fic: anything you have in mind (Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam)
Title: anything you have in mind
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 8600+
Summary: The one with his biggest turn on.
Author's note: TWO IN ONE WEEKEND. Title courtesy of George Michael, unsurprisingly.
So, here's a weird thing about Sam's apartment: it's like, really clean.
Okay, not just clean. And it's not like Andy expected it to be dirty (not like Andy expected it to be anything, god, not like she spent a lot of time thinking about Sam's apartment--or like, the parts of Sam's apartment she didn't see the night of the blackout, or--ugh, forget it, nevermind). It's just, she kind of had him figured for a bach pad kind of guy--no rules, no attachments, no plan--which is why it's like, kind of odd that he has so many small appliances in his kitchen, is what she is saying here.
So actually: not clean, really, so much as like...comfortable?
For instance, he's got one of those coffee makers you can just set for whenever and it'll go off--as in, presto, pre-made coffee before you're even out of bed. That thing is freakin' magical, Andy's declared her love for it multiple times (also for his milk frother, which she totally teased him about but uses every single morning, because it's awesome).
That's the other thing, though--they basically haven't left his place. Like. At all. In fact, the first two days they pretty much didn't even leave his bed, like they were making up for lost time or something, until both of them were sore with it. And even then they didn't stop, just used lube (lube, christ, Andy can't--) and went slower, fingers and mouths. It's... a lot of sex, is all Andy's saying.
(Not that she's complaining--god, is she ever not complaining, but it's just. It is possible she has, like, no point of comparison, and therefore no idea what the actual eff she's doing.)
Not that she and Luke didn't have, like, a satisfying love life. Not even that they never had holy shit, really glad you're not dead sex, because they totally did--hello, Luke got shot while they were engaged. But now that she looks back on it (and she's looked back on it a lot, okay, probably one of the Stages should be called Boring, Pathetic Navel-Gazing) things were already kind of weird at that point, like maybe both of them were trying to force it or something, and even when the sex was good it wasn't like--
like--
whatever. She's just really, stupidly glad Sam's not dead.
Not dead and toweling her hair off, at the moment (he's kind of like, doting on her a little bit, is a thing that Andy's noticing; not in like a super-obvious way or anything but like, if she says she wants to order food at midnight he makes fun of her for a minute but then boom, sure as shit they are ordering food at midnight). Another fact about Sam's apartment: the shower's nice and big. Andy knows this because he had her up against the wall not five minutes ago--or, well, not up against the wall, not exactly, more like facing it and, um. Kind of bent over. But: details. There's room in there, is all Andy's saying.
"You hungry?" he asks her, just quiet, both of them still flushed and damp. He's leaning back against the counter with her between his legs, warm terrycloth rubbing down her back now. (Doting. Yeah.)
"Mmm, not really." Andy shrugs under his hold (she keeps waiting for them to get bored, or like--she doesn't know. Whatever it is, it hasn't happened yet). "You?"
She feels him shrug back, the hard pack of his body and his nose nuzzling a bit at her ear. "Could eat," he tells her, in this voice like he's not actually talking about calling out for a pizza.
Andy snorts. "Dork," she tells him, tipping her head back against his shoulder. He is, too, is what she's just figuring out, like maybe there was this whole side of him he just wasn't letting her see before, Ernie the Zamboni man and all that. Sam kisses the side of her face. "Come on," she says, wriggling out of his grip and heading for the bedroom--she leaves the towel behind on purpose, lets him look. "There's gotta be a movie on or something."
(And okay, it's possible they have watched a lot of movies and TV shows in the last few days, very few of which they have actually paid attention to. She's never going to be able to look at Pretty Woman the same way again, that's for sure.)
Sam’s bedroom is kind of a disaster-zone. The bed is wrecked--like, wrecked--and even though Sam bodily kicked her out of it to do laundry three days ago (wrapped her up in a sheet and carried her to the washing machine, threatened to throw her in, is more like) it still smells like them. Andy dives in and rolls around some, just on the off chance the shampoo-smell will stick and Sam won't try to rope her into chores again.
"What in god's name are you doing?" Sam asks from the doorway, but he's completely smiling at her, like maybe he's pleased she's thrashing around spastically in his bed (he looks at her like that a lot, is something else she's noticing, and it's just--it's nice. Whatever). Andy grins back, feeling warm and silly.
"Just, you know. Tugging up the fitted sheets," she tells him, shifting up her elbows in a way she knows makes her boobs look awesome. "Since I know how much you like that."
"Uh-huh," Sam says, eyebrows arcing (but he is--she's pretty sure he's appreciating the view). He gets a knee up on the bed beside her. "Should probably do another load of laundry, actually."
Which, seriously? Did he read her effing mind? Andy wrinkles her nose. "Later," she says confidently, waving her arm to indicate some time in the distant future (not too distant, though; in fact, this is getting ridiculous. She's totally going to head back to her place soon). "Anyway, we're just gonna mess them up again."
(Also it's possible it sort of like, doesn't bother her. The way that the sheets smell.
It's possible maybe the opposite is true.)
"We are, huh?" Sam grins again, hard and bright; his hair is all messy from the shower in this way that makes him look, frankly, pretty hot. He leans real close, bites a little at her bottom lip. "What'd you have in mind?"
Andy rolls away, teasing. "Movie!" she says again, laughing when he catches her by the ankle. "Where's the remote?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe underneath the fitted sheets you pulled up?" Sam follows her the rest of the way onto the bed, gets an arm around her waist and tugs her up towards the headboard, squirming. "Watch your elbows there, Rambo," he says as he situates her on his lap, back to his front with his legs bracketing hers. It's their standard TV-watching position (which, seriously--that should tell you how much TV they've been watching, standard positions after something like three days). They never manage to stay put in it for long.
"Okay," Sam says, magically producing the remote from god-knows-where. "No chicks flicks this time, all right McNally? I've got standards here."
Andy scoffs. "Yeah, you totally never would have noticed City of Angels was on if I hadn't pointed out the magic of Nicolas Cage's former hair."
Sam slides his hands up her belly, skims them over the sides of her breasts (and that's another thing that's happening a lot: casual touching. Also casual nudity, like, pretty much all the time, which is not--Andy brought clothes, okay? She planned ahead. But all she's really worn is the underwear, and even then: not often). "I gotta admit," Sam tells her, biting her neck. "That kind of hurt my feelings. I was busy blowing your mind there."
Andy squirms back against his touch, flipping past a Seinfeld re-run. "Yeah, but like-- we had just watched National Treasure. The horror was fresh in my mind."
"Mm." Andy feels him smile against the hinge of her jaw, settles on some Will Ferrell thing she knows he'll probably hate. Last night she made him tell her all his embarrassing truth-or-dare type stuff, his number and when he lost his v-card and the craziest place he's ever had sex ("In a cover apartment with my rookie," he deadpanned immediately, which: okay, fair enough).
"What's next, McNally?" he muttered when she asked him his biggest turn-off, one foot rubbing idly at hers. "You gonna make me call my crush and hang up?"
Ugh, jerk. "Go ahead," she said haughtily, "but my phone's in the other room, so. You're gonna get my voicemail."
Sam smirked. "You wanna talk voicemail, smartass?" Andy jumped him to answer, careful to mind the bruises on his chest.
(His number: high. Not as high as she thought it might be, though. Luke would never tell her what his was.)
Sam groans in her ear, jerking her back to the present. "I swear to god, Andy-- tell me this isn't the remake of Bewitched."
Andy flips her wet hair over his shoulder (and he completely lets her, too, even smooths back the strands she missed). "Nah. It's the one about the remake of Bewitched."
"Yeah, you know--" He starts combing through the tangles. "--that's not really the selling point you think it is." Then, against her cheek: "When I was five, I totally had a thing for Elizabeth Montgomery."
Andy huffs. "Blonde. Again." (That's a thing she asked him last night too, what his type was, and: "Rookies who run around with their radios switched-off, apparently." Which, whatever, she didn't like the looks of him too much when they first met either, all that stupid hair gel. Not to mention he's got this weird eyebrow thing going on-- like, they should be unattractive, but somehow when you keep looking they aren't? Andy doesn't even know, a lot of sex has been happening. It's possible her hormones are broken.
She liked his eyelashes, though. Right off the bat.)
"So, hey--" She sits up against him a bit. "What's your biggest turn-on?" Because off was apparently Nicholas Cage's hair, once she pointed it out, but she never asked--
Sam snorts a bit, like this again? "I don't know, McNally," he says, only then he tugs her backwards a little bit so that her ass is like, right up against him, and oh. "Why don't you keep doing that while I think about it?"
Which, okay, possibly she was fidgeting around, like, a little, and in a way that wasn't entirely innocent, but. They seriously just finished maybe ten minutes ago.
(He wants her, like. A lot. Like, more than any other guy she's been with, Andy's pretty sure, and even though she kind of vaguely knew that in the back of her head this whole time, it's, um. Different to experience.)
She pushes backwards again, waits for him to answer--he's already half-hard against the base of her spine. On TV Nicole Kidman's using her powers even though she's not supposed to, all stupid breathy whisper. Sam's still got one hand her hair. "Tell me yours," he says.
"No fair with the question-backs," Andy whines, but okay, it's possible she wants to tell him. Ten minutes ago, sure, but already she's letting her knees fall open a little. He's just-- he's really warm, and this movie's shitty anyway, so. "I like when you talk," she says finally, feeling oddly shy.
She's half-expecting to get teased, the run-around he gave her on every single one of her answers last night, but-- yeah, nope. Instead she hears him pull in a breath, his hands sliding down to her hips, rolling her back against him again (and yeah, okay, he is--he is more than halfway-hard now). "I'd kind of figured that out," he murmurs into her ear. His voice is the opposite of teasing.
