pee. Pause the clock.” She levers herself up and over him, pads to the bathroom. (No clothes and um, he’s probably looking--but Andy McNally is absolutely not the girl who has a bunch of sex and then gets shy, so.)
He’s got a pretty clean bathroom, for a boy. Matching towels and soap in the soap dish. After she washes her hands she pokes through his drawers a bit, mostly because she can. Swishes out her mouth with toothpaste. Rubs the soap under her arms. (And yeah, okay, those are like-going to bed motions, so. So-o.)
“Done,” she announces, bellyflopping herself back into bed. “Start time.” Only yeah, she flops a bit closer than she means to, elbows and thighs brushing. Sam rolls on his side, and then they’re even closer.
(It could be like, an I’m too tired to drive I don’t want to take you home. Andy doesn’t know.)
“How come you don’t have an alarm clock, but you have guest soap?” She turns her head towards him, and Sam’s giving her a look, like, what? which-fine, but that was some decorative soap. Her hands smell like Irish Spring. If she stays, she’ll have to borrow his deodorant in the morning, spend the whole day smelling of boy.
“McNally.” He pushes her head back down to the pillow, gently. (Only then he leaves his hand in her hair.) “Four minutes to go.”
“What, I can’t talk?” Except he’s doing that thing, that tracing the edge of her hairline thing, and it comes out smushy and consonant-less.
"Oh, you wanna talk?" Sam asks, in a voice like he's making fun of her--only, his eyes are all crinkled up on the sides and his fingers are still rubbing at her scalp, so. He's not, like, being a jerk about it.
Except--ugh, no, that is not what she meant. "I'm just asking," she says--into his shoulder, sort of, her mouth just brushing his skin. "Inquiring minds." She peers up but he's already gazing down at her, like he's curious. The stubble on his face scrapes her chin. "Have a lot of guests, Swarek?"
She means it to be, like, funny, only it comes out weird and loaded, like she cares if he has a lot of guests--which, for the record, she does not.
(Well. A little bit. She would care a little bit if he had a lot of guests. She just--she wonders about Sam sometimes, about who he's been with and if he loved them and all the lives he lived before she accidentally tackled him in an alley one random morning, and-- )
just--
possibly she'd hate it, okay. She'd hate it.)
Sam's eyebrows go up, like a challenge. "Not lately," is all he says.
Well.
Andy doesn't really know how to respond to that--she's going to make a joke about dry spells, or something, but then thinks better of it, so they're just kind of looking at each other, their faces super close like a standoff, and--this was it, she realizes. This was her totally screwing up over duvets.
Except--Sam's hand is still moving in her hair, tracing the curve of her ear so like--really. Who the hell knows.
Andy reaches down and tugs the sheet up over them--it doesn't mean she's staying, doesn't mean anything except that she's naked and cold, now that she's not performing fourteen different kinds of cardio. She can't really ogle him anymore like that, though, which is a problem--which actually bothers her more than she might have thought it would--so she settles for flattening one hand against the muscles in his stomach, thumb brushing up and down the line of hair beneath his navel.
(It's not cuddling, okay. It's just, like, compensating for the loss of the view.)
"How many minutes?" she asks, around another yawn.
Sam gives her his blink-and-gone grin (and Andy does blink, actually, only then she doesn’t open her eyes for a little bit). “Two.” His lips brush against her forehead.
Two. Well, Andy can handle two. Everything smells like Irish spring and linen and she’s not, you know, freezing anymore. Sam’s hot like a furnace; when she tucks her icy feet between his ankles he doesn’t even say anything. Which is nice. He’s really being pretty nice, considering, and whatever, it’s probably the afterglow, but Andy’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth (count her chickens? crap, what is that idiom) and his hand’s cupping the back of her neck and his stomach is warm warm warm under her palm and if she can just manage to keep still there won’t even be any extra minutes added on…
Only--wait. That’s not--
“McNally.” Sam’s voice is very close and very quiet. “One minute.”
“Right, yeah. I got it.” She pats his stomach so he knows she knows. “Minute.”
“McNally.” Then, after a beat: “Thirty seconds.”
“Uh-huh,” she tells his shoulder. “No worries. I’m alllll over it.”
There’s some shifting, and then she’s settled in the crook of his arm. “I’ll count it down for you.” He’s got his mouth in her hair now, lips buzzing against her cranium. Andy stops listening so she can feel. “Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…”
When he gets to five he taps it out, four fingers on her wrist, then three, then two, like they’re going through a door, stealth entry.
“One.” He reaches down, and suddenly there’s a heavier weight on her hip and oh, maybe this is the duvet conversation (but no- okay, that’s a real duvet, Andy completely knew that) and she’s totally going to get up in like, two seconds-
“Yeah,” Sam says from somewhere far away. “That’s what I figured.”