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Samira Mohan and Jack Abbot had been dating for five months and had not touch nakedly once.
It was impressive, really. The willpower they possessed. The ability to not rip each other’s clothes off during a shift, despite how much they wanted to. And god did they want to. Every touch on her shoulder, every nod, every wink given to her by Jack set a jolt electricity through her that would embarrass even a nun by the way she was acting.
Samira was the one to insist on taking it ‘slow’, because he’d asked her out after writing her recommendation letter and the last thing she needed was for people to gossip about their relationship.
In the five months of them dating, they’d kissed—made out, even—but nothing below the waistline. Hands always above the belt, clothes stayed on, lips to remain on visible patches of skin only. The rules were Samira’s and Jack followed them without a single complaint, which somehow made everything worse—because a man who respects your boundaries without pushing back makes you want to burn every last one of them down yourself.
Tonight, though.
Tonight was the PTMC Annual Fundraising Gala at the Omni William Penn. The ballroom the Hospital hired had a 20 foot ceiling and enough crystal chandeliers to finance another wing at the hospital. People came to the gala dressed to impress, with dresses and suits costing more than vital hospital equipments. The irony wasn’t lost on Samira—it wasn’t lost on anyone, really, but that was just how the world worked.
She was in a black dress tonight. A soft velvet with a bodice that pushed her breast cup a size up and a slit on the side that started mid-thigh. She wore dainty gold jewelry to pair with it; a golden necklace Amma had gotten her for her 16th, a small pair of pearl earrings, and a stack of bangles on one hand. On her ankles were dainty gold anklets and on her feet, a pair of Loubutin that she’d found at Goodwill a year ago—the red soles barely scuffed and she’d shed literal tears in the store.
Jack was wearing black, too. A clean suit that hugged his figure, tapered at the waist, complete with a bow-tie. His salt and pepper hair was styled neat, slicked back yet still fluffy. From across the room, Samira watched him and thought about running her hands through those luscious curls, maybe tugging it, seeing how he’d react.
He was the type who’d groan from her touch alone.
She watched his mouth move as he talked, the smirk he gave when someone—Robby—said something silly, the lip bite he did when holding back a laugh. She thought about how those lips would feel on her cunt. Jack looked like he’d eat a girl out, wouldn’t he? Of course he would.
They spent the first two hours on opposite sides of the room. It was professional, appropriate. Jack was socializing with Robby and the other attendings, schmoozing the donors and hospital administration while Samira was sitting with Mel and Langdon near the bar. Every few minutes, Samira’s eyes would meet Jack’s, and the heat of his gaze would make Samira cross and uncross her legs.
By hour four, they’d had enough tiptoeing. Everyone had had enough drinks in their system, buzzed enough to stop pretending that they were here for the cause. Robby was gone, Mel and Langdon were gone, too, and suddenly the only person she knew in the room was Jack Abbot, who was making his way toward her with a drink in hand.
“Dr. Mohan,” said Jack, nodding his glass of bourbon at her. “You look…”
“Beautiful?” Samira tried to finish for him.
He flashed a smile and said, “I was gonna go for ravishing. Good enough to eat.”
Samira flushed at his words. This five-month long foreplay was getting hard to maintain.
“You don’t look so bad yourself, Dr. Abbot,” she said, tilting her head. “Interesting choice of tie, though. A bow tie. You could blend in with the servers.” She nodded around the room in the general direction of the waiters circling around the room with champagne trays.
“Brat,” he muttered softly under his breath. Then he leaned in, close to her ear, close enough for her to smell him—the cologne he was wearing, something cedar and smoky that pleased her olfactory senses—and he said, low enough so only she could hear: “I’ve been thinking about your mouth the whole night. Can we get out of here or do you want to keep insulting my wardrobe?”
His voice activated something in her. She licked her lips and nodded toward the elevator.
They were making out in the elevator like two teenagers after a prom night. Five months of foreplay, of polite kisses and nods and little touches, and now they were making out as if they were trying to consume each other in the mirrored elevator of the Omni William Penn. His hand on the back of her neck, tilting her head to give them better access, the other hand on her waist, pulling her in as her own legs wrapped around him.