All right, screw propriety. New plan: they can have sex again (the third time today, but whatever, you know, Andy's young) and then she can go back to Traci’s and be a responsible, independent human being and--
"Wait a sec," Sam says, catching her under her thighs as she tries to turn. "Don't you wanna know mine?" He takes her hand and slides it down between her legs before she can answer; Andy bucks up under her own touch. "That," he tells her, quiet. "That's mine."
Which--god.
(She’d kind of figured that out, too, though. Not that it was his biggest--but that he--yeah. She pretty much knew he liked it.)
Still, the way he's still got his hand on hers, sliding it lower--it's possible Andy's breathing sort of audibly herself. "Yeah?" she asks--and ugh, her voice, she sounds stupider than Nicole Kidman, but like--she can't so much help it.
(Also, okay, Andy was reasonably sure she'd pretty much covered the basics before, sex-wise, but. Turns out there is a lot of stuff she didn't know she liked.)
Sam bites at her ear a little, gentle. "Uh-huh."
And whatever, Andy's not shy, she's done it in front of him already--just, always while they were doing, like. Other stuff. He's shifting around a bit behind her, though, enough pressure to let her know he's not just telling her for the sake of telling her; he definitely wants her to--
"Come on, McNally," he says, and jesus, already she's stupidly wet. "Let me see how you do it."
"See how I do it, huh?" She's trying to tease but it's completely not working for her. Sam lets go of her hand and hooks his palms under her thighs, pulls until they're spread over his (and, god, sitting there all open like that is just--). Andy's fingers stall out on her clit.
"Yeah." Sam starts working her neck over, tongue and teeth. "I'll even, you know. Talk to you." Andy can feel the curve of his grin against her shoulder.
"Sam." She's laughing. "Seriously?" But she knows he's serious, hips right up behind hers and how hard he is against the base of her spine. She slides her fingers over herself once and he groans.
"Yeah." He bites at her jaw. "Seriously. How do you like it when you're by yourself?" Andy's head thuds back against his shoulder; Sam's hands slide up her body, thumbing at one nipple until she whines. "That's it," he tells her, low and urgent right in her ear. "Come on, pretty girl. That feel good?"
Which-- yes.
(Also, okay, to be filed under "things she is never going to let him know, even though he'd probably really, really like to": it's possible she used the night of the blackout a lot, after. Like. What would have happened if she stayed. She could never quite look him in the eye at Parade in the morning when she’d done it, like somehow he'd be able to tell.)
"There you go," Sam says, when she scoots down a bit further, rubbing with a little more purpose. Already she's slick all across her palm. "Actually," he continues, then tugs her up and around until she's facing him, sitting sort of on his stomach with her back pressed against his bent knees. Her toes slide underneath the pillows on either side of his head (and god, he can see every frickin' thing like this, is right at eye-level with her--). "There you go."
"Sa-am," she whines, but she slips two fingers in anyway, the backs of her knuckles just grazing his abdomen. She's worked up, jesus, the thrill of him watching kicking everything into high gear. And now that she can actually see his face--
"That's a good girl," Sam murmurs as she starts rocking her hips down. His eyes are bouncing back and forth between her face and her fingers, like he can't decide where to look. When Andy whines again (she knows her own touch too damn well, is actually splaying her legs further for herself) he slides her hands around to cup her ass, kneading a bit.
Andy hisses.
It hurts just a little, the other side of twenty questions and him asking about the kinkiest thing she'd ever done (the--whatever in the cover apartment, was the answer, which she turned sixty different kinds of a red admitting, but. Yeah. Then they did it again.
Incidentally, that's why Pretty Woman is never going to look the same to her, seeing Julia Roberts’ face and feeling his hand-- ruining childhood classics with Andrea McNally, people, 101.)
Sam notices right away, eases up a bit. "That okay?" he asks, palming up the small of her back, fingertips pushing into the muscle there. It's possible Sam has, like. Stupidly good hands.
Andy nods, teeth sinking into her bottom lip (and god, the good girl, she likes that way more than she should, way more than would be appropriate even if she hadn't spent the first year and a half of her professional life weirdly invested in pleasing him). "Um," she manages--fucking herself down into her fingers with a bit more purpose, pulling all the way out to rub hard at her clit. Her hips are doing a whole lot of embarrassing shit right now, shoving forward to grind like she can't even help it, but the way he's looking at her--heavy-lidded and hungry--it's just. Sam doesn't really seem to mind. "Yeah."
"You're close already, huh?" he says quietly, maybe thirty seconds later. Andy can smell herself, sharp and familiar; she's got him slick all across his stomach, that faint trail of hair from his navel on down.
"Yeah," Andy says again, feeling this side of helpless. His cock is behind her, trapped between her ass and his upright knees, and god, she kind of just wants to lift up and like, sit on it, but. Later. She compensates by rubbing herself against his stomach more purposefully, fingers out of the way and working her clit.
"Jesus, sweetheart." Sam kneads down her back, pauses at the base of her spine and feathers his fingers out, cautious. Andy pushes her ass into his hands until he gets the message (and apparently that message is, uh. Maybe she didn't mind so much, that zing of pain? Whatever, again: really good hands). "Do you make noise?" is what he wants to know. Andy lifts up a bit so he can get at the curve of her thigh, right where it rounds out. "When you're alone, do you make noise?"
No, actually, mostly because she hasn't lived alone much; Andy shakes her head. "You gonna let me hear you now?" Sam prods. He taps her thigh, open-handed--almost, but not quite, a swat (that's how Andy knows it isn't really a question).
Andy whimpers a bit (he likes when she's loud, that's another thing she figured out pretty quick--the first time they ever did this and how stupidly nervous she was, trying to act like a lady or something. How he just kept after her until she lost it). Sam half-nods like good first try, McNally, taps again until she raises her voice.
Which--shit. Andy squirms around a little, heels pressing into the mattress, the hand that's not between her legs creeping up to rub at her breast. Sam groans. She's right on the edge, can't totally decide if she wants to hold off or just go for it (she's pretty efficient, honestly, can usually get it done on her own in a couple of minutes if her head's in the right place. Back when she first broke up with Luke and Traci had her reading all this self-help crap she found an article in Cosmo about, like, taking a long bath and lighting candles for yourself, which: gross.
Anyway, doing it with an audience has amped up the process considerably).
"That's it," Sam coaxes, hands running restlessly up and down her thighs. His mouth is swollen-- from the shower probably, all the kissing they've been doing in general (waiting for dinner to cook last night, making out for forty-five minutes while the timer ticked down). His voice, though, that's what gets her attention; his voice is really, really wrecked. Andy thinks about that, about it being his biggest turn-on. Squirms a bit from the thinking. "Sweetheart," Sam says, sort of helplessly. He sits up a bit to press a kiss to her knee, open-mouthed and dirty. "Come on, sweetheart, please."
Well, that tears it. Andy sinks two fingers back into herself purposefully, curls them. She lays off her clit for a minute, palm just hovering, gets herself nice and loud for him. "Sam," she pants, just in case he can't tell, visual feedback only. "Gonna-- right now, gonna, right, right--"
He keeps talking to her all the way through, even as she makes a complete mess of herself and him, hips pushing into own hand and smearing all across his stomach: "Just like that, sweetheart, you're perfect, you're the prettiest thing I've ever--" They're speaking gibberish now, the both of them. It's usually a different kind of orgasm when she does it herself, not as deep into her spine or something, but this-- um. Andy pushes with the her hand, whimpering, wrings the rest of it out.
She gets a little self-conscious once she's finished, bending at the waist and falling forward, legs back behind (it's just a lot is all, the suspension and everything they've been doing and how it all gets mixed up in her brain, the way she can't make herself go home). Andy buries her face in Sam's warm neck, smells the soap-sweat smell of his skin. Bites a bit, just idly.
"Don't get shy," he orders softly, tugging a bit at her hair like he wants her to look up at him. He's real big on eye-contact, Sam is; checked in with her every two seconds the first time they tried it from behind. "That was--yeah. Andy. Don't get shy."
"I'm not," she mumbles--which isn't strictly true, her nose rubbing up against the side of his neck (it's nice to hear, though, that he--well. Like she said, she likes to hear him talk). "Anyway." She rolls her hips down, totally unsubtle. "S'my turn to watch."
"Oh yeah?" he murmurs into her hair. Kisses her ear. "Sure you wouldn't rather--" Then he rolls his hips up, everything in line and slippery and--
But no. Uh-huh, he is not wiling his way out of this one, not when he got to watch Andy the entire effing time. "Yeah, see--" She slides herself along the length of him once, then twice, just so he's super sure what he's missing out on here (and okay--also because she wants a taste of what she's missing out on). "--That's not happening. You know why?" She scoots back and sits up a bit, grabs his hand and wraps it around his cock. "Because I believe in egalitarian relationships."
Sam hisses a little, the pressure she's making him use, but um. It's possible Andy's not paying attention to him at all, because oh god. Relationships? What the hell. What the actual hell.
Sam totally catches it, too, fixes her with one of those looks from the wayback like maybe she just accidentally told him how easy she is or like, how willing to take it off. He doesn't say anything, though; just raises his eyebrows a little, palm of his hand sliding up and over, steady. The head's all slick and slippery, a combination of them both.
(This isn't a relationship, okay? Jesus. It's only been like, a week.
Well. A week plus a year and change of weirdness and a couple of pretty intense near-death experiences, but. Really a week.)
"Shut up," Andy mutters; she can feel herself blushing.
Sam grins. "I didn't say anything."
