Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harm finds a new spot on Mac's body to play with.
Pairings: Harm/Mac Romance
JAG Disclaimer: JAG and the characters belong to DPB and CBS.
Stroy Disclamier: This story copyright 1999 by H. Lee, all rights reserved. May be redistributed as long as it is done at no charge.
Canned laughter drifts from the background of the
mindless sitcom I’m not really watching. I slouch a
little further down against Mac’s couch and lean my
head back onto the seat cushion. It’s not that there’s
anything wrong with her furniture—on the contrary,
it’s quite comfortable. But there’s something about
watching TV and sprawling out on the floor that seem
to me to go hand in hand. This preference can be
awfully hard on the six, though. Maybe that’s why I
don’t own a television.
Mac is standing to my right, folding laundry out of a
basket on the coffee table. She looks deliciously
domestic in a pair of my boxers sorting my extra-large
t-shirts and her mediums into two separate piles.
About half an hour ago we crossed the final t’s on the
paper work for a case which she’d prosecuted and I’d
defended earlier this week.
Settled out of court-martial with a dishonorable discharge and 26 months in the brig for my client’s assault on her superior officer.
Now we’re enjoying a night in,getting caught up on the mundane chores of private life and tossing around plans for the weekend.
The program cuts to a commercial, and I look over at her absently. My eyes are level with her lower thigh, but other than that, I can’t really tell what prompts my next action. Something about the hollow behind her left knee suddenly gets to me. I guess it just looks like a soft, fun place to play for a while.
That in mind, I sidle closer, careful not to startle her into moving. Mac isn’t paying me any attention, intent instead on creasing a Corps tank top with military precision. Without any warning, I lean over and blow a hot breath over the patch of skin I’m
interested in, as though it were a windowpane I wanted
to fog up and write on. I nuzzle it with my nose once,
twice, and plant a light kiss in the center. Then,
after a long, delicate lick along the seam, I suck
gently, barely deep enough to nibble fragile skin.
Her response is completely unexpected. She stiffens up like a board, her toes curling convulsively into the carpet. I hear my name escape in a strangled cry before she goes completely slack and sways slightly on her feet.
I swear to God she just came.
Surprised and a little wary, I pull back and look up
at her. All the tell-tale signs are there—her face is
flushed, her eyes wide and hazy, her chest rising and
falling rapidly. And it hits me.
I just got Sarah MacKenzie off in under ten seconds.
More than a little cocky now, I raise one eyebrow at
her, my eyes sparking with superior amusement as I
goad, “What was that, Marine?”
Blinking quickly, trying semi-successfully to banish the mist from eyes so dilated they look black, she clears her throat and answers in a voice that’s not
quite steady.
“Ah, nothing. You just surprised me,that’s all.”
Oh, that’s all, huh? Eyes narrowed in assessment, I
run a deliberately proprietary glance from her
forehead to her feet and back again. Although every
muscle in my body has tensed with desire, I get up
slowly, with an air of nonchalance that’s anything but
real. My expression struggles to remain distant and
speculative, as though the reaction I’ve just elicited
from her is a mere scientific oddity and nothing more.
There’s a foot of space between us when I stand, but
neither of us moves to close the gap; that’s not how
this is done.
We are now playing one of Mac’s favorite games. And
when I say games, I don’t mean games like women
normally start playing with guys after they sleep
together.
Mac’s games aren’t played for control or
manipulation, but for skill and excitement and all-out
competitive glory. The contest in question is one that
she instigates now and then to keep me on my toes. It
involves feigning indifference, even annoyance, at
something that, in actuality, has her completely
turned on. When she first taught it to me, several
weeks after we became intimate, I was scared out of my
mind that the proverbial magic was gone and she’d lost
interest.
We were alone in the office late one Friday
night, and I was doing my damndest to distract her
from the case file that had been making me jealous for
hours. I pulled out all the stops, rubbing her back,
kissing her neck, even copping a feel under her
uniform, but to no avail. Mac either shooed me away
with a brush of her hand or wheeled her chair out of
my reach, never once looking up from the pages of her
folder.
Accustomed to immediate, aggressive responses from my unabashedly sensual partner, I decided through a veil of horniness that I must have been doing something
wrong. Desperate after a day of longing and an hour of
one-sided foreplay, I hauled her out of her chair,
yanked her skirt up and her pantyhose down, and moved
my hands to where I knew they’d do some good. Or at
least to where she couldn’t ignore me even if she
didn’t want me anymore.
To my shock, I found her drenched and ready. When I
pulled back to confront her, she simply laughed at the
fevered anxiety in my eyes and wrapped her arms around
my neck.