He kissed her hard, then soft, then hard again—the pressure alternating because he could not decide between devouring her and savoring her so he settled for both.
Samira tilted her head sideways, his lips trailing from her mouth, her cheek, her ear, before burying his nose on the crook of her neck and sniffed.
“Fuck,” he breathed against her throat, “you smell so fucking—”
“Jack—” Samira moaned.
“—so fucking good, baby. I’ve been thinking about this all night—” he murmured, lips moving against her skin, his voice an aphrodisiac, “the way you crossed your legs at the bar…” he chuckled, “you did that on purpose, didn’t you, sweet girl?”
“I d-didn’t—”
“Liar.” He sucked a hickey below her jaw. “You did, I’ve been watching you, Samira. The whole night. I thought about what I’d do if I could put my hand on your thigh, right in front of everyone. You smell so good up here, I wonder if your pus—”
The elevator dinged on the fifth floor and they broke away.
Samira flattened herself against the wall in the corner, Jack’s body shielding hers.
“This going down?” the woman at the door asked.
Jack, with a surprisingly steady voice, answered, “No. We’re heading up to 12. Might have to wait, folks. Sorry.”
The woman stepped back without another word and the doors closed.
Instantly, his mouth was on hers again. He didn’t care about being gentle this time. This time it was more frantic, hands staying at her waist, his thumbs pressing into the velvet at her hipbones. Whenever she pulled back to breathe, he’d chase her mouth with his and she found her hips canting forward, seeking contact. He was so hard, the strain visible through the suit pants.
“Samira,” he said between kisses, “can I—” a bite of her lip, his hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer so there was no pretending she couldn’t feel him, “can I fuck you? Please, baby, please.”
Oh, the power she was wielding right now.
She, Samira Mohan, Slow-Mo, the resident who couldn’t keep up, had reduced an attending physician, a combat veteran, a man nearly twice her size, to the word please.
“Not yet, Dr. Abbot,” she whispered as she teasingly bit his bottom lip.
He let out a groan and tightened his hold on her hips. He had expected that answer, this was one of the only times that he hated being right.
The elevator opened; Jack hoisted Samira up by the ass and she wrapped her legs around him, not wanting to break away from the kiss. If anyone was watching the CCTV of the hallway at that time, they’d be looking at two very horny doctors who looked like they were about to fuck—but Samira knew they were not going to.
He carried her all the way to the room, her back bumping against the wall once when he misjudged the corner, neither of them breaking the kiss for it. He fumbled with the key card against the reader.
“Fuck,” he muttered when it didn’t work on the first try. Samira grinned against his lips.
The card reader blinked green after the third try and he walked them both in.
He pinned her against the door, their hips grinding against each other. His mouth found her earlobe, and once again, he begged, “Please, baby…” breath hot and damp against the shell of her ear, “can I please fuck you tonight?”
“No,” Samira breathed, “but we can try something.”
Jack pulled back to look at her, hazel eyes blown to full black. “Yeah?” he rasped, “what can we try, baby? I’ll try anything.”
She smiled a sultry smile and said seductively, “Put me down and go lie flat on the floor.”
He set her down carefully, her Louboutins finding the carpet.
Without a word, he pulled his bow tie loose, dropped it on the desk, shrugged off his jacket and set it on the chair. Then he lowered himself to the floor.
He lay flat on his back on the carpet of a hotel room because she told him to, his arms resting loosely at his sides, his dress shirt pulled tight across his chest. He was surprisingly obedient. Samira suspected that he’d gladly do this on hard concrete on a summer day if she’d asked him in that voice.
Samira stood over him, facing his feet. She placed one heel on either side of his shoulders, the red soles digging into the carpet. From his angle, he was looking straight up inside the dress—the velvet falling around her like a tent.
Underneath her, she could hear Jack shudder. “Fuck, baby.”
She reached under her dress. Hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her damp panties—black lace that she’d chosen for the night—and slowly slid them down her thighs. She could feel him watching her from underneath, his breath ragged at every pass.