"I can hear you thinking." Ugh, she needs to get control of this situation, like fast. Andy swings herself off him, stretches out beside with her head on his chest so she can see from the same angle he's at. "You gonna tell me what you think about?" she asks him, when he tucks his free arm around her shoulders. "When you're by yourself?"
"You," he says easily--like, for real, there is not even a beat of waiting. Andy's heart does a funny swooping thing it has absolutely no business doing, considering (a guy just said he masturbates to her, seriously, this is not a romantic thing that is happening right now; her hormones need to take a big step back). Sam's still touching himself, just causally, pulling up towards his stomach like he's got all day. Andy feels herself flush. It's a different kind of heat, edging out her earlier blush.
"What about me?" she asks, because nope, not romantic at all, but um. Definitely hot.
Sam cards his fingers through her hair. "What about you?" His hand is making a slick sound that's got Andy pressing in closer, biting at his shoulder. "Well, what you just did is climbing the charts."
"Did you--" She doesn't know if he'll answer what she's about to ask, but. (Like, she used the night of blackout, so it stands to reason--). "Before. Did you--?"
Sam's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't flinch. "Sometimes," he says carefully, gaze steady on hers. "That bother you?"
Which--it probably should, right? It's basically twenty different kinds of inappropriate, but it's not like Andy's got much of a moral leg to stand on here (the way he kissed her back right away, up against the wall in his pitch-dark hallway like maybe he wasn't even particularly surprised she showed up; how they basically shoved each other into his bedroom) on top of which--god, god, what is going on here--it's possible she doesn't actually hate the idea of him doing it.
Like. At all.
Andy reaches down and swipes two fingers between her legs (she's still crazy sensitive, everything wet and swollen). Feeds them into his mouth. Sam groans, starts sucking right away, teeth just scraping the pad of her index finger. "That a no?" he asks, a moment later.
"Yeah," Andy gasps, pressing herself as close to his side as she can get. "I mean, yeah, it's a no." She squirms until Sam lets go of himself to pull her leg up and over, leaving her wide open against his thigh. "Shit," she hisses.
"Does it turn you on?" Sam asks, still careful. He's wrapped his hand back around himself, a faster stroke now, almost like he can't help it. And seriously--everything is turning Andy on right now.
"Yeah," she admits, tucking her head into his neck and pushing her hips against him. Then she remembers what she's watching here, tilts her chin down to sneak a look.
"Jesus, Andy." She feels his voice more than she hears it, coming up through his chest under her cheek, this low burned-out noise. She rolls her hips again, hard and dirty.
"I can't help it," she mumbles, hardly even talking to him, more just thinking out loud (and her voice isn't sounding so hot either, to be honest, but she really, like, can't--she is far gone, okay? She is far gone). "It's just--I can't--"
"I'm not complaining," he tells her. He's right on the edge; Andy can tell by how his breathing's changing, all this secret private shit she suddenly knows about him and this weird, scary feeling like she can't get close enough. (Another thing Andy read about once is pheromones, that weird cologne that's supposed to attract women and animals calling their mates from miles and miles away. Could be that's what's happening here, although Sam doesn't really strike her as the sex-cologne type.) "Fuck, sweetheart, I'm definitely not--"
"I know," she says, tips her face up to kiss him. He started calling her sweetheart back at the cover apartment; she thought it was a J.D. thing, like a character exercise or something, only. Apparently not. "Shh. Come on." She trails one hand through the hair on his chest, thumb rubbing a bit at his nipple (truth: before Sam everybody she'd ever fooled around with had been smooth like a Ken doll. It's possible the novelty hasn't totally worn off). "Let me see you."
"God." He grits his teeth; Andy slips her fingers back into his mouth, let's him worry them for a little while. She feels wound-up and possessive, this hard animal feeling like she wants to shove her face against his chest and bite. (Pheromones, okay? Pheromones.) She settles for rocking her hips again, pressing down on his tongue.
"Come on," she says again. Bares her teeth against his shoulder so she doesn't say anything else.
It's enough, apparently: Sam lets out a soft-sounding grunt, head knocking back against the pillow. Andy watches as he brings himself over with a suddenly-shaky grip, three erratic pulses of his hips. It's sort of gratifying to see him make a mess of himself, all over his stomach and hand and everywhere.
"Shit," he pants after he's done, opening his eyes to meet hers. Andy can only guess what he sees in her expression (something stupidly feral probably, she needs to like, seek help). "Okay," he says after a second of looking, pulls until she's all the way over; she ends up right against his slippery abdomen. "You need it bad, huh?" he continues, hand already worming down between them--and yeah, his voice is pretty much the opposite of complaining. "Go ahead."
"Sa-am." She's legit sore at this point, not that it stops her at all; Andy grinds against his stomach, gets herself good and sloppy all down between her thighs. They haven't worried about a condom or whatever since the cover apartment-- heat of the moment, sure, plus she's still on the pill from Luke so it's not like everything isn't on the up and up. Still, the night of the farmhouse and that hard unreadable look he gave her when he came stumbling through the doorway, her legs turning to jell-o with relief; it's possible that by the time he got her home and laid out--on his kitchen floor, god, what even--she just, she wasn't sure exactly what it was she was supposed to be protecting herself from.
(She has this weird flash of it, suddenly, of what would happen if the pill didn't work--his eyelashes and the dip at the center of his bottom lip, whether or not shit like that is hereditary. Stops that train of thought right quick.)
"Yeah, sweetheart." Sam crooks two wet fingers up inside her and uses his free hand to pull her down tight for a kiss, everything smeared and slippery between them (and jesus, they're going to need to get right back in the shower after; this is really getting ridiculous). "You want one more?" he asks her quietly. Andy makes a loud, helpless sound.
"I want--I want--" Words aren't working for her, his curving fingers and how everything hurts just a little. How ridiculously greedy she feels, like she can't get enough of anything, wants more and deeper and harder.
"I've got you," Sam soothes, pulling her closer to plant kisses all along her jaw, wet and soft. His palm is warm against the back of her neck. "Got just what you need." He presses the heel of his hand into her clit, crooks his fingers even more.
Andy whines again, loud and long, tries to hide her face but he tugs it up. "Come on, sweetheart," he tells her, smiling a bit. "You aren't shy, remember?"
"I'm not," she protests weakly--it's just, god, she's splintering to pieces here a little bit, everything fever-bright. She's close again, already she is, but-- "I'm not."
"So, then," Sam says. His kisses get rougher, these sharp little nips all up behind her ear and the feeling of it zinging through her body like neon light. His free hand pulls a bit at her damp, messy hair. "Tell me what you want."
Andy's hips are doing stupid, desperate shit at this point, fucking herself down as hard as she can. "More," she tells him (begs him) finally, mouth up against his hot, salty skin. "Just, Sam--more, okay?"
"Jesus," Sam says again, this long low exhale, but he gives her what she asks for; slides a third finger deep inside. Andy keens. It's a lot, feels like a big difference from two; he bites at her shoulder, twists his wrist a bit, and--
yeah.
She makes a ridiculous amount of noise this time, practically chokes on her own breath. She tries not to, even bites down to stop herself (and oh, he knows everything now, he has to; why can't she just freaking leave?) but the sound bleeds out against his skin. It's embarrassing and way too much, but the orgasm that gets wrung out feels so good she can't stop--not the noises, or the part where she says his name, or a single one of the things her hips are doing.
Sam talks to her the whole way through it, nonsense shit Andy can't really understand. When she's done he brings both arms around to hold her (and that's--yeah). Tight, too. Like, all of a sudden she's muscled in against his chest, his hands on her back and everywhere, soothing. As if he maybe picked up on a few of her feelings.
(Which: jesus, that's even more embarrassing.)
Andy doesn't move right away, though: just lies there and lets him touch her, rubbing up and down her back and his fingers fitting neatly into the notches in her spine. She means to-- she's going to get up and get out of here any second for sure--but her whole body feels liquid and boneless, like something's cracked open inside.
(On top of which she, uh. Kind of doesn't want to look him in the face.)
So instead she just sort of hangs out there with him for a while, their breathing matching up and everything gone sleepy and slow. Sam's pulse taps steady against her cheek. He pulls the blankets back on top of them after a minute (laundry, Andy thinks vaguely; another load of laundry for sure), her foot skating down over his calf; for the most part Andy is really not the kind of girl who needs to, like, cuddle afterward but it just feels so stupidly good and nice right now, all warm and relaxed and comfortable like maybe she wouldn't hate staying here for--
"Okay," she says, popping up real suddenly. "I gotta go."
Sam gives her a double dose of his eyebrows, both raised at once. "Oh yeah? Why, you leave a stove on somewhere?" His arms are still part of the way around her, hands skimming her hips as she sits up on him. He's giving her a look, equal parts smug and don't be stupid, Officer McNally, as if he maybe thinks he knows something about--
Screw that. Andy feels herself turn defensive immediately. "I have shit to do, okay?" She swings herself over and off, starts looking for her clothes (which--that's going to be a problem, seeing as how she's been wearing his for three days). Sam just lies there, blinking at her.
"Fine," he says finally, all hard smile and hands spread out, like, go ahead, whatever. "You have shit to do."
"Yup." Andy scowls, runs one hand through her knotty hair (it's a disaster, god, not to mention the fact that there's like, no small amount of cleanup that needs to happen here before she can even think about getting dressed; the other night she sat in his bathtub for like a full hour after, dumped half a bottle of shower gel in there hoping for some bubbles. Which like, okay, that's another thing--when was the last time she wasted that much time in the bath? Definitely, definitely time to book it.) "Lots."
Sam nods. "Better get to it, then."
"That's what I'm saying." And ugh, where the hell does he get off, that superior know-it-all look on his face, there goes McNally, tripping all over herself as usual, probably her gun’s not even loaded. He's still covered in bruises from almost getting tortured to death the other night and three months ago she was engaged to somebody else altogether and it is just too much, all right, it is too much, this feeling like it's not just her heart but her whole body that's beating, out in the open and out of control.