“It’s about time you got to the good stuff, flyboy,” she’d said in that sultry bedroom voice she has that’s got the same effect on me as a well-placed caress.
My anger was banished before it ever took root, forgotten in my quest to meet and surpass the challenge in her smoky brown eyes.
We dented two filing cabinets that night.
From then on, I began to get the hang of things and
play right along with her. If she acts cool and
removed when I try to start something, I back off and
find something to pretend to divert my attention to,
meanwhile stroking an arm or a breast in an ostensibly
distracted fashion.
This tack typically pays off in about three minutes, at which time Mac concludes I’m not going to pursue things any further and promptly plants a hand or a foot in my lap to rub the rock-hard erection she invariably finds there, as she concentrates intently on whatever book or movie is supposed to be holding her attention.
We can go back and forth like this for hours on end, until we both all but explode into action. Neither of us usually has the wherewithal to take it that far, but when we do, the result is enough to make a grown man black out.
Much of the fun comes from the knowledge that it
really is only a game. When Mac’s not in the mood for
sex, she says so outright; she doesn’t shrug off
advances until I get the hint or try to distract me
with some other activity. I’m sure if a situation ever
occurred in which I didn’t care to make love with my
willing Marine, I would refuse in the same manner.
That level of security gives us both the confidence to
persist in the face of apparent impassivity, making
the game infinitely more enticing and enjoyable.
Needless to say, it’s pretty easy for Mac to get me to
play along. But sometimes, if I’m particularly
desperate for her, or genuinely uncertain as to the
degree of her response, I go straight to the source,
to the one place I know I can find the truth, just as
I did the first time we played.
Tonight is one of those times. Not because I’m out of
my mind with want—aroused as I am right now, she’s
made me wilder than this before, and I’ve blissfully
held back.
Tonight, I just have to see if it really happened, if I really unraveled my strong, stoic partner with one touch. In all honesty, I don’t know too much about Mac’s knees or the velvety,sweet-smelling curve behind them.
Even on nights when I am achingly slow, when I try to taste every inch of her, as my own arousal becomes a steady throb that seems like it’s been with me forever, there are other parts of her that scream more urgently for my attention. Her ankles, her shoulders, her hipbones ... Jesus, I am crazy about this woman’s hipbones. But if she likes her knees as much as I’m beginning to think she does, I am more than willing to expand my set of target areas.
At first, I watch her, prepared to wait for her to let
down her guard long enough for me to make my move. I
needn’t have worried. She doesn’t look directly at me
right away, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s
because she’s busy trying to pull her eyes back into
focus.
They haven’t yet lost their characteristic
post-passion film, and her breathing is still choppy
and labored. Now I’m sure what happened wasn’t a
figment of my sexually over-charged imagination. But I
want to know it all; I want to know it now.
Abruptly, my control snaps. I grab her by the hips and
draw her closer, jerking her boxers down to mid-thigh.
Holding her firmly in place with my left hand at her
waist, my right dives between her legs and I spear my
longest finger up into her before she has a chance to
protest, or even process, this breech of our usual
rules. A choked gasp is her only outward response, but
I get all the answers I need from deep inside.
Sure enough, I feel the tremors of her subsiding
orgasm pulsing around my finger, even as her core
again clutches convulsively at my renewed assault.
The feel of her has me too amazed and aroused to think clearly, but even though my focus is primarily on the question in my mind, I figure since I’m in there
anyway I might as well make myself useful. She
whimpers as I absent-mindedly withdraw and plunge back
in, using two fingers this time to stretch and cajole.
“You’re soaking wet,” I tell her in my roughest, most
gravelly voice, knowing from experience the effect it
will have on her, only on her. Right on cue, the warm
rush of her response trickles into my palm, and I grin
with feral satisfaction.
Mac is the only woman I’ve ever known who gets hot when I talk to her, and that quality is an incredible aphrodisiac.
It’s a powerful feeling to know you can arouse your lover just by speaking a certain way, saying a certain thing.
“Has that ever happened before, Mac?” The question
comes out casually. I don’t want her to see that I’m
straining to hold myself back, desperate for an
answer. Hoping it’s the one I want to hear.
I curl my index finger inside of her and her eyes cross, but apparently this isn’t enough to drive out all her inhibitions.
“Has . . . mmmm . . . has what?” she asks
breathlessly, with deliberate confusion.
“Sarah.” I say it warningly, my hand stilling in
retaliation. We are both well aware she knows what I
mean. Then I explain anyway, just to push her higher.
“Did you know you would come if I played behind your knee like that?” She bites her lip and shifts so that my fingers hit just the right spot. I pull back,
threatening to let them slide out completely. My other
hand squeezes her middle, insistent.