She let them drop on his face, covering his nose, mouth, chin.
Jack’s eyes slammed shut and inhaled the panties, completely damp with her arousal, and he whimpered.
“Oh, fuck,” moaned Jack, the words came muffled through the damp lace. “Samira— fuck, baby.”
“Don’t touch me,” she ordered. “That’s the rule tonight. You can watch. You can talk. But your hands stay off me.”
He licked her underwear, tasting her before taking one last sniff and peeling it away off his face. “You’re so fucking wet, so fucking sweet,” he murmured as his thumb rubbed the wet centre of the fabric.
“You like that?”
“I’m so fucking in love with you, Samira Mohan, you have no idea,” he said, tilting his head and sniffing her ankle, her skin, the air that was full of her scent. “Now spread your legs wider for me, sweet thing. Let me see.”
She gave him what he asked for. The slit let the light in underneath the skirt of the dress, making it easy for him to see her. The swollen, flushed lips of her pussy, already shining with her slick, already messy.
“God, Samira—” his throat worked on a swallow, “Baby. You’re—your pussy is so fucking pretty.” His cock twitched visibly against the front of his dress pants. “You’re soaked, baby. All for me?”
“Yes…” Her hand slipped between her legs and she gasped at the sensitivity. She pressed a finger on her clit and her hips rolled forward, a loud moan escaping her. “F-fuck, Jack.”
Underneath her, he cursed. His hands went to his belt and she stared as she heard the clink of the buckle, the zipper parting, then he was reaching into his briefs and pulled himself free. Samira’s fingers faltered.
She’d never seen it. Five months, and she’d felt it through jeans, felt the outline of it against her hip during a supply closet make-out last week, but she’d never actually looked. His cock was big. Thick and girthy. She thought his fingers were already thick but his cock… she licked her lips with want.
The size of him, the weight of it resting in his hand, made her think about the stretch. How her body would have to open for him, accommodate, adjust. How it would ache at first—the good kind of ache that sits on the border between too much and exactly enough. But then her body would adjust. She knew she would.
She pressed two fingers inside herself while staring at Jack work his cock. She clenched around her own fingers, and thought: not enough. Especially compared to… well, that.
“Hey.” Jack’s voice brought her back. He was watching her face, his hand moving in slow strokes on his own cock. “Eyes on me, Mohan.”
“I’m looking,” she breathed. “I just— you’re—”
“I know,” he said smugly. Even now, flat on his back with his cock in his hand, he managed to be a cocky bastard. She supposed he had the right to. The size of him, the shape of him, she could see the soft velvety skin against calloused freckled hand
“Show me, Samira. Show me how you make yourself come. I’ve been wondering about this for five fucking months.” His voice dropped, almost tender, all smugness gone. “Can you bend over for me a bit, baby? I won’t touch. I promise.”
She sank down to her knees, shins on either side of his head, the dress pooling around them. She was hovering just above his face—close enough that she could feel his breath between her legs, his breath softly blowing on the clit on every exhale.
“God, look at you,” he said reverently, fist tightening on his cock. “Look at this pretty pussy. So pink. So swollen.” He licked his lips, his tongue tracing his lower lip while he stared up at her. “You could sit on my face right now and I’d die happy. You know that?”
“That would violate the rule,” Samira croaked, and was proud of how steady her voice was considering she was two fingers deep in herself, riding her own pleasure.
“Fuck the rule,” he groaned, “fuck every rule you’ve ever made—”
But he kept his hands where they were—one on his cock, one gripping the fibers of the carpet. Obedient even while threatening mutiny. “Touch yourself for me, baby. Let me watch.”
She circled it with two slick fingers and a broken whimper left her. Below her Jack groaned in response, his strokes picking up speed.
“Talk to me,” Samira breathed. “Tell me what you’d do.”
“Ohhh sweetheart,” he breathed, “if I could touch you right now I’d pull you down onto my face and eat you until you couldn’t remember your own name. I’d push my tongue inside you and hold your hips down when you tried to squirm away— because I know you would, baby, you’d get overwhelmed and try to pull back but I wouldn’t let you.”