She tears out of the bedroom before he can see it (because apparently her expressions are fucking transparent, and she just--she does not want him to read into this one). The bathroom is still humid from their shower, mirror all beaded up with water and damp towels on the floor. Andy gives herself a cursory wipe-down with the nearest one--the one he was dragging through her hair earlier, jesus--and gives herself a good hard look in the mirror. Which doesn't help: basically she looks like a person who has just had a lot of sex. Traci is going to laugh at her for hours.
(Well--first Traci's probably going to yell at her, like she's been threatening to do over text. Apparently now that Sam isn't actively in peril the supportive okay, this is what we should do ends and the what the fuck were you thinking begins.)
Andy meets her own eyes in the mirror, thinks, this is the face of poor life decisions. Then she goes looking for her underwear.
She finds her bra on top of his bureau, jeans slung over the back of a chair; she pulls the elastic off her wrist and gathers her hair back, knots it at the crown of her head tight enough to make her eyes water. She can't find her tank top for the life of her, digs around the bedroom ineffectually for a while (she's not sure the last time she had it, is the problem, if she's even seen it since he first peeled it off her body the other night). Finally she just gives up. "Can I borrow this?" she asks shrilly, grabbing one of his t-shirts off the carpet and waving it at him like a banner of war. "Your house ate mine."
Sam doesn't smile. "Sure." He's still sitting in bed, just watching her, elbows resting on his half-bent knees. He ducks his head a bit, scratches at the back of his neck (and ugh, socks, where the hell even; at this point she might as well go without). "Andy," he says finally, real quiet. "Come on.”
Oh, for--Andy rakes a hand through her messy bun. He sounds serious, like maybe he knows what she's doing and he's calling a cease-fire. It makes her want to crawl back into bed and run equal amounts. But--yeah, no.
(Why mess with a winning strategy, right?)
"Sa-am." She sounds stupidly young, even to herself. "Seriously. I have shit to do."
Sam sort of sighs, uncurling himself from the bed and standing up (and god, what is wrong with her? In the middle of a--whatever this is--and she still wants to jump him). "Okay, McNally." He mostly just looks resigned now. "I'll drive you." The bruises on his chest are standing out in sharp relief all of a sudden, weak mid-afternoon light.
"Um." Andy nods. "All right. Thanks."
Sam heads into the bathroom, shuts the door behind him; Andy sits on the edge of the bed to wait. (This morning she woke up before him, Sam on his back with one arm slung up over his head. His eyelashes threw spiky little shadows over his cheeks. They were pressed right up against each other, the two of them, him mostly hard in his sleep; Andy wrapped a gentle fist around the length of him, stroked until she heard his breathing start to change. He smiled before he even opened his eyes.)
"Okay," he tells her now, coming back into the bedroom. He's pulled a pair of jeans on, t-shirt smooth across his chest. The cut underneath his eye is just starting to heal. "You ready?"
He says it causally, but damn if it doesn't sound like a loaded question, good candy and every double-talk conversation they've ever had. Andy toes the carpet a little. (Socks. Suddenly she feels like all this would be much better with socks.)
"Yep," she says, as brightly as she can. And then completely doesn't get up from the bed.
Sam walks over to her, crouches down until they're eye-level. He's throwing some serious face her way, one of those ones she's definitely supposed to interpret significantly and never can. "McNally." His voice is pretty flat, considering. "Help me out here. What do you want?"
"Socks would be good," Andy tells him, because she's an idiot.
Sam grins, once and fast, but it does sort of reach his eyes. He curves his hands around her feet. "That so?" Then, after rubbing along her toes for a minute: "Yeah, it would be practically inhuman to send you out there without socks."
Andy smiles back, she can't help it (and god, she has no idea what she's doing, running into a building with no radio and no backup, like everything he ever said about her was true). She thinks about that first night in the apartment, no going back and the sighing sound her jacket made as it slid to the floor between them. She's starting to think it's possible she didn't have the slightest idea what she was agreeing to. "Oh, it's cold," is all she says.
"Uh-huh." Sam stands up and gets her a pair out of the dresser, the thick wool kind he wears with his uniform. Bends low and works them onto her feet. Andy just sits there and lets him like a dummy, her toes curling into the palm of his hand. She should do it herself, should find her jacket and think of something appropriately contrite to say to Traci; absolutely, one hundred percent cannot make herself leave this room.
"There," he says when he's finished, sitting back on his heels and turning his face up at her, expectant. He holds her gaze for a freakishly long time. There's something else happening in his expression now, still totally inscrutable (well. Not totally). They look at each other. They breathe.
"God, Sam," she whines finally, flopping backwards onto the mattress and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as hard as she can, fireworks exploding behind her eyelids. "Aren't you sick of me yet?"
He's on her in a second; even though Andy's not looking she can feel, knees on either side of her hips and hands planted on the mattress beside her head. Everything dips a bit under his weight. "Nope," he tells her, easy as anything. Andy can practically taste the pop of the 'p', he's leaning that close.
"Why not?" she asks, feeling stupid and desperate and embarrassed. She's still got her hands over her eyes, not pressing anymore, but just-- hiding. (God, this is supposed to be the fun part, the no-pressure, getting-to-know-you stage. She should be out buying new underwear, not crashing at his place and eating all his food and being so frickin' needy it's--)
"Andy." Sam catches her wrists and tugs, makes her look. He's serious now, no more joking nonchalance (don't, Andy wants to tell him, please don't, but of course he does). "Sweetheart, just--" All of a sudden they're re-positioned, him on bottom and her all caught-up in his lap. "You know, we kind of had a few near-death experiences back there, I think we're allowed to be--" His voice goes careful, softer. "--attached to each other right now."
"God." Her nose finds his neck again, like there's a goddamn magnet there. Sam lets her hide. "So, what, this is PTSD or something?"
"McNally." He touches up her back, traces a finger across her exposed nape, careful of her bun. His voice is sort of wry. "You know I'm crazy about you, right?"
Andy keeps her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. "Yeah." And like--she does kind of know that, actually; has known it for a while, in some secret locked drawer of her brain (not the crazy part maybe, not with the way he looks at her sometimes, like she's got all the sense of a deer tick--but). It makes her want to bolt, and also not.
(It makes her want to do a lot of things, actually--all this stupid shit that's not even remotely sexy, rub his back when he's sick and shop for groceries late at night. Her mom used to cut her dad's hair at the sink, when they were married. Andy doesn't know why she keeps thinking about deranged crap like that.)
"So," Sam continues, slow and quiet. Andy can feel his breath in her hair. "If you want me to take you home, I'll take you home no problem. That's your call." He's still knuckling up and down her spine, this warm steadying rhythm. "But if not, we could order some food and sleep for half an hour until it gets here."
Andy has no idea what she even wants anymore (ugh, it's just-- she's tired, and drained, and right now it sounds like a stupidly good plan). She's still embarrassed though, feels cut-open and examined. It's her own fault, but she wants a redo button like she wants to breathe. "Okay, can we, um-- Can we possibly disregard this conversation?" she tries hopefully. "Like. Everything but that last sentence?"
Sam exhales against her hair, a whole lot of breath. "Sure, McNally. Disregard." He even does the same hand-motion, that first night outside the Penny, like he's dusting them off; Andy can feel the movement behind her back. Then he hooks his fingers under her thighs, lifts a little. "Give me a minute to go warm up the truck, okay?"
Oh. But, that's not-- "I meant, like, the last-last sentence," Andy blurts before she can help herself. She brings her head up without thinking too, so now here they are, staring at each other; Sam looks pretty confused. "The one about food and sleeping," she adds, because hey, why not dig the hole that much deeper, right?
It takes him a second to react either way, dark eyebrows knit together and serious. Andy feels like he's looking at the heart underneath her ribs. "Yeah, sweetheart," he tells her finally; his grin, when it comes, is slow and wide. "We can do that."
Andy smiles back, relieved and embarrassed. "Okay." She ducks her head a little, fiddles with the collar of his shirt. She feels wrung out but weirdly happy, the cotton soft against the pad of her thumb.
("You got a pretty good smile on you," he told her the very first night in the apartment, kissing in his doorway twenty minutes after she was supposed to leave. It's possible his isn't terrible, either.)
"Take these off," Sam murmurs after another minute of sitting there, stupid self-conscious smiles on the both of them; he leaves his lips against her temple as he talks, hooks his fingers through her belt loops, this gentle tug. "We have to do laundry."
Andy laughs, shuffling back off him to stand. "We, uh. Should probably order from a different place," she tells him, shucking her jeans. "I mean, those delivery guys know exactly what's going on here." Sam gives her a look, but seriously: the last three times they answered the door wearing not very much, and from the way he's chucking all her clothing in the laundry hamper, ruthless and efficient, it's definitely going to happen again. (Like, seriously, all her clothing, as if that's his back-up plan for keeping her here. Andy kind of wants to hand over her boots too, and let him know-- well, whatever. Just let him know.)
"All right McNally, we'll embarrass ourselves in front of the pizza guy," Sam's saying, reaching down to tug her socks off. "We gonna work our way through the takeout world? Scandalize that Thai restaurant next?" He's watching her for something, looking up through his stupid eyelashes. Andy wants to mess up his hair or drag him back down to the bed, bite a little.
"We'll go down the phone book," she says instead. It comes out sounding a lot like a promise.
Sam's eyebrows go up just a bit, want to try being normal (and this isn't, it's not, it can't possibly be, but-- but). "Sounds like a plan," is all he says. Andy nods and helps him pull the sheets up off the mattress, follows him out into the darkening hall.