“Has anyone ever done that to you before?”
And there, I admit to myself, is the crux of the
matter. Whether she knew about that particular
erogenous zone or not is beside the point.
Mac is not a taker in bed. Telling me where and how to touch is not her style. She’s patient, willing to let me find out for myself how to drive her mad.
And under most circumstances, I love her for it.
Now, however, all I can think is that I don’t want there to be another story about some guy who first showed her what a fetish-inducing spot the back of her knee could be. I don’t want there to be another man on the planet who knows how to do things like that to her. I want to be the only one - me. Just me.
Wild for an answer, I pull back and look down at her
face. The truth is there for me to see and probably
has been for the last five minutes. Relief, pride, and
hunger swell in my chest, burn in my eyes as I swim
past the pleasure in her gaze. Beneath it lie
incredulity, wonder, and an awe that is more than a
little flattering to my ego.
“Never, Harm,” she replies, finally taking some
initiative of her own and reaching down the front of
my shorts. “I don’t know what you did, but—oh, God . .
.”
I distract her by grinding my thumb against her clit.
I have all the answer I needed anyway, and the raw
waves of arousal and possessiveness crashing through
my body aren’t leaving much room for intelligent
conversation.
My mouth cleaves to hers, fusing cries and moans of pleasure. After a few slides of her cool hand down my length, I decide she’s teased me enough and single-handedly rip down my boxers—awkward, as I am unwilling to remove either my right hand or my tongue from inside her to aid in the task, but fast.
Mac takes me in both hands now, squeezing and stroking
mercilessly. I know if I don’t take action very soon,
this will end badly. Reluctantly, I lift my head,
allowing my hand five more seconds to release her . .
. all right, ten . . . just once more, I swear . . .
The decision is made for me when Mac urges my head
back down and takes advantage of her freed lips by
fastening them on the rim of my ear. I yelp out a
curse as my vision goes black, every drop of blood in
my body rushing south.
She did that on purpose; she knows my ears can push me over the edge like almost nothing else.
For a solid minute, my attention is focused solely on
getting myself back under control, just enough so that
I don’t spill it all right then and there.
‘You will pay for that, Colonel,’ I vow silently, knowing revenge will have to be later, much later, when
I’ve calmed down enough to think rationally again. For now, my next breath depends on getting inside her as soon as humanly possible.
Steeling myself for the cold that seems to get worse
each time I leave her, I wrench my hand from her
throbbing center. Before she can finish her groan of
protest, I whip the t-shirt over her head, lift her by
the hips, and ram her down onto me as I drill upward,
impaling her fully with a mixture of familiarity, good
aim, and blind luck.
She screams my name as she climaxes, pulling me deeper
inside, always deeper. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her legs clamp around my waist.
It’s all I can do to stay on my feet in the face of the blinding light that beckons me. She is hot and wet and tight; she is the only place I want to be. How can I have missed this so much, needed this so much, after just two days without?
I’m only good for about three more thrusts and a shout
of her name before I shatter, falling back onto the
sofa, barely conscious of her weight on top of me.
When the dark veil recedes from behind my eyes and I at last recapture coherent thought several minutes
later, Mac is resting comfortably on my chest, sighing
with contentment and lapping up the trails of sweat on
my throat, as is her habit.
“That sure was something, Navy,” she purrs, wry and
sated.
“Mmm,” I agree as I nuzzle her hair. Pleased with
myself, I add, “A first for you, wasn’t it, Marine?”
Now that the brunt of my arousal has abated, there’s
plenty of room for arrogant, alpha-maleness to take
its place in light of the secret I recently
discovered.
Mac elbows me in the stomach as she pushes herself up
and saunters toward the bedroom. “Don’t get too cocky,
sailor,” she calls over her shoulder. “You’re
re-folding all that laundry before you come to bed.”
Looking down at the couch, I notice rumpled shirts,
jeans, and socks scattered around and under me,
casualties of my orgasm-induced fall. With a sigh, I
set about folding Mac’s things as neatly as possible.
My own are thrown haphazardly into the basket. The
last thing I care about is wrinkled undershirts when
there’s a warm, satisfied Sarah MacKenzie waiting for
me in bed.
Just as I turn with dread to the small mountain of
unpaired socks on the floor, the bedroom door opens
and the boxers Mac had modestly replaced before
leaving my lap come flying out, landing in a heap next
to our briefcases. I grin, recognizing a summons when
I see one.
The laundry can wait.
THE END
~E-Mail:H. Lee~ Return to JAG FanFic