She worked her fingers faster, circling and pressing, and a thin drop of her arousal dripped on to Jack. It landed on his lower lip and Jack’s reaction was feral—his whole body locked, hips punching upward into his fist, his eyes going glassy.
He licked it off with a groan.
“Fuck— more,” he growled. “Drip on me, Samira. I can taste how turned on you are, give me more— fuck you’re so sweet—”
She pressed two fingers back inside herself, curving them forward, fucking herself on her own hand. Slow, then fast, each stroke pushed more of her wetness out, thick and slick, dripping from her fingers, falling in heavy drops onto his mouth spreading down his chin.
“Jack—” she panted, her free hand gripping her own thigh. “Jack, what else, keep talking, I need— how would you fuck me?”
“I’d turn you over and push inside you slow. So slow you’d feel every inch of me stretching you open.” His thumb swiped over the head of his cock, collecting the pre-cum, and smeared it down the shaft as his strokes turned slippery. “I’m thick, Samira, you see that—it’s gonna be a lot for you the first time. I’d go slow. Let your tight little cunt adjust. Watch your face while I feed it to you inch by inch until you take all of me.”
“Oh, god, please—” Her back arched, her fingers driving deep, the heel of her palm grinding against her clit. “More,” she begged.
“You like hearing that, baby?” he crooned. Samira moaned in response, a keening sound. “When you scrub in and tie your hair back—I think about wrapping it around my fist. When you bend over at work—I think about pulling your pants down right there and burying my face between your legs until you come on the counter at the nurses’ station,” he groaned at the imagination, his hips snapped up to fuck his on fist, strokes growing erratic. “And when you look at me during rounds with those big brown eyes and ask me a question about a patient, all professional, all composed—I think about what you’d look like choking on my cock."
“Fuck, Jack—” she croaked. “Am I doing good, Jack? Tell me— tell me I’m good—” she rasped as she could feel herself teetering on the edge of her orgasm.
“You’re so fucking perfect, my girl. Look at you, on your knees over me with your pretty pussy dripping on my face, touching yourself in that dress and those heels— you’re a fucking vision— and I’m losing my mind right now, I am losing my fucking mind—” he babbled.
“I’m close,” she whispered, voice filled with ecstasy.
“I’m right there, sweetheart,” he gritted out. His hand was moving fast, his forearm flexing. His balls had drawn up tight, his stomach taut, every tendon in his neck pulling from the tension. “I’m right there, Samira, I’m gonna come— fuck, I’m gonna come watching you, just from this, just from your taste in my mouth and your pussy over my face—”
She lowered herself another inch. Mere inches above his mouth. She could feel his hot breath directly on her clit, if he’d jutted out his tongue—
“Together,” she pleaded. “Come with me, Jack.”
She pressed hard against her clit, rubbed fast, and broke.
Her orgasm crashed through her in waves so violent her vision whited at the edges.
Her walls spasmed as she shook, and she was gushing. A wet, messy, gush running from her that soaked the man underneath. Her thighs clamped against the sides of his head and she rode it out, grinding against her own hand, her moans filling the room.
“Oh g-god—oh fuck, Jack, I’m coming, I’m— it won’t stop, I can’t—”
“That’s it, that’s my good girl, give it to me, give me all of it—” He was licking it off his lips, his tongue straining upward, chasing every drop, careful not to touch her, still ever the obedient boy.
His fist gripped his cock and then his body locked and he came. His hips lifted off the carpet, his cock jerking hard in his fist, the first thick rope landing across his stomach as he groaned her name, “Samira— fuck— Samira—”
Her legs gave out, his hands caught her thighs on instinct, gently lowering her to the side. Samira laid down on the carpet next to him. Her heart was still trying to beat out of her chest from the intensity, her legs burnt from suspending herself just above Jack.
His hand found hers on the ground and she turned around, that was when she realised that she’d soaked through it.
A wet patch next to Jack’s head.
“Oh, fuck,” she muttered. “They’re going to charge us a lot of money to clean that.”
Jack turned to see what she was referring to and grinned.
“I’ll pay for it.”