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 8600+
Summary: The one with his biggest turn on.
Author's note: TWO IN ONE WEEKEND. Title courtesy of George Michael, unsurprisingly.
So, here's a weird thing about Sam's apartment: it's like, really clean.
Okay, not just clean. And it's not like Andy expected it to be dirty (not like Andy expected it to be anything, god, not like she spent a lot of time thinking about Sam's apartment--or like, the parts of Sam's apartment she didn't see the night of the blackout, or--ugh, forget it, nevermind). It's just, she kind of had him figured for a bach pad kind of guy--no rules, no attachments, no plan--which is why it's like, kind of odd that he has so many small appliances in his kitchen, is what she is saying here.
So actually: not clean, really, so much as like...comfortable?
For instance, he's got one of those coffee makers you can just set for whenever and it'll go off--as in, presto, pre-made coffee before you're even out of bed. That thing is freakin' magical, Andy's declared her love for it multiple times (also for his milk frother, which she totally teased him about but uses every single morning, because it's awesome).
That's the other thing, though--they basically haven't left his place. Like. At all. In fact, the first two days they pretty much didn't even leave his bed, like they were making up for lost time or something, until both of them were sore with it. And even then they didn't stop, just used lube (lube, christ, Andy can't--) and went slower, fingers and mouths. It's... a lot of sex, is all Andy's saying.
(Not that she's complaining--god, is she ever not complaining, but it's just. It is possible she has, like, no point of comparison, and therefore no idea what the actual eff she's doing.)
Not that she and Luke didn't have, like, a satisfying love life. Not even that they never had holy shit, really glad you're not dead sex, because they totally did--hello, Luke got shot while they were engaged. But now that she looks back on it (and she's looked back on it a lot, okay, probably one of the Stages should be called Boring, Pathetic Navel-Gazing) things were already kind of weird at that point, like maybe both of them were trying to force it or something, and even when the sex was good it wasn't like--
like--
whatever. She's just really, stupidly glad Sam's not dead.
Not dead and toweling her hair off, at the moment (he's kind of like, doting on her a little bit, is a thing that Andy's noticing; not in like a super-obvious way or anything but like, if she says she wants to order food at midnight he makes fun of her for a minute but then boom, sure as shit they are ordering food at midnight). Another fact about Sam's apartment: the shower's nice and big. Andy knows this because he had her up against the wall not five minutes ago--or, well, not up against the wall, not exactly, more like facing it and, um. Kind of bent over. But: details. There's room in there, is all Andy's saying.
"You hungry?" he asks her, just quiet, both of them still flushed and damp. He's leaning back against the counter with her between his legs, warm terrycloth rubbing down her back now. (Doting. Yeah.)
"Mmm, not really." Andy shrugs under his hold (she keeps waiting for them to get bored, or like--she doesn't know. Whatever it is, it hasn't happened yet). "You?"
She feels him shrug back, the hard pack of his body and his nose nuzzling a bit at her ear. "Could eat," he tells her, in this voice like he's not actually talking about calling out for a pizza.
Andy snorts. "Dork," she tells him, tipping her head back against his shoulder. He is, too, is what she's just figuring out, like maybe there was this whole side of him he just wasn't letting her see before, Ernie the Zamboni man and all that. Sam kisses the side of her face. "Come on," she says, wriggling out of his grip and heading for the bedroom--she leaves the towel behind on purpose, lets him look. "There's gotta be a movie on or something."
(And okay, it's possible they have watched a lot of movies and TV shows in the last few days, very few of which they have actually paid attention to. She's never going to be able to look at Pretty Woman the same way again, that's for sure.)
Sam’s bedroom is kind of a disaster-zone. The bed is wrecked--like, wrecked--and even though Sam bodily kicked her out of it to do laundry three days ago (wrapped her up in a sheet and carried her to the washing machine, threatened to throw her in, is more like) it still smells like them. Andy dives in and rolls around some, just on the off chance the shampoo-smell will stick and Sam won't try to rope her into chores again.
"What in god's name are you doing?" Sam asks from the doorway, but he's completely smiling at her, like maybe he's pleased she's thrashing around spastically in his bed (he looks at her like that a lot, is something else she's noticing, and it's just--it's nice. Whatever). Andy grins back, feeling warm and silly.
"Just, you know. Tugging up the fitted sheets," she tells him, shifting up her elbows in a way she knows makes her boobs look awesome. "Since I know how much you like that."
"Uh-huh," Sam says, eyebrows arcing (but he is--she's pretty sure he's appreciating the view). He gets a knee up on the bed beside her. "Should probably do another load of laundry, actually."
Which, seriously? Did he read her effing mind? Andy wrinkles her nose. "Later," she says confidently, waving her arm to indicate some time in the distant future (not too distant, though; in fact, this is getting ridiculous. She's totally going to head back to her place soon). "Anyway, we're just gonna mess them up again."
(Also it's possible it sort of like, doesn't bother her. The way that the sheets smell.
It's possible maybe the opposite is true.)
"We are, huh?" Sam grins again, hard and bright; his hair is all messy from the shower in this way that makes him look, frankly, pretty hot. He leans real close, bites a little at her bottom lip. "What'd you have in mind?"
Andy rolls away, teasing. "Movie!" she says again, laughing when he catches her by the ankle. "Where's the remote?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe underneath the fitted sheets you pulled up?" Sam follows her the rest of the way onto the bed, gets an arm around her waist and tugs her up towards the headboard, squirming. "Watch your elbows there, Rambo," he says as he situates her on his lap, back to his front with his legs bracketing hers. It's their standard TV-watching position (which, seriously--that should tell you how much TV they've been watching, standard positions after something like three days). They never manage to stay put in it for long.
"Okay," Sam says, magically producing the remote from god-knows-where. "No chicks flicks this time, all right McNally? I've got standards here."
Andy scoffs. "Yeah, you totally never would have noticed City of Angels was on if I hadn't pointed out the magic of Nicolas Cage's former hair."
Sam slides his hands up her belly, skims them over the sides of her breasts (and that's another thing that's happening a lot: casual touching. Also casual nudity, like, pretty much all the time, which is not--Andy brought clothes, okay? She planned ahead. But all she's really worn is the underwear, and even then: not often). "I gotta admit," Sam tells her, biting her neck. "That kind of hurt my feelings. I was busy blowing your mind there."
Andy squirms back against his touch, flipping past a Seinfeld re-run. "Yeah, but like-- we had just watched National Treasure. The horror was fresh in my mind."
"Mm." Andy feels him smile against the hinge of her jaw, settles on some Will Ferrell thing she knows he'll probably hate. Last night she made him tell her all his embarrassing truth-or-dare type stuff, his number and when he lost his v-card and the craziest place he's ever had sex ("In a cover apartment with my rookie," he deadpanned immediately, which: okay, fair enough).
"What's next, McNally?" he muttered when she asked him his biggest turn-off, one foot rubbing idly at hers. "You gonna make me call my crush and hang up?"
Ugh, jerk. "Go ahead," she said haughtily, "but my phone's in the other room, so. You're gonna get my voicemail."
Sam smirked. "You wanna talk voicemail, smartass?" Andy jumped him to answer, careful to mind the bruises on his chest.
(His number: high. Not as high as she thought it might be, though. Luke would never tell her what his was.)
Sam groans in her ear, jerking her back to the present. "I swear to god, Andy-- tell me this isn't the remake of Bewitched."
Andy flips her wet hair over his shoulder (and he completely lets her, too, even smooths back the strands she missed). "Nah. It's the one about the remake of Bewitched."
"Yeah, you know--" He starts combing through the tangles. "--that's not really the selling point you think it is." Then, against her cheek: "When I was five, I totally had a thing for Elizabeth Montgomery."
Andy huffs. "Blonde. Again." (That's a thing she asked him last night too, what his type was, and: "Rookies who run around with their radios switched-off, apparently." Which, whatever, she didn't like the looks of him too much when they first met either, all that stupid hair gel. Not to mention he's got this weird eyebrow thing going on-- like, they should be unattractive, but somehow when you keep looking they aren't? Andy doesn't even know, a lot of sex has been happening. It's possible her hormones are broken.
She liked his eyelashes, though. Right off the bat.)
"So, hey--" She sits up against him a bit. "What's your biggest turn-on?" Because off was apparently Nicholas Cage's hair, once she pointed it out, but she never asked--
Sam snorts a bit, like this again? "I don't know, McNally," he says, only then he tugs her backwards a little bit so that her ass is like, right up against him, and oh. "Why don't you keep doing that while I think about it?"
Which, okay, possibly she was fidgeting around, like, a little, and in a way that wasn't entirely innocent, but. They seriously just finished maybe ten minutes ago.
(He wants her, like. A lot. Like, more than any other guy she's been with, Andy's pretty sure, and even though she kind of vaguely knew that in the back of her head this whole time, it's, um. Different to experience.)
She pushes backwards again, waits for him to answer--he's already half-hard against the base of her spine. On TV Nicole Kidman's using her powers even though she's not supposed to, all stupid breathy whisper. Sam's still got one hand her hair. "Tell me yours," he says.
"No fair with the question-backs," Andy whines, but okay, it's possible she wants to tell him. Ten minutes ago, sure, but already she's letting her knees fall open a little. He's just-- he's really warm, and this movie's shitty anyway, so. "I like when you talk," she says finally, feeling oddly shy.
She's half-expecting to get teased, the run-around he gave her on every single one of her answers last night, but-- yeah, nope. Instead she hears him pull in a breath, his hands sliding down to her hips, rolling her back against him again (and yeah, okay, he is--he is more than halfway-hard now). "I'd kind of figured that out," he murmurs into her ear. His voice is the opposite of teasing.
All right, screw propriety. New plan: they can have sex again (the third time today, but whatever, you know, Andy's young) and then she can go back to Traci’s and be a responsible, independent human being and--
"Wait a sec," Sam says, catching her under her thighs as she tries to turn. "Don't you wanna know mine?" He takes her hand and slides it down between her legs before she can answer; Andy bucks up under her own touch. "That," he tells her, quiet. "That's mine."
Which--god.
(She’d kind of figured that out, too, though. Not that it was his biggest--but that he--yeah. She pretty much knew he liked it.)
Still, the way he's still got his hand on hers, sliding it lower--it's possible Andy's breathing sort of audibly herself. "Yeah?" she asks--and ugh, her voice, she sounds stupider than Nicole Kidman, but like--she can't so much help it.
(Also, okay, Andy was reasonably sure she'd pretty much covered the basics before, sex-wise, but. Turns out there is a lot of stuff she didn't know she liked.)
Sam bites at her ear a little, gentle. "Uh-huh."
And whatever, Andy's not shy, she's done it in front of him already--just, always while they were doing, like. Other stuff. He's shifting around a bit behind her, though, enough pressure to let her know he's not just telling her for the sake of telling her; he definitely wants her to--
"Come on, McNally," he says, and jesus, already she's stupidly wet. "Let me see how you do it."
"See how I do it, huh?" She's trying to tease but it's completely not working for her. Sam lets go of her hand and hooks his palms under her thighs, pulls until they're spread over his (and, god, sitting there all open like that is just--). Andy's fingers stall out on her clit.
"Yeah." Sam starts working her neck over, tongue and teeth. "I'll even, you know. Talk to you." Andy can feel the curve of his grin against her shoulder.
"Sam." She's laughing. "Seriously?" But she knows he's serious, hips right up behind hers and how hard he is against the base of her spine. She slides her fingers over herself once and he groans.
"Yeah." He bites at her jaw. "Seriously. How do you like it when you're by yourself?" Andy's head thuds back against his shoulder; Sam's hands slide up her body, thumbing at one nipple until she whines. "That's it," he tells her, low and urgent right in her ear. "Come on, pretty girl. That feel good?"
Which-- yes.
(Also, okay, to be filed under "things she is never going to let him know, even though he'd probably really, really like to": it's possible she used the night of the blackout a lot, after. Like. What would have happened if she stayed. She could never quite look him in the eye at Parade in the morning when she’d done it, like somehow he'd be able to tell.)
"There you go," Sam says, when she scoots down a bit further, rubbing with a little more purpose. Already she's slick all across her palm. "Actually," he continues, then tugs her up and around until she's facing him, sitting sort of on his stomach with her back pressed against his bent knees. Her toes slide underneath the pillows on either side of his head (and god, he can see every frickin' thing like this, is right at eye-level with her--). "There you go."
"Sa-am," she whines, but she slips two fingers in anyway, the backs of her knuckles just grazing his abdomen. She's worked up, jesus, the thrill of him watching kicking everything into high gear. And now that she can actually see his face--
"That's a good girl," Sam murmurs as she starts rocking her hips down. His eyes are bouncing back and forth between her face and her fingers, like he can't decide where to look. When Andy whines again (she knows her own touch too damn well, is actually splaying her legs further for herself) he slides her hands around to cup her ass, kneading a bit.
Andy hisses.
It hurts just a little, the other side of twenty questions and him asking about the kinkiest thing she'd ever done (the--whatever in the cover apartment, was the answer, which she turned sixty different kinds of a red admitting, but. Yeah. Then they did it again.
Incidentally, that's why Pretty Woman is never going to look the same to her, seeing Julia Roberts’ face and feeling his hand-- ruining childhood classics with Andrea McNally, people, 101.)
Sam notices right away, eases up a bit. "That okay?" he asks, palming up the small of her back, fingertips pushing into the muscle there. It's possible Sam has, like. Stupidly good hands.
Andy nods, teeth sinking into her bottom lip (and god, the good girl, she likes that way more than she should, way more than would be appropriate even if she hadn't spent the first year and a half of her professional life weirdly invested in pleasing him). "Um," she manages--fucking herself down into her fingers with a bit more purpose, pulling all the way out to rub hard at her clit. Her hips are doing a whole lot of embarrassing shit right now, shoving forward to grind like she can't even help it, but the way he's looking at her--heavy-lidded and hungry--it's just. Sam doesn't really seem to mind. "Yeah."
"You're close already, huh?" he says quietly, maybe thirty seconds later. Andy can smell herself, sharp and familiar; she's got him slick all across his stomach, that faint trail of hair from his navel on down.
"Yeah," Andy says again, feeling this side of helpless. His cock is behind her, trapped between her ass and his upright knees, and god, she kind of just wants to lift up and like, sit on it, but. Later. She compensates by rubbing herself against his stomach more purposefully, fingers out of the way and working her clit.
"Jesus, sweetheart." Sam kneads down her back, pauses at the base of her spine and feathers his fingers out, cautious. Andy pushes her ass into his hands until he gets the message (and apparently that message is, uh. Maybe she didn't mind so much, that zing of pain? Whatever, again: really good hands). "Do you make noise?" is what he wants to know. Andy lifts up a bit so he can get at the curve of her thigh, right where it rounds out. "When you're alone, do you make noise?"
No, actually, mostly because she hasn't lived alone much; Andy shakes her head. "You gonna let me hear you now?" Sam prods. He taps her thigh, open-handed--almost, but not quite, a swat (that's how Andy knows it isn't really a question).
Andy whimpers a bit (he likes when she's loud, that's another thing she figured out pretty quick--the first time they ever did this and how stupidly nervous she was, trying to act like a lady or something. How he just kept after her until she lost it). Sam half-nods like good first try, McNally, taps again until she raises her voice.
Which--shit. Andy squirms around a little, heels pressing into the mattress, the hand that's not between her legs creeping up to rub at her breast. Sam groans. She's right on the edge, can't totally decide if she wants to hold off or just go for it (she's pretty efficient, honestly, can usually get it done on her own in a couple of minutes if her head's in the right place. Back when she first broke up with Luke and Traci had her reading all this self-help crap she found an article in Cosmo about, like, taking a long bath and lighting candles for yourself, which: gross.
Anyway, doing it with an audience has amped up the process considerably).
"That's it," Sam coaxes, hands running restlessly up and down her thighs. His mouth is swollen-- from the shower probably, all the kissing they've been doing in general (waiting for dinner to cook last night, making out for forty-five minutes while the timer ticked down). His voice, though, that's what gets her attention; his voice is really, really wrecked. Andy thinks about that, about it being his biggest turn-on. Squirms a bit from the thinking. "Sweetheart," Sam says, sort of helplessly. He sits up a bit to press a kiss to her knee, open-mouthed and dirty. "Come on, sweetheart, please."
Well, that tears it. Andy sinks two fingers back into herself purposefully, curls them. She lays off her clit for a minute, palm just hovering, gets herself nice and loud for him. "Sam," she pants, just in case he can't tell, visual feedback only. "Gonna-- right now, gonna, right, right--"
He keeps talking to her all the way through, even as she makes a complete mess of herself and him, hips pushing into own hand and smearing all across his stomach: "Just like that, sweetheart, you're perfect, you're the prettiest thing I've ever--" They're speaking gibberish now, the both of them. It's usually a different kind of orgasm when she does it herself, not as deep into her spine or something, but this-- um. Andy pushes with the her hand, whimpering, wrings the rest of it out.
She gets a little self-conscious once she's finished, bending at the waist and falling forward, legs back behind (it's just a lot is all, the suspension and everything they've been doing and how it all gets mixed up in her brain, the way she can't make herself go home). Andy buries her face in Sam's warm neck, smells the soap-sweat smell of his skin. Bites a bit, just idly.
"Don't get shy," he orders softly, tugging a bit at her hair like he wants her to look up at him. He's real big on eye-contact, Sam is; checked in with her every two seconds the first time they tried it from behind. "That was--yeah. Andy. Don't get shy."
"I'm not," she mumbles--which isn't strictly true, her nose rubbing up against the side of his neck (it's nice to hear, though, that he--well. Like she said, she likes to hear him talk). "Anyway." She rolls her hips down, totally unsubtle. "S'my turn to watch."
"Oh yeah?" he murmurs into her hair. Kisses her ear. "Sure you wouldn't rather--" Then he rolls his hips up, everything in line and slippery and--
But no. Uh-huh, he is not wiling his way out of this one, not when he got to watch Andy the entire effing time. "Yeah, see--" She slides herself along the length of him once, then twice, just so he's super sure what he's missing out on here (and okay--also because she wants a taste of what she's missing out on). "--That's not happening. You know why?" She scoots back and sits up a bit, grabs his hand and wraps it around his cock. "Because I believe in egalitarian relationships."
Sam hisses a little, the pressure she's making him use, but um. It's possible Andy's not paying attention to him at all, because oh god. Relationships? What the hell. What the actual hell.
Sam totally catches it, too, fixes her with one of those looks from the wayback like maybe she just accidentally told him how easy she is or like, how willing to take it off. He doesn't say anything, though; just raises his eyebrows a little, palm of his hand sliding up and over, steady. The head's all slick and slippery, a combination of them both.
(This isn't a relationship, okay? Jesus. It's only been like, a week.
Well. A week plus a year and change of weirdness and a couple of pretty intense near-death experiences, but. Really a week.)
"Shut up," Andy mutters; she can feel herself blushing.
Sam grins. "I didn't say anything."
"I can hear you thinking." Ugh, she needs to get control of this situation, like fast. Andy swings herself off him, stretches out beside with her head on his chest so she can see from the same angle he's at. "You gonna tell me what you think about?" she asks him, when he tucks his free arm around her shoulders. "When you're by yourself?"
"You," he says easily--like, for real, there is not even a beat of waiting. Andy's heart does a funny swooping thing it has absolutely no business doing, considering (a guy just said he masturbates to her, seriously, this is not a romantic thing that is happening right now; her hormones need to take a big step back). Sam's still touching himself, just causally, pulling up towards his stomach like he's got all day. Andy feels herself flush. It's a different kind of heat, edging out her earlier blush.
"What about me?" she asks, because nope, not romantic at all, but um. Definitely hot.
Sam cards his fingers through her hair. "What about you?" His hand is making a slick sound that's got Andy pressing in closer, biting at his shoulder. "Well, what you just did is climbing the charts."
"Did you--" She doesn't know if he'll answer what she's about to ask, but. (Like, she used the night of blackout, so it stands to reason--). "Before. Did you--?"
Sam's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't flinch. "Sometimes," he says carefully, gaze steady on hers. "That bother you?"
Which--it probably should, right? It's basically twenty different kinds of inappropriate, but it's not like Andy's got much of a moral leg to stand on here (the way he kissed her back right away, up against the wall in his pitch-dark hallway like maybe he wasn't even particularly surprised she showed up; how they basically shoved each other into his bedroom) on top of which--god, god, what is going on here--it's possible she doesn't actually hate the idea of him doing it.
Like. At all.
Andy reaches down and swipes two fingers between her legs (she's still crazy sensitive, everything wet and swollen). Feeds them into his mouth. Sam groans, starts sucking right away, teeth just scraping the pad of her index finger. "That a no?" he asks, a moment later.
"Yeah," Andy gasps, pressing herself as close to his side as she can get. "I mean, yeah, it's a no." She squirms until Sam lets go of himself to pull her leg up and over, leaving her wide open against his thigh. "Shit," she hisses.
"Does it turn you on?" Sam asks, still careful. He's wrapped his hand back around himself, a faster stroke now, almost like he can't help it. And seriously--everything is turning Andy on right now.
"Yeah," she admits, tucking her head into his neck and pushing her hips against him. Then she remembers what she's watching here, tilts her chin down to sneak a look.
"Jesus, Andy." She feels his voice more than she hears it, coming up through his chest under her cheek, this low burned-out noise. She rolls her hips again, hard and dirty.
"I can't help it," she mumbles, hardly even talking to him, more just thinking out loud (and her voice isn't sounding so hot either, to be honest, but she really, like, can't--she is far gone, okay? She is far gone). "It's just--I can't--"
"I'm not complaining," he tells her. He's right on the edge; Andy can tell by how his breathing's changing, all this secret private shit she suddenly knows about him and this weird, scary feeling like she can't get close enough. (Another thing Andy read about once is pheromones, that weird cologne that's supposed to attract women and animals calling their mates from miles and miles away. Could be that's what's happening here, although Sam doesn't really strike her as the sex-cologne type.) "Fuck, sweetheart, I'm definitely not--"
"I know," she says, tips her face up to kiss him. He started calling her sweetheart back at the cover apartment; she thought it was a J.D. thing, like a character exercise or something, only. Apparently not. "Shh. Come on." She trails one hand through the hair on his chest, thumb rubbing a bit at his nipple (truth: before Sam everybody she'd ever fooled around with had been smooth like a Ken doll. It's possible the novelty hasn't totally worn off). "Let me see you."
"God." He grits his teeth; Andy slips her fingers back into his mouth, let's him worry them for a little while. She feels wound-up and possessive, this hard animal feeling like she wants to shove her face against his chest and bite. (Pheromones, okay? Pheromones.) She settles for rocking her hips again, pressing down on his tongue.
"Come on," she says again. Bares her teeth against his shoulder so she doesn't say anything else.
It's enough, apparently: Sam lets out a soft-sounding grunt, head knocking back against the pillow. Andy watches as he brings himself over with a suddenly-shaky grip, three erratic pulses of his hips. It's sort of gratifying to see him make a mess of himself, all over his stomach and hand and everywhere.
"Shit," he pants after he's done, opening his eyes to meet hers. Andy can only guess what he sees in her expression (something stupidly feral probably, she needs to like, seek help). "Okay," he says after a second of looking, pulls until she's all the way over; she ends up right against his slippery abdomen. "You need it bad, huh?" he continues, hand already worming down between them--and yeah, his voice is pretty much the opposite of complaining. "Go ahead."
"Sa-am." She's legit sore at this point, not that it stops her at all; Andy grinds against his stomach, gets herself good and sloppy all down between her thighs. They haven't worried about a condom or whatever since the cover apartment-- heat of the moment, sure, plus she's still on the pill from Luke so it's not like everything isn't on the up and up. Still, the night of the farmhouse and that hard unreadable look he gave her when he came stumbling through the doorway, her legs turning to jell-o with relief; it's possible that by the time he got her home and laid out--on his kitchen floor, god, what even--she just, she wasn't sure exactly what it was she was supposed to be protecting herself from.
(She has this weird flash of it, suddenly, of what would happen if the pill didn't work--his eyelashes and the dip at the center of his bottom lip, whether or not shit like that is hereditary. Stops that train of thought right quick.)
"Yeah, sweetheart." Sam crooks two wet fingers up inside her and uses his free hand to pull her down tight for a kiss, everything smeared and slippery between them (and jesus, they're going to need to get right back in the shower after; this is really getting ridiculous). "You want one more?" he asks her quietly. Andy makes a loud, helpless sound.
"I want--I want--" Words aren't working for her, his curving fingers and how everything hurts just a little. How ridiculously greedy she feels, like she can't get enough of anything, wants more and deeper and harder.
"I've got you," Sam soothes, pulling her closer to plant kisses all along her jaw, wet and soft. His palm is warm against the back of her neck. "Got just what you need." He presses the heel of his hand into her clit, crooks his fingers even more.
Andy whines again, loud and long, tries to hide her face but he tugs it up. "Come on, sweetheart," he tells her, smiling a bit. "You aren't shy, remember?"
"I'm not," she protests weakly--it's just, god, she's splintering to pieces here a little bit, everything fever-bright. She's close again, already she is, but-- "I'm not."
"So, then," Sam says. His kisses get rougher, these sharp little nips all up behind her ear and the feeling of it zinging through her body like neon light. His free hand pulls a bit at her damp, messy hair. "Tell me what you want."
Andy's hips are doing stupid, desperate shit at this point, fucking herself down as hard as she can. "More," she tells him (begs him) finally, mouth up against his hot, salty skin. "Just, Sam--more, okay?"
"Jesus," Sam says again, this long low exhale, but he gives her what she asks for; slides a third finger deep inside. Andy keens. It's a lot, feels like a big difference from two; he bites at her shoulder, twists his wrist a bit, and--
yeah.
She makes a ridiculous amount of noise this time, practically chokes on her own breath. She tries not to, even bites down to stop herself (and oh, he knows everything now, he has to; why can't she just freaking leave?) but the sound bleeds out against his skin. It's embarrassing and way too much, but the orgasm that gets wrung out feels so good she can't stop--not the noises, or the part where she says his name, or a single one of the things her hips are doing.
Sam talks to her the whole way through it, nonsense shit Andy can't really understand. When she's done he brings both arms around to hold her (and that's--yeah). Tight, too. Like, all of a sudden she's muscled in against his chest, his hands on her back and everywhere, soothing. As if he maybe picked up on a few of her feelings.
(Which: jesus, that's even more embarrassing.)
Andy doesn't move right away, though: just lies there and lets him touch her, rubbing up and down her back and his fingers fitting neatly into the notches in her spine. She means to-- she's going to get up and get out of here any second for sure--but her whole body feels liquid and boneless, like something's cracked open inside.
(On top of which she, uh. Kind of doesn't want to look him in the face.)
So instead she just sort of hangs out there with him for a while, their breathing matching up and everything gone sleepy and slow. Sam's pulse taps steady against her cheek. He pulls the blankets back on top of them after a minute (laundry, Andy thinks vaguely; another load of laundry for sure), her foot skating down over his calf; for the most part Andy is really not the kind of girl who needs to, like, cuddle afterward but it just feels so stupidly good and nice right now, all warm and relaxed and comfortable like maybe she wouldn't hate staying here for--
"Okay," she says, popping up real suddenly. "I gotta go."
Sam gives her a double dose of his eyebrows, both raised at once. "Oh yeah? Why, you leave a stove on somewhere?" His arms are still part of the way around her, hands skimming her hips as she sits up on him. He's giving her a look, equal parts smug and don't be stupid, Officer McNally, as if he maybe thinks he knows something about--
Screw that. Andy feels herself turn defensive immediately. "I have shit to do, okay?" She swings herself over and off, starts looking for her clothes (which--that's going to be a problem, seeing as how she's been wearing his for three days). Sam just lies there, blinking at her.
"Fine," he says finally, all hard smile and hands spread out, like, go ahead, whatever. "You have shit to do."
"Yup." Andy scowls, runs one hand through her knotty hair (it's a disaster, god, not to mention the fact that there's like, no small amount of cleanup that needs to happen here before she can even think about getting dressed; the other night she sat in his bathtub for like a full hour after, dumped half a bottle of shower gel in there hoping for some bubbles. Which like, okay, that's another thing--when was the last time she wasted that much time in the bath? Definitely, definitely time to book it.) "Lots."
Sam nods. "Better get to it, then."
"That's what I'm saying." And ugh, where the hell does he get off, that superior know-it-all look on his face, there goes McNally, tripping all over herself as usual, probably her gun’s not even loaded. He's still covered in bruises from almost getting tortured to death the other night and three months ago she was engaged to somebody else altogether and it is just too much, all right, it is too much, this feeling like it's not just her heart but her whole body that's beating, out in the open and out of control.
She tears out of the bedroom before he can see it (because apparently her expressions are fucking transparent, and she just--she does not want him to read into this one). The bathroom is still humid from their shower, mirror all beaded up with water and damp towels on the floor. Andy gives herself a cursory wipe-down with the nearest one--the one he was dragging through her hair earlier, jesus--and gives herself a good hard look in the mirror. Which doesn't help: basically she looks like a person who has just had a lot of sex. Traci is going to laugh at her for hours.
(Well--first Traci's probably going to yell at her, like she's been threatening to do over text. Apparently now that Sam isn't actively in peril the supportive okay, this is what we should do ends and the what the fuck were you thinking begins.)
Andy meets her own eyes in the mirror, thinks, this is the face of poor life decisions. Then she goes looking for her underwear.
She finds her bra on top of his bureau, jeans slung over the back of a chair; she pulls the elastic off her wrist and gathers her hair back, knots it at the crown of her head tight enough to make her eyes water. She can't find her tank top for the life of her, digs around the bedroom ineffectually for a while (she's not sure the last time she had it, is the problem, if she's even seen it since he first peeled it off her body the other night). Finally she just gives up. "Can I borrow this?" she asks shrilly, grabbing one of his t-shirts off the carpet and waving it at him like a banner of war. "Your house ate mine."
Sam doesn't smile. "Sure." He's still sitting in bed, just watching her, elbows resting on his half-bent knees. He ducks his head a bit, scratches at the back of his neck (and ugh, socks, where the hell even; at this point she might as well go without). "Andy," he says finally, real quiet. "Come on.”
Oh, for--Andy rakes a hand through her messy bun. He sounds serious, like maybe he knows what she's doing and he's calling a cease-fire. It makes her want to crawl back into bed and run equal amounts. But--yeah, no.
(Why mess with a winning strategy, right?)
"Sa-am." She sounds stupidly young, even to herself. "Seriously. I have shit to do."
Sam sort of sighs, uncurling himself from the bed and standing up (and god, what is wrong with her? In the middle of a--whatever this is--and she still wants to jump him). "Okay, McNally." He mostly just looks resigned now. "I'll drive you." The bruises on his chest are standing out in sharp relief all of a sudden, weak mid-afternoon light.
"Um." Andy nods. "All right. Thanks."
Sam heads into the bathroom, shuts the door behind him; Andy sits on the edge of the bed to wait. (This morning she woke up before him, Sam on his back with one arm slung up over his head. His eyelashes threw spiky little shadows over his cheeks. They were pressed right up against each other, the two of them, him mostly hard in his sleep; Andy wrapped a gentle fist around the length of him, stroked until she heard his breathing start to change. He smiled before he even opened his eyes.)
"Okay," he tells her now, coming back into the bedroom. He's pulled a pair of jeans on, t-shirt smooth across his chest. The cut underneath his eye is just starting to heal. "You ready?"
He says it causally, but damn if it doesn't sound like a loaded question, good candy and every double-talk conversation they've ever had. Andy toes the carpet a little. (Socks. Suddenly she feels like all this would be much better with socks.)
"Yep," she says, as brightly as she can. And then completely doesn't get up from the bed.
Sam walks over to her, crouches down until they're eye-level. He's throwing some serious face her way, one of those ones she's definitely supposed to interpret significantly and never can. "McNally." His voice is pretty flat, considering. "Help me out here. What do you want?"
"Socks would be good," Andy tells him, because she's an idiot.
Sam grins, once and fast, but it does sort of reach his eyes. He curves his hands around her feet. "That so?" Then, after rubbing along her toes for a minute: "Yeah, it would be practically inhuman to send you out there without socks."
Andy smiles back, she can't help it (and god, she has no idea what she's doing, running into a building with no radio and no backup, like everything he ever said about her was true). She thinks about that first night in the apartment, no going back and the sighing sound her jacket made as it slid to the floor between them. She's starting to think it's possible she didn't have the slightest idea what she was agreeing to. "Oh, it's cold," is all she says.
"Uh-huh." Sam stands up and gets her a pair out of the dresser, the thick wool kind he wears with his uniform. Bends low and works them onto her feet. Andy just sits there and lets him like a dummy, her toes curling into the palm of his hand. She should do it herself, should find her jacket and think of something appropriately contrite to say to Traci; absolutely, one hundred percent cannot make herself leave this room.
"There," he says when he's finished, sitting back on his heels and turning his face up at her, expectant. He holds her gaze for a freakishly long time. There's something else happening in his expression now, still totally inscrutable (well. Not totally). They look at each other. They breathe.
"God, Sam," she whines finally, flopping backwards onto the mattress and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as hard as she can, fireworks exploding behind her eyelids. "Aren't you sick of me yet?"
He's on her in a second; even though Andy's not looking she can feel, knees on either side of her hips and hands planted on the mattress beside her head. Everything dips a bit under his weight. "Nope," he tells her, easy as anything. Andy can practically taste the pop of the 'p', he's leaning that close.
"Why not?" she asks, feeling stupid and desperate and embarrassed. She's still got her hands over her eyes, not pressing anymore, but just-- hiding. (God, this is supposed to be the fun part, the no-pressure, getting-to-know-you stage. She should be out buying new underwear, not crashing at his place and eating all his food and being so frickin' needy it's--)
"Andy." Sam catches her wrists and tugs, makes her look. He's serious now, no more joking nonchalance (don't, Andy wants to tell him, please don't, but of course he does). "Sweetheart, just--" All of a sudden they're re-positioned, him on bottom and her all caught-up in his lap. "You know, we kind of had a few near-death experiences back there, I think we're allowed to be--" His voice goes careful, softer. "--attached to each other right now."
"God." Her nose finds his neck again, like there's a goddamn magnet there. Sam lets her hide. "So, what, this is PTSD or something?"
"McNally." He touches up her back, traces a finger across her exposed nape, careful of her bun. His voice is sort of wry. "You know I'm crazy about you, right?"
Andy keeps her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. "Yeah." And like--she does kind of know that, actually; has known it for a while, in some secret locked drawer of her brain (not the crazy part maybe, not with the way he looks at her sometimes, like she's got all the sense of a deer tick--but). It makes her want to bolt, and also not.
(It makes her want to do a lot of things, actually--all this stupid shit that's not even remotely sexy, rub his back when he's sick and shop for groceries late at night. Her mom used to cut her dad's hair at the sink, when they were married. Andy doesn't know why she keeps thinking about deranged crap like that.)
"So," Sam continues, slow and quiet. Andy can feel his breath in her hair. "If you want me to take you home, I'll take you home no problem. That's your call." He's still knuckling up and down her spine, this warm steadying rhythm. "But if not, we could order some food and sleep for half an hour until it gets here."
Andy has no idea what she even wants anymore (ugh, it's just-- she's tired, and drained, and right now it sounds like a stupidly good plan). She's still embarrassed though, feels cut-open and examined. It's her own fault, but she wants a redo button like she wants to breathe. "Okay, can we, um-- Can we possibly disregard this conversation?" she tries hopefully. "Like. Everything but that last sentence?"
Sam exhales against her hair, a whole lot of breath. "Sure, McNally. Disregard." He even does the same hand-motion, that first night outside the Penny, like he's dusting them off; Andy can feel the movement behind her back. Then he hooks his fingers under her thighs, lifts a little. "Give me a minute to go warm up the truck, okay?"
Oh. But, that's not-- "I meant, like, the last-last sentence," Andy blurts before she can help herself. She brings her head up without thinking too, so now here they are, staring at each other; Sam looks pretty confused. "The one about food and sleeping," she adds, because hey, why not dig the hole that much deeper, right?
It takes him a second to react either way, dark eyebrows knit together and serious. Andy feels like he's looking at the heart underneath her ribs. "Yeah, sweetheart," he tells her finally; his grin, when it comes, is slow and wide. "We can do that."
Andy smiles back, relieved and embarrassed. "Okay." She ducks her head a little, fiddles with the collar of his shirt. She feels wrung out but weirdly happy, the cotton soft against the pad of her thumb.
("You got a pretty good smile on you," he told her the very first night in the apartment, kissing in his doorway twenty minutes after she was supposed to leave. It's possible his isn't terrible, either.)
"Take these off," Sam murmurs after another minute of sitting there, stupid self-conscious smiles on the both of them; he leaves his lips against her temple as he talks, hooks his fingers through her belt loops, this gentle tug. "We have to do laundry."
Andy laughs, shuffling back off him to stand. "We, uh. Should probably order from a different place," she tells him, shucking her jeans. "I mean, those delivery guys know exactly what's going on here." Sam gives her a look, but seriously: the last three times they answered the door wearing not very much, and from the way he's chucking all her clothing in the laundry hamper, ruthless and efficient, it's definitely going to happen again. (Like, seriously, all her clothing, as if that's his back-up plan for keeping her here. Andy kind of wants to hand over her boots too, and let him know-- well, whatever. Just let him know.)
"All right McNally, we'll embarrass ourselves in front of the pizza guy," Sam's saying, reaching down to tug her socks off. "We gonna work our way through the takeout world? Scandalize that Thai restaurant next?" He's watching her for something, looking up through his stupid eyelashes. Andy wants to mess up his hair or drag him back down to the bed, bite a little.
"We'll go down the phone book," she says instead. It comes out sounding a lot like a promise.
Sam's eyebrows go up just a bit, want to try being normal (and this isn't, it's not, it can't possibly be, but-- but). "Sounds like a plan," is all he says. Andy nods and helps him pull the sheets up off the mattress, follows him out into the darkening hall.